Suby Stories

Between home and the highway, there's a nasty curve, a left hand ninety that climbs from a subtle incline to a steep uphill.

Coming down this morning, there were skid marks leading to burm busts where three people--or one person thrice--slid backwards after attempting the climb.
On the flats below, I decided to have some fun and punch the WRX.
As soon as the turbo wound up, the wheels broke loose and the world filled with a high pitched buzzing.
I started creeping down the road.
Through third, fourth, into fifth, buzzing morphing into a swarm of attacking mosquitoes, death grip on the steering wheel as I press myself back into the bucket seat.
Look down and the speedo says 120. Adrenaline ups, endorphins start cranking.
Look out and I'm moving at a walking pace.
Oh yeah.

Birthing the mongloid

And it so happened that, after barging ahead without ever looking back for any reason whatsoever, the Great Work surpassed the 50,000 word goal. And it did so by the November 30 deadline.
Go me.
Now that I have looked back, I realize that the framework of stories is a skeleton for some mangled ball of genetic mishaps, but at least it's there and ready for the plastic surgery of revision. Otherwise, it'd be another potential storm of neural activity with almost as much potential to ean something in the world around me as a bean swallowed before a meditation.

Overheard

Customer at my table:
"It's not their fault," (something that caused great expense, I'm guessing). "Really, those guys don't know to look out for that! They're minimum wage workers for God's sake, you can't expect them to think!"

Me:
"Since I make less than half of minimum wage, am I excused from breathing?"

When you gotta go...

Give me a full bladder and an escarpment of more than 18" and I'm happy.
Ask any guy, it's just a biological function.
I've also nurtured something of an ego around outdoor acuity, and like to think myself as aware of my surroundings as most anyone in the backcountry.

It so happened that I went for an outing at a somewhat popular place, and I ran into a babbling gaggle of sorostitutes at the top of the initial climb. I was happy to put on the afterburners and "run" away as fast as my panting lungs allowed (have I mentioned that I've become a sedentary lump lately?). And despite the heaving, it was quite easy to outdistance the sorostitutes, so I thought nothing of it when I got to the top of the trail and found a little pile of rocks with a perfect point to pee from; what more could a guy ask for?
About another 20 degrees, for one. I was running hard enough that I didn't notice, but there was frost on the rocks, and my fingers were two shades past frigid.
By the time I dug out and got a good stream going, I heard a noise on the trail.
Yup, it was the last sorostitute squeaking out a little gasp as she came into the clearing to stand open-mouthed and wild-eyed without a thought for the elemental pleasure they were interrupting.
So what does one do in this situation? Ignore them? Flee in embarrassment while a stain spreads? Tuck in and pretend nothing happened?
At least they were flushed with their bangs stuck to rivulets of sweat and silently panting, which would explain how they snuck up.
Best I could manage on--or out of, as it were--the fly: swallow my own slack-jawed and wild-eyed shock while turning around, hold up an accusatory "hold on for a minute, dammit!" finger while shaking off and zipping up, and then, wearing my meanest teacher face, walk slowly, cooly, pas them, holding just-shy of aloof and superior, feeling their eyes burn into the back of my head, wishing desperately for that 20 degrees, as far as the first bend in the trail. And then run like a three legged rabbit chased by a pack of greyhounds.

Yeah, go me.

symphony stories

NPR just played the last movement of Tchaik 4, "Symphony Cunnilingus."
To help his students remember the melody for this particular symphony, the lead trumpet explained the mnemonic for the nine-note melody--everybody loves eating pussy--but he did so by enunciating brazenly enough for his section to hear him over the strings and woodwinds, which were stopped during, "EATING," so he belted "EATING PUSSY!" out over a silent stage.
Classy.
So I upped the ante to "everybody loves cunnilingus," because that's just how I am.

living death

Prologue: Lunch

"What may I bring you for your dinner?" the chef asked through the glottal marbles of northern-India.
"I'll eat whatever you recommend, and I love trying anything I haven't seen before."
"Is there anything you do not eat?"
"Sometimes I have issues with Spam."
"Then I have just the thing! Bobboldigoom!"
Blank look.
"You do not know of bobboldigoom?"
Blankly shaking the head.
"You would call it a fish curry, but it is made with the fish parts your countrymen throw into the garbage."
"Great!" Fish head, fish tail, I've been there. Just, no more tapeworms. Cook the stuff to death.
"And how spicy would you like it?"
"Make me hurt."
Oops.

Scene:
After opening a satchet of kippered cow whatnots, I munched through the whole damn thing. While I could probably use the protein, it so happened that the stuff had enough non-whatnot whatnots to hit my guts like a rollerderby championship team. And while I'm prepared to weather an intestinal storm (never drink the local water) I wasn't prepared for the rollerderby to assimilate every btu from lunch and transport them to the, um, final staging area, where they sat. And burned. Roilingly. Until I got home.

Now, I'd argue that "Make me hurt, baba-chod" is a worse choice than saying, "Hey wookie! Your father was a hampster and your mother smelt of billygoat!" But at least you can see the damage a wookie leaves behind.