The Schedule

I got a box of pins in the mail today. I don’t even know who they were from or why I got them. They said all sorts of things. “GO FOR IT” or “I like my meat rare.” or “Vote YES on 4!” or “Celebrity of the Week”. Lots of stupid sayings and slogans that are supposed to make you seem awesome. Pins went out with the Pet Rock. Fuck pins. And fuck the people that plaster them everywhere. I saw this chick the other night, and her purse was covered with pins. COVERED. Later, when I chewed her out about it, she told me that her purse was in fact made of pins. I stared at her for a second. Then I calmly reached into my pocket for a new white cotton glove. I worked it onto my right hand until it fit snugly around my digits. Then I reached into my left front pocket and pulled out my travel jar of baby powder. I opened it and sprinkled it liberally onto my open, gloved palm. Then I slapped that ignoramus of a woman across her left cheek. She gasped in surprise, and I smirked in victory. I turned around and walked straight out the swinging doors of the saloon and stepped off the stoop into the street, my boots crunching in the sandy dirt.

Charles came home from work today and was ambushed by me, stabbing him in the chest with a particularly dull pin. I wondered right then why my life revolved around so much violence. I contemplated that perhaps my violence was the unconscious desire of someone connected to me in some way. I dumped the pot of boiling water I had prepared on Charles’ hands and arms. He screamed in pain and bit me in the crotch, severing my vas deferens. It hurt a lot. Of course at the time I had no idea that was what he had done, but man it hurt. When I went to the doctor after our altercation I had to have emergency surgery. And guess what. They gave me a fucking pin. “I Survived Dick Surgery”. Yeah, that’s a good fucking pin. A better pin would be one with a Rasta smiley-face on it saying, “No Problem Mon!” I had always thought my doctor was real scum, and I guess this just seals the deal.

Charles doesn’t know why I did what I did. I don’t know either. I think pins enrage me.

“HEY GUESS WHAT EVERYONE, I’M HERE! HEY BILLY, WHY DON’T YOU ASK YOUR DAD FOR SOMETHING? HEY JEFFY, WHY DON’T YOU SAY SOMETHING RETARDED, EVEN FOR A YOUNG BOY? AND THAT SISTER OF YOURS, IS SHE A CORPSE OR SOMETHING?! HEY MOMMY, WHY DON’T YOU TALK? YOU AUTISTIC BITCH!”

Of course, I had gotten mixed up. I had not gone to the comic strip, as I intended. I was actually in the middle of The Family Circus, a toy store of sorts. It was then that I heard all of the children around me crying in fright, and some of their mothers were giving me looks as they herded their precious little ones away from the ‘bad man.’ Well, I was there, so I figured, might as well make the most of it.

The first thing I did was run full-speed from the front of the door to the front of the first aisle I came upon. It was the Barbie aisle. When I reached the aisle, I threw my body down and slid feet-first down the aisle. I knocked over quite a few kids. Funny stuff. I got up, brushed off my pants, and had a Nerf fight with some kid who thought he was hot shit. I showed him though – while he was busy reloading, I PEED ON HIM. He didn’t notice until it was too late. His mom thought he did it himself, slapped him, and dragged him out of the store. The whole time the kid was insisting it wasn’t him. Obviously Mommy wasn’t paying attention, because I had pissed all over his back.

This was when the people working started to notice that something was amiss. They didn’t know what yet, but they were working on it. I don’t know how none of them caught my outburst when I first entered, but that wasn’t really important right then. I knew I had a limited amount of time from that point on, so I had to make the most of it. Of course I blew it though – what else is new? While I was trying to break every single V-Tech computer they had by breaking them with an aluminum baseball bat I borrowed, the store manager came over and asked me to leave. “Just a second,” I said, smashing another ‘computer.’ Seriously, why do they even make the things? They’re just pieces of trash- kids don’t even like using them! Anyway, after that, I ended up whipping the bat down the aisle. Kenny Rogers stepped out from the end, and it hit him in the face. He fell. Then he sat up and said, “I’m fine.” This distracted the fat female manager long enough for me to make a break for the GI Joes. By the time she had waddled over to find me, I was waging a war between the Joes and the Cobra! It was unbelievable! The Cobra were going to win it all and take back the world! The manager didn’t share my excitement. She had recruited an associate to assist her in reiterating that they wanted me gone. I continued my private war. I set off Cobra’s a-bomb and used the flash to distract them. As they stood blinded, I skateboarded four feet, fell off, got back to my feet, and ran to the board games. I dove head first into the shelf, knocking off a ton of games. I was able to stack the rest in front of me so I was hidden.

I heard footsteps. Quiet footsteps. The kind one makes when one’s trying not to frighten anything out of place- the kind one makes when stalking prey. I knew they were looking for me, so I set up a trap. And it worked! The manager got pulled into a game of checkers with her associate hunter. I dashed to the front of the store, drop-kicked the register off the counter, stole a candy bar, and ran away.

Later on, the story was on the news. They did a piece on the boy who had urine coming out of the pores on his back. He still denied it on-camera, and the reporter slapped him.

