The summer I was I think 16 or 17 I started up a thing with a girl in the neighborhood named Tory. Or was it Tori? I don't remember.
Our parents didn't go for it, or we imagined they wouldn't, so we never told them. We didn't live on the same street -- our two streets were right next to each other, separated by woods, so to get to each other, we'd either meet at the intersection, which was a walk, or in the woods, but we didn't really have anywhere we could go. So when things started heating up we found a kind of a clearing in the woods between our houses and dug a kind of a hole there and I brought a tarp we had in the attic and laid it out and that's where we'd do our fooling around. After we'd have to brush ticks off each other.
One day my dad asked where the tarp was. He wanted to paint one of his ladders on the front lawn. I asked him why he thought I'd know where the tarp was. Did he ever see me using the tarp? Did I seem like the kind of person who would use a tarp? No. No. So don't ask me any funny questions about the tarp, I said. He gave me a look I would describe as coming out of the side of his eyes. I noticed I was sweating quite badly. My dad said, to no one in particular, that he expected his tarp to be returned to the attic in 24 hours, and if this happened, there would be no questions asked.
That afternoon around 5ish I met Tory at the tarp. She was staring at a book -- Tom Sawyer, I think, or some other summer reading thing. It was hot and muggy and she was wearing no clothes. Quick as a flash, I rolled her up inside the tarp and carried it/her over my shoulder towards my house. I could feel her kicking around inside the tarp for a little while, but then she stopped.
I must have dropped her somewhere, because by the time I got to the front yard, it was just an empty tarp on my shoulder.
I have taken enough psychology to know when I am lying to myself.
My dad was hammering something to the front door. I dropped the tarp on the grass. He turned around when he heard the crinkling. He nodded and smiled, clearly satisfied with himself.
"You found the tarp," he said.
"Yup," I said, "but I'm not the one who took it."
"Oh?" he asked. "Who did?" I shrugged.
My dad frowned. He walked over to the tarp, which was all folded up on itself. He picked it up by two corners and spread it out. The whole thing was covered in dark, dry blood -- nearly black with decay. He gave it a shake and most of it fell off in flakes. He gave me a long, hard look, and then I went inside and he started painting his ladder.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Jeff Greco physically dominating another man
HOORAY!
This is great. Although -- no offense, Jeff -- but another BU Tonight alum steals the show here.
Look at that guy peering from behind his computer! Feel the white-hot rage radiating from the background! You can practically taste the private Hate Rally! Really big of Jeff to share the spotlight and call him over. I don't think I've ever seen someone respond so quickly to the sound of his own name. He was out of his chair before Jeff got to "r."
One complaint?
Why so shy? You don't do topless anymore?
This is great. Although -- no offense, Jeff -- but another BU Tonight alum steals the show here.
Look at that guy peering from behind his computer! Feel the white-hot rage radiating from the background! You can practically taste the private Hate Rally! Really big of Jeff to share the spotlight and call him over. I don't think I've ever seen someone respond so quickly to the sound of his own name. He was out of his chair before Jeff got to "r."
One complaint?
Why so shy? You don't do topless anymore?
Sports Illustrated bringing the HEAT
Is there anything more cliche in Hollywood than hooking up with Paris Hilton at a trendy club? Since Ronaldo is new in town, he gets a pass, but he better not be doing anything else touristy, such as wearing a fanny pack and taking a pictures [sic] on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Ben the bird consultant
Ben knocks on the door. Without waiting for an answer, he turns the knob, rattling it back and forth like a child would. He tugs too hard and something inside snaps -- the door swings open. A woman stands a few steps away. She covers her mouth with her hand. Ben tells her that her door was broken and she needs to get it fixed.
The woman thanks Ben and offers him a coffee or something cold to drink. Ben declines. He has just downed two 20 oz. strawberry sodas in his car. Besides, he is here to work.
"Where's the bird?" he asks.
***
This is the ad Ben took out in the Los Angeles Times:
BEN SIMPSON
BIRD CONSULTANT
FIXES BIRD PROBLEMS?
HAVE BAD BIRD? BEN WILL FIX.
440 567 1435
He incorrectly believes he paid for a larger ad than he received. The day after the ad runs, he calls the Times and swears at the woman who answers in the advertising department. The word "cunt" is used 12 times.
The woman is a 19-year-old unpaid intern. She goes home that afternoon and cries and cries.
Eventually, Ben speaks with the head of the advertising department, who apologizes to Ben for any inconvenience and, in order to get him off the phone, promises him an extra week free-of-charge. He also offers to run the ad with a complimentary picture. "Might I suggest a picture of a bird?" the head of the advertising department asks.
