Epilouge - I am fools' fortune no longer, to quote shake spear.

Having completed my one year prison sentence for battering then urinating upon that vile home-wrecker Ricardo, which I victoriously pled down from a second-degree assault charge (apparently the lilly-livered prosecutor is unable to withstand the thought of strangling a man in the process of preserving one’s honor,) I emerge from a one-year creativity hiatus primed to finally write the master tome that would forever alter the course of human civilization.  I now join the ranks of historical altruists who have been jailed for pursuing their passions, such as Gondi, Junior Reverend Martin Luther King,  Mother Teresa, and Charles Manson.  My future is incredibly bright, and during my spiritual (and I suppose physical,) incarceration I was able to take college-level courses that will in short order yield me a high-paying job.  This will allow me to live in dependently, purchase a new Prius with even lower emissions (all the better to serve the natural environment with!) and perhaps even reclaim Puppy-bear from the hobo who absconded with her following my unjust imprisonment. It will also allow me to pay in full the obscene $15,000 judgment a certain former ex-spouse won against me in family court.  

As for that trollop Katie, that vile unfaithful excuse for a wife – I hang my head at the unfairness inherent to entropy.  Apparently following my passionate and assaultive outburst, she did abscond with that damned Ricardo to the capital of banality that is Las Vegas to marry that so called “Ricky Love” in holy matrimony as she had once done me.  I got the last laugh, as a letter she wrote me in prison detailed her getting drunk and putting all her money into that one armed bandit – that idiotic icon of idiocy, the so called “slut machine.”  The fact that she won several million dollars notwithstanding, I laugh condescendingly at the foolishness that is the venture of gambling. She also included several polaroid photographs of her and Ricardo engaged in what appears to be wildly passionate sexual coitus on their wedding night, photos which were no doubt delivered in a spirit of petulant spite intended to invoke jealousy but which I was able to put to good use – they got me out of several attempted shiv-attacks and other beat-ups during my tenure as a prison denizen. To her credit, Katie appears to have lost a significant amount of weight.  I still hate her, though. 

As for me, I fully intend to write the book that will re-frame the production of human knowledge, all whilst working at a prestigious job and at long last enjoying the unbridled intimate passions of the pumpmistress, who advised and succored me through the insipid hell foisted upon me by the wretched Katie.  Pumpmistress, being uneducated yet very clever with words, says she is “ratchet.”  I find this colloquial yet uneducated yet very clever eloquence deeply arousing.

This is to be the last and final entry in the web-log.  All my energies will henceforth be put into building the tome that shall indeed change the world.  All the better to exact revenge upon that Katie as she lounges with her little boytoy in that banal McMansion and rides around on that ridiculous blue moped she purchased with her divorce winnings.             

Wherein I am Arrested and Thrown in Jail Like a Common Jail Denizen

The sound of the handcuffs ratcheting around my wrists brought forth a literal volcano of terror in my heart.  To arrest me for the simple act of beating a man bloody then urinating on him is a great injustice!  One which every sovereign person of the land has a duty to RESIST!!  Being denied the use of my hands for fisticuffs, (all the better to resist this kidnapping masquerading as a lawful arrest!) I opted instead for footsicuffs, kicking wildly as two brutish pig-officers carried me closer to the police cruiser wherein I would be transported to jail. They placed me inside surprisingly gently, and I decided to ruse them by behaving in a compliant, genteel manner for a moment. "After you!" I said as they explained I had to watch my head as I climbed inside. I did this to trick them.

As I was looking around from the cab of the police car, cooly assessing my situation, I saw that damn Ricardo having his wounds tended by paramedics with MY Katie doting over him like some kind of hero! I tried screaming for her, but she couldn't hear me due to the confinement of the police car. I yelled until my throat hurt, which wasn't very long because I yelled really loud. I would need another means of communicating with her.

They say there are only two places a man can become a genius; prison or the battlefield. Well, I am a genius who has been to several battlefields, and here I was in the cab of a police cruiser, basically in prison. So of course like a flash of a billion supernovae, a genius idea came to me. I could still communicate with Katie via morse's code! Not having a proper antique telegraph with which to make the code, I was forced to use the tools at hand, which in my case consisted of bashing my head into the side window in the S-O-S of yore. (it goes "...---..." etc.)

