“Listen babe, I swear, I didn’t think it was until next week.”
“You fucking idiot! How the fuck could you forget Valentines Day, dumbass?”
“I don’t know, I swear, shit, I just forgot.”
“Bullshit, you were probably off getting high with all your friends you didn’t even think about me or my feelings, much less our relationship!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you would have pulled your head out of your fucking ass, you would realize that it’s not only Valentines Day but also our anniversary!”
“Anniversary?”
“Oh my god, you really did forget. You’re fucking unbelievable sometimes!”
“Wait, how is our anniversary? We’ve only been together since like December…”
“It’s our two and a half month anniversary!”
“What kind of bullshit anniversary is that?”
“It’s obviously a romantic one! It’s on Valentines Day and you could’ve done all sorts of cute and romantic shit for me---but no—I have to be dating to the biggest fucking asshole on the planet who cares about nothing but himself.”
“That’s outrageous baby, I love you, but honestly, who the fuck celebrates two months and two weeks?”
“I don’t know…sweet guys that actually care about their girlfriends and buy them nice expensive things--”
“I buy you all sorts of nice shit!”
“Name one thing.”
“Um…”
“Exactly! You can’t think of one fucking thing! Asshole.”
“Look, I’m trying to think but it’s hard with you going fucking ballistic on me, and I’m kind of stoned right now---”
“You fucking asshole! This is just typical of you, just fucking typical, you good for nothing son of a bitch. The only thing you’re good at is doing drugs---”
“First of all I’m mainly only burning plants, second---”
“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” (sob) You don’t care about anything! You don’t care about me! You (dramatic pause followed by another sob) don’t love me.”
“Aw come on listen to yourself, what kind of shit is that? Just because I forgot Valentines Day or some bullshit anniversary doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I love you more than anything.”
“Then how come you don’t buy me nice things?”
“Say what?”
“Why don’t you get me nice shit, asshole?”
“What the fuck’s that got to do with love?”
“It has everything to do with love, dickhead!”
“Don’t get me wrong babe, but it sounds like it has a lot more to do with materialism.
“Are you calling me materialistic?”
“Maybe I am.”
(Exasperated snort of disbelief) “I can’t believe this…”
“Believe what?”
“The nerve of you! You come here, whacked out on drugs, you forget not only the most romantic holiday on earth but also what’s probably our most important anniversary, and you insult me! You. Are. Such. An. ASSHOLE!”
“Oh I’m the asshole huh? I’m the drug addicted, good for nothing asshole, right? I smoked a joint or four or six—I don’t remember how many—and I forget about a holiday that some rich douchebags invented to make even more money and some fucking anniversary you invented to get even more attention---so I’m the asshole? Am I getting this right?”
“Crystal clear, for the first time in your life, dickhead.”
“Well, what’s that make you then? Wait don’t even answer cause I already know! You’re the materialistic bitch!”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
“I called you a materialistic bitch but I was wrong. I should have called you a crazy, shallow, materialistic bitch. My bad.”
“You’re unbelievable. You’re just fucking unbelievable sometimes.”
“Well you’re a crazy bitch. But you’re a crazy bitch all the time.”
“A crazy bitch? That’s what you think? So I guess you won’t be surprised that I have one of these….”
“Whoa, where the fuck did you get that?”
“I’ll ask the questions, dickbreath. Do you still think I’m a crazy bitch now?”
“Look babe, please put it down, no one has to get hurt.”
“You didn’t answer my fucking question, fuckhead. “Do you still think I’m a crazy bitch?”
“Baby I’m sorry just put it down! It doesn’t have to come to this!”
“AM I STILL A FUCKING CRAZY FUCKING BITCH OR NOT?!”
“Listen I’m sorry I said those things! I wasn’t thinking right, I love you, I love you, you’re not crazy just please---please baby don’t pull the trigg---”
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Writing About a Place
The skate rink is adjacent to the high school, connected by the overflow parking lot and taking up most of the northwest corner of the street, but is technically state property even though it's on school grounds. This is just a fancy way of saying both the cops and the school administration can fuck you over if you're up to shenanigans or tomfoolery. A lot of the previously alluded to fucking over occurs because the skate rink is utilized for drug use almost as much as it is for skating.
When I first approached the rink it was August of 2005 or so and the beginning of my Freshmen year in high school and coincidentally the end of my innocence but not really that's been gone awhile. 20 feet or so away I was greeted by the slapping sound of skateboard wheels and decks hitting the hot concrete as well as the sweet aroma of hydroponic marijuana, which was carried by a soft breeze in the hot August afternoon. I remember it as if I was a chubby 14 year old Bobby Hill lookalike scoping the various taggings that take up the concrete rink, alongside the various blood spots and tooth fragments from faceplants.
