Nobody likes a bad waiter, that’s why I quit after one day. The year was 1988, this is not my waiter story, it’s a different one. The great wind had arrived from the north. It was a terrible cold outside. The family and I all bundled in as we had no heat – my parents were 80’s hipsters, and the trend then was that heat was un-cool – no pun intended, or if there was, it went over my head back then. We watched a documentary on penguins to learn their survival skills of not being eaten by orca whales. Then the doorbell rang, it was Santa Claus, we all knew it was actually our drunk neighbor Jon Kong coming over to get in the huddle, he had a thing for my mom. Drunken Santa told my dad there was some beef jerky in the bottom of his large sack, my dad crawled in to look. That’s when Santa made his move. He pulled off his breakaway Santa pants to reveal a lovely set of grapes tucked into his thong (in case he got hungry). He then squeezed my moms butt, threw down a smoke bomb and disappeared into the night never to be seen again.
I tell this story because Jon Kong appeared to me on a broken TV I passed on the street the other day. He told me I should buy this TV as it will guide my life down the proper path. I listened to him as I listen to all visions and as I sit here watching a broken television I realize his true message – TV is a waste of time.. oh wait, here comes a message, maybe the TV does work. Nope, it’s just another message from god about non-believers and the streets flowing red.. Boooooooooring.
This morning I was walking my two legged dog when Mufasa appeared to me again in the clouds. He gave me his usual advice of remembering who I am. I once again explain to him that I remember nothing before trying to assassinate that African leader and falling off his boat, and that I am really good at karate and super spy stuff. He goes on to tell me an old Swahili proverb in Swahili. I pretend to follow along and nod in agreement; having no idea what he’s saying. At this point it starts to rain, so he disappears and I have to tell my dog to figure it out as I hastily skedaddle out of there. I had just read that skedaddling was the new exercise fad and it’s working wonders very quickly. I’ve already lost my two legged dog. What a nuisance he was – getting all the attention at my parties.
I’m not good at most things – I realized this very early on in life and that realization has saved me a lot of wasted time. Why try what you can’t already do says Ben Franklin, the local drifter I buy groceries from. There are two things I do well, having sex is not one of them. I’m not basing this off the ladies’ reactions, for I do not judge performance as such. I base it off my reaction, which is never as strong as the ladies.
I just quit the music business. I am not a musician, or a manager. I’m the guy who takes credit for others work, a very important position in life. My problem was the people, I didn’t know anyone good enough to steal ideas from, well ‘borrow’ as my mentor trained me. He’s dead now, by choice, pro choice. There was a contract on his head, and the best professional in the business took him out. He always said hire the best, and that is just what he did. No way was he going to let the competition get to him first.
Now once again I find myself without a career, I hate sticking to things. Maybe Denny’s is hiring. Or I could call on the professional that took out my mentor. I need a new mentor and I’ve always thought I could make a great killer, it’s so easy! But this guy’s hard to track down, this is too hard before I even start. Oh well, Denny’s for now. You can kill to your heart’s content there. Pretty sure that’s why people go to Denny’s, in hopes their life will at least end memorably.
Today I was at the park with my son Jordan, or Gregor, or whatever he calls himself. Not quite sure as I had only just found him. He had been just wandering around the volleyball court where I was re-enacting the volleyball scene that was cut from the Hunger Games. I’ve always found that lost kids are the best kids, until they’re maniacally screaming parents show up. Gregor and I are playing with fireworks when one unexpectedly shoots off sideways towards a parade. We laugh as it heads into a French horn before exploding loudly. At this point Gregor lets me know that his parents are musicians and that he’s always wanted to experience the exact moment we just had. I explain to Gregor that dreams can come true if you do whatever you want to do all the time. At this point, his mom breaks loose of the parade and heads right at me swinging her piccolo wildly. Having been trained in piccolo defense, I easily subdue her before we embrace in a kiss. I further explain to Gregor that I have an incredibly strong Stockholm syndrome effect on women. He calls me daddy and that makes me run faster than I ever have before. I arrive safely at my favorite deli only to find that piccolo wedged between my two extra ribs. Haha, jokes on her, earlier that day I had been shopping for a piccolo. Now to spend the rest of the day putting off the practicing of my new instrument before giving up completely on learning to play it.