Ben thinks it over, then decides to go with a picture of Superman instead.
***
The woman shows Ben into the living room. The bird sits on a perch on the other end of the room. The floor is covered in feathers.
Ben approaches. The bird snaps its head up, sizing up its new foe. The woman stands in the doorway, afraid to get any closer.
"You'd better go in the kitchen," Ben says.
***
Ben sits at a bar. He has had a long day. He spent the day trying to convince one of his connections at DreamWorks to insert some product placement for his company -- Ben Simpson's Bird Problem-Fixings -- into a new film.
A man at the end of the bar gives Ben a friendly smile. Ben makes the "jerking off" signal with his hand. The man turns towards the wall.
A woman enters and sits next to Ben. Without even introducing himself, he tells her that he works with birds.
"Oh, really?" she asks.
"Yup," he says. He is drunk. "People have a problem with their birds, they call me. ME."
"Huh," the woman says, looking at her watch. "You must really like birds."
Ben throws his beer glass into the wall. It shatters. The bar goes silent. Ben walks out without paying.
***
Ben has the room to himself. He rolls up his sleeves. He paces back and forth. He opens a window. He struggles to pull the screen out of the frame -- giving up, he simply punches a hole in it and rips out as much of the mesh itself as he can.
He approaches the bird. The bird spreads its wings. This, Ben recognizes, is an implicit threat. He does not stop walking -- he stands tall to display his dominance.
He walks right up to the bird and stares directly into its beady little red eyes. The birds feathers move ever so slightly from the breath coming from Ben's nostrils. "All right, bird," he says. "I know your game."
The bird shifts to the right. Ben hisses like a cat.
The bird is in the air. Ben swings his arms wildly, knocking over a lamp. The bird lands on a coat rack on the other end of the room. Ben stalks over to it and they're face to face again.
"Don't play games with me, bird." Outside the bird's field of vision, Ben is reaching into his pocket. Quick as lightning, he pulls out a whistle, shoves it into his mouth and blows, hard.
The whistle drives the bird into a frenzy. It flaps towards the ceiling and begins flying in erratic circles while Ben, on the ground, chases it from underneath, blowing the whistle at it, making it more and more agitated. Frightened by the whistle and the bird's cries, the woman knocks on the door and asks if Ben needs any help. In between whistling, Ben tells her to fuck off.
Finally, Ben drives the bird towards the open window. It lands on the sill; Ben stops blowing the whistle. Both Ben and the bird breathe heavily. Ben tiptoes towards the bird, then jumps at it, grabs it, and throws it full force out the window. The bird flies off.
Ben pockets his whistle with a smile.
***
Ben is on the bus. His car is being repaired after he intentionally drove into a shopping cart full of food being pushed by a 68-year-old woman who was moving too slowly through a crosswalk. Ben hasn't been sleeping well lately. He takes another bite of his full-sized Entenmann's coffee cake.
The bus is nearly empty, but he stands.
He is standing in front of an older woman who is sitting near the door. He taps him on the knee. He assumes she wants a bite of his coffee cake and ignores her. She taps again. He looks down.
The woman says, "Tweet?"
Ben begins sweating. "Wh-what did you say?"
"Tweet?" says the old woman.
Now Ben is nervous. He drops his coffee cake on the bus's floor. "Don't talk to me," he mumbles.
"Tweet?" the old woman says one more time.
"ARE YOU A BIRD?" Ben screams.
The woman is stunned. "I asked if you wanted to take a seat," she says. Ben mutters under his breath and sits down. He stares directly at the woman for the next three stops, just in case she turns into a bird.
The woman gets off three stops before her own, because she is afraid of Ben.
When she gets up, Ben sees that she has been sitting in front of an ad. It is for some kind of sneaker. It prominently features a smiling yellow cockatoo.
Ben growls. He jumps out of his seat and tears at the poster, ripping it off the wall of the bus. He rips the poster again and again, with his hands and with his teeth. The people in the back of the bus stare at him.
***
Ben walks out of the living room. The woman is waiting right outside. "Your bird problem is fixed," Ben says. Before the confused woman can even enter the living room to see that her bird is gone, Ben is out the front door and halfway to his car (which has since been fixed).
He takes out his keys and sees something green sitting on the hood of his car. It is the bird.
"You go away, bird." Ben says. The bird doesn't move. "I SAID, YOU GO AWAY." Ben could swear the bird winks.
