Severe Christmas Ettiquite Violation Involving Cookies

It is with great trepidation that I make my annual visit to my birth home to visit my biological parents (I consider the Earth to be my "real" mother, and the passing of time to be my "real" father with the infinite wisdom it conveys.)  for Yuletide Evening celebrations.  I want you to understand why I am so fearful of these particular encounters.  We'll start with my father, a gruff, muscular union boss with a penchant for swearing in a brutish, very non-genteel manner who's favorite pastime it seems is to tell dirty jokes to make me blush, which he follows up by mocking my girlish giggle.

My (much younger) brother has been a thorn in my side since the day he was born. He was literally my exact size when he was born, and kept pace with me over the years.  As soon as he started teething, he started biting me with his powerful jaws.  Have you ever had to smack an infant savage off your bleeding arm?  I have! I have multiple times.  As we grew older, he first outgrew me by a sizable margin (think ogre dimensions,) then developed a preternatural penchant for firearms, which he used to terrify me with by displaying in his bedroom.  He now works as a police officer, and I cower under his questioning gaze.  He is eternally suspicious of my activities and likes to glower at me from across the room whenever I visit.

My sister?  She is an impish prankster and a surgical assistant who enjoys cooking family meals as a hobby.  I don't know where she procures her meats, but it's at no grocery store at which I shop.  I dread she may be slipping me human body parts, and worst case scenario she's serving me unethical, non-organic foods.  I saw a plastic bag with "Safe Way" written on it in the back of her boyfriends Mustang (he is a gun-toting security guard who also scares the hell out of me,) so I dread to think what I've put in my body when I'm there.

But the most terrifying one of all is my mother.  In addition to being the sternest nurse you ever met in your life, she was also an aggressive professional, a "C-level" executive of her own corporation, a "Hammer" society in which unexpectedly mean older ladies gathered to play celtic instruments.  I remember during their meetings my father would drag me and my brother out to the theater, almost always to a terrifying movie.  During the film, my brother would pluck hairs out of my head one at a time, (to which I attribute the current state of my hairline,) and I dared not speak up in my defense lest my father "shush" me over the roar of terrifying cinematic machine-gun fire and all-too memorable bad guys dying.  Of course, I'd come home pale and shaking in shock, my hairline a few millimeters further back from my eyebrows.  These rogue musicians would still be pounding on their instruments and would just laugh at me when I very politely told them to leave.  My mother would then come scold me.  She was the leader of these people, CEO - CFO - COO - CSO, all of it.  And on the soft canvass of my feelings, in full view of all, she would paint her minions a verbal picture of precisely why they had sworn their fealty to her.  This predated Xanax and even Prosac was new at this time. So my only coping mechanism was to wrap myself in a blanket and hide in my tree fort outside.

Which brings me to this year's yuletide.  Amongst other fine things fit for a writer, such as classical literature, my mother baked me several dozens of a particular kind of cookie I enjoy.  Because Katie distracted me while we were saying our goodbyes that evening, I neglected to carry the confectionery bounty out to the car with the very heavy load of gift my parents had furnished me.  But not to worry - my cookies would surely be safe in the hands of my loving mother right?  I could retreive them at any time in the pristine state in which I had left them, could I not? Well then, explain this cell phone photo message I got this morning (the text is included in the caption):

Snooze: lose.  Har!

My mother, my own mother, DEVOURED the Christmas gift she had procured for me!  I'd head over right away to salvage that last one, but I KNOW she's only saving it so she can mockingly pop it in her mouth when she sees me come huffing and puffing up the walkway.  Then my dad will laugh at my girlish crying, my sister will take a picture and post it to my facebook page, and when I try to assail my mother for her crimes, my brother will counter-assault me leaving me covered in bleeding bite marks.  Oh no, I am NOT falling for this ploy a second time.  I hope you ENJOYED those cookies, I do!  The jokes on you, you didn't use organic walnuts!  I can tell because I've been fighting off a bout of diarrhea that extends beyond my usual nervous diarrhea!