Visually it wasn't much but at the time I didn't really care that the place consisted mainly of concrete on top of concrete, but that probably had something to do with the dank smell that hung in the air which was putting me into a sort of uncaring mood. The rink is surrounded by a concrete ledge that rises no more than a foot off the ground and is gnarly as fuck to hit your head on. The whole thing is enclosed by a fence, with two gates for entry and a great gaping hole in the south side of the fencing, which is probably there so the cops don't have to walk all the way around the rink in order to arrest kids.
When I first approached the rink it was August of 2005 or so and the beginning of my Freshmen year in high school and coincidentally the end of my innocence but not really that's been gone awhile. 20 feet or so away I was greeted by the slapping sound of skateboard wheels and decks hitting the hot concrete as well as the sweet aroma of hydroponic marijuana, which was carried by a soft breeze in the hot August afternoon. I remember it as if I was a chubby 14 year old Bobby Hill lookalike scoping the various taggings that take up the concrete rink, alongside the various blood spots and tooth fragments from faceplants.
Visually it wasn't much but at the time I didn't really care that the place consisted mainly of concrete on top of concrete, but that probably had something to do with the dank smell that hung in the air which was putting me into a sort of uncaring mood. The rink is surrounded by a concrete ledge that rises no more than a foot off the ground and is gnarly as fuck to hit your head on. The whole thing is enclosed by a fence, with two gates for entry and a great gaping hole in the south side of the fencing, which is probably there so the cops don't have to walk all the way around the rink in order to arrest kids.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
I commented on...
David's characterization of himself through the eyes of his dog. I found it entertaining of him to envision how his dog looks at him and judges his various actions. It was also a refreshing and funny point of view.
http://deadfish-davd.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html
http://deadfish-davd.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Motherfuckin' Lemon by Robert "Rat" Kiley
So it was the third day of marching into these big fucking gook mountains after spending half a day crossing the wet fucking gook river. We came across a group of trees, total shade, quadruple canopy. The guys took a load off, a few of them sat with their backs to the trees, looking utterly exhausted. Mitchell Sanders whipped out his yo-yo and started dicking around with it, just like he was during the entire fucking three days of marching into the goddamn gook jungles. I swear to God that motherfucker plays with that thing more than his own fucking pecker, Christ.
I myself decided it was good to relax a little, I dropped my pack and M-16, whipped my helmet off my head, and poured some canteen water on my head. It trickled down my back and the sides of my face, feeling better then the pussy me and Lemon got during a weekend in Saigon. On the other hand the clap, which resulted from that weekend, was kind of a downside.
So I was just standing there, relishing in the shade of these big gook trees, when I hear, “Hey Rat! Catch, you worthless motherfucker!”
I turned right in time to see the smoke grenade hurtling at my face. Instinctively I dropped my helmet, caught the motherfucker and shouted, “Lemon you ain’t nothin’ but a chickenshit motherfucker!” right before I threw it right back at that motherfucker, who cackled madly as he caught it with one hand. Lemon was standing there in the shade, letting the grenade cook a little in his hand so it would cover me in the gook-shroud smoke when it got back to me. I’ll tell you man, I was impressed. The dude had already shed his pack, M-16, helmet and shirt, but the COs never gave him flak for that shit. They knew as well as I did that that motherfucker is down for anything. I remember this one time we had to go out on ambush at night, nothing unusual but it was Halloween and every motherfucker in the platoon was talking bad voodoo, not just the spooks.
Anyway there was this new kid PFC Who Gives A Fuck from Who Cares He’s Dead Now. I just remember the kid came from Berkeley and he had some strips of this crazy shit he called LDS, or SLD, or some wild initials, I just remember taking one and Lemon did too, and the trees started to melt, and keep in mind this is right before we go out on the fucking ambush. Me and Lemon, we’re wondering if it’s poisoned gook water or something, cause there’s no way a little strip of some Swedish douchebag’s initials could do this. But there’s no way dying of poison could feel so good. On the other hand, I couldn’t move, it was as if my mind was just grasping the concept that I was faraway from home, in this crazy jungle shooting motherfuckers with nothing to lose for what? Why were we killing these gooks?
There was no way I could focus on those thoughts, because a minute later there’s Lemon, reappearing before I even realized he had disappeared (had he melted into the ground?) but knowing that he must’ve gone somewhere, due to the fact the motherfucker was stark fucking naked aside for his gun, his tags, and his boots. Also, he was covered in all different shades of fluorescent paint, from his face to his pecker. To this day I have not one fucking clue as to where he got the fucking paint, or how he got covered in it so quick and I think it’s probably a good thing I never found out.
