LAST STOP till MEXICO

As I neared the Mexican border I felt the urge to enjoy a farewell taste of Americana at the nearest convenience store. I pulled in and parked at gas pump number six. Gas was not necessary being that the three fourths I had was more than enough to get to my destination. Even if I did run low I could tap into the jug of fuel I had in the trunk that would later be used to ignite the gray Ford contour into a mass of flames. As the miles between my homeland of the United States and my future freedom of Mexico dwindled, I found myself becoming unusually picky as to which convenience store to choose. That had led me to this Shell Mart. BP was over looked due to extending out the Acronym to British Petroleum. No way was I to enjoy my last stop in an American convenience store to a British fuel refinery. Just gazing at the big ass yellow shell sign brought a lump to my throat as I held back my American pride knowing that after today I would never step foot on her soil again. My current circumstances were all my doings, but my fate was something I still could not wrap my conscious around. I had it all, but never felt that way until this moment. The feeling I had for my past life had been drowned out by my present need of survival. The past was just as that of any other history; I was to never be that person again. Realizing that individual is who I wanted to be more than anything now, did not bring me any closer to that reality. I can’t describe the Texas atmosphere at the time. I have no recollection of the humid Texas air, the thin cloud of dust covering everything or the looming clouds tempting the vegetation with the hope of a feast but exiting just as the plants cried of starvation. My heart was dominating my senses. No sight, No touch, No hearing. I was switched off to the surrounding world. Focused on me, focused on this trip, focused on survival. It was not common for me to have these self absorbed feelings, but this time was different. My decisions were not my own. I had been forced to continue this path. Motivated by fear and overcome by doubt. I don’t think I will complete my journey. I have not moved since pulling up to gas pump number six but I have started to feel further away than before. Suddenly I can’t see the finish line. I might as well be in Canada opposed to southern Texas. Truth being, fleeing to Mexico is not my solution. To be able to continue I have to trace back the facts and peel back the underlying faction. I entered Shell Mart and spotted the restroom. While attempting to clear a permanent piss ring in the urinal with a fresh hot steady stream I had an epiphany. I washed my hands for the first time in my life for hygienic reasons and not because someone else was around watching me. My hands were clean now. Now they have to believe that. But I can’t wait for that realization, I have to show them or even force them. I purchased a fountain drink and bag of chips. Leaving the store was when I joined the rest of the world and became a part of the environment around me. I instantly felt the humidity and tasted the dust on my lips. Entering the car, my mind was made up and the Mexican border was not on the agenda. I gathered my breath and pulled off, immediately completing a full circle in the parking lot, to arrive yet again at gas pump number six. Seven dollars and thirteen cents later, I had a full tank and a purpose with a half ass plan on how to regain my life that I just understood was worth living five minutes ago.

How Could U

I hope you pricks are happy. Prior to writing my newest blog “Call First” I grabbed two brews from the frig. As I began to write this literary master piece, I neglected my beers. They sat patiently like obedient dogs waiting for their master. As the sweat rolled down the amber skin of my Budweiser Select I slaved away. For what…. Why do I waste my time to entertain you? You haven’t done anything for me but ensure my beers are now room temperature and disheartened. Anger is flowing through my veins as I drink this piss warm beer. Shame is what you people should feel. Hopefully you are drinking a cold, cold, Rocking fucking mountain cold stupid ass Coors light beer can with the color changing crap while you are reading this. You owe me…. YOU ALL OWE ME. Next time I see you I want what is mine. I want a fucking cold beer and some peace and quiet. Next time you see me at the bar or eating a meal with my family, DO NOT DISTURB ME. I am not Eminem, I won’t write a song about how I hate my fans. I will flat out kill you, word is bond. Then I will kill whoever decides to show up at your funeral. If you are popular, I guess I will become a mass murderer and take out like 200 of your closest friends and family. I am ruthless; Mike Tyson hasn’t even eaten as many babies as me. Yeah YeeeAaahh! I beef with East and West coast at the same time. I’m so controversial that Aljazeera TV plays my show after 10pm Middle Eastern time. I’m crazier the Al Qaeda. I rob Somalian pirates. Not cuz they got shit I want, but just because I don’t respect pirates without parrots. Sometimes I like to visit nursing homes, beat them at shuffleboard, and swap family photos based on race. Old white dudes flip out when they think their daughters married a black guy. I am finished with my first warm beer and am starting to calm down. Actually, I retract my previous statements and would like to continue loving all my readers. You guys are awesome. I would like to officially end my beef with the East and West coast, let’s just focus on making good wholesome music for drug dealers, pimps, hoes, thugs, gangstaz, basketball playas, and suburban white kids. I am very sorry to Mike Tyson for making those baby eating claims. You and I both know, Mike, you got me beat by a minimum of 5 babies. To Steve McManval at the Winchester home of the elderly, I would like to inform you that your daughter is a lesbian and I not married to a “Colored” as you put it. Lastly, to the people who watch Aljazeera TV…. I am still coming for you fucks; you better check your back every time you bend over to check the stove, because I will push your terrorist ass in and cook on high for 45 minutes or until light brown crisp. What can I say, I’m part German, I have something for stoves. …..