Ben throws his keys at it. He is wide right by three or four feet; the bird doesn't flinch. Ben screams and knocks over a small tree standing in the woman's front yard -- he pushes at it until it snaps in half and falls over. But he looks over and the bird is still sitting there.
The woman thanks Ben and offers him a coffee or something cold to drink. Ben declines. He has just downed two 20 oz. strawberry sodas in his car. Besides, he is here to work.
"Where's the bird?" he asks.
***
This is the ad Ben took out in the Los Angeles Times:
BEN SIMPSON
BIRD CONSULTANT
FIXES BIRD PROBLEMS?
HAVE BAD BIRD? BEN WILL FIX.
440 567 1435
He incorrectly believes he paid for a larger ad than he received. The day after the ad runs, he calls the Times and swears at the woman who answers in the advertising department. The word "cunt" is used 12 times.
The woman is a 19-year-old unpaid intern. She goes home that afternoon and cries and cries.
Eventually, Ben speaks with the head of the advertising department, who apologizes to Ben for any inconvenience and, in order to get him off the phone, promises him an extra week free-of-charge. He also offers to run the ad with a complimentary picture. "Might I suggest a picture of a bird?" the head of the advertising department asks.
Ben thinks it over, then decides to go with a picture of Superman instead.
***
The woman shows Ben into the living room. The bird sits on a perch on the other end of the room. The floor is covered in feathers.
Ben approaches. The bird snaps its head up, sizing up its new foe. The woman stands in the doorway, afraid to get any closer.
"You'd better go in the kitchen," Ben says.
***
Ben sits at a bar. He has had a long day. He spent the day trying to convince one of his connections at DreamWorks to insert some product placement for his company -- Ben Simpson's Bird Problem-Fixings -- into a new film.
A man at the end of the bar gives Ben a friendly smile. Ben makes the "jerking off" signal with his hand. The man turns towards the wall.
A woman enters and sits next to Ben. Without even introducing himself, he tells her that he works with birds.
"Oh, really?" she asks.
"Yup," he says. He is drunk. "People have a problem with their birds, they call me. ME."
"Huh," the woman says, looking at her watch. "You must really like birds."
Ben throws his beer glass into the wall. It shatters. The bar goes silent. Ben walks out without paying.
***
Ben has the room to himself. He rolls up his sleeves. He paces back and forth. He opens a window. He struggles to pull the screen out of the frame -- giving up, he simply punches a hole in it and rips out as much of the mesh itself as he can.
He approaches the bird. The bird spreads its wings. This, Ben recognizes, is an implicit threat. He does not stop walking -- he stands tall to display his dominance.
He walks right up to the bird and stares directly into its beady little red eyes. The birds feathers move ever so slightly from the breath coming from Ben's nostrils. "All right, bird," he says. "I know your game."
The bird shifts to the right. Ben hisses like a cat.
The bird is in the air. Ben swings his arms wildly, knocking over a lamp. The bird lands on a coat rack on the other end of the room. Ben stalks over to it and they're face to face again.
"Don't play games with me, bird." Outside the bird's field of vision, Ben is reaching into his pocket. Quick as lightning, he pulls out a whistle, shoves it into his mouth and blows, hard.
The whistle drives the bird into a frenzy. It flaps towards the ceiling and begins flying in erratic circles while Ben, on the ground, chases it from underneath, blowing the whistle at it, making it more and more agitated. Frightened by the whistle and the bird's cries, the woman knocks on the door and asks if Ben needs any help. In between whistling, Ben tells her to fuck off.
Finally, Ben drives the bird towards the open window. It lands on the sill; Ben stops blowing the whistle. Both Ben and the bird breathe heavily. Ben tiptoes towards the bird, then jumps at it, grabs it, and throws it full force out the window. The bird flies off.
Ben pockets his whistle with a smile.
***
Ben is on the bus. His car is being repaired after he intentionally drove into a shopping cart full of food being pushed by a 68-year-old woman who was moving too slowly through a crosswalk. Ben hasn't been sleeping well lately. He takes another bite of his full-sized Entenmann's coffee cake.
The bus is nearly empty, but he stands.
He is standing in front of an older woman who is sitting near the door. He taps him on the knee. He assumes she wants a bite of his coffee cake and ignores her. She taps again. He looks down.
The woman says, "Tweet?"
Ben begins sweating. "Wh-what did you say?"
"Tweet?" says the old woman.
Now Ben is nervous. He drops his coffee cake on the bus's floor. "Don't talk to me," he mumbles.
"Tweet?" the old woman says one more time.
"ARE YOU A BIRD?" Ben screams.
