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Archive for November, 2008
HAPPY THANKSGIVING! (better late than never)
I hope everybody enjoyed their turkey and other Thanksgivingy stuff. Now I have to go find a picture of Jesus for my Christmas post!
- David C. Garcia
I Wrote Another Guest Post (And I Drop a Hint About My Book-In-Progress)
An oldie but a goodie (like Betty White), I wrote this particular post a while back but took it down a few months ago when I started on my rather large writing endeavor: THE BOOK.
A couple days ago, I got a message from Les Johnson, author of The Long Downward Spiral, and he asked me if I wanted to give him a guest post for his blog. As an aspiring megalomaniac, I promptly sprung 1,000 ego boners and agreed.
Some of you who have followed my blog may have already read the post in question. Others may not have. I usually get comments from people commenting on how amazingly hilarious I am and applauding me on what a great guy I am. A lot of you who say this have not been here since the inception of this site and are certainly not be remotely familiar with a former (to go unnamed site) I used to write.
My life is not all farts and boner jokes, and I think this post will make this apparent.
Also, this is the very post that was the genesis for THE BOOK. There you go. If you all have been wondering about my book, it will be somewhere along the lines of this particular piece.
So, go read that post, you wacky bitches.
And make sure to check out the rest of Les’ site. I said this before, but it is worth repeating: His writing is good. Really good. I think he is actually working on a rather large literary creation of his own. And since some of you won’t do it without force, I am going to be posting some of Les’ writing on this site as a guest post whenever he gets it to me.
- David C. Garcia
In Case You Were Wondering…
If you want to know the real reason I shaved my beard off:
I looked too sexy.
It was just too much of a liability. I already have too much trouble explaining to the ladies that I am a married man. When it comes to the kids, though. Just way too creepy.
-David C. Garcia
The Strange Thanksgiving
A few days ago, I wrote this guest post for Emily Barker’s site, Huh? What?. I liked it so much, though, that I decided to be greedy and take it for my site as well.
Also, I am going to be submitting a guest piece to one of my favorite new bloggers/writers, Les Johnson. He just wrote a really funny entry called, “I Shit My Pants on a Date.“ It is hysterical, and I admire his willingness to reveal even the most horrible aspects of his life. (Sound like someone you know?) Go check out his writing - it is really good.
———————————————
THE STRANGE THANKSGIVING…
2008 Supercharged BMW Z4 convertible. That’s what I am talking about. I gunned the engine, exceeding the speed limit and cranked Guns n’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction. The car was new. About 10 minutes new. Credit check and $10,000 down, I had paid a hefty amount of the family’s checking account to drive off in the beautiful piece of performance engineering.
And by family, I mean that woman I had married a few years ago in Vegas. She had been a showgirl and had a kid, James. James was an overweight, slightly stupid kid. I didn’t care for him much, but I paid for his private school bills so as to keep him out of my wife’s hair. She yelled at me less that way.
I cracked open a beer. I had been sober for two years, attending five AA meetings a week, but considering the circumstances…who cares, right? I guzzled down the beer and cracked open another. “It’s So Easy” blasted as I ran the red light. I decided to call the wife.
*Blah blah blah!…Scream scream scream!…Need new drapes…Screech screech screech!…James!…*
“Honey… Honey. Let me speak for a second…”
*SCREEEEEAAAAM…Fine! What?!*
“I’m not coming back, shnookims. I’m leaving. I just bought a new car, and I am heading to my parent’s house in North Carolina.”
*BLAAAARGH…Scream scream scream!…What!?*
“Yeah. Our little ‘marriage’ is a sham. I know common-law marriages that are more functional.” Should I mention it? Should I? Yeah. Yeah I should. “And honey. Sweetie pie?”
*WHAAAAAT….GRRRR….SCREEEAM!*
“I know you have been cheating on me with the grocer. Don’t bother coming after my money. You can keep the house, though…Well, until the bank comes after me. But I’ll be gone! Say bye to the kid for me. Love ya!” I hung up the phone and tossed it out the window. I still had the company phone, if I really needed to call the outside world again. I cracked upen another beer and poured it all over my face.
“FREEEEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOM!” I screamed into the air as I sped down the road.
3 HOURS EARLIER
“Mister Gar…Gars..”
“Yeah. That’s me doc. Close enough.”
As part of my company’s insurance plan and due to government contracts, I had to submit to drug tests and a full physical every six months. Everyone did - me, the CEO Bob Wiggins and all the cafetria employees. It was no big deal. I was young, handsome and well off.
“Ummm. Right. I don’t know how to tell you this…but.”
And the doctor went on to tell me. You know those commercials for lawyers? The ones where they tell you that you can get huge compensation if you have a certain terminal illness? Yeah. I had that. The doctor told me that he could arrange for a therapist. “Naw. Thanks, doc,” I told the bearer of bad news. “Save that for someone who needs it. I’m cashing out.”
