I Can't Stop Salivating

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Now, I don’t like to boast but I’ve got a pretty strong body if I do say so myself.

 I don’t mean in a weight lifting, ripping-phonebooks-in-half kinda way (although you’d be surprised by the amount of punch this scrawny dude packs), I mean in the way that my body rarely gets sick. For all the stupid things I’ve done over the years, and the poor way I treat my body with all-nighters and bad-decision making, it’s a wonder I’m not sick once a month. I should be, I really should. But in reality, I’m sick maybe once a year. This is a point of pride for me (clearly I don’t have a lot going on right now).

           

So you can understand why I thought that after spending last Tuesday and Wednesday sick in bed with a fever and a sore throat that I assumed the worst was over. I never had a fever last more than two or three days before, and I swore I could feel this one slowly cooling down. So I figured it was safe to pop a few Dayquil and go back to work. Bad decision making strikes again…

It was around four in the afternoon that I realized that something wasn’t right. The speed that they put into Dayquil was allowing me to press on, but I could sense that just behind that artificial sense of alertness, there was a big storm hanging back, ready to strike.

After work I went over to my cousin’s house because she had cable, internet and cold water (the new place I just moved into was lacking a few things…). As I sat on her couch, watching the latest episode of Pawn Stars and drinking a nice ice-cold glass of water, I could see my cousin looking at me with concern.

“Randy, are you sure you’re feeling better? I can see your forehead sweating, and it’s not even warm in here.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I told her. “I just over-exerted myself at work playing with the kids while I was at the tail end of my sickness, and now my body’s just angry with me. I just need to lay down for a bit and I’ll be fine.”

“OK,” She said, unconvinced. “ But let’s take your temperature just in case.”

Just to placate her, I took the thermometer out of her hands and put into my mouth. Those next thirty seconds have been etched into my mind forever. I remember I had to stare straight down, past my nose, to see the little numbers on the digital display window. I remember my heart racing as the numbers continued to increase.

“99.1”

“99.9”

“100.5”

“101.1”

“101.8”

“102.3”

 “102.5”

It finally stopped at 102.7 and my throat made an involuntary noise that would be impossible to replicate here. The throat noise was alarming enough to make my cousin race over to me and check the thermometer herself. She made a few noises of her own after seeing the final results and told me I had to get to Urgent Care immediately.

Now, this is where having a history of being relatively sick-free becomes a bad thing. Because at that point I was sure I was going to die. I never had a fever higher than 100.3 before, and now I had 102.7?? Clearly, I had a brain tumor, a giant brain tumor that was slowly eating the rest of my non-tumored brains.

While I waited in Urgent Care, I tried not to think about all the scary stuff going on in my head right now. What if this was serious? What if this was the end of me? Why doesn’t it feel like I have a ridiculously high temperature? Is that a sign that I’m dead already?

Finally, the doctor saw me, did a few tests on me, and told me I had a throat infection. Immediately, my mind flashed back to that random girl on Frenchman Street I made out with a few days ago. Dammit, why did I let her near my throat, I knew she seemed unclean.

The doctor prescribed me some antibiotics, and told me that eating wouldn’t really be an option for me for the next few days.

“What about soup?” I asked.

“You’ll stay the hell away from soup if you know what’s good for you!” He said as his eyes got really big.  I couldn’t believe he was being serious, my throat didn’t seem to hurt that bad. Surely I could handle soup.

Little did I know less than an hour later, my throat would seize up and make everything, even drinking water, an extremely painful affair. Suffice to say, yes I did end up staying the hell away from soup.

It’s hard to describe exactly what my infected throat felt like. The best way I’ve found is to compare it to barnacles. You know barnacles? Those gross slimy things that attach themselves to the bottom of ships. That’s what the inside of my throat felt like. Like a bunch barnacles had grown on the inside of my throat, and whenever anything went past it, food, water, air, whatever, the barnacles, and thus I, withered in pain for a good minute.

But anyway, this is all just foreplay to the real nightmare that unfolded that night. I think we can all agree that the best part of getting sick is that you can sleep as much as you like with no repercussions. The rest of it may suck, but you really can’t hate on endless sleep, right?

Well during my night of hell, I was robbed of that of pleasure. To this day I’m not sure why, but at some point during the night I started to hyper-salivate (you know, like a mangy dog) and I couldn’t stop. I was a little drooling sick monkey for the next ten hours. Now I’m not sure if you’ve ever had the pleasure of salivating at a scary pace, but it makes life extremely difficult. You have to bring a cup with you where over you go, so you have somewhere to spit out the excess saliva. Generally, you’ll use this cup every five seconds. It won’t be long before you’re holding a cup heavy with your own warm secretion, and then you’ll know what it is to have a bad time.

So anyway, that’s what I did instead of sleep. I sat up in bed with a crazy high fever, an infected throat, and spit into a cup. And while this seems like it should be adequate enough misery for one sitting, my fever-ravaged brain had to make it worse by deciding I was making a poor choice for a career.

“Wait a minute, I just realized something. [spit]  You want to be a writer?” My fevered brain asked me incredulously.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, that’s a real cute hobby and all, but what the fuck are you going to do for a career? [spit]”

“I’m going to write [spit].”

“Well that’s hilarious. [spit] Do you know how hard it is to make a decent living as a writer? [spit] Do you have any idea how many broke writers there are in this world? Is that what you want to be when your 40? A broke writer with a couple of shitty side jobs?”

“You don’t know that that will happen [spit], maybe I’ll write something really good and-“

“And you’ll be considered a good writer by your peers [spit], but you’ll still be a broke dick.”

 It went on like this for awhile, until I was sufficiently convinced that I had made a huge mistake in my life and that I was literally running out of saliva and would be the first person to die from a lack of spit and a broken spirit. As you can see, my life had gotten very complicated, very quickly. 

And so people, what do we do when we find ourselves in such a panic? That’s right, we call a family member in the middle of the night, waking them up so we can unload our insecurities on to them.

“Hello?”

“Oskie, hey it’s Randy. Look, I hope I didn’t wake you, I just needed to ask you something?”

“Aren’t you incredibly sick, with a really high fever? Why aren’t you asleep right now?”

“Because I can’t stop spitting, but that’s not the point right now. Look, I have to ask you something? Am I wasting my life? I’m a fooling myself with trying to be a writer? Are you and the rest of the family laughing at me behind my back?”

I could hear Oskie sigh as he realized he was going to have to sleepily talk me down from my ledge.

