"You know, I got a call from Martha saying they had just the best time on their trip. She said they made so many great friends and the group got along so well and it was just such a memorable trip for them." These were the words being spoken by the elderly woman to her husband as we shared a bench seat on the Hertz shuttle to the terminal at Denver International Airport. Except, she had a very thick Midwestern accent and, with my pseudo-expertise, I was able to determine that she was probably from the desolate and undesirable plains of Minnesota, a land that I dare say 80% of Americans can't even place on a map. Therefore, imagine her sounding more like this: "Ya knoh, I gat a call from Martha sayin they hee-ad just the best tayme on der tree-ip. She said tha group, well dey just hee-ad such a gash darn good tayme. Dey mayde so many great friends, dontcha knoh? Soda pop." It was 6 am, and I wondered what kind of unprocessed foods and hormone-free milk they consumed in Minnesota that makes these people so energized and superfluously chatty at such an ungodly hour. Where I'm from, the industrialized foods filled to the brim with pesticide spray, hormones, preservatives, and trans fatty acids that I consume make me a complete and utter hairy, unkempt, ugly walking dick anytime before 10:30am. Scratch that, I'm a vagina with teeth that foams at the mouth prior to 11am; like a rabid mongoose. I'll keep my two-headed cows and genetically modified headless chicken torsos, though, thank you very much. There's something about my morning moods that I find refreshingly evil. I think I get this from my mother, who is a real nasty bitch for the first 2 hours of every day, slowly waning to a sedated and mild bitch by noon if you're lucky. "But Martha did mention that one of them got sick on the 10th day. The Oriental family they stayed with said that's the longest anyone's lasted! Turns out one of the guys ate some bad chicken nipples. That'll get ya every time. You don't eat animal nipples in a foreign country. You just don't. Especially China. Those Orientals will eat just about anything, even live baby monkeys I heard. It's just awful. Come to think of it, I don't know why the heck Martha and that group even ventured over there. You're just asking to come back with some type of god awful bird disease." The whole time, her husband just nodded and stared ahead, as though he was performing a routine he had down to a science. I guess this must be what happens after being together for so many years, you just learn to tune out the bullshit. The term "Oriental" was definitely a blast from the past.
In general, Americans are very ignorant and oblivious to their surroundings. As a culture we're just so afraid of everything that's unknown or foreign, such as the city of Washington, DC (allegedly). I went out to a bar called JR's in downtown Denver and was met with crowds of lesbians and gays galore. I always wondered why lesbians seem like such an exotic, seemingly endangered species. Well, it seems they've all uprooted to Denver, Colorado, where they can drive Ford Broncos and ride tandem bicycles without the awkward gawks from "sophisticated" urbanites. I sat at the bar talking to a guy who claimed he was "not from around here" but turned out he was actually from 30 minutes south of Denver. Of course, in the DC area you can be from Pennsylvania and still claim status as a "local". Eventually, our conversation was interrupted by a blond girl who reminded me of a lot of my female friends back home. In other words, she was completely trashed and about a half a catwalk away from having her left nipple pop out of her push-up bra. "Do you believe in fate?" she slurs to me. "It depends. How attractive is fate?" I respond. I sat there admiring her unique ability to clutch two drinks and adjust her bra with such unprecedented amounts of grace and finesse. "Well he's right out there, parking that car. And he'd like to meet you." As I peered through the crowd and out the window, I saw a BMW X5 backing into a parking space. Fate was looking pretty attractive from this angle. Of course, 5 minutes later fate strolls in and, under normal bar lighting, is about as attractive and desirable as a yeast infection. Honestly, I truly believe I was more attracted to the boyish lesbian named "Shaun" that asked me for a stick of gum not 5 minutes before. Welcome to the great Rockies.
