Today I planned to write about my memories of the school locker room. None of them pleasant, I might add. But I’m not going to be able to do it. I’m walking into the forest this afternoon with my box of Little Debbies, and won’t reemerge until Saturday.
Feel free, however, to post your disturbing stories. Do you have any memories of getting “dressed” for gym, back during the (full-body shiver) mandatory shower days? Good god…
And once that subject has run its course, I’m sure the Angry White Guy will step to the plate with something new.
I was able to squeeze out a mockable today, and you can read it here. If you haven’t been visiting that site on a regular basis, please check out some of the recent posts. There’s some funny stuff there.
Sorry for this disgraceful lameness. I’ll be back on Monday at the latest. Have a great week. And if you hear about a fat man being brutally mauled by a bear in Pennsylvania, please say a little prayer.
See ya later.
Jeff,
I’ve lost at least 50,000 neurons drinking away the pain from your absence. I’ll fucking buy you a cup of yoghurt, or whatever it is you done left to do. This is so if and only if you come back soon.
Yours in despondence,
Greg
She woke him up early by flicking a lit cigarette at his face. “Get up you little shitcock. You’ve got work to do.”
“But mom, it’s 4:30 in the morning.” She slapped him across the throat and said, “Is that any way to talk to the King of Rock N Roll?” And he replied, “But mom, the King of Rock N Roll is Elvi – she smacked him in the head. “Shut up, ingrate. You’re riding your bike up to Uncle Jackie’s place and you’re gonna talk him into entering the contest next week. There’s a lot on the line. The winning city get’s a new Art Center.”
“But mom, uncle Jackie has refused to enter the contest for 40 years now. Ever since he – she grabbed his nipples and twisted them. “Is that any way to talk to Huey Lewis and the News, you son of a bitch?”
He got dressed and took off on his bike.
The contest in question was the annual jackoff contest. This was the 50th year, the Semicentennial, and a lot was at stake. People were coming from miles around for a chance to win fame and a small fortune ($1,300) not to mention a new Art Center for their town.
Jackie was there when the contest started. He won the first nine years hands down. Then on the tenth year a terrible thing happened. Only 70 seconds into the contest Jackie declared himself finished. It was a dry orgasm. The rules clearly state that at least a tablespoon full of semen must be ejected for the contestent to be considered “finished”.
He was the laughing stock of Rhode Island. His sweetheart left him and he became a professional drunk. “I thought you were going places, you fucking loser” the townspeople would say. “Now look at you. You haven’t had a haircut in years and that boy from Georgia beat your record. Loser!”
Little Ralph drove his bike through the woods to get to the shack that Jackie now occupied. It had no electricity. It was a complete tin shitbox, the only new edition to the place in the last 100 years was the dozens of “No Tresspassing” signs that Jackie had nailed all over the trees.
“Uncle Jackie, Uncle Jackie, get up! It’s time for the Jackoff Semicentennial! Please, please get up!” Jackie rolled over and took another swig of his homemade booze and wiped his greasy hair from his face, “God dammit boy. Can’t you see I’m finished? Every year yall bother me with this. I don’t have it in me anymore. I’m done, son.”
“But Uncle Jackie, you’re the best there ever was. Everyone knows it. You had one dry run but I know you can beat those boys from Georgia and Maine. I know it. Besides, there’s a $1,300 prize and the winner gets a new Art Center built in his home town!”
“$1,300 you say? That’s a lot of scratch. I could….wait, no. Look at me. I haven’t pulled this string in 40 years. It would be silly to even try. Get the fuck outta here, Ralph. Let me die in peace.”
Ralph had to ride home where a proper ass whoopen awaited him. It was no use. Jackie was refused, just as he had for the last 39 years. Loser indeed.
Friday night rolled around and the high school gym filled up quickly. The entire basketball court was filled with cots and the announcer was naming off the contestants as they entered in. Suddenly he paused and then he said, “Wait a minute. Is that who I think it is? Is that Jackie Peters? Holy hell, it is!” Jackie was wearing his old uniform: a kilt, a large plaid bib, and a pair of rain boots. The crowd went insaine as he made his way to his cot.
The contestants were in place, the flag men stood at the head of their cots. The flag man standing at Jackies cot said a quick, “good luck Jackie. Give em hell.”
Then the horn sounded and contest started. The crowd was chanting, “Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!” After only 37 seconds Jackie started to curl his toes and started to scream. The flag man was getting ready to raise his flag when all of the sudden Jackie shot him all about the chest and face with semen. There were at least 5 cups. He won! The cheers were absurd. They tried to get Jackie up so he could wear his belt and take his place at the top of the stage. But he couldn’t move.
Little Ralph ran to his side, tears streaming, “Uncle Jackie, get up. You’re the best. You did it. You won!” Jackie opened his eyes and said, “I know son, I know. This is as it should be.” Then he turned his head and died.
Jason, I saw that movie in 1979 – it starred Ricky Schroeder and Kris Kristoferson.
Brutal……