Bracing myself, I sideways-bashed my head into the door.  "WOCK! WOCK! WOCK! whib! whib! whib! WOCK! WOCK! WOCK!"  The sound was deafening inside the police cruiser, and I can only imagine resonated through the renaissance fair parking lot as well.  As pig-officers are wont to do, one of them snuck up on me and opened the door suddenly, and I felt myself fall out of the police car and onto the dirty grass with a dull "thud" sound.  Then I felt knees all over my perfectly balanced body, not even the protective layer of fat I've developed was able to withstand the agony inflicted by the pig-pile of pigs all over me.

Shackles ratcheted around my ankles and in sheer terror I realized they were re-kidnapping me worse than before, rather than responding positively to my morse's code S-O-S. "I CAN'T BREATHE!!"  I shrieked at the top of my lungs.  I repeated this several times as they forcibly hog-tied me despite squirming and screaming to the best of my ability.  They then group hoisted and placed me on my side in the cab of the cruiser as I shouted the very basest, most crude obscenities I knew at them. This miscarriage of justice was completely beyond the pale!  All this fuss over a little old writer!

  But alas, despite my deft martial skill I had been completely defeated, and as the pig-officer drove me to the jail I was certain would be my place of death, I could do nothing more than explain to the asshole with a badge that I was a WRITER and subsequently regale him with ideas I had for novels, novellas, and novelettes.  As we arrived in the prison garage, the big Russian corrections officers at the jail loaded me onto a gurney and put me in a weird velcro vest I'm certain scores of drug addicted cretins had vomited upon. The officer rudely declined to shake my hand as they carted me away, strip searched me, then placed me in a small cell with a dozen of the dirtiest prison denizens I had ever met.

I am too emotionally overwhelmed at the recollection to continue, tears are literally falling on my flip-phone as I type this.  I shall regale you sometime later in the week with the story of my trial, imprisonment, and triumphant release on my own recognisance after being ordered to perform community service of some stripe.

Stay Attuned!

Jordan

Wherein I Am Taken Prisoner By the Police, and Wherein Katie is Revealed as a Harlot, and Wherein I Urinate on Ricardo's Chest, All In the Backdrop of a Renaissance Fair

PART THE FIRST

So as I iterated in my last post, my life has changed somewhat dramatically over the last several weeks.  In this post, I shall reiterate with a higher degree of detail what has caused me to go so long without posting on this web log.  It was, at least to me, an epic of wonton yet cathartic events which, in turn, (at least from my perspective,) has allowed me to become a more sophisticated scribe (which to you common people means I am a better writer yet!)  Therefore, it is my wont to record these events in the utmost humility for the benefit of posterity, progeny, and protege.

It began, as I have stated in the previous paragraph (excellent writers always repeat important things several times, a technique called "theme" which I learned in jail,) when I informed my (unbeknownst to me at the time,) soon to be EX WIFE that I wonted to go to the local Renaissance fair.  I felt the Renaissance fair, with it's ability to transport the common gawker into a fantasy land inhabited by pigments of the imagination such as knights, dragons, and sorcerers (this is another thing I learned in prison, never put more than three things in a list or you may confuse your readers.  This is a technique called "simplification," but I digress,) would stoke the fiery flames of my imagination and finally allow me to write a complete piece.  I am a person who constantly wonts stimulation, and once I have enough I know in my heart of hearts I will be able to settle down and write.

So as I asked Katie to attend to renaissance fair with me, a surprising thing happened.  She didn't roll her eyes or start crying as Katie is wont to do when I say things to her.  Her response was nothing less than an enthusiastic "yes!"  I was chuffed!  In my excitement to go I quickly fashioned a "knight" costume from a plastic garbage bag, cutting holes for my arms and head then fashioning a Templar Cross from red duct tape across the chest and back. I then forged a helmet by wrapping a plastic jar of protein powder in duct tape (in the mummy technique of ancient Egypt,) and then cutting holes large enough to accommodate my generously apportioned and voluptuous head, (all the better to hold my big brain in!)  Whence completed the costume, I looked amazing, like a knight of yore.  Katie was preening herself something spectacular, likely she was intending to costume herself as a cortesian (it was only later that I realized she was dressing as a common harlot, and that it was not a costume.)