Things took an odd turn when the blond girl who, in a fantastic drunken stooper, decided to divulge all of her personal life information to me, a complete stranger. "You see, I suffer from a rare disease called 'Lupus'. My parents resent me for it, so I don't ever go back to Wyoming to see them. It also makes my hair fall out in clumps. See? Just grab a handful and pull and see what happens." My first reaction was to feel sorry for her, followed immediately by the realization that not only was this the first person I had ever met from the state of Wyoming, but she was also at that exact moment grabbing my hand and forming it into a fist around a clump of her hair. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I gently tugged on her hair. Seconds later, I held a fist full of blond hair as she stared at me. "See? It just comes right out, like a shaggy rag doll." I sat there laughing in my head, thinking I'm glad I traveled 1,500 miles for this. I didn't quite know how to respond, so I said "This is really cool. If I were you, I would at least sell locks of my hair to white women with female pattern balding." She stared back. "Well, feel free to keep that piece if you'd like. A souvenir for when you head back to NYC!" I reminded her I was from DC, just as "fate" interrupted by asking, "How far is Central Park from the White House?" It's difficult to get angry at such an unattractive person, but it's not difficult to play along with stupidity. "Well, it's about 2 blocks from the White House, right near 5th avenue and the Washington monument. If you're lucky, sometimes you can catch Obama warding off a homeless person with a special can of Central Park mace on his early morning jogs." Maybe if I held similar levels of ignorance, my life would be more interesting and certainly filled with less therapy sessions. After all, ignorance is bliss right?
Eventually I made it back to my grimy hotel, where the halls wreaked of marijuana, cigarettes, and middle-American shame. It was a strangely welcome surprise, but certainly not as advertised on their website, which described the place as a "Luxurious 3 star hotel with a great view of the Denver skyline, conveniently located right off I-25!" To be fair, the lobby was O.K. and the rooftop bar on the 14th floor did have a good view, but as I recall, the only thing I had a good view of was a cinder block building and an 18 wheeler truck stop. It wasn't that they lied, they just bent the truth a little bit. Therefore, I decided I was satisfied with the place. I liked how different it all felt, as though I had instantly jumped between social classes and held a comfortable spot amongst the Harley Davidson crowd and chain smoking soccer moms. I smiled at the thought of my mother at this hotel: "I'm not going one foot closer to that bed until you get on all fours and check underneath for roaches and used condoms. This place is filthy. And don't touch that comforter, God knows the last time they washed those things. Does it smell like burnt hair in here to you?" Sylvia just isn't cut out for middle America. Ironic, though, as she's from a third world country that believes in consuming Guinea Pigs as appetizers and the sanctity of child labor and teen pregnancies.
As the plane descended upon DC the following day, I had a great view of Central Park and the Washington monument, with the Statute of Liberty just barely out of sight. The flight attendant announced, "Welcome to our Nation's Capitol" and for some odd reason I broke out in what I thought was quiet laughter. The girl in the seat next to me stared back with a confused look. She was in a suit wearing a serious expression on her face, and I knew she was flying to DC for business as I had spent the majority of the flight reading her emails on her MacBook as she wrote about business initiatives and long-term fiscal goals. How boring, I thought. She just wouldn't understand that, the reason I was laughing, was because just 12 hours before, I had been holding a clump of dry and damaged blond hair in my hand and explaining the significance of Madison Square Garden and it's proximity to the Capitol. In one weekend, I held a clump of a stranger's dead hair, witnessed what fate would look like had he been raised in cowboy boots on an inbred Mormon ranch in Texas, and binge drank beers on the 14th floor of a seedy "3 star luxury hotel" with a scenic view of a 6-lane highway. "What did she do?", I thought, "Write emails and iron her Ann Taylor suit?" If you learn to let go, you can experience more than you might ever imagine possible.
~F.A.G.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Friends with Benefits
I've always wondered what it is about celebrities that enthrall people. The best part is, it doesn't even matter what kind of celebrity it is. From A-list to Z-list, the reactions are always the same: Swoon and stare like a starstruck idiot in awe of someone that probably has no higher than a high school education. But, I guess that's the world we live in. A world dominated by Britney, Gaga, and Miley Cyrus. And who am I to complain? These days, it seems the dumber you are, the further ahead you move in life. It's fucked up, but it's real. This is why I sit in my room and kill brain cells every night after work, in hopes of striking it rich and/or famous. Plan B is welfare or zookeeper.