Welcome to the New Æon of Enlightenment!!!

Genteel Readers,

Like many of my fellow literati I have often pondered what the end of the world might entail, and what any prophesies regarding such might mean.  The banal prefer to think of the apocalypse as widespread barbarism and destruction, but one must remember these same people have similar philosophical approaches to things such as music (as in ROCK music or gangster rap,) dining (non-organic foods purchased at non-artisan grocery stores,) or entertainment (watching television when reading the likes of Tolstoy or Dickens can provide literal hours [LOL!] of entertainment for pennies in the bargain-bin at the local Barnes & Noble.) I prefer to think of the apocalypse in terms of it's original meaning, which loosely translates to "world enlightenment," and hoped the noble Aztecs in their infinite wisdom before disappearing behind the veil of matter into the next world were simply indicating the moment at which the crazily acting, brutish assholes of the world would finally get their due, leaving the more refined and genteel person to his organic chamomile tea and Virgina Slims (I am pleased to report I am already up to two packs per day and have never felt more creative nor at peace, and the gas station pumpmistress has finally forgiven me for pointing out that she was smoking whilst pregnant out of wedlock, more on her later though!  I have certainly become quite the squalor buff through my association with her!)

Last night, however, I was afraid the neckbeards were correct about the impending destruction of the world.  I sat wrapped in my threadbare quilt, thumb in mouth, cigarette dangling out the corner of of my lips (I mastered this feat of oral dexterity quicker than one would expect,) sitting on a lawn chair on my back porch in the freezing cold, as Katie has been sneering at me in a condescending manner every time I smoke in the house.  Every time I saw an airplane or heard a car in the distance, my wild creativity turned against me and told me it was some kind of UFO from outer space, or perhaps the first salvo of a barrage of nuclear cruise missiles, or a tank - you get the idea.  I was terrified all because I had listened to the wrong kinds of people and allowed myself to become convinced that some horrible end was nigh.

Concomitant with my anxiety and the subsequent need to smoke my 'Slims, (yes, I call them that now!  Kitschy, yes yes?!) combined with the early hours of the morning and all the exercise I had received that day from pacing to and fro in my house while smoking, I fell asleep.  In the cold.  On my back porch.    Lit cigarette loosely dangling from my lips. As you might assume, my quilt is made of what?  That's right, 100% natural organic cotton fibers sourced from fair trade plantations from some delightfully ethnic corner of the world which escapes my memory at the moment.  Due to my sensitivity to all things unnatural, I ensured it had NOT been treated with cancer-inducing, flame retardardant chemicals as I knew straight away that I was going to find a corner and suck on it along with my thumb as I have been wont to do since I was a child.   Since I've had it for a few years, it has acquired a great deal of natural oils (one should NEVER wash their security quilt,) and so naturally, when the lit cigarette fell upon it in my slumber it ignited quite violently.  Apparently, though the shell itself was cotton, the stuffing was a polyester of some variety, because it burned and melted itself to me as I woke.

And so, I awoke to flames tickling my chin, and without a split second of hesitation reacted, running as fast I could to extinguish the flames.  Apparently I need to work on my sprints, because the fire grew in intensity despite my efforts.  Surprisingly, the incident ended when I slipped in one of puppy bear's delicate shits Katie had neglected to pick up, and landed on my lawn in a hiss as as the frozen turf quenched the flames.  I sat there, stunned, then deeply angry at Katie for her sloth and irresponsibility.  So of course I went stomping over to her room and knocked loudly on the door.  Ricardo told me to go away, so I knocked even louder and demanded an audience with my ridiculous trollop of a spouse.  She came to the door with her usual sneer, and her eyes widened in horror when she saw me wrapped in a smoking, damp quilt smeared with mud, dog shit, and grass stains.

