Enlightening Nonsense

Mongo from "Blazing Saddles"

I got off the subway at 6:35 this morning, with plenty of time to get to the studio to teach the 7:00 A.M. kickboxing class, only to realize that I had left the keys to the studio at home. I did this once before in the last seven months and taking a cab back and forth cost me about $40 and still had me arrive 10-minutes late to the class. So I decided to take the subway, a decision arrived as a combination of cheapness and not being in the mood to smell the body odor of an Indian cabby for the next forty minutes or so.

The subway took forever to arrive at the station, which sent my blood pressure to levels akin to as if I had just eaten a Heart Attack Burger at McDonald’s washed down with a Chocolate Frosted Diabetes Shake at Burger King and then went to Wendy’s to fuck that freckled little redhead. The subway finally arrived and I got on.

Wendy. I fucked her. She gave me chlamydia.

Across from me and a little to the left was a mongoloid-looking Jew. I am sure of the Jew angle, not because he was reading a book entitled 29 Ways To Prepare Dead Palestinian (which offers a few vegan alternatives) but because he was wearing a yarmulke, the same way that if I saw a woman in a birka I would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a moron.

Regarding the mongoloid thing, I couldn’t be certain. He had the typical disproportioned head, with the mouth just a tad too close to his nose and a forehead that stretched from here to forever but that might have just been the result of being birthed through an extremely tight vagina and not a wide stretched out one like that of Ogre’s. But once he put on his headphones and started repeating a line that if it came from a song would inspire me to give up music forever, I knew this man who was wearing an ass for a face was demented. As if for the sole purpose of alleviating any doubt I had to his sanity, he would alternate his horrid bellowing with sticking his tongue out as far as Gene Simmons and make goofy sounds like, “DOO-DUH-DOH-DING!” Yep, certifiable!

Micky from The Monkees.

His bellowing vocal style sounded like a cross between a baby seal being clubbed for her fur and a man who had just been sodomized without lube—or like Alanis Morissette. I tried not to stare but it was like driving by a car crash and involuntarily stepping on the breaks and rubbernecking, despite the fact that you know this will contribute to a near standstill in traffic that will result in people missing appointments and small children pissing their pants and just a general malaise of the traffic motestrians.

When my stop was the next one, I got up and stood in front of a set of doors. It was already 7:00 and I thought about all the students waiting in the hallway locked out of the studio and pondered whether I should make an appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss why I didn’t seem to care in the least.

I looked over at Mongo, who was now about 15 feet away from me, and sensing my stare he turned towards me and we locked eyes. If this were some retard version of Brokeback Mountain this might have been the start of a beautiful, albeit dim-witted, relationship. I couldn’t look away, only in part due to the fact that I had been frightened at a young age by the story of Sodom and Gomorrah and since then once I look at something I have an OCD time of looking away for fear of turning into a pillar of salt. And finally the goofy little bastard did something that I have never seen on a subway. No, I’ve seen a penis doing the helicopter, but good guess! He waved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7RAPc2vg-A

I waved back and then we both turned away and resumed our business, him croaking his best Alanis imitation and me preparing to sprint out of the soon to be opening subway car, run into my apartment, grabbing my keys all the while ignoring my whining dog happy to see me and race right back to the subway to, hopefully, reach a bunch of disgruntled kickboxing students who have boxing gloves and want to beat something silly.

Now on the subway, occasionally I have made eye contact with another person and smiled and they smiled back. If he were a guy, he was a homo and we would exit the next stop and have man sex. If she were a woman, she would nonchalantly reach inside of her handbag and flip off the safety to her can of Mace.

A smile doesn’t require much more of an effort than slightly lifting the sides of your mouth while one hand gently strokes your penis on the outside of your pants. I’ve been told the stroking of the penis is not necessary to create a smile but, as of this date, I have not figured out to do the two separately.

This is actually scarily close to how Mongo looked waving at me!

But a wave? That involves twenty-six different muscle groups all working in sink to raise the arm above your head and that requires a Herculean effort. But more than just the effort, the wave seemed so genuine that if I didn’t have a strict “No Retards As Friends” policy I might have said, “Hey tubby, you want to crush some beer cans on your enormously overgrown forehead?”