Of course, last weekend I was standing in line to get into one of the most over-priced and over-hyped gay "hot spots" in DC and, as I turned to pay, I saw a familiar face. Not the kind that you see and think, "holy shit he looks familiar, I hope I didn't sleep with him and leave my underwear at his place." No, this was a far different type of familiar face. One you only see on television, and as recently as the previous weekend. As I stood there, I mouthed to my friend, "Is that Ana Gasteyer from the old SNL cast/the mom from Mean Girls?". He looked at me confused. I turned around and asked, "Aren't you Ana Gasteyer?". She responds with, "Why yes I am! What's your name?" Immediately, I turned into the type of person that I never ever EVER want to be. I swooned and babbled on about how I loved her in the Betty White Mother's Day special of SNL. Something took over me, and it was not pretty. She smiled and nodded a disinterested nod, and I instantly felt awkward and transitioned into the "I don't give a shit who you are" phase. I think it's a defense mechanism so that I don't seem like a crazy, adderal filled teeny bopper. Of course, my friend Matt (who is always a relentless train wreck of a human being) screamed like a flaming homosexual. This wasn't your ordinary scream. This was the type of scream that you let out when you either a.) see a tarantula in the shower while nude and armed with only a bar of soap and a low-pressure shower head, or b.) see the ghost of your dead grandmother walking into your room in nothing but a sarong and unbuttoned nightie, exposing saggy and withered breasts that not even God himself would stare at on judgment day and say, "Ok you're in. But first things first, go see Dr. Goldstein to fix that freak-show under your shirt. He's in suite B, located in the Medical Malpractice section just beyond the entrance gates." As a result of this scream, poor Ana expressed a look on her face that could only be interpreted to mean, Dear Obama, please keep the ban on gay marriage. They're just not ready.
For some reason, it seems the less you care about someone, the more they are willing to approach you. Yet another odd parity of life. This seems to be the common trend in relationships as well. The less you seem to care about someone, the more they chase after you. I guess amidst our own stupidity as human beings, this sort of makes sense. I suppose it provides for cheap thrills in an otherwise monotonous daily life consumed by work and fake smiles to strangers. It was because of my new lack of interest that I was able to carry on almost a 45 minute conversation with Ms. Gasteyer, who eventually ventured off to the velvet room in the back (dubbed the "quiet room"), where the gays were less likely to harass her for a photo wile screaming "I love you bitch!!". In fact, as she entered the establishment, the gays swarmed her like crows on a dead deer, begging and pleading for pictures. Directly next to me, I heard a gay scream, "Oh my god I want a picture for my twitter!". This was immediately followed by him turning to me and asking, "Who is this bitch anyway?" And that, right there, made me seriously doubt Darwin's theory of natural selection/survival of the fittest. With any luck, this homo will appear on American Idol in full make-up and tranny boots and still land himself a record deal. Within the year, he won't be able to enter any mall without people swarming him for pictures, all the while someone will be posing for a picture with him and wondering, "Who is this fruitbasket?"
Eventually, my new friend Ana Gastayer and I had quite the interesting conversation. It turns out she was here for her 25th high school reunion at the Sidwell Friends School (she's actually an intelligent celebrity!). Immediately, I pulled out my pretentious private school card and told her I attended Georgetown Prep. This is probably one of the only times in my life where that $20,000 a year private school education my parents paid for actually paid off. It gave me 5 minutes of fame where I can forever claim Ana Gasteyer as my personal friend and confidant. I even shared with her the story of my broken foot as she laughed hysterically (hopefully with me, and not at me. But who even cares, I was successfully entertaining an entertainer). Had she provided me a healing remedy that included a gallon of lube, a hot tub full of men, and a sacrificial goat, I would have certainly gone along with it. That's how close of friends we became. At least, in my delusional head. I can only hope that next time I'm in NYC, I can drop by her apartment and perhaps be invited to stay for dinner. Or at the very least, get kindly escorted off the premises by an attractive doorman that falls in love with me. When people ask how we met, I can reply confidently with, "Oh, well we met through my good friend, Ana Gasteyer. She's such a sweetheart."
