The Notebook II (When She’s Old & Used Up)

The Notebook II (When She’s Old & Used Up)

“A clown sneaks up behind you and places your balls on his forehead.”

Like the flicked switch of a neon sign in an unlit room,  that’s the first and immediate thought of the day.

“Oh. Okay. Can I please have some coffee first?”

What strange things happen under the surface of sleep? Tiny scenarios that you could never dream up when awake. Like this one. Because it’s an odd concept. Think of all the logistics that need to be in play for a clown to sneak up behind me and place my balls on his forehead…

1. I need to be in a room with a clown.

2. I need to be unaware of his presence.

3. I need to be butt naked.

4. I need to be severely bowlegged.

I must have been playing the role of a cowboy on a cosplay themed porn set. I can’t recall that dream, but I am happy those scenarios are occurring in there. Whoever writes that show is fuckin’ talented. ANYWAY…

I appreciate that this clown “places” my balls on his forehead. Which sounds intimate and comfortable. Like flowers in a vase. Or your hand in mine. This all sounds wonderfully acceptable and brings a small victory to my face. Like a ten gallon hat that goes to eleven…

***

When Bruce became Caitlyn, women became ecstatic.

“How brave! How beautiful! Did you see those photos? She is simply breathtaking! Congratulations!!”

Frankly, I found their euphoria a bit creepy. And, I wondered, how long until they come for me…

“Ladies. One less idiot! We are winning the war! Soon, my beautiful ladies, we will evolve into asexual beings. Remember when we needed men to protect us from other species? The lions of the world. And the tigers. And the bears. All of them trying to break down our doors, yearning for our sweet, perfect, well moisturized flesh. We stood in the shadows of our own personal oafs not because we needed them, but because they were necessary. But now, we only need men around to protect us from other men! Which is a travesty! I say be rid of them all! The time has come, ladies. The time has come. And may I add, it came multiple times! Without a man! That’s right! The elusive concept of time is now transitioning! Congratulations! You look beautiful!”

***

Two men sit outside of a coffee shop. It’s BURPHOLE & THE PUNDIT. It’s their second meeting…

THE PUNDIT: Sooo…

BURPHOLE: Yes? Do you want to start?

TP: It’s pretty windy out.

B: You want to talk about the weather?

TP: Not really, but it’s a good way to break the ice. What should we talk about?

B: Anything but the weather. I know it’s windy out. I can feel it. It’s like saying, “There’s black top on the road there.” No shit? That’s black top? I didn’t realize.

TP: Alright…

B: All these years of cars driving by, and I had no idea what that substance was on every road every where.

TP: I get it, don’t be an asshole.

B: Look, If we are going to have these conversations, maybe you could prepare for them. Take notes throughout the day. Ask some questions of yourself. Opine the answers…

TP: Hmm.

B: This woman I barely know has told me the same joke the last three times I ran into her. Now, am I going to have to hear that same joke every time I see her? And when is it acceptable to tell her she already told me the joke? How long must I partake in this pleasant, social facade until I fuckin’ lose it? Yeah, yeah, they walk down the hill and fuck them all. I’ve heard it already… Listen, I have mundane conversations all the time. Let’s not have them here, OK?

A small, awkward pause is shared. And then…

TP: Alright… Looks like it might rain later.

B: Really?

TP: I have to admit, I enjoyed that little tirade. You sound like a big cry baby. Waaaaah… Pretentious little fucker, aren’t you? Ok, then. I gotta go. You’re bumming me out. If I see you tomorrow, wear a black turtle neck, Morrissey. Maybe you could prepare a monologue based on how your daddy never loved you. Or how the death of your puppy was an epiphany on reality’s cruel truths. I’m sure you have some bullshit pap up your sleeve. But for now, I must go purchase an umbrella. I think a storm is moving in. I’d offer to get you one too, but I imagine you would prefer standing in the rain so no one can see your infinite tears. Pussy…

B: Hey, I’m not a pussy. And I’m not overly dramatic. I’m just a bit irritated.

TP: Who isn’t. That’s what makes the world so fuckin’ funny. Rashes are hilarious… Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Sylvia Plath.

B: OK. I’ll bring my “My Little Pony” collection… And some day glow face paint.

TP: Cool. I’ll paint a big, sad vagina on your face.

B: Great.

TP: I’ll bring a giant fro wig. To represent your big, hairy bush, Gloria Steinem.

B: Oh kaayy…

TP: See ya tomorrow, Morrissey.

***

Socks. Let me count the ways. Here are three examples of how they’re much more than foot sweaters.

1. The Janitor. We have all been surprised by the long reach of a blown load. Across the computer screen. Over on the lamp. Did that make the kitchen? Yee haw! The quickest way to remove that evidence is with your foot gloves. Just slide those absorbent sponges right off your foots and smear that stuff all around the room. It’s like that shameful moment never happened! Thanks, cotton pickers.

2. The Gay Centaur. Have you ever been at a bar and thought, “I’m just a scared little sheep.” You feel boring and basic and banal. Well, all you have to do to oppress those suicidal tendencies is get some hoof rainbows. The brighter, the better. Hey, everybody! Look at these orange argyles. I do declare, Winston. You are a mythical beast. Enjoy your flirtini.

3. The Low Rider. On those days you don’t feel like doing a god damn thing, you do the white sock/black sandal combo. Let the homies know that, no, you don’t want to help move a couch. That, no, you don’t want to go shopping for underwear at Walmart. Your only plans are to spill some Tapatio across your wife beater and pound a case of Modello. But be careful, eh. Sandals by themselves just say you are, like, ready to go to The Grove or that there’s granola in your pocket. You need to wear the socks. Because, what do you look like, a pinche guero?

Socks! Because even in private, bare feet are kinda gross.

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