I know this guy I work with named Joel. I don’t say he’s my friend because he’s not. Let me be clear: he’s not my friend. So I figured I’d have a little fun with him. I told him to come to my house. He came. I made him pork tenderloin. He ate it. I told him that I was Santa Claus on a Monday night. He didn’t really get it. I insisted that I was Santa Claus on a Tuesday night. He was confused because I changed the night. I told him that the pork was pork. He freaked out. He said he was allergic to meat. I laughed. I told him to calm down. He didn’t. I made him a vegetable pot pie. He ate it. Then I told him it had vegetables in it. He had an anxiety attack. He said he was allergic to vegetables. I told him I was just kidding. He calmed down. I took out my Shabbas Broomstick and broke it over his head. He slumped forward into the empty pot pie dish. I smiled maniacally and stared at Joel. Charles wandered in. He got a glass of water and left.

When I planned this event, Peter Boyle was still alive, being tormented by his wife on reruns of that Raymond show. But I wasn’t going to let a thing like death stand in my way.

I went down to the cemetery early this morning before the sun was out and dug him up. This was a really good idea. He was still partially preserved! “Pete! Old buddy! How are you doing?” He didn’t respond. “Are you still mad about that Taxi Driver joke?”

Nothing.

“Y’know what Petey? I’m sorry. But because of my callous remark, I am indebted to you. Let me take you out today, show you I really mean it.” I took his silence as approval.

With no further ado, I swept him away on a playdate he’d never forget.  And it worked out in my favor too! I took him to the movies, and when we showed up at the box office to pay for our tickets, the woman inside said, “No charge for Mr. Boyle or his friends.”

“Didja hear that Pete? Free!”  We scrambled into the theater and saw a hilarious romp with some asshole doing shit.

From there we walked in the park.  I bought him a hot dog from the vendor.  He made me feed it to him.  It was my pleasure after making fun of a movie he was in.  Then we rode the swanboats.  I screamed like a little girl, but my friend was calm and collected.  I admired his courage.  Following this, we rented one of those bikes that seat two people.  He could barely stay on! “Been a long time since you’ve ridden?” I mused.  He didn’t even pedal.  I was getting tired fast, both from all of the pumping my legs were doing and from his silent treatment. “Peter, say something to me.  PLEASE.  Why have you been ignoring me all day?”  Silence.  I was really fed up with him.  So, I figured I’d drop him off.  I started pedaling really hard, using much of my energy.  When I reached a speed I thought suitable, I turned halfway around and pushed him off.  He fell sideways, nailed his head on the hard pavement, then toppled ended over ended into a sandy ditch a couple yards below the road.  “Don’t ever call me again!”  I forced out amidst my tears.  I hopped off the swiftly-moving bike, which proceeded to ghost-ride very well.  The bike went off a jump, turned slightly, and exploded mid-air.  I walked home.

For some reason, I really wanted to eat my dinner early this evening. It may have been the lack of food I had today or yesterday, or maybe it’s a parasite. Probably the former. The only parasite I know I have is Charles. That belt-making son of a bitch never pays for anything, even though his job pays a lot more than mine does. A lot more. He easily pulls in 5 figures a month, sometimes 6 when he stops at the toy store on the way home and buys a new He-Man guy or something. I make a pittance at my job. If Charles and I were married, I’d totally divorce him so that I could get a slice of his money pie. He makes a damn good money pie.

In fact, I think that was what set me off. I was really jonesin’ for a good money pie. I asked Charles to pleeeease make it, but he ignored me. He was sitting at his computer, and he looked like he was doing something important. I wrapped my body around him and put all my weight on him, and I spoke loudly in his ear that I wanted money pie. He shoved me off onto the hardwood floor, and I landed deadweight with a very satisfying thud. As I hit the ground, he said, “Okay, what the FUCK is money pie? You keep talking about it, you keep asking me to make it. I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS. I CAN’T MAKE IT. OKAY? You have got to stop this. You need to stop this right now. I really can’t take much more of this money pie business. I have a lot of work to do, so you’re going to have to fend for yourself for once in your life.”

“But I really want money pie.”

“That’s enough. I’ve had enough. Get out.”

“YOU AND YOUR BELTS!”

“Yeah, me and my belts.”

“I have like two belts.”

“That’s great.”

“I–”

I cut myself off and left the room. I was about to tell him that I was wearing both right then, but I figured it didn’t really matter to him, even though it was awesome.

So, on that note, I left and went to the only place I knew that’d serve me a decent dinner at that time: Pastaville.

Don’t let the name fool you. All they make is porridge. It’s just a way to get people in the door. Once they find out that the menu only has one item, it’s usually too late. Most people just stay because it’s in the middle of nowhere, and if they leave there will be no meals available anywhere else. Personally though, I love the place. It has a very nice atmosphere.