“No Randy, you’re not wasting your life, because you’re doing exactly what you want to be doing. There’s no way that’s a waste.” I let these words enter my ear and circle my fever brain. 

“However,” He continued, “There is no way of knowing the amount of success you’ll achieve. You could have great success, or hardly any.  I have some friends twenty years older than you who are still struggling to make their dreams come true. And I have others who are doing exactly what they’ve always wanted to do. It’s a combination of hard work and luck.  You’ll just have to see where this life takes you.”

I took a long sigh of relief. He hadn't given me a sun shiny 'everything will be ok' speech, but he had spoken all truth with the right amount of hope. That was enough for me at the time. 

“Alright, that sounds about right. Thanks Oskie, I don’t know what’s going on with me today, I usually don’t panic so easily.”

“That’s because you have a fever eating your brain. Soon you’ll be half as smart as you used to be, and your dream of being a writer will officially be dead. So there’s no need to worry!”

  I spent the rest of that night watching my roommate’s romantic comedy collection and thinking about what my cousin had said. I had always thought that it was a foregone conclusion that I would find success as a writer because I was willing to work hard and never give up (you have to be a very optimistic, and delusional, person to go after your dream). But the truth was, there is a lot of luck involved, among other things, which were out of my hands. All I could do was press on, keep spitting and hope my hard work would one day pay off.

And also, stop kissing unclean women. That just needs to end.

  

Breasts On Bourbon Street: A Saucy Tale of Mardi Gras Injustice

It's the middle of the day, and it smells awful. Just awful.

And I can't find Ralph anywhere. This is approximately the fourth time I've lost him in the crowd in the span of thirty minutes.

What am I doing here?

 I feel absolutely horrible. My head is pounding, my nose is running, and I can't stop coughing. I shouldn't be here, I'm sick. Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras is no place for a sick man. I need to be in bed.

I'm inspecting the crowd around me, looking for my friend. But the longer I look at the crowd the more it looks like a blur. A flowing blur. Like a school of fish in a current.

That's when it hits me. This isn't a street, it's a river. A constantly flowing river. But water doesn't flow in this river, turds do. Loud, obnoxious turds.

I'm stuck in Turd River, I think to myself, and it smells awful. 

Suddenly, I feel a touch on my shoulder. I turn to see Ralph, he's found me. And he's even drunker than before.

"Where'dya go, man?" He says with a slight slur.

"I got caught in the flow of Turd River." I tell him. He looks at me absently after I say this. I can't tell if he actually heard me or not, it's so goddamn loud out here.

"I said, I got caught in Turd River!" I repeat.

"Oh, OK." He replies indifferently. "Well, let's keep moving, I don't want to miss anything!"

This makes me laugh. What could he possible miss down here? It's the same thing for a mile long. 

But really, I know exactly what my buddy means when he says he doesn't want to miss anything. He means he doesn't want to miss out on any breasts that might be exposed further down the river.

 That's what everyone wants down here.

Of course, they could probably see a lot better ones at one of the many strip clubs nearby, but they don't want to see nice breasts, they want to see Bourbon Street breasts. So then they can go back home and brag to their friends about how they went to Mardi Gras and saw breasts on Bourbon Street, just like in the movies. People are the worst.

"Let's follow them," Ralph points to a group of stumbling girls in front of us. "It looks like they're about to do something."

I nod my head but I'm not really listening to him. I'm so lightheaded it actually feels like I'm floating. Floating down Turd River, with the rest of the drunks on this street.

As I float, I think back to this morning, when he somehow convinced me to come out today. I had already gone out with him three times in a row, thus my getting sick; but that didn't matter to him. 

"It's my last day, you have to come out! Can't you just tough it out and try to have a good time?"

So here I am, floating in the sludge of the masses, trying to have a good time. But it's not easy. I'm being poked and prodded by the thousands of fat tourists that are trying to squeeze past me.

The girls we're following reach a balcony section of the street. There are balconies on both sides of us, and every inch of balcony on either side is crammed with people.

We will have to proceed with caution.

As you probably know, people rent rooms with balconies that overlook Bourbon so that they can drop beads down on people with boobs so they can see their boobs. What you probably don't know is that this doesn't really happen that often, and the people on the balconies tend to get bored after awhile. And in their drunken boredom, many decide to take those cheap plastic beads of theirs and huck it down at the people below.

I'm not talking about tossing them, mind you, I'm talking about just chucking them right at some poor bastard's head. 

So now, instead of just dealing with the obese couple from Kansas directly in front of you, and the toothless man with horrible b.o. to the side of you, and god-knows-who breathing down your neck behind you, you also have to watch out for random flying beads that are being thrown at the side of your face at high speed.

This is no place for a sick man.

As I head down this gauntlet of cheap plastic pain, I focus on my peripheral vision, praying that I will be able to see any flying objects before they slap me in the face. I hear a cry coming from the left of me.

"Sunavabitch!" I hear. I can't pinpoint the location of the voice, but I can tell by the pained tone that someone has fallen victim to the hijinks of those above us.

But my pity for this victim only lasts a few seconds, ending immediately when I step right into a huge pile of horse shit.

"Fucking... !" I'm so angry I don't know how to finish my furious thought, "...horse!... pig!...asshole...shitheads!!!" 

I squirm my way through the crowd and make my way to the sidewalk, so that I can wipe off the excrement on the curb.

As I do this, I laugh at myself for my outburst. Fucking horse pig asshole shitheads. I guess that's one way to describe the cops who patrol the area on horseback, keeping the street safe while also creating a nice minefield of defecation.

After a minute of furious scraping, I sit down and pull the shoe to my face to see the damage. I see that I got a good amount off, but there's still is a great deal wedged into the bottom soles. I examine the tiny tunnels of poop that are still imprinted across the bottom of my shoe and determine that I will need to dig at it with a stick or a nail to get it all out.

But I don't do that. Instead, in my light-headed state, I continue to sit there and stare at the tiny brown tunnels and all my thoughts leave me. I just stare at the bottom of my shoe, and it stares back at me. Then the deafening noise all around me starts to sound very distant, and I start to feel myself drift far away, and I feel a little better. 

And then I sneeze on the poop that's on my shoe and I get sad again.

Soon after this, Ralph finds me and hurries me further down the street. I can tell he's come across something that's got him excited. I have a good idea what it is too.

 I'm not surprised when I find that Ralph has brought me to a sizable crowd that's standing still. There is only one reason why people stop flowing on Turd River, and that reason is boobs. 

