Bad Dreams…Sad Dreams…

June 22, 2003

It seems regurgitating one’s dreams in public has gotten popular in blogdome as well, so here’s one that has me sipping bourbon and feeling off-centered on a Sunday morning before 10am:

I was desperately trying to get to my oldest son’s High School football game where he was quarterbacking, and every obstacle that could get in my way, did. There was a flood, but I made it around the washed out road…there was lightning, and trees fell, but I finally made it to the stadium, and trying to find a parking space in this muddy field was impossible, so I finally said screw it and dumped the car and headed to the stadium entrance on foot…it was clogged with people, so I ended up jumping the fence and pushing and shoving my way through until suddenly, there was no resistance at all, and people began streaming back out towards the parking lot…I burst out onto an upper landing, hoping for just a glimpse of my son, but the band was filing off the field, and groundskeepers were beginning to clean up…I asked someone where the after game party for the players was going to be and he pointed in the direction of the other side of the stadium from where I was. Again, I ran and struggled to get over there, even vaulting a fire that someone had started to burn the leftover paper decorations and trimmings from a high school football game, and when I got to the picnic area where the party had been, everybody had already gotten on to several dark green, military buses, and were pulling away from me. They were all in some kind of drab military uniform, and I spotted my son in the window of one bus as he passed by, and I screamed and waved to get his attention, but he didn’t seem to see me and the bus pulled away…

I never made it to one of my sons football games…ever. Oh, I tried, but the divorce, work, and all of life’s other petty bullshit kept me away from him. I regret this more than I regret the death’s of some of my loved one’s that have passed on…

Be warned…


I Just Now…

January 10, 2003

…had one of the proudest moments of my life.I had bought some cheap-ass cookies. You know the kind, the crisp creme wafers that come in white and pink and brown.

I was feeding my small children like they were baby goats at the petting zoo, and I munched one and gave my wife another, and, gourmand that she is, she began to inquire as to what was the ‘magic flavor’ that these cookies contain that makes you scarf the whole package and snuffle in the wrapper for crumbs.

Ever helpful, I opined that perhaps it was the “squeezings of the vaginal warts of the Prophet Mohamud’s wife”, whereupon she lurched quickly to the downstairs bathroom and vomited.

She is now sitting queazily on the couch as we speak, mopping her brow, and trying to hold back more gorge…boy is she pissed.

My other proud family moment was about six or seven years ago, when one of my now Marines was about thirteen or so.

I was joking around with one of his older brothers, while he was eating dinner by himself at the table, minding his own business.

I remember I said something about ‘giving an elderly woman head was like spreading open a grilled cheese sandwich’, and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him puke up quietly onto his plate…boy was he mad.

I think I may have dislocated a couple of ribs, I laughed so hard.

I was in a theatre some years ago, staying on the barf theme, and it was a horror movie, and there was some pretty enthusiastic mayhem going on up on the screen. It was graphic, and ugly, and there was no music, and you could hear the cutting and the gargled groans and the splash of blood and viscera, and you could just feel the audience all tense and primed…

So, I mimicked a real grotesque vomit sound, all “bluuuurrrggghhh” and all, and some chick a few rows in front of me just lost it, hurking wildly, and you could hear the splash bigtime, and then some chick behind me blew chunks, and a real puke-fest ensued.

It was awesome.

I’m guessing I triggered at least five or six full glottal pukes, and goodness knows how many other saliva drooling private hurk-fests (“I will not puke…I will NOT puke”uuurrrrghghghg).

I rule.

Oh, and the secret flavor is just plain old citrus.

These cookies rule, too.

.


My Worst Day, Ever…

October 17, 2002

Well, I’m sure you’re all happy to hear that I made it back alive from San Diego.

Yay.

The only terrorists I saw were the little Abu-Sayyaf monkeys working ‘security’ at the gates. One of them, the broad with the wand, looked like a little gook hobbit…she could have blown me while standing. The wand looked like a rifle in her hands, and I could have had a pistol in a shoulder holster and she couldn’t have reached it.

As it was, I managed to smuggle in my Spyderco Police Model in my checked luggage…I ain’t gonna be unarmed down in jungle-land, I’ll tell you.

They have signs in the airport now that tell you not to joke around. They say they are serious.

Every so often some turd-worldian with a mouth full of marbles makes an announcement over the public address system that makes people look at each other with ‘what the fuck?’ looks on their faces. I felt really secure, sitting in the plane, with the back door open out to the tarmac that any diaper-head with a gun and a grudge could have waltzed through and right into the cabin, cuz they never once shut the cabin door until just before takeoff.

Ahhh, fukkit, we’re doomed.
I spent a lovely week with my daughter and sons, enjoying the Marine graduation ceremonies, then watching DI’s ‘kill’ recruits in the ‘Pits’ around the base.
I made a tactical error, though, last Thursday evening. I thought it would be a great idea to get a bottle of Canadian Mist and some beers and get plowed on Boilermakers, watch TV in the room, and get enough sleep so I could go to the Colors ceremony early in the morning.

I poured my shot, cracked my beer, and offered my sons a tipple, as well.

My hippie/goth son took his, and my Marine Sergeant son took his, and my daughter burrowed deeper into her book and her bed, disgusted with all of us.

My sons remarked on how smooth and tasty the bourbon was, and began to drink straight from the bottle. The trouble started when an acquaintance my Marine brought with him couldn’t handle his liquor, and began to talk shit. My goth son, insulted, and blind drunk by now, staggered outside saying he was “gonna fuggin hitchhike back to Oregon”; my Marine had left, and here I was, face to face with this drunk, raving stranger.

I was sitting at the foot of my bed, and this guy I didn’t know, had never met before, was talking major shit and getting all up in my face. This would have been okay, I could have waited until my Marine came back and took over, but my daughter tried to say something and this guy showed that he was willing to hurt us both. I knew there was no way I could take this guy in an unfair fight, and I could see that he was waiting for me to make a move, so I put my hands under my ass, sat on them, and offered him my jaw for him to hit…

…this guy was really beginning to scare me. I noticed that he would close his eyes and turn his head away briefly before he would get back into my face…

…by this time my daughter was crying on her bed, and I had gone completely combat sober…
…his eyes closed…I slipped my knife out of my pocket with my thumb, into my hand, under my ass cheek…his eyes closed, I opened the blade and held the knife open along my leg…I pulled my left hand out from under my ass and made a dismissive gesture to distract him…then I told him to shut the fuck up and either do something or quit boring me to death.

If he’d have grabbed me then, I would have cut the underside of his upper arm and then slashed him across the forehead to blind him with his own blood, and then I might of had to poke a hole in something important…
…without taking my eyes off him, I told my daughter to get the hell out and she rushed out of the room behind him. Then, almost anticlimactically, my Marine came back, the asshole left, and my son spent an hour apologizing for his buddies’ behavior.

Man, I love that guy…my son, I mean. I hope to never see or hear from that other guy again. I can�t remember the last time any man scared me that bad. I almost cut myself sneaking that badass knife back into my pocket.
My daughter found my goth son wandering around the parking lot with his pants off at three a.m., covered in mud, and she and her boyfriend thoughtfully brought him back and threw him in bed with me…

…in the morning, the sheets looked like I’d mud-fucked a herd of pigs…wonder what the maid thought about that one?
I had two very hung over sons the next day. The Marine held it back, but the goth puked several times, especially when I offered to go get him some raw oysters in tomato juice to help him out…ungrateful S.O.B.

Ahhh, I love him, too. A Dad worries, but I have really great kids in spite of all my efforts to fuck them up.
I just wish I was better at telling them that.