Or at least get run over by a bus

a sestina, by me

I certainly didn’t expect to
Have to write a sestina when
I had this great idea in the first
Place. They’re super complicated, plus I
Am not that good at this to begin with.
But I’ll give it a shot.

That’s what I thought: a shot
In the dark is the only way anyone’s going to
Come up with
Sestina as their poem of choice when
They leave their comment. I
Should have thought this over first.

Most people just made fun of me. The first
Few were hacks taking their shot –
Which is fine – that’s what I
Expected to
Happen. But that was when
I didn’t know what I was dealing with.

Out of nowhere, with
Malice like Cain’s first
Murder, when
He shot
His brother to
Get back at him, I

Was blindsided. I
Was nailed with
No mercy by Falwless, pinned to
My own promises. First
I did a shot
Of whiskey, and when

I had one, I wanted another, and when
I had ten, I
Decided to not even give it a shot.
It was a lucky stab anyway, and I didn’t deserve to be stuck with
Punishment for that. But that was only at first.
I knew I couldn’t bring myself to

Go back on my word just to make things easier. When
Someone gets me first, I
Turn the other cheek. But when I do, I’m secretly praying that she’ll get shot.

I was in Michigan last week, nine days of lying on the beach, eating grilled meat, playing golf and beach volleyball and drinking to my heart’s content, or maybe a little past that point. I actually got back from vacation exhausted, like I needed a few ten hour workdays to really wind down and relax.

I guess I’m still like a kid in that sense – for me, vacation is like recess for me. I get out of where I’m trapped all day every day working, and for a specific, limited amount of time, I get to do whatever I want as long as I don’t throw up or make anyone cry. And let me ask you this: do you see a lot of first graders lying around the blacktop with a kickball under their heads, or flipping through Calvin and Hobbes while they lounge on the playground’s bouncy bridge like it’s a hammock? No, you don’t.

So I went and I ran around and I got sunburned and cut my feet running through the woods shoeless playing Foxes and Hounds, and bruised and abused myself so that I was physically sore for the whole second half of the week. That’s just how I roll.

And I ate and drank too much, because the food – my goodness, the food. With as many family cooks up there as we had, the food was abundant and delicious. The dinner rundown:

Saturday: Grilled brats, burgers and hot dogs, with whatever accoutrements
Sunday: Grilled beef tenderloin
Monday: Barbecued pulled-pork sandwiches
Tuesday: Lasagna
Wednesday: Beer-butt chicken and cheesy cornbread
Thursday: Shrimp, mussels, corn, chorizo sausages
Friday: Grilled whitefish with cherry salsa
Saturday: Grilled pork loin

Oh, you could almost hear us all getting fatter.

On Sunday, before we left, my brother and I were sitting in the car when he decided that it would be fun, if you had a dog, to name the dog a crude or suggestive word. Groper, Fuckstick, Anus, Herpes, Buttplug, Merkin, Phallus the Fister and Whore are a few possibilities.

And now I’m back, sitting at work, and it seems somehow fitting that the list of names keeps running through my mind. Over and over and over again.

Sipping on

I have two things to say. Firstly: I don’t remember what the first thing was. Secondably, I am a little bit drunk.

As I have been know to say before, someone put gin in my grapefruit juice. I don’t know how this happens (I do), but every three weeks or so, my morning wake-me-up has alcohol in it. Why? How? Who knows? (I do.)

I actually never drink grapefruit juice, because I don’t like it. It’s bitter and pink, like a grandparent who’s moved to Florida, and we all know no one likes old folks. Or grapefruit juice. And that’s the point.

This would be a good time to point out that the first time I tried to spell “gin,” I wrote “finger.” I guess that means I’m a fast typer. A fast, bad typer. Fast, bad and drunk. I think that should be the title of my autobiography.

Oh, I think the first thing (back to the first sentence, ignoranuses), was something about how I said Brandy hated to swear and then she said the “fuck-word” in a comment (for shame, Brandy!) and also about how allthewine got mad and jealous that I wrote a post about Brandy (I did?) and not her (I didn’t). Meanwhile, Lil is ignoring me, despite the alleged fact that she had a crush on me once (never gonna forget that one), except for very gracious responses to my corrections of her sports-related posts, which I reply to drunk. That’s kind of an inside joke, huh.