I only have vague, surreal memories from that night, but I remember crazy shit; creeping through the jungle, every single bullet that was fire had a blur following it, and the blood seemed to freeze in mid-air when the bullets met the mark of their gook targets. I remember Private Who Gives A Fuck, just sitting there, his head in his hands, screaming that nothing was real. I remember thinking the same thing, and then looking over at Lemon and thinking everything was alright. I was safe because God was there in the form of my best friend, a stark naked crazy motherfucker firing an M-16 into the air, his painted body brilliantly illuminated when the napalm came out and torched the whole fucking forest.
But back to the manner at hand, the kid from Berkeley was dead by morning, proving that he should’ve fucking stayed in school, me and Lemon haven’t gotten any more of that DSL shit, which probably isn’t a good thing to be on during ambush, unless you’re just balls fucking insane like Lemon. If I hadn’t personally seen his member so vividly and repeatedly that Halloween night, I would swear the guy had balls of stainless steel.
Anyway the gook jungles were no longer melting into nothingness so me and Lemon carried on with our game of catch, apparently to the dismay of those snoozing motherfuckers like Jensen, who gives me a look an irate motherfucker like him reserves especially for cool motherfuckers like me and Lemon. I don’t get those guys, they’re acting like this is all a big deal, like there’s nothing left to enjoy because they’re creeping through the gook jungle most of the day. Just cause there’s a war and shit doesn’t mean all fun goes out the window. We got an entire crate of these smoke grenades and I know damn well they’re not all going be used to smoke out Charlie so why not have some fucking fun?
I guess I was lost in thought or some other such bullshit cause next thing I know I’m hit smack in the chest by the fucker and engulfed in smoke. I stumbled away from the mess, coughing like a motherfucker, the smoke stinging my eyes, but laughing anyways. Lemon was doubled over, saying something about smoke grenades and me being a chickenshit motherfucker.
Once the smoke cleared Lemon came walking over to my position. He bumped into me hard with his left shoulder while adjusting his junk with his right hand. “Gotta take a piss, wanna cross streams ya faggot motherfucker?” he laughed at his own little joke and before I could even think of something to say that would put that motherfucker in his place, before I could even turn to see him right, I heard the click and knew something was wrong.
“Motherfucker,” I said, and for one moment I could see him out of the corner of my eye, silhouetted against the sunlight he had stepped into from the shade of the trees, and then I heard this big fucking boom.
It wasn’t even really a boom, it was whatever sound that’s made when a motherfucker steps on a landmine and gets blown right into the fucking trees. I couldn’t move, just stood there in shock as my best friend’s head flew through the air, the remnants of his last laugh stuck to his face like some cruel motherfucking joke. Nothing felt real, just like the Halloween night Private Longhair gave us that LSD shit. I just stood there as the other motherfuckers reacted, all kinds of “Oh shit’s” and “mother of god’s,” I stood there as Sanders rolled up his yo-yo and walked over to examine a tree, stained with Lemon’s guts, I just stood there while O’Brien and Normie Bowker peeled pieces of my best friend’s limbs out of the trees and moss.
Two months later I’m still in this fucking jungle with a bunch of dickheads like O’Brien and Sanders around me all the fucking time. They already sent Lemon’s family the usual; the American flag, the dogtags, the biggest part of him they could find, and a letter telling them their son, brother, cousin, etc. was a good American.
But would they even give a fuck? I’ll tell you one thing, I wrote a letter personally to Lemon’s sister, I told her her brother was a man of honor and balls. I cried like a motherfucking baby writing that shit, I poured my heart into it, even though I can’t write so good and whatnot.
So what happens?
I mail the letter. I wait two months. The dumb cooze never writes back.
I myself decided it was good to relax a little, I dropped my pack and M-16, whipped my helmet off my head, and poured some canteen water on my head. It trickled down my back and the sides of my face, feeling better then the pussy me and Lemon got during a weekend in Saigon. On the other hand the clap, which resulted from that weekend, was kind of a downside.
So I was just standing there, relishing in the shade of these big gook trees, when I hear, “Hey Rat! Catch, you worthless motherfucker!”
I turned right in time to see the smoke grenade hurtling at my face. Instinctively I dropped my helmet, caught the motherfucker and shouted, “Lemon you ain’t nothin’ but a chickenshit motherfucker!” right before I threw it right back at that motherfucker, who cackled madly as he caught it with one hand. Lemon was standing there in the shade, letting the grenade cook a little in his hand so it would cover me in the gook-shroud smoke when it got back to me. I’ll tell you man, I was impressed. The dude had already shed his pack, M-16, helmet and shirt, but the COs never gave him flak for that shit. They knew as well as I did that that motherfucker is down for anything. I remember this one time we had to go out on ambush at night, nothing unusual but it was Halloween and every motherfucker in the platoon was talking bad voodoo, not just the spooks.