The woman is stunned. "I asked if you wanted to take a seat," she says. Ben mutters under his breath and sits down. He stares directly at the woman for the next three stops, just in case she turns into a bird.
The woman gets off three stops before her own, because she is afraid of Ben.
When she gets up, Ben sees that she has been sitting in front of an ad. It is for some kind of sneaker. It prominently features a smiling yellow cockatoo.
Ben growls. He jumps out of his seat and tears at the poster, ripping it off the wall of the bus. He rips the poster again and again, with his hands and with his teeth. The people in the back of the bus stare at him.
***
Ben walks out of the living room. The woman is waiting right outside. "Your bird problem is fixed," Ben says. Before the confused woman can even enter the living room to see that her bird is gone, Ben is out the front door and halfway to his car (which has since been fixed).
He takes out his keys and sees something green sitting on the hood of his car. It is the bird.
"You go away, bird." Ben says. The bird doesn't move. "I SAID, YOU GO AWAY." Ben could swear the bird winks.
Ben throws his keys at it. He is wide right by three or four feet; the bird doesn't flinch. Ben screams and knocks over a small tree standing in the woman's front yard -- he pushes at it until it snaps in half and falls over. But he looks over and the bird is still sitting there.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Love letter to Coach Patrick Chambers
This is outstanding. LUV U COACH CHAMBERS. TAKE US TO THE TOURNEY!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Type
Sit here.
Why?
Turn off the TV. I'm going to teach you how to type.
I know how to type.
I've seen you type, you don't know how to do it right.
You just push the keys.
Sit down! You look at the keyboard. You're not supposed to look at the keyboard.
Aw.
Just sit down. We'll use my old typewriter.
Typewriter?
IT'S GOT ALL THE KEYS, DOESN'T IT?
This one's missing.
That's the tilde. You don't need to know how to use it.
We have a computer lab at school. I can learn to type there.
Here. DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD.
I'm not even typing yet.
Practice now. I made this posterboard for you. See?
What is it?
It's a keyboard. It's got all the keys on it, so you can look at this and type without looking down, and know where all the keys are.
I can't read it.
Of course you can. They're just letters.
Your handwriting's terrible.
Don't talk about my handwriting. I've seen your chicken-scratch.
Chicken-what?
SCRATCH. SCRATCH. Put your fingers on the keys.
All right.
On the home row.
What does that mean?
It means the places where you're supposed to put your fingers. These.
Ow!
That didn't hurt.
You pulled my wrist.
Oh so what. There. That's the home row.
Which ones are they?
DON'T LOOK DOWN.
But how am I supposed to know which ones are the home row if I can't look at them.
Look at the diagram. You see?
No.
These ones!
OK!
See? I wrote them in red.
No you didn't.
I did. My red marker just looks black because it's old.
What?
Enough chat! Type your name.
OK.
Faster!
Why? This is fast enough.
You're never going to get a job if you type that slow.
I don't want to get a job.
I'm sure you don't. Type it again.
I already typed it once.
You think you're only going to have to type your name once in your life?
No.
OK, then. Type it again.
OK.
Better. See?
No.
DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD.
I'm already done typing it!
Doesn't matter. Look at the posterboard. See what you typed?
What.
Your name. Isn't that good?
I don't know.
You don't know. Don't get smart. Put your fingers back on the keys.
Again?
You only typed your name twice!
I'm sick of typing my name!
So you'll type something else then.
Fine.
Are you ready?
Yes.
Then why aren't your fingers on the home keys!
They are--
DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD!
I was just making sure my fingers were on the right keys!
You can do that with the posterboard!
I can't read the posterboard!
Enough chatter. Type this sentence. "The clerk used air quotes and I became agitated."
What?
Type it!
No, I don't want to type that sentence.
I don't care what sentences you want to type, I'm telling you what sentences you have to type!
That sentence is dumb. I would never type it.
Fine. Type this one. "The rapist's mental health evaluation went swimmingly."
No!
God forbid you ever get a nice job in a psychiatrist's office! The doctor tells you he wants you to enter how his mental health evaluation went into his guide book and you say, "no, I only type what I want to type!" See how long you hold that job.
I don't want a job.
And with that attitude see if you're ever going to get one.
I hope I don't.
Well if you think I'm going to sit here and deal with you you're crazy.
Good.
But you're still going to type.
Aw!
Listen. I'm going to prop this posterboard up on the wall. DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD.
Can I go outside?
You can bring the typewriter outside, if you can carry it, though I'd wager you can't.
I just want to sit outside.
On second thought the posterboard might blow away. You'd better stay inside.