Ahhhh! I just read it over again. Sorry Jews… well you know why.

Call First

A knock at my door followed by vicious dog barks happened a little after noon, but not quite noon thirty. I was not expecting anyone, which may explain why I was not showered, and answered the door with one sock missing. The sock was probably taken in the shadows of the night, by a neighboring ninja that I had angered recently by having a friend park in his spot during a past BBQ. I had felt “Pay back would be a bitch” ever since the night of my unwelcomed intrusion.

The one day I would have an unannounced visitor would be the day that cock sucker ninja would exact his revenge. Now I am answering my door smelling of day old body odor with one sock missing. A fool is how I feel and not even Mr. T would pity me. I stare at the door daring the doorbell to ring or a rat-a-tat-tat to begin. Impatience is a pet peeve of mine and given the circumstances, whoever is on the other side of that door knows Goddamn well I heard the initial notification for an entry request. For fuck sake, my car is parked outside, my television is playing at 32 volume, and it’s just after noon but not quite noon thirty. I grip the handle to greet this mysterious friend of mine, then let go and reconsider.

What if on the other side of this 3 and ¼ inch thick wooden door stands not a friend, but a ruthless enemy. One who does not wish to impact my day with joy, but rather kill my family and eat my groceries. I just went to the commissary yesterday and have a full box of Captain Crunch Peanut Butter Crunch. With the possibility of losing my Captain Crunch Peanut Butter Crunch, I decide to play this one safe. In the accent of a middle aged Spanish maid I said, “Uno mi-neat.” (1 minute for you English readers). This would for sure answer my question of friend or foe. A true friend would know I am too big of a Jew with my money to even hire the cheapest, most illegal immigrant workers. I stand frozen in place waiting for the reply at the door. I hear a mutter, but can’t make out the context. I promptly ask “What…?” FUCK… I forgot to use my fake accent. The jig is up and my cover blown. My asshole tenses up to the point where no matter how much lube is used, beginner anal beads would not penetrate. I contort my body in a ready position I had remembered from a horrible kung fu movie, “Soul Brothers of Kung Fu”. My brain speaks to me and reasons. My brain and I agree that Soul Brothers are much better singers and dancers then kung fu fighters. My next choice is to go with a more modern approach and grab my shotgun. Just as a Jew becomes a man after he cuts a long Jew curl from a sleeping elder, Kentuckians become men on their 11^th birthday when they are given a shotgun and “Farm road” driver licenses. Farm licenses also apply to non- farm road circumstances such as driving ones father home after a night at the bar or anytime during deer season. For most, the next step in this tale would be to cock the shotgun….. No says I. I prefer to leave my gun loaded safety off. The only safety you need is a trigger finger. In fairness to the soon to be rotten dead carcass that stands 3 and ¼ inches in from of me I warn sternly,

“I have a gun, I will blast your asshole open like a homosexual with HIV. You know the Aids virus that was popular in the 90’s but no one talks about anymore, but will still kill you bitch. Who probably has herpes too depending on the humidity and/or strenuous athletic activity that enflames them. You know you never really ever get cured of the herpes, they just keep coming back and visiting until you die, like in-laws. FuckFace!” That is what came to my mind at the time. I open the door target in sight finger ready to pull……………