Let me explain. Actually, never mind. Suffice it to say that the ladies seated around me are laughing at me right now and I think they have a pool going as to whether I will cough or burp next. I’m guessing cough.

Yes! I was right. Even though I sorta fake-coughed it, and burped a little at the end. Aaaaand I just saw money changing hands. I guess I was right – they are literally betting on my physical condition. I don’t know whether to be flattered or depressed. I guess, like Jane Austen says, “when in doubt, be flattered.”

Ok, she just said “oh! Sounds like it’s breaking up though.” Talking about my chest-phlegm. Why are these people in the office? Wait, why am I in the office? I ought to be on the beach, drinking beers and trying to hook up with someone.

Waaaaait a minute! I remember what the first thing was. (first and fourth paragraphs, retard.) It was about how a bunch of people read and commented on my last post. What? Why? I felt like I was at a grungy club, just hanging out with the people I knew, then all of a sudden people start grinding up on you from every side, and at first you think “gypsies! Whoah, is my wallet safe?” and then you think “what if I was getting interrogated and the police guy said ‘where on the doll did you touch her’ and I would just have to rub the doll all over like I was giving the poor thing a full-body massage,” and then you think “oh this is bad,” and then “hey, this ain’t bad!” But eventually you realize it’s neither good nor bad. It’s just a bunch of people rubbing up against your blog.

See what I did there?

Yeah, me neither.

Credit to rs27 for the style of this post (is he just drunk all the time? is that his little indian secret?) and to Chris because he just kicks ass and I don't know how else to mix him in - I always make friends when I'm drunk, what can I say?

I'm off to Michigan for a week, so you peeps take care. I'll see you in August.

When people stop being polite and start being "get me Robitussin"

People who know how to write well say, “write what you know.” But that can be difficult for people like me who don’t know very much, and don’t have very interesting lives. I’m kidding, of course. Nothing is difficult for me.

And because nothing is difficult, I can write about what I know, or I can just make up stories. Did you know I make up a bunch of the stories on here? It’s true. Like the one about the naked chick on the beach, and the Supreme Court justices running down the street with guns, and the awkward conversation with my coworker, and really hating BlogHer, and that one about the guy getting arrested, and about wearing silk underpants.

I hope that doesn’t bother you. No, let me rephrase: that shouldn’t really bother you, should it? It’s not like we’re best friends and I lied to you. Sure, a story might not have happened, but it could have.

That’s one reason I didn’t get the big flap over the guy James Frey who wrote the book and called it a memoir, but then it turned out he changed a bunch of details, and he was on Oprah and then everyone hated him for it… why? They didn’t know him – so who cares if the story really happened or if it’s just a story. If it’s a good story, it’s a good story. That’s what I say.

If this really bothers you, then whatever, maybe this is actually the post that’s made up. Convince yourself of that. Or don’t.

Oh hey, I have a question. How do people set it up so that only a little bit of their blog posts show up in Google Reader… because then people have to click through to their blog and so you can see who’s reading, right? Mine was never set up like that, so I could never tell, which is why I didn’t find out until today that Brandy has me in her reader. She came over because of an overwhelming impulse to comment on my highly intellectual BlogHer post, and I was all, “heck yeah, Brandy’s got me in her Reader, what up now, bitches?” But then I got nervous because I have the feeling she doesn’t like bad language, and sometimes I use bad language, especially if I am really worked up or bored. Sorry about that, Brandy. I shouldn’t have said “what up now, bitches?” a little bit ago. Also, I shouldn’t have repeated it just now.

There’s something of a ruckus going on across the internet right now about something I wrote about gay dudes for my work. I can’t really get too specific, unless I just come ahead and disanonymousize, which I was thinking of doing anyway (thoughts?), but suffice it to say that there’s kind of an uproar about whether I am a homophobic bigot.