 I stand at the edge of the crowd, and with my red, watery eyes I can see two women at the center of the crowd, who are looking up at a balcony and pointing to themselves. A clear sign that negotiations are underway.

People who have never been to Mardi Gras assume that women are just constantly taking there top off at any given point, and only asking for a pair of lousy beads as payment.

 As I mentioned earlier, this is a myth. Just like in the real world, it takes work to see tits on Turd River. It has to be a certain type of girl, and it has to be a certain type of beads.

 What kind of beads, you ask? The rare kind. The kind that are hardly seen but always in demand. Generally these beads, the boob beads, are much bigger than regular beads, have crazy designs on them, very colorful and flamboyant. Some even light up. But the one trait that all the boob beads share is this, they are all attention-getters. That's an absolute requirement.

But let's just get one thing clear, the girls aren't showing themselves just for the beads. A lot of them are doing it mainly for the same reason that they guys want to see them, so later on they can tell their friends about it. The beads are just a nice cherry on top. 

And so that's what brings these two girls to the process of negotiations with the balcony above. With suggestive hand gestures, they are making it clear that they are willing to expose themselves for the right set of beads. And so, the men on the balcony show off each extravagant set of beads they have, until, finally, they hold up ones that pleases the women below.

And once the beads are agreed upon, the girls lift their shirts. (Always make them show first, then dispense the beads, common Bourbon St knowledge). 

I don't see much from my view point, but I'm fine with that.

After the shirts are lowered and the beads are dropped and the crowd disperses, Ralph finds me again.

"How were they?" I ask.

He shrugs in response and we meander down the river once more, waiting for the next boob crowd to appear.
 
As we walk, I can't help but stare down at the never-ending line of puddles that have pooled up alongside the curb. These puddles are so revolting it's hypnotic. Foul, thick, turbid, greenish-brown bodies of water with numerous tiny, unidentifiable objects floating on top of them.

I'm so disgusted by this that my mind imagines what it would be like if I put my mouth in one of the puddles and took a big drink. The mental picture almost makes me vomit and I curse my brain for not working right.

The Bourbon Street puddles' hypnotic hold on me is destroyed when Ralph grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me to another crowd. We find another pair of women negotiating for beads from the men above.

But these negotiations do not go well, and soon the girls decide to head for greener pastures.

But before the crowd can disperse, an old, slightly haggard woman, maybe sixty or sixty five, comes out of nowhere and lifts up her shirt and waves her hands wildly at the balconiers.

I find myself amused for the first time since I came to Bourbon St. It's rather fun watching the various men in the crowd give half-hearted cheers while wearing expressions of confusion on their face. How were they suppose to react to this? A woman was showing her breasts, this was always a good thing, no doubt. But the breasts were saggy and misshapen... but then again, they were breasts.

Who woulda thought boob-watching could be so complicated...

I looked up to the balcony, to see how this was being received up there. From my angle I couldn't see any faces, all I could see was a set of beautiful, multi-colored giant beads hanging over the railing. At any moment, a decision was going to be made. Either the beads would drop down, or, get pulled away from view, and the story would be told.

But nothing happened. The beads simply continued to hover above the crowd. 

Confused, I looked back to the old woman. She was still there, of course. And putting on a real show. Screaming, jumping, swaying, jiggling. She was doing anything that would seal the deal so that she could get this one victory.

She was so enthusiastic, so desperate to achieve her goal, that I found myself rooting for her. I could tell by her weary face that life had probably given her the short end of the stick, and all she wanted was one more chance to feel beautiful again. Or at least, good looking enough to earn some boob beads.

This thought saddens me. Not just for the old lady, but for all humans. Don't we all come to this point eventually, at some time in our lives, when we want just the briefest reminders of who we once were?

I can't tell whether I'm having an honest moment about life, or if I'm so sick that I'm becoming delusional. I do know that I'm getting tired of staring at old crusty boobs, so I stare back up again at the dangling beads. They're still there, indifferently dangling twelve feet high.

I wonder what the hold up is. Maybe the bead holder is having a moral dilemma? He knows these boobs were not the boobs he was looking for, but her unbridled enthusiasm and energy gives him pause.

Can it be? Someone here has a heart? 

I can see the beads dipping down a few inches and I have the audacity to hope that this will have a happy ending.

But then, the real world steps in, in the form of a young pretty girl.

She squeezes past me to get into the circle, and then points to the man holding the beads. The crowd begins to cheer for the young woman, and I know the old lady's chances have plunged back down to zero.

Of course this would happen, I think.

But then, the young lady says something I can't believe.

"This is all I have to show."

She says this with supreme confidence as she points to her clothed body.

Are you kidding me? I think. This poor old woman has had her shirt lifted up for two full minutes, jumping up and down like a lunatic, and you think you can just swagger in and steal her glory without even adhering to proper procedure?

Even though I can't see the man's face above me, I can see his other hand pointing down at her and making gestures. He's clearly trying to further negotiations with her, but this girl isn't having any of it.

"This is all I have to show." She says again. She has this thick Southern, trailer trash accent that sound like nails on the chalk board to me. 

I picture what this person's life is back at home. She no doubt lives in a small town in one of the Bible Belt states, probably doesn't care too much for school, isn't well liked by her friends and she secretly knows it, and has made her way through life by flaunting her body around.

In a way, it's actually sadder than the old woman with the saggy boobs. But I still have the urge to scream at her.

You're not a Goddess, you don't get to come to Bourbon Street and have people bow to your whim.

I try to imagine what she would say in response. Although my guess is that it wouldn't be any different than what she's been saying... this is all she has to show. 

And while I'm going through all of this in my mind, the old lady is still standing behind the young girl, jumping up and down with her mammaries out.

She's a goddamn gladiator out there.

"This is all I have to show." The young harlot says for a third time. This time she circles her upper body with her two hands as she says this, highlighting her covered goods, just so the man above knows how hot she is.

"This is all I have to show."

She keeps repeating this line, and it's slowly driving me insane. Doesn't she know any other words? Can't her brain think of something else to say?

"This is all I have to show."

The crowd around the two women begins to get impatient. It's clear that the young strumpet is not going to show anything, and they've all had their fill of the pair of the gravity ravaged jugs.

But then, just before the crowd is about to dissipate, I see something fall from the sky.

It's the pair of beads. The man has finally released them. I can see from the trajectory of the beads, that they are heading right to the elderly woman. He made the right choice. Good for him.

But before I can even start to feel happy about this, I see the young girl take several long steps backwards and jump up and snatch the beads up.