~ F.A.G.
Of course, last weekend I was standing in line to get into one of the most over-priced and over-hyped gay "hot spots" in DC and, as I turned to pay, I saw a familiar face. Not the kind that you see and think, "holy shit he looks familiar, I hope I didn't sleep with him and leave my underwear at his place." No, this was a far different type of familiar face. One you only see on television, and as recently as the previous weekend. As I stood there, I mouthed to my friend, "Is that Ana Gasteyer from the old SNL cast/the mom from Mean Girls?". He looked at me confused. I turned around and asked, "Aren't you Ana Gasteyer?". She responds with, "Why yes I am! What's your name?" Immediately, I turned into the type of person that I never ever EVER want to be. I swooned and babbled on about how I loved her in the Betty White Mother's Day special of SNL. Something took over me, and it was not pretty. She smiled and nodded a disinterested nod, and I instantly felt awkward and transitioned into the "I don't give a shit who you are" phase. I think it's a defense mechanism so that I don't seem like a crazy, adderal filled teeny bopper. Of course, my friend Matt (who is always a relentless train wreck of a human being) screamed like a flaming homosexual. This wasn't your ordinary scream. This was the type of scream that you let out when you either a.) see a tarantula in the shower while nude and armed with only a bar of soap and a low-pressure shower head, or b.) see the ghost of your dead grandmother walking into your room in nothing but a sarong and unbuttoned nightie, exposing saggy and withered breasts that not even God himself would stare at on judgment day and say, "Ok you're in. But first things first, go see Dr. Goldstein to fix that freak-show under your shirt. He's in suite B, located in the Medical Malpractice section just beyond the entrance gates." As a result of this scream, poor Ana expressed a look on her face that could only be interpreted to mean, Dear Obama, please keep the ban on gay marriage. They're just not ready.
For some reason, it seems the less you care about someone, the more they are willing to approach you. Yet another odd parity of life. This seems to be the common trend in relationships as well. The less you seem to care about someone, the more they chase after you. I guess amidst our own stupidity as human beings, this sort of makes sense. I suppose it provides for cheap thrills in an otherwise monotonous daily life consumed by work and fake smiles to strangers. It was because of my new lack of interest that I was able to carry on almost a 45 minute conversation with Ms. Gasteyer, who eventually ventured off to the velvet room in the back (dubbed the "quiet room"), where the gays were less likely to harass her for a photo wile screaming "I love you bitch!!". In fact, as she entered the establishment, the gays swarmed her like crows on a dead deer, begging and pleading for pictures. Directly next to me, I heard a gay scream, "Oh my god I want a picture for my twitter!". This was immediately followed by him turning to me and asking, "Who is this bitch anyway?" And that, right there, made me seriously doubt Darwin's theory of natural selection/survival of the fittest. With any luck, this homo will appear on American Idol in full make-up and tranny boots and still land himself a record deal. Within the year, he won't be able to enter any mall without people swarming him for pictures, all the while someone will be posing for a picture with him and wondering, "Who is this fruitbasket?"
Eventually, my new friend Ana Gastayer and I had quite the interesting conversation. It turns out she was here for her 25th high school reunion at the Sidwell Friends School (she's actually an intelligent celebrity!). Immediately, I pulled out my pretentious private school card and told her I attended Georgetown Prep. This is probably one of the only times in my life where that $20,000 a year private school education my parents paid for actually paid off. It gave me 5 minutes of fame where I can forever claim Ana Gasteyer as my personal friend and confidant. I even shared with her the story of my broken foot as she laughed hysterically (hopefully with me, and not at me. But who even cares, I was successfully entertaining an entertainer). Had she provided me a healing remedy that included a gallon of lube, a hot tub full of men, and a sacrificial goat, I would have certainly gone along with it. That's how close of friends we became. At least, in my delusional head. I can only hope that next time I'm in NYC, I can drop by her apartment and perhaps be invited to stay for dinner. Or at the very least, get kindly escorted off the premises by an attractive doorman that falls in love with me. When people ask how we met, I can reply confidently with, "Oh, well we met through my good friend, Ana Gasteyer. She's such a sweetheart."