There is something about children, animals and retards that make them so innocent in their actions. Mind you, this doesn’t mean that they aren’t little bastards. One of my nieces said to my sister once, “That woman is so ugly!” in a voice that was loud enough to destroy the self-esteem of the pig in question; my dog has chewed up more electronic items, books and nick backs then I care to remember; and there have been at least twelve incidences of retards hurling their feces at their caretakers like a monkey at the zoo “shooting the shit” as they call it.

That being said, there usually isn’t an ounce of maliciousness or calculation to their behaviors. The child is in awe how grotesque the ugly woman is and, not yet having developed any sense of social graces imposed upon her by society, she just blurts out what she is thinking. As many times as I have told my dog to stop chewing on my fuckin’ stuff, when I leave the apartment she innocently goes, “Man, look at that plug attached to that fan. I wonder what that would feel like being destroyed by my teeth!” And a retard with a pile of poo in his hand is the happiest go luckiest guy you can find. Lord knows when I am holding a heap of shit in my hand I’m feeling on top of the world—provided it is my own and didn’t come out of another’s ass.

I see young kids now already becoming calculating little manipulators trying to get over and I wonder when the age of disconsent was lowered so significantly. I know I turned rotten in my mother’s womb but that was on account of eating some bad placenta. What about the rest of you? When was the last time you raised your hand over your head to a stranger, not giving them the finger or trying to indicate that sexual deviancy is on your mind, but just to say hello? How would you react if someone did that to you? You would probably be so stunned that either you would freeze like a deer in the headlights or high tail it as fast as you can in the opposite direction.

"It's a staring contest and I'd rather be venison burger before I give up and lose!"

By the time I got back to the kickboxing studio it was 7:26 a.m. and no one was still there. I had some time before my 8:00 private client came in to reflect on what God had wanted to show me by clouding my mind into leaving my keys at home. And suddenly a booming voice entered my head with the following catchphrase:

“Live your life as innocently as a retard. Just wash your hands after playing with your own shit.”

And suddenly all of the world’s madness made complete sense to me—God is a retard!

God The Retard

"Only a dunce would have faith in a man wearing a diaper!"

Last month I joined Facebook and in so doing apparently joined the 21^st Century. Well, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t exactly join it—my martial arts teacher signed me up for it. Was he concerned about my hermetic social life as the New York City equivalent of a cave-sitter? No, he’s just a money-grubbing Jew and wanted me to post announcements and items about his martial arts school so he can fill the bag of gold around his neck.

“Why,” you ask, “did I you wait so long?” Is it because Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg turned me down when in a fit of excitement over the legalization of gay marriage in New York I asked him to be my lawfully wedded fag? Is it because I am a paranoid conspiracy theorist who wears tinfoil on my head and didn’t want the government knowing who I poke? Or maybe it’s because I just don’t give enough of a shit to reconnect with high school losers I tried to avoid 25 years ago. The answer: all of the above and a few things more.

I filled out the requisite information—where I went to high school, which teachers in college allowed me to add a half a letter to my grade by jerking them off in the bathroom, twenty-five different ways I have masturbated with a sock—to which I received a personal note from Mark Zuckerberg when I listed #18, “rolled in a ball stimulating my prostate,” asking whether I would suggest he use a natural or synthetic fiber sock. And when I thought I was pretty much done, I hit Enter or Return or Accept or Done and angels sung “Hallelujah” and I was officially indoctrinated into the Flock of Facebook.

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A picture of my sister-in-law the whale jumping up to grab in her fat mouth a wad of cash from my brother's upstretched hand

My brother takes off from work on Wednesdays, doing a half-day on Saturday, and I only work enough to feed my dog once a week and ask my parents to pay my rent, so we both happen to be free for the meet and go hiking with our dogs. It is one of Abandon’s favorite things to bound through wooded areas, exploring all the sights and sounds and smells and places to shit and piss; that and chewing up my adapter plugs.