"Nooooo!" The old woman shouts in haunting agony. "Those are mine. I showed my tits!"

She lunges at the young devil, demanding satisfaction. But before she reaches her, this giant whale of a woman comes out of nowhere and pushes the old woman away.

"Ain't no one touchin' ma baby." The whale says in the same unintelligent tone of the young lady.

It takes me a second to realize what's happened. Dear God, it finally occurs to me, this brutish whale gave birth to the harlot. Suddenly, I have a little empathy for the young girl. If this is what she was going to turn into over the years, maybe she should get her kicks while she could.

"Ain't no one touchin' ma baby." The whale says again through brown teeth.

There is pain in the old woman's eyes that I've only seen a few times before in my life. She looks at the whale, and speaks up for herself.

"But I showed my breasts! It's not fair."

But the whale only repeats herself for a third time: "Ain't no one touchin' ma baby."

The old woman reaches out for the beads, but the whale puts a stop to it.

"Ain't no one touchin' ma baby."

The whole time this interaction has been going on, the young girl has appeared oblivious to it. She only stares at her new beads instead and smiles at their prettiness.

Finally, the old woman admits defeat, and the whale turns to her pride and joy, and puts a loving arm around her.

"Ain't no one touchin' ma baby."

"This is all I have to show."

"Ain't no one touchin' ma baby."

"This is all I have to show."

They continue this fascinating conversation as they exit the crowd and vanish in the mass of flowing bodies. 

I look over to find the old lady, but she is gone too.

 It's just me now, and my hatred for everything. Including myself. Why didn't I say anything, why didn't I make that wrong right?

I don't have any answers though. I just have a sickness, and a hatred for humanity.

I walk to the closest intersection so I can get on a street that will take me away from all this. As I reach a corner I almost run into a middle-aged bald man who is holding a huge sign. I look up at the sign. It reads in big bold letters: FREE YOURSELF FROM SIN! JESUS IS THE WAY!

I look at the man. I look right in his eyes.

"Forget it, Jake, it's Turd River."

He looks at me absently. I'm not even sure if he heard me, it's so god damn loud out here.

 

Razzie Award-winning/Nominated Performances That Were Actually Brilliant

With the Oscars almost upon us, I thought I would share a post I wrote about the Razzies. I originally wrote it for a certain website I contribute to, but it was rejected due to its sarcasm.  Hopefully, you will appreciate it more than they did...

Once an actor or actress lands a role in a Hollywood movie, they strive to be brilliant. Some achieve this goal and as a result, win an Oscar, which allows them they to cry onstage in front of millions of people and let everyone bask in how amazing they are. It’s a special moment.

Other actors also strive to be brilliant in their role (or at least try not to suck that much), but they fail miserably and as a result, win a Razzie award. This is also a special moment because it lets the actors/actresses know they are giant turds of disappointment and nobody loves them. 

But just as the Oscars sometimes gets things wrong (cough, Crash, cough, Million Dollar Baby, cough) so does the Razzies. Here is our list of Razzie winners and nominees that actually gave brilliant performances. Enjoy!

           

1)   Worst Actor (1988)- Tom Cruise in Cocktail  (nominated)

How powerful was Tom Cruise’s performance as a highly skilled bartender/seducer in the film Cocktail? Well, let’s put it this way, before the movie came out there was no such thing as bartenders in the real world (probably.). It wasn’t until Tommy’s turn as a bottle spinning, glass flipping, happy-go-lucky server of drinks that people realized how much value such a job would have in society. And thus, bartending was invented (again, probably).

2)   Worst Actress (2011)- Adam Sandler in Jack and Jill (as Jill)

Adam Sandler has the dubious honor of winning both worst actor and worst actress awards for the same movie (A feat never done before).

And while we will go on record as saying that we agree with the academy’s choice to lambast the Sandman’s male performance as Jack (never once in those 90 minutes do you believe that this character is a 40 something man child who likes to make fart jokes), we stand strong in our belief that in his portrayal of Jill, he has made a profound statement of the harsh realities that women face today.

To give an example, in one scene Jill attempts to ride a horse in front of a large crowd, but instead the horse collapses under her weight in humiliating fashion. Well thanks to Sandler’s passionate performance, it becomes obvious that this scene is a metaphor for the happiness of woman collapsing due to the pressures of society.  Subtle and feminist, that’s the real Adam Sandler that nobody sees.

3)   Worst Actor (1996)- Pauly Shore in Biodome

In a harrowing tale of the human psyche and isolation, we find a man trapped in a closed ecological system for over a year with a group of snooty scientists who loathe him. As a result, he begins to descend into madness and act in bizarre and abnormal ways. At one point he even imagines he is a duckbill playtupus duck and is best friends with Alec Baldwin’s disappointing brother. 

The critics claimed in their reviews that they were lost for much of the movie, but they didn’t understand that that was the point! As Pauly was lost, so were we the viewers. Brilliant stuff here. 

  

4)   Worst Actress (2008)- Paris Hilton in The Hottie and the Nottie

On the surface, this film appears to be about a snobby pretty girl (Paris) and her ugly best friend. However, when one dives under the surface and sees what’s going on here, they realize that Paris Hilton is both the Hottie and the Nottie. She is the Hottie because of her physical beauty (that is, if you’re into really skinny girls who constantly wear sour expressions on their face) and she is the Nottie because she is a shallow, self-absorbed human waste of trash.  This is Paris’s attempt at letting herself look at her reflection in the mirror and honestly analyze what she sees. Of course, the judges of the Razzis missed that entirely, but that shouldn’t be a surprise by now, should it?

5)   Worst Actor (2002) Tom Green in Freddy Got Fingered

The man reinvents sausages as musical theater and he gets crucified for it? Is there no justice in this world? For shame, Razzies, for shame.

Holy S*&!, the Niners Blew the Superbowl...:A Theraputic Look Back on the Worst Day There Ever Was

In my last blog post, I had an inner dialog between me and myself pre-Superbowl. Those were happier times. Those were times where logic still existed and the world was a just, fair place to live in. Those were times when red and gold rainbows ruled the skies and Ray Lewis had an equal amount of murder accusations and superbowl rings.

But those times are gone. And in their place, there is only darkness of purple and black. Like a giant bruise that covers the face of humanity. And in these dark times, I give you the second part of my inner dialog between me and myself, post-Superbowl. Read if you dare, but just know, you are entering a world without sunlight, without hope.

 Enjoy!

Myself: So... how many throats did you end up ripping out?