~ F.A.G.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Karma's a bitch
It's funny how one step can change your life so drastically. Certain events seem to have a celestial impact on your existence. It's as though the stars align perfectly every so often, so that one particular event in your life that could have been avoided, becomes a reality. I know this, because it was proven to me inside the emergency room of Suburban hospital.
There’s a sense of urgency as I’m walking to my car from the metro during the monotonous Wednesday rush hour. It’s as though, in my warped mind, the 5 minutes I gain by walking just a bit faster and being just slightly more rude as I shove people out of my way will get me home faster and, therefore, will allow for that much more time to do absolutely nothing. This feeling becomes quickly interrupted when I see a monstrous Ford F-250 parked uncomfortably close to Ramona (my car). So close, that I can’t even open my door to get in. I’m staring at the truck in anger and fury, quickly wishing upon the driver a particularly slow and painful death via dysentery or flesh eating bacteria. A couple of days before, I had been watching an Indie film as part of my latest “get cultured and worldly” regimen. The movie was "Paris, Je t’aime", and there’s a scene where the girl’s French dad is walking down the street, keying every car in sight that is parked obtrusively on the sidewalk. Call me easily influenced, but this scene played a key role in what I was about to do next. As I climb through the passenger side of my car, I feel enraged enough to key this person’s truck. As anger and frustration takes over me, I run my key along the passenger door of the F-250. Immediately, I’m riddled with guilt and for the remainder of the night, I have trouble sleeping. I’m certain that, unless I quickly find a way to rescue a drowning baby or an injured raccoon, I would either get hit by a bus the next morning or attacked by a fleet of angry geese, whichever Karma decides I’m more worthy of. It’s not a matter of “if”, but more so “when”.
It’s 9:44pm on Thursday and I’ve been drinking at an open bar event for a good part of 2 hours to gain liquid courage and make the dismal crowd appear more attractive. My phone alarm goes off, telling me I have exactly 3 minutes left on my meter. As I put my drink down, I tell my friend to keep an eye on it, secretly hoping he fails so that someone fun and attractive slips me a roofie to spice up my night. I’m descending the stairs quickly, but feeling confident that my now 2.5 minutes to spare will give me plenty of time to refill my parking meter. My shoes are squeaking against the stairs and I feel annoyed that rubber in contact with linoleum makes such an obnoxious sound, resembling the sterile halls of a hospital or nursing home. As I turn the corner, I spot the vulture of a meter maid standing over my car, Segway parked against the nearest tree, examining the printed pre-paid meter ticket on the window that reads “9:47 pm”. I glance down at my cell phone and notice that the time reads “9:45 pm”, giving me a full 2 minutes to walk the remaining 30 or so feet. I hear myself yelling, but the meter maid and her curly-fry weave remain oblivious, leaving me to wonder if I’m so drunk that I only think I’m yelling when in reality, I may very well be yawning. As I run, I notice the brick sidewalk is uneven. My foot falls in. CRACK. I fall only slightly, as I regain my balance and think “Fuck, this hurts.” I hobble over to the meter maid, breathless and in pain, and grasp her arm to keep me from falling over. In my head, I expect her to look at me and say, “Good hustle!” as she gives me a high-five or perhaps a slap on the ass and cancels the half-written ticket. Instead, she gives me a head roll and sternly says, “Sir, please do not accost me”. As I walk back into the bar with my broken foot, I’m proud of myself for getting out of an unfair ticket. Therefore, I reward myself with more vodka sodas. By the end of the night, the place is closing down and the attention starved gays with insecurities and low self-esteem are finding someone to go home with. I go home with a broken foot.