After several dozen minutes of genteel knocking and not so genteel shouting, Katie finally emerged from the bathroom the very picture of beauty.  I kneeled my most knightly kneel and said in a gentlemanly baritone, "Will you escort me to the renaissance fair?" But oddly she ignored this chivalrous gesture, stepping over me and opting instead to find the keys and exclaim "Let's go, c'mon!"  At the time her enthusiasm for the fair combined with her indifference for my manly gestures confused me, but in hindsight they make absolute, perfect sense.  How could she have deceived an intellectual of my prestige for so long?  Yet in that moment I failed to grasp the significance of what was happening.  I must have neglected my chamomile tea that morning or something - there is no other reasonable explanation for my failure to intuit her true intent.

PART THE SECOND

It only took twenty minutes of circling in the style of a vulture near the fairgrounds entrance to locate a suitable parking space. The child in the orange vest was quite upset, frantically waving his brightly colored stick and even summoning a senior carnie to try to dissuade me from my errand.  But nay!  These people are NOT POLICE OFFICERS and CANNOT TELL YOU WHERE TO PARK.  Because I kept the Prius in motion and never once came to a complete stop, no orange-vested rube was able to approach me.  I was vindicated as some slob carrying a crying child covered in vomit crammed her brood into her minivan and quickly exited.  I snatched that parking space as she pulled out, and no sooner did I stop the car than Katie unceremoniously threw open the door and bolted out, making a beeline for the entrance and leaving me behind to negociate the awkward fit of my protein-jar helmet.

Tragically, finding Katie in the expansive crowd took rather longer than twenty minutes.  It took several hours.  I grew tired and famished in my quest to locate my sweet lady, and only occasionally stopped to criticize other's costumes or maliciously yet cleverly insult the carnies who had been jokingly placed in stockades for some petty transgression.  The facilities were of the "port-a-pot-tea" variety, which are revolting mock ups of suitable bathrooms.  (You can see stranger's poo in them, which is wholly unacceptable! "Tea" indeed!)  As the sun began to set I grew irritated, and the thought occurred to me that Katie had ruined the renaissance fair for both of us.  Alas, little did I know.  In anxious defeat, I began trudging back to the Prius in the hopes she had been waiting for me there the whole time.  I so badly wanted to see her pretty face, even her irritated pretty face! But when I did see it in the parking lot, I was instead filled with dread and disgust.

As I exited the fairgrounds, I saw Ricardo pulling up on his motor-bicycle with a passenger.  As they removed their helmets, I saw the passenger was in fact my Katie and a wave of relief passed over me.  This relief quickly morphed into a soul-twisting rage as they dismounted the motor-bicycle, embraced as only lovers do, and then began the most obscene kind of open-mouth-kissing, as if each other's tongues were made of ice cream and they had been parched in the Sahara for days.  It was at this moment that everything, literally everything fell into place for me.  Ricardo's frequent overnight visits.  The extensive cash loans Katie had made to him, (which he still owes me yet.)  Her total lack of interest in my romantic overtures, and Ricardo's perverse fascination with Puppy Bear. With this kind of disillusionment can only come the most bitter variety of rancor, and come it did...

PART THE THIRD

Rage of this caliber cannot be confined to soul and intellect for long, and as righteous vehemence is wont to do, quickly manifested itself in a more corporeal form.  I dashed across the parking lot, latent combat reflexes welling up within me, wind whistling through my knightly helmet singing the praises of my infliction of justice, as nature is wont to do.  It was time to punish this charlatan for his multiple and vile transgressions!  They were so ensconced with minutia of one another's oral cavities they didn't even notice my running and shrieking until, flying through the air, I triumphantly dive-tackled Ricardo!  Though I didn't get a good purchase on him, my momentum did knock over his motor-bicycle, fortuitously pinning his leg beneath it.  Quickly recalling my Brazilian jiu-jitsu, I straddled his chest, forcing my knees into his armpits.  This combined with the motor-bicycle on his leg rendered him entirely helpless as I heroically scratched and slapped him, spitting the crudest and most vitriolic words I knew in his ear!

Ricardo, ever the coward lover and never the valiant fighter, simply covered himself up and cried loudly as I pulled his lush hair and repeatedly slapped his prominent cheekbones.  Katie, ever the temperamental redhead, joined the melee, trying to hit Ricardo as well in remorse.  Most of her blows accidentally glanced off of me, but at some level I did appreciate her efforts.  This scene continued for not nearly long enough before I heard a cacophony of running, the familiar sound of boots on turf.  I looked behind me to see several police officers running towards me.  I knew they were about to take Ricardo into custody, and accordingly I  turned back to him with the intent to double the efforts of my slapping before they arrived. (I would not be able to slap him once he was in handcuffs, as it is not gentlemanly to assail a disabled enemy in just retribution.)