The doctor told me that since I had insurance, I could prolong my life for another year or two. “Naw. Thanks, doc. Hey, tell my boss that I quit. I ain’t coming back.”
“But you will lose your insurance.”
“Not going to need it. I’m going to crawl away to my little hideout under the porch and kick the bucket with dignity.”
“But…”
“Forget it doc.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. A little awkward gesture to break the tension.
I left the doctor’s office and called my parents. I let them know the deal. They didn’t react the way I thought they would have. Probably couldn’t handle the fact that I would be buried in three months and in, what the lunatic preachers at funerals call, “a better place.” I asked if they would mind if I came to visit. You know, until I was dead. They said that was fine. They said we would go ahead and cram in all the holidays and festivities into three months that we could.
—
So as I headed to see the fam, I prepared myself for the Thanksgiving feast we would be having the next day. In August. Christmas would be in September, and we would celebrate my December birthday in October. I’d be dead by real Thanksgiving.
As I write this, Thanksgiving is approaching. Not feeling to hot right now. Cough cough, wheeze wheeze, sniffle sniffle. Know what I mean?
—-
I arrived at my parents farm in North Carolina. I hugged dad, gave mom a kiss on the cheek and went and said hi to the grandma who was dying herself. Of Boredom! ZING! Grandma had terminal boredom and complained about it incessantly.
“Hi Grandma!”
“Hey. I can’t stand this place.”
“That’s good. Well, I don’t know if mom and told you, but I’m dying. Also started drinking again. Hi-OOO!” I raised my hand hoping granny would high-five me. No such luck. These country folk, so un-hip.
“That’s nice. There’s nothing good on TV!”
I walked away and asked my parents about the dog, Scruffy.
“Oh, I’m sorry son. We think he got the rabies. Had to take him out back and Old Yeller him, know what I mean?” Dad chuckled. Apparently, he didn’t know I loved that dog. Oh well. I took a heavy pull from my flask, set it down on the table and pulled a beer from my sports coat.
“Don’t drink too much, Davey.” Mom still called me Davey. “You have to get up early and get us a turkey from the farm. And grandma’s gotten a little finicky about shot in the animal meat, so no shotgun this time. You’ll have to snap it’s neck or do it in with an axe.”
“Fine mom. You’re a bit chipper. Did I mention I was dying? Like quickly. Oh yeah, and drinking again? And in case I forgot to mention it, I left my family up north for good. By the way, I’M DYING!” I got a little melodramatic when I drank.
—–
I woke up at the crack of dawn the next day. I forgot how terrible a hangover feels. It had been a few years since I had taken a drink. What did I care now? HUZAH! I cracked open the bottle of Scotch on my bed-stand and took a nice big pull. Hair of the dog ya know?
Speaking of hair of the dog. My parents are nuts! They had removed Scruffy’s hide and made a floor mat out of him. There was a big hole in the middle of it. Must have been where pop “Old Yellered” it.
Thanksgiving in August. What a dumb idea. Oh well, it will keep the family happy. Do they know I’m dying?
I headed out to get us a turkey. Fortunately, my parents were part of a co-op that sold poultry to Purdue, so we had an abundance of turkey.
And “abundance” was an understatement. We had hundreds and hundreds of those feathered animals. I grabbed a hatchet and opened the door to the coup.
It flew open. A literal army of crazed turkeys burst out, knocking me to the ground. And they scattered. Mom and Dad are going to be upset by this…
I pulled out my flask and took a huge pull. By “huge pull,” I mean I drank all of it. If I was going to take on these crazed birds, I needed the spirit of Wild Turkey in my system. A little alcoholic joke for you! I’ll be here all week. That’s probably all, though! A little death joke!
I swung madly at the turkey running by. Those things can really dodge a 10-pound ax. I saw the biggest, baddest turkey and ran after it, swinging my death staff like a wild drunken former employee of a Fortune 500 firm.
Did you know turkeys are insane? Did you know they don’t like being chased after by a drunkard with an axe? Yeah, me neither. Rather then running away, the Big Turkey ran at me, clucking and ruffling it’s feathers. It leapt at me and knocked me to the ground. It started pecking at my face and scratching at my hands. There was blood flying all over the place.
I screamed for help! “HEEEELP! THESE TURKEYS ARE INSANE!!!”
Did you know turkeys can uppercut with their wings? They can. Big Turkey uppercut me with it’s right wing, and when my body was exposed, it head-butted my body. I hunched over and gasped for breath. I had a date with death, but that was still a few months away. I ran and I ran and I ran. The rest of the turkeys must have sensed fear, and they all followed suit as Big Turkey chased me into the barn. I slammed the door shut before any of them could make it in.