The next day at the E.R., I’m bitter. The x-rays confirm I’ve broken my 5th metatarsal, and I immediately think back to the Ford F-250. Karma’s a real bitch, I think. As I look around the waiting room, I overhear a woman crying. “I found mom at the bottom of the stairs face down, bleeding. Everyone I love gets hurt or dies. I’m cursed.” Then her flaming homosexual brother hugs her as they sob together. On the opposite side, there’s a little girl with a bloody chin and scraped face, sobbing as her mother holds her on her lap. If karma and curses are so real for everyone, I can’t help but think what this little girl must have done. Was she mean to her sibling? Did she light too many ants on fire with a magnifying glass? Did she accidentally urinate on one of her minority kindergarten classmates? At this point, everything seems possible.
As I walk through the back of the E.R., I see a Mexican day laborer stretched out on a bed, bleeding and bruised from head to toe. As I turn to sit on one of the beds, I notice how thin and scratchy the sheets are, as if someone from the hospital has been sent on a pilgrimage to Soviet Russia to obtain sheets that resemble a brillow pad. There are two nurses arguing about the Mexican man. “No Barbara, from the looks of his injuries he must have fallen at least 25 feet from the ladder while he painted that house” says one. “No no, Kathy, the EMT said the ladder was only 10 feet tall. Unless he was hanging by one arm from a gutter and painting the side of the house like a baboon on steroids, he’s fallen only ten feet”. The man is laying on a gurney, bleeding and cut all over and slipping in and out of consciousness. Does it really matter what height he fell from? Really, all that matters is that this poor man’s Cinco de Mayo has been completely and utterly ruined. The height should be the least of his worries. Instantly, I feel the need for a double vodka on the rocks with a splash of lime. The doctor puts a splint on me, hands me a pair of crutches, and says, “Stay off your foot until you see the orthopedist.” To which I reply, “Does this mean I can’t go on my trip to Nashville tomorrow?” Instead of an answer, he glares at me and walks away. Doctors can be so pretentious.
The next morning, I’m watching the news and see that Nashville is under 20 feet of water as a result of severe flooding. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go, as I’m confident I would have been one of the people walking around the downtown area who gets tragically swept away by a raging river. I can imagine myself on the television being filmed by the local news chopper, clinging to a tree branch and waving one of my crutches in the air as branches and rednecks with mullets flow past me. I can picture Obama sitting in his living room watching CNN as he calls out to Michelle, “Hey ‘Chelle, come look at the floods! White people can swim right?” She responds with, “Remember Katrina?” “Oh yeah…well it’s a recession, we’ll wait to send help.” says Barack, as he sits back and pops open a beer, cracking a smile at the picture of George W. Bush hanging on the wall alongside previous presidents, thinking to himself, "Karma’s a bitch, huh Bush?"
When I finally get back to work, I’m bombarded with questions about my broken foot and stylish boot that I must wear for the next 6-8 weeks. “So what happened?” my boss asks. In my head, I run through several possible responses:
-I kicked a midget in the face as he tried to steal my wallet.
-The vagina of a woman doing the crab walk in a skirt down a sidewalk clamped onto my foot and snapped it in half (I’ve heard vaginas are volatile. God knows what they’ll swallow and spit out these days).
- I was playing naked leap frog and slipped on a giant, black dildo.
I realize my mind is even crazier than I thought. “I fell while running on an uneven sidewalk” I respond, hoping he won’t pry for further details. He smiles and says, “You have to watch out for those, they can be deadly.” In my head, I think, "Yeah, well so can rabid vaginas and angry midgets". Moments later, I’m on a crowded elevator and a group of women I work with (one of whom I don’t care for) gets on the elevator as they nurse their afternoon coffees. One of them asks what happened to me, and I respond with my generic “I fell while running” response. The woman I don’t like (we’ll call her Annette) laughs and in an effort to be funny says, “Be serious. You were drunk and had no one to hold you while you walked home alone from a bar!” The three women laugh in unison and I smirk and say, “Oh I just can’t get anything past you, can I?” As the elevator door opens, the three of them file out. Annette doesn’t make it out fast enough as the door closes and hits her on the arm, spilling her hot coffee all over her hand and beige silk sleeve. “Oh no are you ok? These elevator doors are so volatile you really need to be careful!” says one of the women. I laugh and call out to her, “Yeah, be careful Annette! And watch your step!” I guess often times, karma can work in your favor.