Me: None. It turns out that it's quite difficult to rip throats, or do much of anything really, when you're constantly in the fetal position.

Myself: Oh cheer up, dude. Your team made the Superbowl! Only one other team in the whole league can say that. Plus, you have a lot to look forward to! Your team is young and stacked, you guys are already considered Superbowl contenders for next season, for Christ sakes!

Me: I know, and that might give me comfort in a few weeks, but right now, I just can't stop thinking about that day. All my thoughts keeping coming back to it. Everything was going perfectly, and then... it all went dark.

Myself: (sigh)...OK, well, why don't you talk about the day out loud. Maybe that will help get the thoughts out of your head.

Me: I'm not sure if I'm up for that...

Myself: Fine, if you really don't think it will help-

Me: The day started off so well!! I woke up around ten in the morning, ending my rest after spending a night downtown, celebrating with other Niner fans, mocking Baltimore fans and catching beads from the party-revelers hovering from balconies above. Now, I can't say I felt great the moment I rose out of bed that morning, but I wasn't going to let a little hangover ruin my day.

The first thing I did that morning was take a shower and think about how I was only hours away from the biggest game of the season, and my team was in it! And I was in the city where my team was playing the biggest game of the season! It was too perfect! It was destiny!

Then I dried off and put on my $30 Niners shirt that I had bought the night before on Canal St. The shirt itself was a bit of a gamble, because in big Red letters it read: 49ERS SUPERBOWL CHAMPIONS 2013! Obviously, if things went sour that day, I could never wear that shirt again, so like I said, it was a bit of a gamble. 

But when I put that shirt on that morning, something amazing happened. My hangover from last night's festivities suddenly vanished. Sure, call me a liar if you like, but it's true. My head immediately cleared up, and I naturally assumed I was a wearing a shirt of truth. It was right then that I knew today would be a special day. 

The sky was beautiful that morning. As I walked down Broadway St to St. Charles to catch a streetcar, I couldn't help but smile at the pure blue sky above that was smattered with splotches of pearly white clouds. The temperature was perfect as well. Everything was great. Everything was beautiful.

My street car ride to the Quarter was one I won't soon forget. The car was packed to the brim, mostly  with superbowl fans, all of us just filled with excitement. There were taunts and cheers, hisses and kisses. We rode down the historic St. Charles Street, and as we slowly but surely got closer and closer to the also historic Superdome, I could feel the already boiling excitement in the street car start to rise to even higher levels.

 And then, once again, something miraculous happened. As I stood on the street car,  watching the old elegant Southern houses of St. Charles pass me by, I saw something amazing. Those old elegant homes smiled at me. I can't explain it, but they did. They fucking smiled at me. One even winked at me. It was truly a great moment. And once again, I knew that day was going to be special.

Anyway, my plan for the day hadn't gotten further than taking the streetcar downtown and then letting the madness of the day take a hold of me. But once I got off the street car, this plan of mine seemed a little risky. For I quickly found that the Ravens fans in the Quarter outnumbered the Niner fans by at least 10 to 1. This made me feel a kind of madness for sure, but not the good kind. If I wasn't careful, I might accidentally beat up every single one of these squawking Ravens fans and leave them on the street, bloody and distressed.

Instead, I forced myself to take the adult route. Whenever I passed by a Ravens fan, I simply pointed to my magical 49er shirt and gave them a look of superiority. Often times they would just look away in shame. It was great.

Having no direction in particular to go, I found myself following the masses of people heading away from the quarter and towards the tall buildings of downtown. I found out soon enough that behind the buildings was a little place called the Superdome. I was home.

Of course, I didn't have a ticket for the game, but that didn't really matter at the time. Just seeing the excitement of the people as they flocked inside the dome was a great enough experience for me. I continued to walk around the police perimeter that surrounded the Superdome and enjoy some great people-watching.

 At a certain point, I came to a section where a brass band was serenading a long line of people waiting to get into the dome. You know the other city that would hire brass bands to entertain the long lines of people waiting to get inside the stadium? None of them. Strictly a New Orleans custom, and it made me proud to be able experience it first hand.

 Also, I danced like a free-spirited lunatic and it was great.

And then, the first annoying thing occurred on a (so far) wonderful day. One of those crazy religious people came up to the line of people with a megaphone and started shouting religious nonsense at them. Now, like most people, I have always had a strong dislike for these kinds of people, but when they try to piss on my Superbowl parade, that really gets me angry.

So I was about to go say something to the preaching man, but then he said something that caught my ear.

He said: "God doesn't care about football, he doesn't care about the Superbowl! He only cares that you follow the 49 commandments!"

I stopped in my tracks. 49? I looked at the religious man to see if he was wearing any football paraphenelia but he was not.

He continued: "Yes, the glorious ten commandments! You must follow each of them!"

My God, I thought. It was a slip of the tongue. He doesn't even know he said it.  

49 commandments- 49ers. It's a sign from above!

And then I shouted right in his crazy old ear that the 49ers would follow the 49 commandments to victory, and he looked at me like I was a mad man. It was yet another glorious moment of the day.

After I had my fill I walked away from the Superdome and began looking for more glorious experiences.

My quest didn't take long to fufill.

For not four blocks away from the dome was a parking lot. Now normally, I don't feel any kind a way about parking lots as they are rather boring places to be. However, on game day, parking lots become magical places of happiness, also known as tailgating. And on Superbowl Sunday, when people have traveled hundreds of miles away, tailgating becomes a Super event itself.

Now, if I may speak frankly, I have never had much trouble making friends. Chalk it up to my easy-going personality and my dashing good looks. But on that day, in that parking lot, I honestly think I broke the record for making the most amount of friends in the smallest amount of time.

I easily had at least forty new best friends in the span of five minutes. And they were all great, incredible, morally-sound people.

For the next four hours, we proceeded to engage in delightful conversation about football and the San Francisco Forty Niners, drink a ton of delicious beer, play many games of cornhole, and eat delicious BBQ food. I know I've said this a lot, but it was indeed another great moment of the day.

Anyway, after our four hours together, it was time to part ways; as I did not have a ticket to the game, and they did. So I said my goodbyes, got a few phone numbers, and then headed to the Quarter to find a random bar to watch the game in.

It didn't really matter where I watched it. All that mattered is that once the game had ended, I would only have to take a few mere steps out on the street before being picked up and carried off by the celebratory crowd of Red and Gold. It was the perfect plan.

Just as I reached the edge of the Quarter, a friend called me and told me a buddy of his was working at the House of Blues that day and recommended we go there. That was enough for me.