“AHAHAHAHA! You turkeys are lame! Come and get me now! I’ll just stay in here! Dad’s beer fridge is loaded with Coors!” And it was. I grabbed a cold one and drank it down while the insane turkeys outside screamed for me to come out so they could pluck me to death.
Then I heard a clucking inside. I looked up at the window. It was Big Turkey.
“You want a piece of me?! Come get it, you stupid bird!” It lunged, but I dodged it. THUD! It must have broken a leg or at least sprained its turkey ankle. It screamed turkey profanities at me. I kicked it over on it’s back so it could look me in the eyes.
The last thing it saw was the shadow of the brick I eclipsed its face with.
I emerged from the barn holding the tattered bird. It scared the other turkeys, and they scattered. I did the obligatory “BAWK BAWK BAWK…CHICKEN!” at them as I waved their dead brethren in the air.
—-
Mom made a delicious Big Turkey. I had about 10 beers in front of me.
“Mom. Dad. Grandma. You know I’m dying, right?”
“Sure do, son,” dad said. “How’s the Turkey?”
Oh.My. God. What was wrong with them?
“Well, apparently what I’ve got is genetic. Mine just showed up early. You all may want to get tested. I don’t know if early detection helps…”
My mom looked at my dad.
“Should we tell him?”
There was a brief silence…
“Son,” my dad said. “We aren’t going to have that problem.”
“You can’t be too sure, dad.”
“No, son…Honey, you tell him.”
“Davey,” Mom said. She waved Big Turkey’s leg at me. “You were adopted….We ain’t got nothing to worry about.” She winked at my ‘dad.’ He winked back. No wonder they didn’t care that I was dying.
“Yeah, son,” my ‘dad’ said, waving Big Turkey’s other leg at me. “That’s why we don’t care that you’re dyin’. In fact, it may entertain your grandma for a while. You know how bored she gets…”
I was speechless. I asked why they never told me I had been adopted. They had apparently elected not to tell me when I was a kid because they figured if I stayed loyal to the family and helped them take care of the farm when I got older, they could pretend to love me like a son. I’d never know the difference. Unfortunately, when I left North Carolina and went to college, college they had refused to pay for, they decided that they didn’t need to care anymore. I was essentially adopted for the sake of free labor. I guess that’s why they didn’t seem to care when I changed my last name from “Jones” to “Garcia.” I remember telling them I did it because it would make me sound more “worldly” in my work, and I remember feeling guilty about that. When they didn’t seem to care, just like they didn’t care when they found out I was dying, I felt a bit weird. But when they told me I was adopted, it all made sense.
“Go ahead and finish the bird, man.” My dad crammed a huge load of potato into his mouth. He swallowed it. “When your done, you can stay the night, but don’t get too drunk tonight, you little alkie. We need you out of here first thing in the morning. And don’t be coming back here until you’re almost dead. You know, so grandma will have something to watch.”
“You know, Davey,” the woman I thought was my mom said, “If you had just stayed with us…” She gave me a disappointing/menacing look. “Well, good riddance.”
Worst.Thanksgiving.Ever.
I power-drank all the beers in front of me. Then my phone rang.
“Hello?”….”Yeah?”…”Well, that’s great news, I suppose.”….”Well, I’m not going to be back for a while.”…”Of course I know the doctor told you Bob. How else would you know?”…”Okay.”….”Sure.”…”Well, the wife’s already pretty broken up. Not going back to her.”…”And, I started drinking again…”…”Okay, well that would be great.”….”Oh yeah, Bob.”… “Well, I’m sure you’ll see me soon.”
I stood up and gave ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ the middle finger. “I won’t be here for Christmas in September. I’m out of here.”
“Well, that’s good, David,” dad said. “We won’t want to be seeing you. Unless of course you want to pansy-handle the turkey’s again. Have fun dyin’, little guy.” They started laughing hysterically. ‘Grandma’ laughed so hard her dentures flew out into the mashed potatoes.
They laughed and they laughed. When I slammed the door behind me, I could hear them laughing inside.
Then I started to laugh. I laughed hard. I laughed hysterically.
Where was I going to go? I couldn’t head back home to the wife and her ridiculously stupid son. I had started drinking again. I did have the car. I guess that was the plus. Thanksgiving was such a crazy holiday, especially in August. Especially when its with a family who isn’t your family and who had adopted you as slave labor. Thanksgiving is also weird when you get overpowered by a crazed turkey.
I laughed and I laughed “AHAHAHAHAHA!”
What was there to be thankful for?
Well, for one, I wasn’t dying after all. It turns out my file had gotten mixed up with Dave Garza’s file. That poor janitor was probably getting the shock of his life as I sat there drunk and completely estranged from all of my family.
