Thursday, November 20, 2014

Hey Mrs. Clause, tell your hubby that Billy wants an induced nuclear fission hand blaster this Christmas

Dear Mrs. Clause,

It's me, Billy Nelson from 2333 Winchester St. Paducah, TN. I need you to speak to Santa for me. I feel he has wronged me and I was hoping you could talk some sense into your hubby. Here's the deal. I spoke with the man briefly beside a Verizon kiosk at the McCracken Valley Mall a week back. I asked for one gift and one gift only—a self-designed induced nuclear fission hand blaster (hereafter referred to as my soon-to-be-trademarked name, The Rapture Whisperer). Santa said the elves couldn't produce such a thing. Of course I wouldn't expect that there'd be an induced nuclear fusion hand blaster, or, Rapture Whisperer, just lying around the workshop so I slipped the instructions to build one under this belt. He just looked at them and laughed. I don't know why. Splitting an atom isn't exactly cutting edge science anymore. Einstein...hello. Besides, if the elves are able to build billions of toys for billions of children in one year, surely they'd be capable of building me a single Rapture Whisperer. Anyway, Santa just laughed again and tossed the instructions into a nearby trash can and began walking toward Subway. What a fool! Does he want them to unwittingly fall into the hands of a power hungry food court janitor? I rescued them and confronted him once again, explaining that I'd been an exceeding good boy all year and all I wanted was one single gift of what is essentially a space age hand-bazooka capable of ending all life on planet Earth. I ensured him the plans would be easy to follow. Heck, I'd build The Rapture Whisperer myself if I had enriched uranium. I figured those tinkering elves might have that stuff somewhere in what surely must be a vast warehouse of building materials. Or at least they'd know what North African black markets to surf. But then your snooping hubby began questioning my intentions. Frankly, I was a bit offended. I assure you I don’t give off any eccentric despot vibes in person. I ensured him I meant no harm. Then he asked, "What if it your little gadget goes off by accident?" I showed him on the instructions where there's clearly a foolproof safety mechanism near the trigger on my so-called little gadget. Besides, I've fired my Dad's 22. to end the misery of a desperately wounded raccoon partially squashed by a forklift operated by my drunk heavy-footed uncle. I know how firearms operate and I'm quite comfortable with one in my warm alive hands. And then he asked me "Why would you want something capable of incinerating a mid-sized American city?" Why wouldn't anyone, duh? Not that I'd ever use the Rapture Whisperer to destroy a population, let alone hurt a fly. But what your husband doesn't seem to grasp, Mrs. Clause, is that my invention, The Rapture Whisperer, is designed to be a deterrent first and foremost. I never WANT to use it. But I mean, what sixth grader is going to steal lunch money from a kid with an induced nuclear fission hand blaster sticking out of his corduroys? I told Santa that and he just patted me on the head and turned around and ordered a meatball marinara foot long. So, please talk to the big guy for me. Tell him I deserve this one little thing. Promise him that I will never, ever use my "little gadget" unless provoked and it's absolutely necessary. But, mark my words, if Ted Growler ever tries to tie me to the monkey bars and pound on my kneecaps with a Fun Noddle again…

Thank you, Mrs. Clause, for your anticipated cooperation in this matter.


Friday, November 14, 2014

Sisyphus Quits

I'm Henry the Eight, I am. Henry the Eight I am, I am. Almost there, baby. Almost there. I got married to the widow next door. Come on. Sooo clooose. She's been married seven times before. Who's the man? Sisyphus is the man. And everyone was a Henry. Henry. Fuck yeah! She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam. I'm her eighth old man. I'm SISYPHUS. Sisyphus the boulder-roller-to-the-TOP-of-the-mountain I am. Goddamn right I am! Sisyphus the boulder-roller….NO! SON-OF-A…CRAP! CRAP! CRAP! CRAP! CRAP!

That's it! I'm done! I'm completely, totally friggin' done! I really mean it this time. I really do. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me seven million, three hundred forty two thousand, eight hundred and two times, shame on me. But that's it, world. Who has two thumbs and won't be taken for a sucker anymore. THIS GUY. You hear me down there. Huh? Don't let the boulder roll over your ass on the way down.

I've wasted a big chunk of my life with this boulder rolling shit. Maybe the damn thing slipping out of my hands was the best thing to ever happen to me. Maybe I needed to get to this point to realize the boulder just isn't destined to see the top. Finally, I feel like I got some perspective. Come to think of it, I don't even know what I'd do if I ever made it to the top. Pat myself on the shoulder and hike all the way back down to the valley to see the old lady and bambino? Maybe check to see if my bowling team still needs a forth guy?

I'm better than this. Any schmuck can roll a boulder. I might as well have been flipping a burger that never cooks, or fetching stray shopping carts in a parking lot that never ends. I'm capable of so much more. Back when I was just another neighborhood kid flicking pebbles for kicks they told me I could do anything if I put my mind to it. Next thing I know my booze-fueled teenage rock flinging years are behind me and I wake up with this shitty boulder rolling gig. Every day, nine to five, plus the occasional weekend shift. Punch in…roll…chase…roll…punch out. If only I knew back then...

Christ. Look at me now. What do I got to show for it all? Huh? A chronic backache and a Wikipedia page.

It's time Sisyphus pulls up his sandal straps and gets crackin' on a brand new career…a brand new life…a brand new exciting and uncharted future where anything is possible. Duff's Technical Institute, here I come.