I unwrapped myself and hurriedly shoved it into her hands.  "Wash this!  At once!" I bellowed.  She sneered again and shoved the blanket back at me, which was very rude of her.  But then I realized I was right - about the apocalypse.  I was finally saying what was on my mind without inhibition!  As the literary enlightened emissary of the world, my heart has been freed to ask - nay - DEMAND I receive that which I justly deserve.   First of course on my own behalf, but eventually on behalf of all of you, the little people.  This was a moment as significant as the transfiguration of Jesus, and I anticipate my writing will start to become brutally honest and edgier as I develop this powerful spiritual gift and spend further time smoking cigarettes at the gas station in the company of the pumpmistress. (She can swear like you wouldn't believe, and I may just start doing it too as an experiment in colloquial expression!) Eventually, I am certain the fruits of my labor will change the world along with the collective human consciousness.  And, you will note there was little violence and destruction in the world today!

Aside from my quilt, which I have thrown in the trash to shame Katie.  When she sees me without it, she will be overcome with remorse and do as I ask.  I just know it!

How To Punish A Bad Waitress (My 2¢ LOL)

Today for my wife's birthday, (which was technically yesterday but we agreed to celebrate today so she could spend time with some person named "Ricardo," all the better for me to pursue my literary gift!) I accompanied her to Denny's and allowed her to order literally anything she wanted off the menu.  The waitress came up to take our orders, who I could instantly tell did NOT appreciate the health benefits of artisan-crafted produce.  She had skin like an elephant, and frankly looked a little bit like the cryptkeeper.  She was abrasive and curt like him, too!  She asked for my order, and after pursuing the menu I opted to order the organic lumberjack slam with an extra side of organic sausage.  Then I made small talk with Katie, describing the written wonders I was bringing in to being while she dutifully recorded them into her cellular phone, laughing occasionally at my musings and for some reason saying "Oh, Ricardo."  She's weird sometimes, but I digress.

Well, when my meal arrived 20 minutes later (how god-damn long does it take to boil an egg, anyways?)  I instantly noticed something was amiss.  Namely, the meal I had requested was nothing more than four tepid pancakes, dense like concrete and just as warm.  Katie hurriedly ate her grilled cheese whilst I ruefully sulked, and elephant woman did not once return to inquire as to whether or not I was delighted by my meal, which I most certainly was NOT.  20 minutes of sulking passed as the waitstaff just hurried past me, eager to bring chicken nuggets to some screaming brat or an "early bird special" to some doddering table of geriatrics.    Assuming, of course, that all was well with me when in fact I was highly dissatisfied as was obvious by my sad face.

Katie looked at me, breaking 30 minutes of silence from transcribing my literary musings "Are we gonna go?"  Now these neckbeards were frustrating my wife as well.  I looked down at the remnants of my pancakes (yes, I had eaten them,) as Katie handed me the credit card and sauntered out of the diner.

Now in this situation, genteel readers, when the waitress is NOT paying attention and the restaurant is busy, it is a simple matter not to pay.  You see, the waitstaff makes their money off of tips, and by refusing to tip for poor service, and refusing to pay the company that enabled her faineance, I was taking the ethical, moral and legal high ground.   This is the action paradigmatic of what made great Ghandi, Martin Luther King, and other righteous gurus of you're.  Based on all the above, and the fact that I realized I could use the money on a party pack of organic Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I left without paying and without being challenged by the otherwise frantic Denny's staff.  But not before snarkily depositing two pennies on the table for the lousy excuse of a waitress.  I can be so whimsical, I swear!

As I made my way to my car, I received a text message from Katie "gone to work, be home tonight, don't wait up."  She has terrible punctuation, the silly little trollop!  Apparently she had gotten a ride from one of her lady friends, as I saw her on the back of a motorcycle on the other side of the parking lot.  Superb, further peace and quiet for me.  The excellent get what they deserve, and I had an afternoon of contemplative writing ahead of me.  Smirking, I looked back at the Denny's.  The shameful and lazy also get what THEY deserve, I mused to myself.  Karma's a bitch, after all!

I Have Taken Up Smoking Cigarettes.