It was at this point I noticed both his eyes had already been blackened, and he was bleeding something frightening from his mouth.  I felt butterflies of terror in my stomach at the realization that indulging in a cruel and cathartic rampage as I had (despite the obvious justification,) meant I was no longer enlightened, at least not for the moment.  As I set Ricardo's battered and quivering head down my legs began to shake, and I am ashamed to say that at that moment, completely emotionally overwhelmed, unable to use the commode for the last several hours, and physically exhausted from my grim chore, I soiled myself in spectacular fashion. As I had opted to wear a rather flimsy pair of nylon cargo shorts that day (all the better to keep me cool,) the lion's share got on Ricardo as I still had him in a Jiiu-Jitsu mount.

This was the justification the police used to arrest me, stating that I had done it on purpose.   They rudely ignored my screaming at them, and Katie, oh that vile Katie!  Made it sound through her rendition of the events that I had been the bad guy that day!  Any remnant of my genteel enlightenment vaporized in the soul-destroying grief and fury I felt, poison rather than love coursing through my chi meridians.  Like a common criminal I was literally hosed down (with freezing water!) in the parking lot in full view of the gaggle of assholes which had gathered to bear witness to my humiliation.  They confiscated the entire ensemble of my costume, then these errant officers chauffeured me to the local jail, and let me tell you going to jail in Snohomish County is the VERY WORST.  They put me in the section with the scumbags and served me the worst variety of cuisine you can imagine (non-organic, frozen GMO!!) all the better to stew in my vile anger until the confrontation with the judge the following day!

But recounting these events has drained my emotional resolve for the time being, and it will be awhile before I can recapitulate recent history further still.  So you, genteel reader, will have to make due until I can reconstitute myself.  Given that I no longer possess my quilt, don't have fast access to chamomile tea nor Xanax, and can't readily afford tobacco (I got SCREWED over my alimony from Katie,) this may be on the order of several days.  Please be patient.  I have an amazing, transformative story to tell.  I have seen the true, repugnant underbelly of the "injustice system," one which exists solely to persecute inspired men such as myself.

Stay Attuned!

Jordan

A Brief Update....

Genteel Readers;

I have three brief updates, though further details are sure to follow:

Katie and I have decided to part ways, an event which occurred at a renaissance fair and was precipitated by the realization that she is, in fact, a worthless harlot.  As Katie is apparently wont to be.

In an unrelated incident, I was arrested for public urination at said same renaissance fair.   I have just been released from jail, as the arrest spiraled into several other unrelated events wherein I threatened the life of a sitting judge as I was being arraigned.

Finally, some good news!  In the ultimate "green" lifestyle change, I have decided to take up permanent residence in my Prius while I pursue work as a writer!  This decision was reached upon my release from jail. My gymnasium has graciously allowed me to "camp" in their parking lot so long as I arrive after closing and leave before opening!

More exciting news is to follow, so stay attuned!

Super Bowl Day Celebration Alternatives

Genteel Readers;

Perhaps the most gauche of all "holidays" is upon us, that of Superbowl Day.  Over the years, it has evolved from single game played on a single day into a veritable orgy of junk food, domestic fermentation products, shouting, and as the evening progresses the whole thing erodes into both a literal and figurative hangover.  Compostables go uncomposted, relegated to landfills.  Aluminum cans which once shamefully housed domestic ale are also relegated to landfills along with a plethora of mylar and plastic bags, former homes of crass foodstuffs which are more the product of industry than wise cultivation by highly skilled organic farmers. As soon as the game ends, police officers rush from their stations and coffee houses to crack down on the entropic demolition derby that is the great unwashed trying to drive home from their Superbowl Day events hopped up on refined sugar and alcohol.

Last year when I was a simple albeit ignorant graduate student, I answered Occupy Bellevue's call to action and stood at the corner of 148th and 8th Street in Bellevue with a cardboard sign on which I had scribbled a subversive slogan.  "Honk if you hate the Stupid-Bowl" it read.  Nobody honked, but I attribute this to the fact that motorists were driving much too fast to read it, despite the fact that I had very carefully printed it on that shoe-box cover in bold caps with a red pen and would shake the sign angrily and vigorously when I saw a motorist approaching, all the better for them to notice my sign-mongering.  