Let me tell you, I'm glad we ended up at there. For when we arrived, my friend's buddy escorted us to the back patio, where we found a giant table for ourselves, as well as a giant projection screen that would shortly be showing the game.

Now, just picture this if you will, it's sunset in the French Quarter on a beautiful day, me and my friends are lounging in a back patio filled with other crazed football fans, we are minutes away from the biggest game of the season, which my team is in, and there are ice-filled buckets of beer at our finger tips. So do you really blame me for thinking that football gods were smiling upon me at that very moment? Do you really find fault in my logic that this was the day that the 49ers took home their sixth Lombardi trophy?

Myself: No, I can see how you would think that.

Me: Shut up, I'm trying to tell a story here. Anyway, in a day filled with glorious moments, this was the most glorious. Everything was right with the world.

And then the game started.

And my memory of the next two hours is fuzzy. I remember a lot of pained screaming by me and my fellow 9er fans. I remember some commercial about a horse and his man boyfriend. And I remember a lot of obnoxious fucking Ravens fans screaming behind me.

And then before I knew it, it was half time and we were down 21-6. How the hell did this happen? I wondered. What the hell was my team doing?!

My friends tried to comfort me. They kept reminding me that there was still a whole second half to play, and this team has come back from behind many times before. I told myself they were right, but I still felt an unbelievable amount of stress on my heart. I started to wonder if I would survive the game...But I jsut kept telling myself, second half, second half, second half.  

And then the second half started and the fucking Ravens returned the kickoff for a touchdown.

I let out a blood curdling scream as all the love in my body dropped to my ankles.

And then, just as I had never felt any lower than I ever had felt before, something strange happened. And it's not what you're thinking either, that hadn't happened yet. No, what happened at that moment was something that just happened to me. I felt something soft touch the top of my head. I looked up and realized that a man, a Ravens fan no less, had come up behind me and kissed the top of my head.

This actually happened.

I believe he was doing it with the intention of mocking me, but it was still such a bizarre occurrence that it left me dumbfounded. Which I suppose was a good thing, considering my previous state of mind.

And then, minutes later, as I'm sure you know, the power went off in the stadium, immediately causing millions of people to join my dumbfounded club.

 The power outage lasted 34 minutes, which was long enough for me to put things into context. The niners, despite all odds, were getting their butts kicked in the Superbowl, Ravens fans were stealing kisses from my head, and the Superdome had lost power. Clearly this all meant something. But what?

I looked down at my miracle shirt, and then I thought about the smiling Southern homes I saw on the street car that morning, and the crazy preacher who made a Freudian Forty-niner slip, and then back to the kiss and the power outage.

Of course, I thought. this is all just leading up to the most epic comeback of all time. The signs point to redemption! Life will be good again!

And then the power came back on, and the game resumed play.

And everything I had said came true... except during the last minute of the game. When we failed to get the last touchdown, thus, failing to win our sixth trophy.

Those last seconds of the game... when I realized we weren't going to win. When I realized that the football gods had shit on me yet again.... I remember feeling numb. Not sad, not distressed. Just numb.

And in my numbness, I walked out of the House of Blues and down a dark and dirty street of the Quarter. And then I experienced something that, no matter how hard I try, I will never ever forget.

After only getting about ten feet down Decatur, I became aware that the Quarter had suddenly been flooded with a cacophony of jubilant squawking. The sound was deafening, echoing down each and every street, destroying the sanity of the minds of the faithful Red and Gold that were retreating from the scene of the crime.

And I had no choice but to endure this horrible squawking as I slowly made my way to the streetcar. At a different time, I would have ran out of the Quarter as fast as I could, but there was no energy left in my body at that moment. Every drop had been drained from me.

So I walked.

I walked through hell, I tell you. And I'm still there now. Even though I left the Quarter days ago, I tell you I'm still in hell. I was tricked by the devil. Don't you see? It was the devil who gave me hope, who sent me those signs so I would believe our team would win. It was the devil who tricked me into thinking it was a good idea to buy a $30 shirt that I could never where again. And it was He who tricked me into going to the Quarter. It was the Devil that gave me hope at the last minute with that power outage. He did it all so at the end of the day, I would be stuck forever in that dark dirty street in the Quarter, drowning in the howls and squawks of the rabid army of the Ravens fans.

(long pause)

Myself: Wow, that all sounds pretty dramatic. Are you sure you're not just being a big baby? I mean, you had a great day besides the unfortunate ending. Maybe you should just buck up and be a man.

Me: Maybe you would look better without a throat! (lunges for myself, rips throat. Resumes fetal position).

                                        The End
                          (Until Next Season, That Is)

Holy Shit, The Niners are in the Motherfucking Superbowl!!!

Have you ever had something happen to you that was so huge that your mind couldn't accept the fact that it happened, so you kept forgetting that it happened, and then kept re-remembering that it did happen, and each time you re-remembered it was just as shocking as the first time you found out that it happened?

Normally, this is known as dealing with trauma, because the event in question is usually a tragedy that has occurred in your life that is so awful that it takes your mind a good amount of time to deal with it. I've gone through that before, that sucks.

This however does not suck. This is the opposite of that. This is something that is so amazingly awesome that it is too grand for my mind to comprehend, so instead I forget it has happened, only to re-remember later. Basically this is what I've dealing with every day, 20 times a day, since last Sunday:

Myself: Oh hey there, me, anything new with you?

Me: Not much. Well, except for the fact that the motherfucking 49ers are going to the motherfucking Superbowl.

Myself: What!!??? How the hell did that happen????

Me: Well, they were in the NFC Championship game against the Falcons, who had home field advantage by the way, and were down by 17 points, and then they rallied late in the game and won!

Myself: My God. That's incredible.

Me: Wait, it gets better.

Myself: How could it possibly get better?

Me: Well, the Superbowl is in New Orleans this year.

Myself: But! But! That's where I live now!

Me: I know!

Myself: I just moved there in October...

Me: I know!

Myself:  You're telling me that not more than 5 months after I move to this glorious city that my team follows my lead in the most spectacular fashion possible?!

Me: Yes. That's what I'm telling you.

Myself: Wow, it's almost as if I had a big part in getting the Niners to the Superbowl.

Me: Yes, that was the same conclusion I came to as well.

Myself: Man, I don't even know what to say at this point, I'm actually shaking.

Me: I know, you'll be ok though. Just breathe.

Myself: Hey, maybe I should get tickets to the game, it is a once in a lifetime opportunity...