Well, that’s hogwash. I have tons of gay friends. Well, that’s not really true. But I think I saw a gay person once! Plus, I call my friends gay, you know, if they’re being gay. I’m not coming out like I planned. Wait, I wasn’t planning to come out – shoot, that just made it way worse. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I should stop now.

The final thing I have to say is this: I have a cold, a bad cold. It’s ninety-five degrees and I have the worst cold I’ve had all year. This is (look away, Brandy!) bullshit. But anyway (you can look back, Brandy), I blame the complete incoherence of this post on my cold... and on the fact that, like I said, when you write what you know, it’s just kind of boring. The end.

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. The second greatest was convincing you that you're interesting.

So. Oh my gosh. Have you guys heard? BlogHer is coming up! Zomg! Only like a week, or like, two weeks or something!

You’ve heard about it, right? San Francisco, tons of FAAAAB female bloggers from all over the country! And international, too! Everyone’s posting on their blogs about it, about how fun it’s going to be, about how many awesome shoes are going to be worn, and ohmigoodness, we are going to have a cocktail. Maybe even three! Then we will take pictures of ourselves with our cocktails! Can you believe it?! Pictures!

Wait. Just wait. Stop, take a deep breath.

You forgot about the part where I don’t give a shit. Maybe that should be your next post on the topic: “BlogHer is coming up, but I’m not going to talk about it because Fort Knocks does not give a shit, at all. Not even a little bit.”

Because, let’s face it, if I don’t find your blog entertaining, that’s probably because it sucks. If I don’t find a topic interesting, that’s probably because it’s fucking boring.

It’s not that I’m calling you a boring person… just your mind. Your mind and your ideas and what you like to talk about. Pretty fucking boring. But not you personally. You are a unique snowflake.

One time one of my friends asked me to proofread his paper in high school. So I did. And you know what? It was boring, and I told him so. But he didn’t believe me. He kept the story. And one week later, he got struck by lightning and died.

So what I’m saying is, if you keep yammering about BlogHer and how fun it’s going to be to meet someone who you feel like omg you already know, you’re probably going to die.

So don’t say you weren’t warned. Don’t come spooking about in ghost form after the terrible earthquake that destroyed the convention center in San Francisco, saying “oooooo if only I’d knoooowwwwnnnn.”

Here’s a list of topics and activities that would be more interesting than posts about BlogHer:

1. Margarine vs. butter
2. What’s the longest word you’ve ever spelled with alphabet soup?
3. Watching your toenails grow
4. Counting the number of times you can count to one
5. Waiting for a bus
6. Watching Twelve Angry Men on mute in slow motion
7. Blowing your nose
8. Beating a dead horse
9. Literally
10. Blowing a dead horse
11. Trying to fit two golf balls in your mouth
12. Choking on one of them
13. Betting on the exact date of the Apocalypse
14. Farting in a wetsuit
15. Saying “hamburger” over and over until it sounds weird
16. Learning to speak klingon
17. Stretching a rubber band, then letting it unstretch
18. Growing a mullet
19. Saying “hamburger” in klingon over and over until it sounds weird
20. Writing this boring, boring list

If you’ve got anything to say, I’d love to hear it. No, of course I’m not serious.

Nude beach conversations

There’s a beach on the California coast, somewhere in the Central Valley, I think? Does that even make sense? I don’t know, I was out there for a week-long trip and didn’t do any of the navigating, so I never really knew where we were. Plus I was drinking. But the exact location doesn’t really matter for the story.

We were at this beach. In California. And man, let me tell you, it was gorgeous. I grew up with Lake Michigan beaches, and as impressive as those are, they’re not quite as big as beaches on the ocean. People who first see our beach in Michigan are always surprised at how big it is, at the fact that you can’t see across the lake, that the sand is so much finer than ocean sand, that the waves are actually big – but still, nothing like a Pacific Ocean beach.

They’re just so much bigger. The waves break over a long gradual slope of a hundred feet instead of twenty. The waves are eight feet instead of four.