This year, things are different.  I have blossomed lotus-style into a very sophisticated and genteel professional writer, all the better to admonish you who remain in intellectual darkness of better and wiser means by which you can observe Super Bowl Day without deigning to gawk at a flickering TV for several hours.

 Foot Ball Denizen/Deep Brain Thrombosis Denizen

First of all, there is a growing body of evidence that watching foot ball results in traumatic brain injuries such as concussions, stroke, coma, something called "deep brain thrombosis," or even brain death.  This is a virtual endemic among foot ball enthusiasts and is readily apparent should you choose to attend a live foot ball performance.  (It is at once awful and terrifying.  Shoving through crowds, loud yelling,  actual wearing of war paint, cursing, and unhealthy foods abound.  Never again shall I attend such a cacophonic performance, genteel readers!)  Rather than hosting a Super Bowl Day party, it is my genteel suggestion that you host a sort of intervention dinner.  Invite all your loved ones who regularly watch foot ball to your house for Super Bowl Day.  Really ham it up, hand written invitations with RSVP required, allusions to a cornucopia of ales and junk foods, and several references to a celebration of the art of foot ball in bright colors apt to catch their attention.

Foot Ball Performer in Partial Regalia 

When all your guests have arrived, you then discreetly block them in your driveway with your car and, dramatically storming through the front door, cut the cord to the television.  (Unplugging or turning it off will not suffice, as they will just plug it back in or turn it back on, etc.)  You then sit them down to a healthy, nutritious organic meal with ingredients purchased at the local farmer's market.  Substitute apple cider for beer, potatoes au gratin with scallops for "Sour Cream 'n' Onion" potato chips, and beef wellington for anything carcinogenic that would have been prepared on a bar-BQ.  You now have a captive audience, and can make a presentation on the ills and perils of traumatic brain injury caused by viewing foot ball while your guests eat their delicious and nutritious "vittles" (as foot ball fans are wont to refer to their food.)  Once your presentation is complete and everyone has finished their kumquat-merengue desserts, you may feel free to very genteelly pass around a collection plate for donation to some manner of charity for rehabilitating traumatic brain injury denizens.  Do remember to keep half the proceeds to recoup yourself for both your expertise and investment.

Should you feel anxious on Super Bowl Day and are unable to host a party, there are other things you can do to better the world you live in vis-a-vis anti-Super-Bowl activities.  First, either call your guests and cancel or simply pull the blinds and lock all your doors with the collection plate left on your doorstep.  Then, prepare to do some serious study.  Your choices on what to do with this time is entirely up to you so long as it is anti-super-bowl-day.

Typical Foot Ball Cheer Leader 

For example, you could write a novel in which the main character tends to a loved one who is dying from deep brain thrombosis after getting entirely too excited about his favorite quarterback's interception.  You could write a letter to your favorite Green Party candidate on legislation regarding foot-ball you'd like to see enacted once the rest of the world becomes enlightened and the green party gains a decisive majority in congress.  (If you favor the Democrats or Republicans I don't know what to tell you, other than to please stop reading my 'blog - ostensibly to steal my ideas and feed them to the machine.)  One such suggestion would be to replace it with the less rowdy, more sophisticated European version called rug bee.  Or better yet, switch it over to European style football (which Americans rudely and incorrectly call "soccer,") so that none of the remaining fans (this is a post enlightenment world we're talking about!) notices the difference.

I myself will be busy writing another novel with the intent of bettering you, the people.  It begins "It was the best of time, but it was also not-so-good times."  At this point, I am contending with a serious bout of writers block.  Yet this particular novel strikes me as having nearly unlimited potential in it's current form, and I think it no exaggeration to say this could be the written tome that brings about the age of enlightenment you all yearn for.  I am thinking the plot will revolve around two high-school morons who are forced to travel through time in a futuristic phone booth to kidnap persons of interest with the intent of displaying them to a hooting crowd of teenage idiots.  There will be a wise man who accompanies and at times renders aid, and when the movie version is produced I should wont this role to be reprised by me.

Incident With Hot-Tub Sicko

Although I emerged victorious from my latest confrontation with Ricardo, the emotional fallout from verbally shouting at a fellow human being (not to mention punching him in his bastard face!) has left me in a tizzy of nerves.  Just the other day I started weeping uncontrollably and without prompting in my Tai Chi class, and every time I try to soothe myself by talking baby talk to Puppy Bear she just looks out the front window or whines at Katie's room, ostensibly looking for Ricardo (which breaks my already delicate heart in a way you can't imagine.)  This has led to many unproductive hours of me curled up in a corner, wrapped in my tattered quilt, gently rocking myself back and forth and chain-smoking with my favorite song from Ultimate Kenny G on repeat.