Our itinerary usually consists of walking in this wooded nature trail in Yuppieville where he lives, where we occasionally bump into other richies who talk about their fifth generation Vizsla dogs and how to keep the blacks out of Weston. Following the hike, we make a fruit shake and sometimes he puts on his panties as he does chores for his wife who doesn’t work but may be taking a tennis lesson or going to the gym or spending his money getting her nails done in the false deception that red nail polish will somehow make her increasingly fattening ass unnoticeable in some house of mirrors refractive illusion.

"It must be the funhouse mirrors why my ass looks so fat."

Usually she’ll ask me, “So what’s going on?” in a way that appears friendly but doubtful that she’s paying attention to my answer. One time I answered, “I contracted AIDS from fucking an infected gorilla,” and her response was, “That sounds good.” I wasn’t sure whether the “good” referred to me getting some action, albeit with, literally, a hairy mother, or picking up a mild case of the AIDS and hopefully dying and relieving her family of my dependency.

This time I told her about how my martial arts school is doing really well and expanded to a new space that is over double the size of the last school and how I am now teaching regular classes and plan to start teaching yoga there as well and blah, blah, blah. She responded with something like, “And what’s the gorilla’s name?” to which I didn’t really have anything clever to say and the only thing I could come up with was, “Samantha.”

She then said, “Well, maybe now you can contribute something to the house, such as some food when you come.”

My surprised expression as I paused in the middle of drinking my shake. And the chemo's going well. Thanks for asking.

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"I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP!" "Just wait patiently, Mrs. Fletcher, and one of our staff will be over right away to fondle you and then beat you with your walker."

I was training Dude, a 22-year old from Long Island, and as much as I usually like to rape young yuppies while wearing a Daddy Warbucks costume, training him was pretty fun, as I educated him on physiology and muscle growth and he kept me abreast of what was going on in a generation that had never even heard of records or Lost In Space. And we also had a lot of laughs. That was until the inevitable worst joke ever excised both of our funny bones and powdered them to dust on the funeral pyre.

Drew was telling me how he had a busy weekend where he got telephone numbers from three different girls. If it were one of my redneck clients, I would put my money on one of them being his sister, another his mother and the third his brother in a wig. But Dude was no redneck; he was a yuppie. And when a yuppie talks about a woman it is usually means a person with a vagina and non-related, although possibly paid for.

I asked Dude what pick-up line he used and, much to my shock, I found out that whipping your dick out and throwing it on the bar and shouting out, “Who wants to do some dick shots?” is no longer in vogue. Boy, was I glad to get this education before the next church social!

The following week I asked Dude how his telephone number situation had worked out, whether he actually called any of the girls up or if he did what I usually do and wrote the numbers on the walls of truck stops all along I-95 with a message like, “I GAVE MY NUMBER TO SWAMI X—I MUST BE A WHORE!” He told me that he had followed up with one of the girls, O.J. Simpson murdered another with a knife and that the third had fallen off the map. And then the joke that made Saddam Hussein starving his own people seem funny by comparison slipped out of my mouth like a fart that was only a little <poof> but ended up being a real stinker.

“Well, at least she couldn’t have hurt herself too badly, falling off a map, being a map is only like a quarter millimeter in height.” There was an awkward silence that I haven’t heard since after I dropped my killer stand-up line about the two niggers fighting over a watermelon at the open mic in Harlem right, which was followed by me being beaten unconscious and waking up smelling like fried chicken. Deciding not to stew in the malodorous stench of my own fart and trying to pass it off as the egg salad from the deli down the block, I attacked the situation head on.

“That was terrible,” I conceded. Common courtesy would have Dude say something like, “No, that wasn’t so bad. One time at an open mic in Harlem I saw this cracker use the ‘watermelon’ word in front of a bunch of niggers and get the shit kicked out of him good.” But instead Dude was like a cheerleader, SIS-B00M-BA-ing how bad my joke was. Even if I wanted to rape him now, my Little Orphan Annie was hiding in a mess of red curly hair. For the record, I have brown pubes but I had fucked a girl on the rag the night before and forewent the shower that morning.

I think the session ended with Dude telling me that he loved training with me but if I continued to drop cluster bombs like my “falling off the map” joke that he would have to look elsewhere for a personal trainer. I nodded in agreement and waited until he went for his after-shower workout and raped him good. At our next scheduled session, Dude didn’t show up. I guess he “fell off the map.”