Friday, May 27, 2005

Thoughts on Bodies

1. I'd really like to be able to kick folks in the head. I mean, shoot, I could kick folks in the head right now if I tripped them, but I mean, I'd like to be able to get my foot up high enough to kick a person square in the head. It would, seemingly, be easier to learn how to punch someone in the head, but the truth is that I have arms so flabby that they might as well be vestigial. I'm like the Willendorf Venus, but with feet and curly hair. Or like the mighty tyrannosaurus rex, with my weak arms useful only for carrying a purse and waggling at babies. "Aaareen't yaouou sooo cuuute!?!?" I bellow as I stomp around trying to get my weak clutches on small children. 2. Surprisingly, though it's been twelve hours, no one has contacted me about running for John Ford's senate seat. I understand that he hasn't been convicted of anything yet, and so he doesn't even have to give up his seat. But still, you'd have thought I'd have some takers. I was momentarily distraught, but then I reminded myself that I did grow up in Illinois, which means that I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. So, this is just to say, Memphis, that I have the bodies necessary to win any election, for I am polling way ahead of any potential opponents among the victims of the flu epidemic and folks whose undertakers stole their jewelry after the family went to sit down and before locking the coffin. If there's one thing I know, it's how to get out the dead vote. 3. After reading my post on the recalcitrant brother, the Butcher thought that we should look for a house in some crummy neighborhood and take the recalcitrant brother in. Yes, that's right. The Butcher thought, briefly, that it would be a good idea for me to have both of my brothers living with me, working shit jobs they're too smart for, and making it impossible (it's only virtually impossible now) for me to pay off my credit cards or save up any money so that I can ever fulfill my one fucking small-ass dream of having a little house of my own with a fenced-in back yard and a magnolia tree out my bedroom window. Do I want much, America? I've not asked for a rich husband to support me through drumming while I lay around, inexplicably, in bed all day. I've not demanded a recording career that masks my lack of talent through Pro-tools while allowing me all the benefits of fame. I'm not demanding to be the prettiest, pretty princess in the whole world. I just want to be able to get some money in the bank. I just want to be a thousandaire. People say that money doesn't buy you happiness, because people are fuckers. It's better to have money in the bank, to know that, if something happens, you can take care of it, than it is to contemplate becoming The Home for Wayward Brothers. So, suffice to say, we're not taking in the recalcitrant brother. If it comes to the point where he's all out of family members of baby's mammas to take him in, he can go back home to mom and dad. 4. All this talk of shitty jobs has me thinking of the worst job I ever had. It was right after I graduated from college and had moved back home to lay on my parents couch and watch reruns of "In the Heat of the Night" while wrapped in an afghan. Unfortunately, Mom wouldn't let me spend my whole life like that--fantasizing that Bubba Skinner would come rescue me. So, I got a job at Casey's, which is a small chain of convenience stores/gas stations in, at least, Illinois and Iowa. God, I hated it. I was on my feet eight hours a day. I was alone most of the time, so I was always afraid I'd get robbed, because it'd be so easy to rob a place like that, since we never put the money in the safe and we had, maybe, one customer an hour. And I was constantly getting "put on notice" for not keeping the place clean, because, believe me American, there is no bullshit like the bullshit people put each other through when the stakes are so very low. But anyway, we were talking about bodies. And there was this one body that, to this day, makes me wonder what the hell? and laugh. There was this guy who would come in at least once a day who looked very much like a young pink gorilla, with that same big round belly and kind of slouchy way of meandering around the store. Sometimes, I didn't see him come in (because I was busy cleaning, you fuckers!) but I would always hear his bare feet slapping on the linoleum as he made his way back to the milk. He'd never wear a shirt, never had on shoes, and always had on shorts that were tight and short and, here's the weird and funny part, when he'd get up to the counter, he'd lift up on his toes and set himself on the counter, as if carrying around the family jewels was just so taxing that he needed to frequently rest them on the counter. Really, what the fuck? I still don't know what to make of that. Did he think I was going to be like, "Dear Jesus, that's the most attractive thing I've ever seen. Let me fuck you in the beer cooler right now!"? Did he think I was just going to run screaming in fear? Every day this went on, all summer, until I found the job at the newspaper. God, it was something.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

What's funny is I found a letter (email hadn't yet taken full hold) you wrote to me circa Bubba Skinner in the process of settling everything into the den of sin on Wednesday.

I had a friend back in my hometown who dated, slept with, hated, lived with, was friends with, and married (in that order) this wierd guy who worked at a Casey's. He was wierd in part, I think, because of his unrealized SM tendencies that lurked just below the surface. (Please, dude, go home, get some candle wax and stop irritating everyone.) That's not relavant, but seems like it can't be left out.

Anyway - the point. They had a padlocked panel in the floor with a slit in it and when the money in the register got over a certain amount, they were supposed to shove the money in the floor with a flexible rubber stick so it would go in a lock box. Did you have that kind of "safe" at your store?

I guess the wierd guy thing was relevant because he begged me to shove the money in the floor when we picked him up to go out after he closed one time. I couldn't figure out why he was obssessed and so I did it just to shut him up and he slapped my hand with the stick so hard I had a welt and tears in my eyes. Suffice it to say, I ended my portion of the evening early and he always seemed afraid of me after what I had to say and how I said it. But, unfortunately, maybe that's what he wanted. I get confused about that stuff.

Did I have a point? Oh, yeah, Bubba Skinner letter, remembering how you felt trapped at your parents, the wierdness of Casey's in small towns, and wierd money pits. Maybe we need a money pit in the den of sin. But, we already have a bowl for loose change and a hiding place for the house emergency credit card so we're probably set.

I am not on point today. :)


5/27/2005 09:07:00 AM  
Blogger Cindy St. Onge said...

"A thousandaire" I love it!

I can relate. I just want a little security. I don't think that's too much to ask for.

You'll get your house with the magnolia tree. And then some.

5/27/2005 01:39:00 PM  
Blogger _Summer_ said...

People say a lot of things becase they're fuckers. And kicking people in the head is over-rated. If even one toe accidentally gets stuck in the kickees mouth, you can lose your balance, your impact, your pride.

Not that I would know.

5/28/2005 01:30:00 PM  

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