Me: Haha, you're funny. And broke. So very, very broke.

Myself: Oh right, that's still a thing I'm doing?

Me: Oh yes. It's like your number one thing. And as such, you will not be able to afford the $2,500 tickets, unless you sell your car or something.

Myself: Hmmm, I kinda need my car, though.

Me: Yes, you do.

Myself: So what should I do instead?

Me: Well, personally, I suggest getting a bunch of tattoos, Memento-style, that remind you of what has happened so we don't have to go over this again. Like a tat on your forearm that says: Niners have gone to the Superbowl. And then another one on your chest that says: The Super Bowl is in New Orleans. And then finally another one on your thigh of a cobra choking the life out of a giraffe.

Myself: Why would I get that last one?

Me: Because it would be sweet.

Myself: That is pretty sweet.

Me: I know.

Myself: But I don't think I'm going to do that.

Me: Fine, suit yourself. What are you going to do then?

Myself: I think I'm just going to go to some random bar in the French Quarter right next to the Super Dome and party with a million Niner fans who, even though they are strangers, will be my best friends for a day. And then, after we are done drinking and cheering on our team as they beat the snot out of the Ravens, we will then embrace the thousands upon thousands of jubilant Niners fans as they flood out of the Superdome and into the streets, and we will all become one giant Red and Gold heart, beating in harmony as we hover over the glory of the quarter, basking in the special light that only comes after a Superbowl victory.

Me: That is beautiful, man.

Myself: I know.

Me: You're quite the wordsmith.

Myself: Agreed.

Me: You should probably think about becoming the greatest writer who has ever existed.

Myself: Oh, I'm in the middle of that process as we speak.

Me: Nice.

Myself: Yep.

(awkward silence)

Me: But what if the Niners lose?

Myself: What's that?

Me: I said, what if the Niners lose?

Myself: I can't understand what you're saying...

Me: I'm speaking quite clearly, I am asking what you will do if they- OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOINURHGHOIBSAOIRRGHOIJ........ 

Myself (red-faced with glazed over eyes): WHAT WAS THAT MOTHERFUCKER?!! I CAN'T HEAR YOU WHEN YOUR THROAT IS RIPPED OUT!! HOW DARE YOU SPEAK SUCH BLASPHEMY TO ME!! I WILL NOW BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR OWN RIPPED OUT THROAT!!

Me: (falls to my knees): urghgoibosooef......   (crumples on the floor and dies in a pool of his own red and gold blood).

______________________________


And that's pretty much what I've been going through since last Sunday. As you can see, it's quite the rollercoaster ride of emotions. I can't say where I will end up in this crazy ride, but you can bet it's going to be a hell of a story to tell afterwards. Until then, my friends, this is Me, Randy, reminding you not to give up faith, your team can make it to the Superbowl too, just like mine did, you just have to be a trailblazing bad ass first and lead by example. Trust me, I should know, I got my team this far. All they have to do is finish the job... which they will. I BET A THOUSAND RIPPED OUT THROATS ON IT!!*




*Much love to MacGruber and Yasar for helping me discover a new way of relieving stress, by ripping out throats.

Another Funny Thing Happened at the Library...

I would venture to guess that if you were to conduct a survey of the number of attractive women that frequent the public library, compared to the number of deeply disturbed gentlemen that frequent the library, you would find that disturbed gentlemen outnumber attractive women by a margin of six to one. This, I have noticed, is a rather unfortunate truth that the gentler sex has had to deal with, as deeply disturbed gentlemen seem to think it is perfectly acceptable to confront and hit on these poor ladies whose only desired companionship is that of a good book.

This is why I generally refrain from approaching women at the library, for fear that they will assume I am disturbed. That, and the fact that you're suppose to be quiet at a library, but mostly the first thing.

But the other day, as I was at a table, writing away and minding my own business, I found myself confronted by an attractive woman. She was an older woman, older than me at least. I would say she was somewhere between 33-36. She was ethnic, maybe Persian. And she was cute. She was definitely cute. Especially when she smiled. When I first saw her she was smiling at me.

"Excuse me." She said as she approached me. "But do you know where the other outlets are. I need to plug in my computer." She motioned to my computer, which was plugged into one of the outlets below the table.

"Oh, no. I think that is the only one." I said casually-yet confidently. "You can have it if you want. My computer has a few hours charged already."

"I tell you what," She said as she leaned closer towards me. "Why don't we just share your charger. I have the same computer as you, we can just trade off."

"OK!" I agreed, a little too eagerly. I made a mental note to tone down the enthusiasm.

And so for the next hour, we sat at the table and shared my charger. Our system was pretty brilliant if  I do say so myself. One of us would use the charger for ten minutes and then the other would use it for the next ten. But here was the brilliant part about it. Every time we would trade off, one of us would ask a question about the other. We would talk quietly for a few minutes, learning a little more about each other, and then go back to our work, before doing the whole thing again ten minutes later.

After an hour of this, I knew quite a bit about this fellow librarian dweller. Her name was Anna (not her real name) and she was Armenian. She had lived in Armenia for most of her life. But she moved out here some years ago and now worked part time in a bar in Pasadena, and lived with her mom in a small house. And she learned quite a bit about me too. She learned that I was a strong, impressive writer who had been mostly ignored by the Hollywood system because of his focus of substance over flashy writing. Oh yes, she knew me quite well.

We both knew each other so well, that I felt confident enough to ask her to join me for coffee at the coffee stand just outside the library.

"No, it's okay, I'm really not thirsty." She replied. This left me dejected, but I did not show it. Instead, I increased my typing speed by 40 percent, showing her how truly skilled I was. Ten minutes later she popped her head out from her laptop and looked over at me.

"You know, Randy," She smiled playfully as she said my name. "I actually think a coffee would be great right now." 

Gotcha, I thought. The typing fast manuever always works on the ladies.

And so, we stepped out of the library for coffee. Unfortunately the first thing she noticed was that I did not, in fact, order I coffee, but rather a grape soda.

"Truthfully I can't stand coffee." I explained. "But I thought it would be easier to talk to you out here than in there." I said. And then I waited. This was the moment of truth. Would she be annoyed by my deception, even fearing that I was actually one of those disturbed library types, or would she find my directness endearing, even attractive?

She smiled playfully again and I let out an almost non-existent sigh of relief.

"Very sneaky, mister."

We sat down at a patio table, and for the first time since we met, we had a conversation in normal, audible voices. And we talked about a great many things. The weather, the people of LA, the traffic, all the usual b.s. that people talk about while drinking coffee and grape soda. But then I asked her what it was like to be Armenian in Los Angeles and things got interesting.