Needless to say, this has resulted in very little of me doing what I do best; writing.  So once I felt it was safe, when the light was low and all the lamps were off, borrowing a technique I have observed used by rats, I peeked out into the open, hostile cavern that is my living room.  Being very careful to stay close to the walls for protection, I crawled out of my little pillow-fort and cautiously made my way across the room, stealthily crawling, pausing every few feet or so to look around, and carefully retrieved my laptop before scampering back to the safety of my nest.  There, prize in hand, I opened askjeeves.com and made a single query  "Dear Jeeves, What do geniuses such as myself do to relax when they are flustered?  Regards, Jordan"

Jeeves returned several results regarding baths.  Archimedes discovered that gold was valuable in the bath, Einstein said he did his best thinking in the bath.  Obviously, my taking weekly showers rather than weekly baths has proven detrimental to my thinking, and so it was with great renewed anticipation that I sprung from my hidey-hole, running towards my bathroom with laptop in tow, eager to soak myself in the tub and allow the inspiration to flow from my fingertips!  Of course, Katie was already in there with the door locked, doing her usual boo-hooing.  She is a sensitive girl, that Katie, but not in an acute polymath way like me.  No, she  is more petulant, and childish, and stupid in her sensitivity.

Since I didn't want to listen to any bitching about me getting a job or how hard her life is, I decided to utilize my gymnasium membership, as they have a public hot-tub there.  It would be there that the weight of my staggering intellect would finally be articulated on the page.  Since I didn't care to get my notebook wet, I decided that my laptop would be the more appropriate tool to utilize for my purpose of writing in the bath. So after rummaging around and finally locating an old pair of my swim-shorts, I loaded everything into my Prius and off I went!

Trouble first began rearing it's ugly head as I dressed to enter the hot-tub. In a brilliant strategic move, I opted to leave my T-shirt on, all the better to conceal the voluptuous nature of my ample belly.  The shorts were several sizes too small and it was only with a concerted effort that I was able to pull them over my buttocks and around my waist.  Even then, they were much too tight.  I wondered if they might have in truth belonged to that damn Ricardo.  Or perhaps that damned Katie just shrunk them in the wash as she has nearly ALL my other clothes with the odd exception of my socks.  Digression aside, it was with great discomfort that I carried my laptop to the hot-tub area.  The elastic waistband was biting into my sides something horrible, and I could literally hear the seams of the nylon fabric straining as I carefully ambled towards my destination.

I carefully lowered myself into the hot-tub, gently placed my laptop on the edge, and hit the button that said "jets."  A transcendently pleasant yet forceful stream of bubbles evolved, which when combined with the persistent heat of the all-natural spring water produced a deeply relaxing effect.  Or rather, it would have were it not for the constant  nagging pinching of these stupid damned shorts.  They were biting at my sides so badly that I one point I mused that this must be what it's like for surfers who are eaten by sharks in revenge for polluting the planet.  It was, in all honesty, overly distracting from the extremely important work I was wont to do at the moment, and the more I furrowed my brow the more frustrated I became.

Leave it to the gentle wooshing of the hot-tub to engender creative genius, as hot-tubs are wont to do.  I realized that the hot-tub's jet-stream would conceal anything below the meniscus of the water.  Therefore lowering the waistband to the level of my knees would relieve my discomfort without exposing my naked buttons to the perverse, ogling eyes of passers-by.  Of course  I did this without a second thought, and discovered that my T-shirt AND my belly provided both second and third layers of protection against any unwelcome gaze.  I was chuffed!  My work could continue unabated by shrunken/Ricardo's shorts (I neither knew nor cared which, but I digress yet again.)  I instantly set upon my laptop and began, at long last, articulating and giving voice to the fountain of genius that has always been welling up within me!

Golden moments such as these are not wont to last, however.  Some aged, obese dolt eventually came doddering over and regarded me with a sneer, that I all too eagerly returned hoping to dissuade him from using the hot-tub in tandem with me, which up to this point had been my sole domain in it's entirety.  Alas, he made his way in and settled down opposite me, exhaling an exhausted sigh from the concerted effort.  Ah - the physical trials of the elderly and aged.  After a moment, he opened one eye and looked right at me.   I bristled at the thought of having to engage this interrupting codger in conversation.