Ahh love, it’s like music – good music, with fireworks hidden in the instruments.
Bravery gets you nowhere, that’s what the ancients said. Today I am at the library teaching kids to read. It is not going so well as most of them read better than I do. The girl I am trying to impress is so busy behind the counter that she doesn’t even notice me. She’s not a librarian, just a junkie who thinks there are drugs hidden behind every counter. She’s really bad at being a junkie.
Why am I trying to impress a junkie? Because she has a super-hot older sister who wants nothing more than a clean sibling for Christmas.
One of the kids is struggling with a word and I am finally forced to help. I notice he is reading 50 Shades of Grey and I inform him that such a book is not meant for him as he is not a girl. He proceeds to slap me and the kids give me a lesson on gender roles. Suddenly I look up and notice my female accomplice is being escorted out by the police. Guess her big sister won’t be getting what she wants for Christmas. Oh well, she also wanted a new iPad and I spotted little sis stealing one earlier. I think she’ll be just as happy if I give her that. I could be wrong, I don’t have a junkie sister, I already disowned my sister.
They say you can survive for a month without food, I am going on a hunger strike to protest my favorite buffet going out of business. Apparently I was not the only one trying to break the bank every time I ate there. I am a thin fellow by nature, but inside the buffet, I’m an animal, a hungry animal that can eat 0.025 times my weight. Not impressed, that’s 5 lbs. of food! I have been sitting outside the front door of the now closed establishment for 3 days when the former manager approaches and informs me that my actions, while very noble, will not help. She goes on to tell me that three people died last week from an e coli scare. Whoa, just like Outbreak, and here I am at ground zero. I scream to the manager
“we need to get out of here before they quarantine the whole town!”
She slaps me in the face and clarifies that it was an e coli scare, her competition, while undercover in their establishment yelled out ‘e coli’ after biting into a chicken leg. Apparently the entire restaurant patronage, like me, assumed e coli and Ebola were the same thing. The resulting stampede is what killed the three bystanders. I asked which buffet had sabotaged her. ‘Kurt’s Buffet’ she replied. Oh yeah, Kurt’s, they’re delicious. Protest over, I’m three days hungry and Kurt’s is going to feel my wrath. I leave the former manager there to cry over her current life’s state. I would offer to console her, but she slapped me, and I have thin skin. Hopefully the buffet can help with that.
I broke my arm once to prove how tough I was, I cried – tough tears. I impressed a couple girls and this one dude who always had a sandwich. They all offered themselves to me, but I had to go see a doctor. Doctor said broken arm, I said I want a second opinion. He sent me to a Chinese healer who was located in the back of a Japanese restaurant, those two did not get along, always fighting (internally). The healer took one look at my arm and cursed western medicine. She gave me some herbal tea and instructed me to put the tea bags on my arm and let them steep there until my arm heals. Two weeks later it was still broken and my arm had tea stains so I went back to this healer. She was gone, so was the building, vanished, or torn down as the homeless man outside told me. I asked him if he knew anything about broken arms, he vomited cat urine, apparently we use the same healer. I went back to my original doctor, he was in the exact position I had left him. I demanded a cast, so he handed me one. I took it home and affixed it to my arm. They say broken bones heal stronger than they originally were, I’m about to find out. Travis out – the window
On my deathbed, I want to say something poetic for my last words. My best friend Dan however prefers to groan incoherently. I ask Dan if he would like me to speak on his behalf, he begins convulsing. Sheesh, he’s always been a bit dramatic. I ask the nurse how much longer this will take as I have a hot date tonight. “How long will what take” she replies in a bad accent. “Death” I retort with perfect enunciation. She informs me that he is not dying, just having an allergic reaction. What a shitty friend, I dropped everything to rush him over here for this.. I leave the room and go to find a new best friend, one who is actually on the way out. An old black man is across the hall, he has a trumpet next to his bed, perfect. I go in and sit down next to him, he turns towards me and gives me a look that divulges his whole life story, one of hope, love lost and found, overcoming obstacles, and a lifelong search for a best friend. I tell him he has found a best friend and ask him to tell me something wise. “I hate white people” he utters before slipping into the beyond. Wow, some last words. I realize that I am the only one here and therefore I can steal those last words and use them as my own on my deathbed. Awesome, one less thing on the to do list. Wisdom is not easy to come by, unless you know where to look – hospitals.