I wasn’t dying! I still had years and years of life.
And, as a bonus, I got to keep my job. In fact, the company offered to pay me a large sum of money to keep the little mistake hush hush. The doctors who did the physicals were on company payroll. So, I’d get detoxed, use the money to get myself a new condo where I could park my car. Everything would be fantastic.
It’s a good thing I decided against calling Bob Wiggins and telling him I had been carrying on a hot, steamy affair with his young, supple wife. There’s no way he would have offered to take such good care of me then. I’ve got that to be thankful for.
Happy Thanksgiving!
(I just wish I could get rid of these allergies. Cough cough, sneeze sneeze, sniffle sniffle. Know what I mean?)
Help Keep The Compound Alive (An Unusually Serious Post)
PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM THESE STORIES ARE TRUE
Hi there! We hope you dig the new look of TSAT. You eagle-eyed visitors may have noticed the Hall of Heroes link up there. Well, we’ve got a big hosting bill to cover and some other costs to deal with, so we’re giving you the chance to become part of TSAT history by contributing to the cause.
Give a donation, get a bio added to the Hall, and then tell all your friends about how completely awesome you are now. Minimum donation is $5. I bet you can do that. That’s one big ol’ Starbucks drink skipped to keep us in business.
Even if you can’t give to the cause, know that we appreciate you being here nonetheless (or something)
Seriously, Brandon and I love this site. We started writing it a few months ago, and I think we have some devoted fans (or at least worried friends and family members). We also have the “B-word” on our minds for sometime in the future, so we need your help.
Go Read My Guest Post
I recently noted that I was asked to write a guest blog for Emily Barker’s site, Huh? What?. So I went ahead and did just that. It’s a short story. An awesome short story. Go check it out. I’ll likely post it on my site at some point because I am very happy with it…
Go read it: THE STRANGE THANKSGIVING
Kids
I love this picture of my brother, Chris, and I (I’m the one with the sweet reindeer hat). I like the innocence of childhood. Well, I’ll have pictures of my own kid soon. You know, ones that aren’t of my little Nugget growing cells at insane rates inside Meggie’s belly.
Click image for the full, GIANT picture.
My Slanted View of the World
I am not sure if I have some sort of moral disconnect or if I am just so shocked by how horrible the world can be sometimes.
Unless you have been living in a 3rd world nation for the past year and don’t have basic cable, there is a 100% chance you have seen that Sarah McLaughlin commercial where the song “In the Arms of the Angels” plays over a lengthy series of images and video clips of battered and abused animals - mostly dogs and cats (but I think there may be a parrot in there or something). Click HERE to have your soul stomped on. It is heart-wrenching. Every time I see that commercial, I hug my dog, Rowdy, and let him hang out on the furniture.
The music certainly does add a strong element of desperation to it as well. The song is what I imagine Mother Theresa’s farts sounded like - filled with passionate pleas for hope. But even without the music, the commercial still rips out my heart and tosses it into a rusty blender. I usually go to the medicine cabinet and double up on my antidepressants when that commercial rears its sad little head on my TV. And I’m always on guard. Since Meggie is pregnant and cried when a car commercial was aired, I can’t imagine the deep depression and ensuing sob-fest that would occur if she had to see those sad, sad animals. I keep the remote handy at all times. But it’s not just that commercial. The other commercial that does it has to do with Polar Bears. Know which one I am talking about? It’s all about a mama Polar Bear who jumps off an iceberg to go get food for her baby. It has something to do with western society’s current obsession with the flavor of the month, global warming. Still, it’s very sad. I have to make sure all sharp objects are hidden and that my wrists are covered whenever its on. Very sad.
But you know what commercials don’t get to me?
The commercials about dying starving kids and moms in Africa, South America and Southeast Asia. I have no idea why this is. But whenever those commercials are aired, I’m just like, “Gross! Do you have to show that kid with the flies all over his face? I’m trying to eat my 10th meal of the day here.”
Guest Blogging, Represent!
I have been following Emily Barker’s blog, Huh? What? for a while. I recently nagged her into linking to my site because there is a direct correlation between the size of my ego and the amount of traffic my website gets.
Yesterday, Emily asked me if I would be willing to “guest blog” for her website. Something to do with Thanksgiving or gratitude or why I think owning a tank would be awesome. I’m not sure. I was surprised Emily asked me to blog because the majority of my site’s content does not necessarily match up with hers.
Irrelevant.
So, I’m going to have something over to Emily by Saturday - probably about Robot Thanksgiving, or Indians (feathers or dots) or turkeys (feathers or Fezzes). I have promised her to keep it below R-rating as her mother reads her site.
I’m so excited. And I just can’t hide it. I’m about to lose control and I think I like it…
- David C. Garcia