"You're really not supposed to be using a laptop in the spa, buddy." he mumbled in a gruff yet withering old man tone.  

"Au contraire" was my immediate thought, I had reviewed the rules thoroughly and found no such restriction for laptops.   This old man's lack of common sense was getting on my nerves.  "I am free to enjoy this hot-tub without the restrictions and criticisms imposed by cultural relics such as you, sir!"  was my curt and dismissive reply.  The gaffer opened his other eye and leaned forward, ostensibly to erroneously admonish me further.  Predictably, it was at this point that the jet-stream abruptly ceased and the concealing bubbles quickly dissipated, revealing for this sicko the brilliant alteration I had made to my swimwear.  I could tell by the widening of his eyes and the flaring of his nostrils that he found the visage to be sublimely erotic.  In short, this man was a pervert and the realization thereof instantly reversed any sense of relaxation and creative flow supplied by the hot-tub.

"HELP!" I shrieked.  "HELP!!!  THIS MAN IS A SICKO!!"  With panic welling up inside me I quickly clambered out of the hot-tub.  However, my disheveled swim-haberdashery proved to be an impediment, causing me to trip on the stairs and drop my laptop in to the now-stagnant, tepid water.  I felt a small electric current nipping at my toes, and the instinctive jump resulted in my falling backward into the tub and ruefully into the lap of the aged pervert.

This put me into an uncontrollable fugue, as falling into the lap of an elderly pervert clad only in a wet T-shirt and too small shorts lowered to your knees is wont to do.  Forgetting the ill fit of the shorts, I yanked them up past my buttocks and in terror felt them split down the middle. This was the worst happenstance ever!  I knew without artifice nor evasion that self-defense was the only viable option at this point, and tearing the remains of the shorts from my waist, bludgeoned the offender's head and face with them several times before making a mad dash for the locker room.

Without bothering to towel off I put my clothes back on and ran for the safety of my Prius, not bothering to regale the staff with ANY novel ideas nor literary musings on the way out.  That would have to wait for when they remunerate me for my lost laptop and the priceless body of work contained therein.  Additionally, that particular laptop was something of an antique which served to enhance it's value, and it is with great curiosity that I wait to see exactly how they intend to compensate me for that!  Finally, I fully intend to prosecute the old pervert who attacked me to the maximum extent of the law, and once I discover his name and address will embark upon a campaign of information gathering and evidence collection to bring the hammer of judicial retribution down upon this miscreant with maximum prejudice!

Finally, I Confront Ricardo...

Genteel Readers,

As you are no doubt already aware, for the past several months I have had a rather unwelcome intrusion into my personal life.  This intrusion's name is Ricardo, or "Ricky Luv" as he so boorishly refers to himself in the third person thus sacrificing any brevity afforded by the use of personal pronouns such as "I" or "me."  His overuse of chemical cologne and poor eating habits consisting solely of protein shakes has left him in an unnatural, ill state of health, so skinny that his ribs and abdominal muscle protrude in bold relief when he walks around my house shirtless in his ridiculous bikini-cut leopard print underwear.  He speaks in a disjointed patois in effigy of several of his favorite pop icons, none of whose names come to mind.  For some reason, he is always asking Katie for cash (usually to re-activate his phone,) and for some reason she nearly always gives it to him.  This is why I have not been able to answer MY phone as of late, but I digress.

Perhaps most disturbing off all is his callous treatment of the bitch whom I have made my life partner, and of course I am referring to Puppy Bear.  I feel he pets her too roughly after he takes her out for a walk, and get the distinct sensation that he is trying to edge me away from her, calling her over to play with her whenever he comes over.  Katie has been quite considerate in leading him away for a time when she is present in our home, absconding to her room with him for a time, often several hours.  Of course, I have wanted to confront him for some time over this, but have not been able to muster the courage to bring his boorish behavior to his attention.  This has led to a raisin thumb from all the thumb-sucking I've had to do, and a great deal of rocking back and forth in the fetal position in what remains of my quilt.  Of course, I've had to smoke so much my house smells like an ashtray, or at least that's what Katie claims it does every damn time she walks in the door.