~ F.A.G.
There’s a sense of urgency as I’m walking to my car from the metro during the monotonous Wednesday rush hour. It’s as though, in my warped mind, the 5 minutes I gain by walking just a bit faster and being just slightly more rude as I shove people out of my way will get me home faster and, therefore, will allow for that much more time to do absolutely nothing. This feeling becomes quickly interrupted when I see a monstrous Ford F-250 parked uncomfortably close to Ramona (my car). So close, that I can’t even open my door to get in. I’m staring at the truck in anger and fury, quickly wishing upon the driver a particularly slow and painful death via dysentery or flesh eating bacteria. A couple of days before, I had been watching an Indie film as part of my latest “get cultured and worldly” regimen. The movie was "Paris, Je t’aime", and there’s a scene where the girl’s French dad is walking down the street, keying every car in sight that is parked obtrusively on the sidewalk. Call me easily influenced, but this scene played a key role in what I was about to do next. As I climb through the passenger side of my car, I feel enraged enough to key this person’s truck. As anger and frustration takes over me, I run my key along the passenger door of the F-250. Immediately, I’m riddled with guilt and for the remainder of the night, I have trouble sleeping. I’m certain that, unless I quickly find a way to rescue a drowning baby or an injured raccoon, I would either get hit by a bus the next morning or attacked by a fleet of angry geese, whichever Karma decides I’m more worthy of. It’s not a matter of “if”, but more so “when”.
It’s 9:44pm on Thursday and I’ve been drinking at an open bar event for a good part of 2 hours to gain liquid courage and make the dismal crowd appear more attractive. My phone alarm goes off, telling me I have exactly 3 minutes left on my meter. As I put my drink down, I tell my friend to keep an eye on it, secretly hoping he fails so that someone fun and attractive slips me a roofie to spice up my night. I’m descending the stairs quickly, but feeling confident that my now 2.5 minutes to spare will give me plenty of time to refill my parking meter. My shoes are squeaking against the stairs and I feel annoyed that rubber in contact with linoleum makes such an obnoxious sound, resembling the sterile halls of a hospital or nursing home. As I turn the corner, I spot the vulture of a meter maid standing over my car, Segway parked against the nearest tree, examining the printed pre-paid meter ticket on the window that reads “9:47 pm”. I glance down at my cell phone and notice that the time reads “9:45 pm”, giving me a full 2 minutes to walk the remaining 30 or so feet. I hear myself yelling, but the meter maid and her curly-fry weave remain oblivious, leaving me to wonder if I’m so drunk that I only think I’m yelling when in reality, I may very well be yawning. As I run, I notice the brick sidewalk is uneven. My foot falls in. CRACK. I fall only slightly, as I regain my balance and think “Fuck, this hurts.” I hobble over to the meter maid, breathless and in pain, and grasp her arm to keep me from falling over. In my head, I expect her to look at me and say, “Good hustle!” as she gives me a high-five or perhaps a slap on the ass and cancels the half-written ticket. Instead, she gives me a head roll and sternly says, “Sir, please do not accost me”. As I walk back into the bar with my broken foot, I’m proud of myself for getting out of an unfair ticket. Therefore, I reward myself with more vodka sodas. By the end of the night, the place is closing down and the attention starved gays with insecurities and low self-esteem are finding someone to go home with. I go home with a broken foot.
The next day at the E.R., I’m bitter. The x-rays confirm I’ve broken my 5th metatarsal, and I immediately think back to the Ford F-250. Karma’s a real bitch, I think. As I look around the waiting room, I overhear a woman crying. “I found mom at the bottom of the stairs face down, bleeding. Everyone I love gets hurt or dies. I’m cursed.” Then her flaming homosexual brother hugs her as they sob together. On the opposite side, there’s a little girl with a bloody chin and scraped face, sobbing as her mother holds her on her lap. If karma and curses are so real for everyone, I can’t help but think what this little girl must have done. Was she mean to her sibling? Did she light too many ants on fire with a magnifying glass? Did she accidentally urinate on one of her minority kindergarten classmates? At this point, everything seems possible.