We lay back on the fluffed brown sand in our sunglasses and sucked on Bud Lights, and that’s when I noticed the woman without a shirt on.

I was surprised, naturally, to see a woman topless on the beach, which one of my friends had described as “semi-private” – I don’t know what that means, but I was doubly surprised because most nudists you’ll run across are sixty, sweaty, and swinging. This woman was none of the above.

She looked young thirties, but I suppose she could have been pulling off a lithe forty. She was lying on a towel on her back, with her knees up and her head up, propping her elbows on the ground behind her for support. She was only about thirty feet down the beach to our right, sitting with another woman who was wearing a full two-piece swimsuit. This girl wasn’t. Black bikini bottom – and that’s it.

Quite honestly, none of us made too much of it.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was a nude beach.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it is.”

“Huh.”

“Hey, pass me another beer.”

End of conversation. We went back to drinking, minimal talking, and watching the waves beat the beach.

But then the guy happened.

This guy was probably fifty, but he could have been forties. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he had some kind of pot-belly working, and I think it must have been a new development, because he’d definitely gotten his swimsuit before he packed on the pounds. It was snug, a little blue and white number that left most of his thighs breathing free and the seams might have split if he started doing lunges.

But he wasn’t doing lunges. He was walking over to the woman purposefully, his hair-covered gut preceding him like the advance guard in a royal fat parade. The man shuffled up, careful not to kick sand onto her towel, pushed his sunglasses onto his head and began, “could you please put a… you know… put a shirt on?”

“I’m not trying to bother anyone,” the woman said. My ears perked up immediately. This could be good.

“Well, some of us would just like to enjoy the beach and not have this… immodesty going on.”

And this is when the exchange got so outrageous I literally could not believe it.

The woman shifts position a little, looking as cocky as you can when you’re lying on the ground talking to someone standing over you, and says, “it’s just my body.”

The guy is not about to take shit. “Yeah,” he says, “and it’s just my erection.”

I was amazed that the woman could even respond, but who knows, maybe she gets this all the time. “You don’t have to look at me, you know,” she says.

“Yeah, but when I look somewhere else, I still imagine them. And they’re even bigger in my imagination.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t even laugh, I was so shocked. My mouth fell open and a little beer dribbled out.

But he topped himself. “And what if…” he stumbled. “What if in my imagination, you don’t have pants on?”

The woman was confused and ready to acquiesce. But she had one last rejoinder: “even if I put a top on, you’ll still have your imagination.”

“I hope so,” he said, and it was a withering blow. The woman was overwhelmed, defeated. She grabbed a matching black top and threw it over her neck, then hurried to tie it behind her back.

I couldn’t blame her. At that point, the guy’s next move could have been to ask her to put suntan lotion on her back or strip off his swimsuit, plop down on the towel and say, “scooch over, will ya? And then tell me a little about yourself.”

But he didn’t. Instead he shuffled back in the direction he’d come from, farther up the beach. The women picked up and left about ten minutes later, possibly because they heard us snorting with uncontrollable laughter.

That was the only time I’ve ever seen someone naked-ish at the beach, but I have no desire to do it again. I can’t imagine ever topping that.

Just had this awesome exchange

I was walking out of the bathroom not ten seconds ago when one of the jackasses I work with was walking in - the same one who sent an email to the entire company to "use white-out sparingly." I don't even know what that was about. Does anyone even use white-out any more?

Whatever. Anyway, he goes in, immediately turns around, sticks his head back out and calls to me, "Hey!"

I turn around.

"Are you the one that layered the toilet seat with toilet paper?"

"No."

"But you were just in there."

"Ok."

"So you peed right through the middle and didn't get any on the toilet paper?"

I thought about it for a second. "I was just washing my hands," I remembered.

He starts walking toward me in that jokey-bossy way where people want to be friends with you but also have authority over you. "How bout you let me smell your hands."

"How bout I let you put my balls in your mouth."

Long, awkward pause.

Finally, I say, "I'm sorry," and turn and walk away.

Probably going to get an email about it tomorrow, with the whole company cc'd.