"Well, for the most part, I don't really think people treat me any different. But-" She paused suddenly. As if she had something important to say, but wasn't sure if she should share it. 

"Go on. Say what you were gonna say."

"I don't know if I should. We just met each other."

"We shared computer cords, Anna. That's a connection that can never be broken." I joked. She laughed.

"OK. It's just that... I feel like we Armenians just have a better grasp of the world we live in." I opened my mouth, but before I could get a word out she reached over and touched my hand, which instantly silenced me. "I'm not saying that we are smarter than anyone else. It's not that. It's just that, the Armenians have been through so much, so much suffering and bitter disappointment, we had no other choice but to learn the hard truth about life."

"What kind of hard truth?" I asked while slyly looking down at the pretty hand that was touching mine. 

"Like, for example, the fact that this country, the US, is completely controlled by a secret society. A society that holds power over everyone and everything."

"Uh huh..." I muttered in confusion. I could tell she wasn't happy with this response, as her pretty finger left mine abruptly. I did not like this, so I tried to keep her talking.

"So, um, what secret society is this, exactly?"

She leaned in across the table. "The Masons. It's the secret society of the Masons. They are the real leaders over this country. And they will use their puppet to destroy the people of America."

"Puppet?" I ask.

"Obama, of course. He is not the real leader of this country, he is just some pet of theirs. And if he gets reelected the Masons will have completed their final piece of their plan. Then your country will turn into the Soviet Union, just like mine did."

"Did the Masons have power over your country too?"

"No, but clearly they are following their plan."

"I see..." I said, because I had no fucking clue of what else to say.

"I'm telling you!" She exclaimed rather suddenly. "You cannot vote for that man! He is under the Masons control! You must vote for the other one. Romney. He is his own man. He will destroy all of the Masons if he is elected. You must believe me!"

But I didn't believe her. And I was kinda weirded out by this current turn of events. So I slurped my grape soda in silence and tried to think of something to say.

"So, can I get your phone number?" I finally said. Because why not, right?

That night, I laid in my bed and wondered a great many things. I wondered if Anna was the female version of the deeply disturbed library dwellers. I wondered if it was fair to call her that considering she was from a different country and had, evidently, seen a lot more hardship than I ever will. And then I thought, what if she is actually right, and I'm the fool for not believing her. What if ten years from now I will be standing in a deserted street, huddled around a fire barrel while America burns all around me, thinking back to that one cute girl from the library who tried her best to warn me of the dangers ahead.

Either way, I finally thought, I should probably wait two days before I text her.

A Funny Thing Happened at the Library

Well technically, it didn't happen at the library, it happened outside the library, in the parking lot.  I was out there in my car waiting for a spot. You see, unlike many of the public libraries in LA, the Pasadena library is a nice, clean library. This is why many people go there. This is why I go there. But, as a result, it can be difficult to secure a parking spot there. While this can be frustrating, it is not nearly as frustrating as the library closest to my place, where there are only five "good" seats inside. What does that mean, you ask? It means that these seats are separated from the rest of the seating, which means you don't have to deal with the loud, disturbed people that come in and out of the library all day. These five seats are so coveted that when the library opens its doors in the morning, there is a mad dash of ten or more people to get those seats. Ten grown people scuffling quietly but as quickly as possible down the library, playing the saddest game of musical chairs in the history of the world. I have played this game many times. I am not a proud man.   

 So yeah, now I go to the Pasadena Library, and I've graduated from mad dasher to parking space stalker. It's like Harvey Dent said in The Dark Knight, "You either die the hero, or live long enough to become that weird guy outside of libraries who just waits for a parking spot."

Anyway, so there I was, waiting in my car near the library exit, hoping to catch someone on the way to their car. Finally I see a person, an older Middle Eastern gentleman, leaving with a book under his arms. My shrewd detective skills told me that this meant that the man was probably leaving the library for good. So, not wanting to lose him to another parking lot stalker (there always out there, sometimes in hiding), I called out to him from my car.

"Excuse me sir, are you leaving?'

The man stopped walking and turned to me.

"Yes, good man. I am. Would you like my spot?" He said this with a great smile and a voice full of hope.

"That would be great! Thanks!"

"Just follow me, my good man, follow me!" He said with the same cheery disposition.

So now I was driving alongside him as he walked to his car. As I was driving, I felt a great amount of debt to this man, not just because he was giving me his spot, but because I had been feeling rather down about life earlier (in case you were wondering, I am living the library-dweller lifestyle because I recently got back into town and need to find more work), but now thanks to this man's genuine charm and hopefulness, I found myself feeling better about everything.

Perhaps this was the reason that I felt compelled to talk to him.

"So what'd you end up getting?" I asked him as we continued to slowly move down the parking lot.

"Oh you mean this?" He excitedly pulled up the book he was holding. I nodded. "This book is called Superbug. It's about this new disease that has been popping up in hospitals around the country."

"Oh, so it's like a fictional thriller book?"

"No, no, my good man. This is a true book. The disease is real. My friend got it while he was in the hospital. And then he gave it to me. Look, this is where I got it." He pushed his forearm close to my face, pointing out the discolored blotched circle on his skin. I think at this point I made an awkward grunting noise, but I can't be sure.

"And now, would you believe it, I have boils, big painful boils, all over here, and here, and here." He said as he motioned to his rear end and upper leg area.

"Oh...that's horrible. Do you know how you got it from your friend?" I asked, now thinking about my own well being more than his.

"I don't have a clue! That's why I got this book." He said with the same cheerfulness he had used when we were talking about parking spaces. It was as if this scary new disease he was now carrying, and potentially spreading, was like a fun little mystery from him to solve.

I could feel my butt start to itch.

"Well, good luck on all that sir."

"And good luck to you too, my good man!" He said, although I was not sure exactly what he meant by that. And then he got in his car and began to pull out. And just as he did, another car pulled into the lot on the other side of him. This new car seemed intent on claiming his parking spot. But before I could get angry, the Middle Eastern man rolled down his window and said to the other driver:

"Excuse me, my good man, this young gentleman has been waiting for this spot. I'm sorry."

And can you believe it, the other driver actually left. The Middle Eastern man then smiled and waved at me before leaving me with his beautiful empty spot.

"What a nice man," I said to myself. "I hope he didn't give me a horrible disease."

Then I scratched my butt, and thought long and hard about the life I was leading.

Then I went home and took a shower.

The End