Anyway there was this new kid PFC Who Gives A Fuck from Who Cares He’s Dead Now. I just remember the kid came from Berkeley and he had some strips of this crazy shit he called LDS, or SLD, or some wild initials, I just remember taking one and Lemon did too, and the trees started to melt, and keep in mind this is right before we go out on the fucking ambush. Me and Lemon, we’re wondering if it’s poisoned gook water or something, cause there’s no way a little strip of some Swedish douchebag’s initials could do this. But there’s no way dying of poison could feel so good. On the other hand, I couldn’t move, it was as if my mind was just grasping the concept that I was faraway from home, in this crazy jungle shooting motherfuckers with nothing to lose for what? Why were we killing these gooks?
There was no way I could focus on those thoughts, because a minute later there’s Lemon, reappearing before I even realized he had disappeared (had he melted into the ground?) but knowing that he must’ve gone somewhere, due to the fact the motherfucker was stark fucking naked aside for his gun, his tags, and his boots. Also, he was covered in all different shades of fluorescent paint, from his face to his pecker. To this day I have not one fucking clue as to where he got the fucking paint, or how he got covered in it so quick and I think it’s probably a good thing I never found out.
I only have vague, surreal memories from that night, but I remember crazy shit; creeping through the jungle, every single bullet that was fire had a blur following it, and the blood seemed to freeze in mid-air when the bullets met the mark of their gook targets. I remember Private Who Gives A Fuck, just sitting there, his head in his hands, screaming that nothing was real. I remember thinking the same thing, and then looking over at Lemon and thinking everything was alright. I was safe because God was there in the form of my best friend, a stark naked crazy motherfucker firing an M-16 into the air, his painted body brilliantly illuminated when the napalm came out and torched the whole fucking forest.
But back to the manner at hand, the kid from Berkeley was dead by morning, proving that he should’ve fucking stayed in school, me and Lemon haven’t gotten any more of that DSL shit, which probably isn’t a good thing to be on during ambush, unless you’re just balls fucking insane like Lemon. If I hadn’t personally seen his member so vividly and repeatedly that Halloween night, I would swear the guy had balls of stainless steel.
Anyway the gook jungles were no longer melting into nothingness so me and Lemon carried on with our game of catch, apparently to the dismay of those snoozing motherfuckers like Jensen, who gives me a look an irate motherfucker like him reserves especially for cool motherfuckers like me and Lemon. I don’t get those guys, they’re acting like this is all a big deal, like there’s nothing left to enjoy because they’re creeping through the gook jungle most of the day. Just cause there’s a war and shit doesn’t mean all fun goes out the window. We got an entire crate of these smoke grenades and I know damn well they’re not all going be used to smoke out Charlie so why not have some fucking fun?
I guess I was lost in thought or some other such bullshit cause next thing I know I’m hit smack in the chest by the fucker and engulfed in smoke. I stumbled away from the mess, coughing like a motherfucker, the smoke stinging my eyes, but laughing anyways. Lemon was doubled over, saying something about smoke grenades and me being a chickenshit motherfucker.
Once the smoke cleared Lemon came walking over to my position. He bumped into me hard with his left shoulder while adjusting his junk with his right hand. “Gotta take a piss, wanna cross streams ya faggot motherfucker?” he laughed at his own little joke and before I could even think of something to say that would put that motherfucker in his place, before I could even turn to see him right, I heard the click and knew something was wrong.
“Motherfucker,” I said, and for one moment I could see him out of the corner of my eye, silhouetted against the sunlight he had stepped into from the shade of the trees, and then I heard this big fucking boom.
It wasn’t even really a boom, it was whatever sound that’s made when a motherfucker steps on a landmine and gets blown right into the fucking trees. I couldn’t move, just stood there in shock as my best friend’s head flew through the air, the remnants of his last laugh stuck to his face like some cruel motherfucking joke. Nothing felt real, just like the Halloween night Private Longhair gave us that LSD shit. I just stood there as the other motherfuckers reacted, all kinds of “Oh shit’s” and “mother of god’s,” I stood there as Sanders rolled up his yo-yo and walked over to examine a tree, stained with Lemon’s guts, I just stood there while O’Brien and Normie Bowker peeled pieces of my best friend’s limbs out of the trees and moss.
Two months later I’m still in this fucking jungle with a bunch of dickheads like O’Brien and Sanders around me all the fucking time. They already sent Lemon’s family the usual; the American flag, the dogtags, the biggest part of him they could find, and a letter telling them their son, brother, cousin, etc. was a good American.
But would they even give a fuck? I’ll tell you one thing, I wrote a letter personally to Lemon’s sister, I told her her brother was a man of honor and balls. I cried like a motherfucking baby writing that shit, I poured my heart into it, even though I can’t write so good and whatnot.
So what happens?
I mail the letter. I wait two months. The dumb cooze never writes back.
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