So it has happened that I have been entirely cut off from my beloved Xanax.  Every physician, dentist, and in fact every illicit pill dealer within convenient walking distance from my home has "cut me off!" in some form or another.  Indeed, even entire medical institutions have me on record as being a "drug seeker" whatever the hell that means.  Obviously, this has had a profoundly negative effect on my persistent, nagging state of anxiety and to make matters worse, those around me seem to be going out of their way to irritate the hell out of me. My right thumb has been a wrinkled raisin as a result, and I've been torquing my quilt so frequently that it's beginning to fray.  All owed to the discourtesy of others in not respecting my highly developed sense of anxiety.

Just the other day the postman left a parcel at my doorstep, knocking then hurriedly scurrying away like a rat dressed in a pale blue uniform.  I regarded the package left behind with great suspicion until I cautiously opened it and much to my relief found a pound of homemade Christmas fudge from Katie's stupid friend (I erroneously surmised based off the consistency and faint almond smell that it was in fact plastic explosives.)

Eating an entire pound of fudge in ten minutes does little to boost one's energy, so after throwing the box and accompanying card in the outside trash bin, (and confiscating the $20 gift card to Bed Bath & Beyond that had accompanied it,) I plodded towards the corner gas station to purchase myself something to boost my creative energies.  Typically this involves a Swiss cocktail called "Red Bull," which I would typically consume in tandem with, (you certainly guessed it!) several Xanax.  Obviously, this was no longer an option.  So after purchasing my Red Bull, I searched around the gas station for any product which indicated it would somehow soothe me.  The canned soda section contained absolutely nothing, and my stomach wretched at the thought of more candy.    I scanned the store interior for the pumpmistress, (who was in fact a young girl who was either pregnant or consumed inorganic vegetables, I was unable to tell.) She was outside, talking on her cell phone and smoking.

She looked me over as I approached, rolling her eyes at whatever the person on the other line had to say.  I asked "Do you have any products which soothe, rather than stimulate?"  Her eyes grew wide and, recalling last week's mishap, I clarified "I need something to remedy the side effects of this Red Bull."  She rolled her eyes once again, dismissed the idiot on the other end of the phone, and accompanied me back inside the store.

"We have cigarettes." she said in a dull monotone that led me to believe she was entirely disinterested in both my personal plight and her career as a pumpmistress.  Now, I have been led to believe by the tobacco industry that cigarettes are dangerous, all the better to cultivate a macho, rebellious image with.  But then I considered my exclusive consumption of healthy organic foods from Earth's bosom, and recalled that some of the world's greatest authors have been smokers, and I was convinced.  Perhaps it would be Xanax like in it's effects.

So I left the store with a package of Virginia Slims (the pumpmistress had explained after an extended period of questioning that this was the sole marque of cigarette that was certified organic.  She continued to be dismissive and curt even after I genteelly congratulated her on her pregnancy.) Upon arriving home, I laid out my cigarettes and matches next to my notebook as I felt the nervousness setting in. I wanted to write, but my hands were shaking.  But after enjoying my very first cigarette, that nervousness gave way to a sense of energy and calm unlike I had ever experienced, and I wanted more.

Four cigarettes in, I began to feel a crescendoing sense of nausea, and immediately suspected Katie's stupid friend had furnished us with tainted fudge, the senile old coot.  I had another cigarette to further soothe myself, to no avail.  The nausea was rapidly rising, I literally felt green and knew I was about to vomit. And vomit I did.

Unfortunately, the forceful expulsion occurred entirely without warning, and I had no time to clear away my beloved notebook nor my newly beloved cigarettes.  Black, likely toxic fudge spewed forth, ruining my life's work to date and along with it disrupting the cigarettes I had so lovingly laid out. This catastrophe is directly traceable to either the negligence or malice of Katie's stupid friend. I suspect both.  Be certain that the instant I mustered the nerves to undo myself from the cozy wrappings of my quilt, I picked the lock to Katie's room,  seized her laptop, and wrote the most cathartic, abusive, yet genteel poison pen email ever explaining both the nature of her misdeeds, as well as the fact that neither Katie nor I wish any further contact with her.

Oh yes, and I sent it from Katie's email account.