I'll throw it down the sewer.
NO YOU WON'T. Listen, I'm going to be in the kitchen, and I'd better hear you typing, and if I look in I'd better see you looking at that posterboard.
Aw.
START.
Fine!
YOU'RE NOT TYPING! YOU'RE JUST PUNCHING THE KEYS RANDOMLY! I CAN TELL!
No, I'm typing! I'm just doing it really fast!
I'LL COME IN THERE AND LOOK AT THE PAPER AND THEN WE'LL JUST SEE WHAT YOU'VE BEEN TYPING!
I took the paper out so I could type faster!
THAT DOESN'T MAKE A LOT OF SENSE TO ME.
Why?
Turn off the TV. I'm going to teach you how to type.
I know how to type.
I've seen you type, you don't know how to do it right.
You just push the keys.
Sit down! You look at the keyboard. You're not supposed to look at the keyboard.
Aw.
Just sit down. We'll use my old typewriter.
Typewriter?
IT'S GOT ALL THE KEYS, DOESN'T IT?
This one's missing.
That's the tilde. You don't need to know how to use it.
We have a computer lab at school. I can learn to type there.
Here. DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD.
I'm not even typing yet.
Practice now. I made this posterboard for you. See?
What is it?
It's a keyboard. It's got all the keys on it, so you can look at this and type without looking down, and know where all the keys are.
I can't read it.
Of course you can. They're just letters.
Your handwriting's terrible.
Don't talk about my handwriting. I've seen your chicken-scratch.
Chicken-what?
SCRATCH. SCRATCH. Put your fingers on the keys.
All right.
On the home row.
What does that mean?
It means the places where you're supposed to put your fingers. These.
Ow!
That didn't hurt.
You pulled my wrist.
Oh so what. There. That's the home row.
Which ones are they?
DON'T LOOK DOWN.
But how am I supposed to know which ones are the home row if I can't look at them.
Look at the diagram. You see?
No.
These ones!
OK!
See? I wrote them in red.
No you didn't.
I did. My red marker just looks black because it's old.
What?
Enough chat! Type your name.
OK.
Faster!
Why? This is fast enough.
You're never going to get a job if you type that slow.
I don't want to get a job.
I'm sure you don't. Type it again.
I already typed it once.
You think you're only going to have to type your name once in your life?
No.
OK, then. Type it again.
OK.
Better. See?
No.
DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD.
I'm already done typing it!
Doesn't matter. Look at the posterboard. See what you typed?
What.
Your name. Isn't that good?
I don't know.
You don't know. Don't get smart. Put your fingers back on the keys.
Again?
You only typed your name twice!
I'm sick of typing my name!
So you'll type something else then.
Fine.
Are you ready?
Yes.
Then why aren't your fingers on the home keys!
They are--
DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD!
I was just making sure my fingers were on the right keys!
You can do that with the posterboard!
I can't read the posterboard!
Enough chatter. Type this sentence. "The clerk used air quotes and I became agitated."
What?
Type it!
No, I don't want to type that sentence.
I don't care what sentences you want to type, I'm telling you what sentences you have to type!
That sentence is dumb. I would never type it.
Fine. Type this one. "The rapist's mental health evaluation went swimmingly."
No!
God forbid you ever get a nice job in a psychiatrist's office! The doctor tells you he wants you to enter how his mental health evaluation went into his guide book and you say, "no, I only type what I want to type!" See how long you hold that job.
I don't want a job.
And with that attitude see if you're ever going to get one.
I hope I don't.
Well if you think I'm going to sit here and deal with you you're crazy.
Good.
But you're still going to type.
Aw!
Listen. I'm going to prop this posterboard up on the wall. DON'T LOOK AT THE KEYBOARD.
Can I go outside?
You can bring the typewriter outside, if you can carry it, though I'd wager you can't.
I just want to sit outside.
On second thought the posterboard might blow away. You'd better stay inside.
I'll throw it down the sewer.
NO YOU WON'T. Listen, I'm going to be in the kitchen, and I'd better hear you typing, and if I look in I'd better see you looking at that posterboard.
Aw.
START.
Fine!
YOU'RE NOT TYPING! YOU'RE JUST PUNCHING THE KEYS RANDOMLY! I CAN TELL!
No, I'm typing! I'm just doing it really fast!
I'LL COME IN THERE AND LOOK AT THE PAPER AND THEN WE'LL JUST SEE WHAT YOU'VE BEEN TYPING!
I took the paper out so I could type faster!
THAT DOESN'T MAKE A LOT OF SENSE TO ME.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