As I walk through the back of the E.R., I see a Mexican day laborer stretched out on a bed, bleeding and bruised from head to toe. As I turn to sit on one of the beds, I notice how thin and scratchy the sheets are, as if someone from the hospital has been sent on a pilgrimage to Soviet Russia to obtain sheets that resemble a brillow pad. There are two nurses arguing about the Mexican man. “No Barbara, from the looks of his injuries he must have fallen at least 25 feet from the ladder while he painted that house” says one. “No no, Kathy, the EMT said the ladder was only 10 feet tall. Unless he was hanging by one arm from a gutter and painting the side of the house like a baboon on steroids, he’s fallen only ten feet”. The man is laying on a gurney, bleeding and cut all over and slipping in and out of consciousness. Does it really matter what height he fell from? Really, all that matters is that this poor man’s Cinco de Mayo has been completely and utterly ruined. The height should be the least of his worries. Instantly, I feel the need for a double vodka on the rocks with a splash of lime. The doctor puts a splint on me, hands me a pair of crutches, and says, “Stay off your foot until you see the orthopedist.” To which I reply, “Does this mean I can’t go on my trip to Nashville tomorrow?” Instead of an answer, he glares at me and walks away. Doctors can be so pretentious.
The next morning, I’m watching the news and see that Nashville is under 20 feet of water as a result of severe flooding. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go, as I’m confident I would have been one of the people walking around the downtown area who gets tragically swept away by a raging river. I can imagine myself on the television being filmed by the local news chopper, clinging to a tree branch and waving one of my crutches in the air as branches and rednecks with mullets flow past me. I can picture Obama sitting in his living room watching CNN as he calls out to Michelle, “Hey ‘Chelle, come look at the floods! White people can swim right?” She responds with, “Remember Katrina?” “Oh yeah…well it’s a recession, we’ll wait to send help.” says Barack, as he sits back and pops open a beer, cracking a smile at the picture of George W. Bush hanging on the wall alongside previous presidents, thinking to himself, "Karma’s a bitch, huh Bush?"
When I finally get back to work, I’m bombarded with questions about my broken foot and stylish boot that I must wear for the next 6-8 weeks. “So what happened?” my boss asks. In my head, I run through several possible responses:
-I kicked a midget in the face as he tried to steal my wallet.
-The vagina of a woman doing the crab walk in a skirt down a sidewalk clamped onto my foot and snapped it in half (I’ve heard vaginas are volatile. God knows what they’ll swallow and spit out these days).
- I was playing naked leap frog and slipped on a giant, black dildo.
I realize my mind is even crazier than I thought. “I fell while running on an uneven sidewalk” I respond, hoping he won’t pry for further details. He smiles and says, “You have to watch out for those, they can be deadly.” In my head, I think, "Yeah, well so can rabid vaginas and angry midgets". Moments later, I’m on a crowded elevator and a group of women I work with (one of whom I don’t care for) gets on the elevator as they nurse their afternoon coffees. One of them asks what happened to me, and I respond with my generic “I fell while running” response. The woman I don’t like (we’ll call her Annette) laughs and in an effort to be funny says, “Be serious. You were drunk and had no one to hold you while you walked home alone from a bar!” The three women laugh in unison and I smirk and say, “Oh I just can’t get anything past you, can I?” As the elevator door opens, the three of them file out. Annette doesn’t make it out fast enough as the door closes and hits her on the arm, spilling her hot coffee all over her hand and beige silk sleeve. “Oh no are you ok? These elevator doors are so volatile you really need to be careful!” says one of the women. I laugh and call out to her, “Yeah, be careful Annette! And watch your step!” I guess often times, karma can work in your favor.
~ F.A.G.
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