I was chasing a model through the streets of Paris for a photo shoot when the photographer punched me in the face and told me to stop scaring his models. Fashion is confusing, most of it goes over my head, not Franska Bloyodich’s punch, that landed dead on.
I tried starting my own fashion line once, nobody bought it – that I would start a line, so I gave up while I was ahead.
I was at a Halloween party once when I was suddenly asked to leave for lack of costume. I was a billy goat, my costume was a set of horns, a gruff beard and nothing else. Try arguing with uptight parents that goats don’t wear clothes and that it would be an insult to them to do so, nobody likes a purist. I was 12 then, never again. Tonight I am meeting those parents again because I am now dating their daughter. We’ve grown up, well one of us has as she says.
My stomach churns as we approach the door, but her parents welcome me in and treat me as an honored guest. The night is going splendidly, we laugh, we share stories, we even play board games. Then comes charades. I rule at charades, have never lost.
It is an intense match, tie game going into sudden death, it is my go. I reach into the hat, and pull out……. goat.
I see a lifetime of happiness with this beautiful woman sitting across from me, waiting in sweet anticipation for my charade, then I see myself trying to live with a charade that was not fully executed. I see the struggle of spending the next 22 years trying to forget that I don’t stand by my beliefs, it is an unbearable thought. So I put two fingers to my head for horns and flick my pull away pants suit to go full goat.
I’m not sure what enraged her parents more, losing charades to someone half their age, or the fact that I decorated my wiener to look like the mother. Either way, I walk away a champion, then I walk home as she drove.
I received a call early this morning, 9:50 or so, from my Japanese investor. He was planning for my future and asked me how I’d like to invest. I asked him to hold on while I went to grab my palantir (seeing stone). He didn’t get the joke either. I instructed him to invest heavily in the selling of air on Mars colonies because if I’ve learned anything, that’s it. He disagreed profusely and I demanded he move my giant pile of one dollar bills as instructed. He muttered something in Japanese and I muttered something back; much later as I had to translate it on my phone. He appreciated my efforts to insult him in his own language and we shared a laugh. He asked me if I had met anyone yet and I told him I don’t date my investors, especially ones that are married with kids. He sounded frustrated as he hung up. Must be a cultural thing. Oh we’ll, back to watching Total Recall – the original of course.
They say words hurt. I’ve never experienced this phenomenon, but I also never listen to people. My entire life has been a challenge of how do I make this person stop talking to me. It’s harder than you may think. I’ve tried everything from immediately walking away to pretending to not speak English. But the glitch that made them talk to me in the first place, drives them to continue on anyway.
Today I may have perfected my technique. Some weirdo approached me saying something about being hit by a bus and needing help. What did I do, I stuck my finger right down my throat and vomited all over him. He was speechless. Life Mastered! It’s the little things.. sprinkled all over him.. maybe carrots?
I was reading French poetry aloud to impress a girl at the trendy coffee shop when she asked me to stop because she is deaf and has an OCD need to read lips. I apologized that I was reading in French and assumed that it must be even harder to learn to lip read a second language. She goes on to inform me that she can read lips in six different languages, and that I clearly cannot read French aloud correctly, let alone speak it. I am thoroughly impressed with her abilities so I ask her out. She refuses stating she could never date someone with such poor enunciation. I use my phone to look up a bad thing to call her in Albanian. I blurt it out loudly for all to hear. She looks blankly at me and I call it a day. Being petty is never the answer, but neither is being a bushtër.
I was writing my third Great American Novel when my publisher called and said Great American Novels can’t be written in Albanian, So I cursed his family and we left it at that.
I now feel bad, not because I put a curse on his family who had nothing to do with this, but because there are families in need of cursing out there, families of horrible people, horrible people that wrong others who lack the knowledge of proper cursing. Not all of us are fortunate enough to have escaped childhood imprisonment and had to hide out in the bayous with a 400 year old voodoo granny until safe passage was possible. And they say nothing good ever came out of New Orleans.
Perhaps I’ll translate my novel to English, if I can figure out what all this Albanian mumbo jumbo says..