It was after one especially egregious violation wherein Ricardo had the nerve to serve Puppy Bear a non-organic snack that I finally snapped and stomped out the door to walk to the corner store and purchase a pack of 'Slims from the pumpmistress, who  has become something of a confidant of mine in the past several weeks.  She always starts laughing in joy whenever I walk through the door and listens in silent glee to my many anecdotes and ramblings about books I have planned.  As I walked in sullen and broken in the soul, laughter started sparkling in her beady little eyes and a smirk appearing in the corners of her ample chubby cheeks. I confessed everything - the intrusion of Ricardo into my life, his unusual friendship with my sweet wife, and the fact (I minced no words here) that I though he might be trying to move in on my bitch.

The levity disappeared from her face "You damn right he tryin' to move in on yo' bitch!" she exclaimed.  "You need to be a man 'bout this and make sho' that motherfucker don't never do that again!"  Pumpmistress does this delightful thing where she is at once boldly confident and ungrammatical, and her temerity spurned a special kind of fire in my belly.  I would indeed confront this Ricardo, and communicate very clearly with all my genius and genteel spiritual acumen.  Much to my joy, pumpmistress was able to procure for a me a single Xanax, which when combined with a half pack of mentholated 'Slims made me feel like no less than a mighty demigod.  Ricardo was about to get his due.

When I came home, Puppy Bear was sleeping soundly on the couch.  I went to Katie's room, where Ricardo often sleeps on the floor.  Turning the knob, the door was locked.  No matter.  I used my spare key and slipped inside.   What I saw when I entered made me want to poke out my mind's eye; Ricardo was in fact making very aggressive love to some trollop whom I recognized from the local grocery store with Ginuwine's smash hit song "My Pony" blaring in the background.  The trollop's grotesque and misshapen fat body reminded me of an adult film I had recently encountered on askjeeves, oddly titled "Baker's Dozen." His eyes widened in shock when he saw me darkening his door.  No matter.  I was not about to let the crushing awkwardness of the moment dispel the strength I had mustered.

"Ricardo, I confront you!" I shouted, looking down at him over the top of my glasses.  "I confront you very much!"  Ricardo froze in terror momentarily as my awesome presence permeated his consciousness, then in a blind panic began scrambling for his clothes, his ripped jeans, tank top, and flip-flops.  Obviously his interest in my speech had not been piqued, and it briefly occurred to me that I should have first retrieved my pistol.  The trollop had already deftly climbed out the second-story window and was making her way down a trellis wrapped in one of Katie's sheets.  Staring intensely as to maintain my spirit grip on his feeble will, I approached him from across the room.  He fell to the ground and began softly crying as the overwhelming power of my spiritual presence began to cathartically exorcise the evil from him.

"She started it bro, you gotta believe me!" He whimpered   "She always felt guilty, too!  You know how it is, I'm a guy, you know?  I just do what I gotta, man!" as pathetic elephant tears rolled down his face.

"She's a sweet dog," I replied, "but she's still just a dog.  She can't make you do anything.  I say this without artifice nor evasion - never are you to serve her any treats without my explicit written approval.  I am a professional writer, so writing the approval will pose no trouble should you choose a proper, organic treat!"

There was a long pause as his face twisted in confusion.  The poor rube was so enamored of his pop-culture patios that he barely understood proper spoken English, and a curt "Huh?" was his dull-witted reply.  Just then, I heard a door slam.  Katie had returned home and was quickly making her way towards her room.  Good, I'd like to involve her in this as well. She saw Ricardo and I in the midst of our confrontation, and somehow put two and two together, reaching down to pick up the trellis-trollop's discarded, extra large cotton panties.

"Ricky Luv how could you?!" she exclaimed.  Ricky lunged forward, ostensibly to hug her so I punched him in the face and he fell back onto the bed.  "GET YOUR OWN DOG YOU RUBE!" I snarled for effect.  He burst into tears and, strangely began apologizing profusely to Katie between sobs.  The pain in my wrist was making me dizzy, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom.  No sooner had I left than Katie locked the door behind me, and I had left my cleverly crafted key in her room somewhere.  Damnation!  However, judging by the furious screaming and crying from behind the door, my trusty wife Katie was continuing the confrontation I had began.  Ricardo departed a few moments later, still in tears, without bothering to say a proper good-evening as rubes are wont to do.

I went to thank Katie, but the door was once again shuttered tight, and several minutes of very genteel knocking only yielded increasingly irritated shouts of "Go away!" and "I hate you!"  No matter. I shall simply say what I have to say to her via this web log.  Katie, thank you very much for helping confront the boorish rube Ricardo!  Your days as an ignoramus are certainly numbered, as you shall one day be enlightened, yet!