So I go to Pastaville, and when I arrive, I walk directly through the front glass door, shattering it everywhere. A couple waiting in the lobby looked at me in horror, but I just walked by them grinning like a bear who just found a biscuit in his glove compartment. I walked up to the maitre d’ and he immediately welcomed me by shaking my hand excitedly. What can I say? I’m a regular. We quickly caught up with each other, telling one another about what we had been doing with ourselves and the like. He then showed me to my usual table, which is two big tables pushed together. He had to pull some chairs out from under people and violently shove some people to the floor to make the tables available (it was packed). Then he grabbed two corners of the tablecloth on table one and lifted, causing all the plates to fall to the floor. Surprisingly, none of them broke, but porridge ended up everywhere, including on one man, searing his flesh. The maitre d’ then did the same thing to the next table, and on this run, one plate broke. “A small loss,” he said, “to seat our favorite customer.” I nodded my approval as he scrambled to push the two long tables together. As soon as he was done, he snapped his fingers, and out came three men, each carrying something for the table. They feverishly set the tablecloth, my place, and the candle. As soon as the candle was in place in front of my plate, the maitre d’ pulled out a flint and steel and lit the candle with one swipe. He never ceased to amaze me. Then he pulled out my chair and bade me sit down with a wave of his hand. I sat as he pushed the chair in under my ripe buttocks. He disappeared to the kitchen and returned with a steaming hot bowl of porridge. “My favorite!” I exclaimed. Then I ate it and left without paying.

I don’t even know what to say about this trip, other than this one word: Parches!

Let me lay this all out on the table in an orderly fashion, like a patchwork quilt missing quite a few patches (I went on a yeast bender – I don’t remember anything after the first rising). Lake Parches is my yearly vacation grounds – has been since I was a young child. I can remember those days so vividly… the beautiful sunrises that illuminate the water in ways that can’t be explained through language… the shrieks of terror I would make when my father would emerge from the woods covered in deer blood, running at me with a bloody ax, yelling like the devil’s fugitive… the leopard-print ironing board my sister used as a surf board on the stagnant pond but one time, for that day we all realized too late that ironing boards are not buoyant, and my sister sunk to the depths of the murky water while my father pointed and laughed and my mother tried in vain to shove whole lemons into our boat’s gas tank, thinking it was juicer of some sort. That was the last time we ever saw her. I think her name was Bryan or something. Man, those were some fantastic times!

Of course, nowadays I don’t go with my parents – I am a grown man, after all (though that asshole dog next door might fight me on this one – too bad it doesn’t know that burger I fed to it yesterday had heartworms in it). My folks don’t even go there at all anymore – they moved to the midwest for some odd reason, something about corn and wheat. I guess it’s not important.

Charles and I set out early on Friday for the cabin that I’ve rented for the past eight years. On the way we got pulled over for speeding. Though Charles was driving, I’ll take the heat for that one. I was screaming at him to go faster and faster so that we could get there sooner. My voice reached a pitched that is usually reserved for seagulls that are screeching at their drivers to drive faster so they can get to their cabin on the lake as soon as possible. When the cop walked up to the car, I said, “Charles, let me do the talking.” For some reason, he didn’t fight this. He rolled down his window and sat back. Before the cop could get a word out, I apologized to him for making Charles drive really fast. I told him the whole story about my history at Lake Parches, and as my story advanced, I noticed tears welling in the officer’s eyes. He interrupted told us to be on our way. I said “Thanks,” and the cop went back to his car. I snuck out of the car and slashed the cop’s right front tire, and he didn’t notice. He was bawling in the driver’s seat, his face in his hands. The K-9 unit in the back was taking a dump, an unmistakable look on shame on its face. I shrugged, hopped back into our car, and we were on our way.

When we arrived, I jumped out of the car, which Charles has excitedly driven directly through the front of the cabin. I pumped my fists in the air and shouted something that I can’t remember. I just asked Charles, and he said that I shouted, “I am the king of the coffee maker and I call the guest cot!” He says he remembers because just that morning he did a really good job making his coffee, thinking himself the king of the coffee maker, and he decided right then and there, in his air of confidence, to call the guest cot. What a weird dude. I heard he eats plant food on a regular basis.

So that night, I had my usual first-night barbecue, inviting all the other tenants of the cabins. We laugh, we eat grilled food, we swim a little, we play some frisbee. Sometimes other things happen – like last year, we had a leaf-blowing contest. Contestants have to blow a leaf from one side of my roof to the other without falling off. The winner is awarded a medal. Naturally, I just took part so I could shove people off my roof and get away with it. It’s one of my lifelong dreams, roof-shoving is. I didn’t win, but it’s okay because when the champion was celebrating his victory, I shoved him off the roof and paralyzed him from the waist down. Needless to day, he no longer comes back to Parches. Because he’s dead.

So after the party, the yeast bender began. I don’t really remember any of it – I woke up Sunday morning in hardware store, covered in mousetraps. The owner was poking me with an exceptionally long pepperoni stick. I awoke angrily and tore into the pepperoni like a hungry raccoon. The owner ran away like a little girl. Come to think of it, she was a little girl. No matter. I was really far from Lake Parches – I needed to get back! I used the pay phone outside to call the cabin. Luckily, Charles picked up. I said I needed to get picked up. He said he was going to go get some bagels, but after he picked them up he’d be there to get me.

I waited outside for two hours. TWO HOURS. Finally, the car I recognized pulled up, and I hopped in. I had been saving my spit in my mouth for the entire time I waited, so I spat it on Charles’ chest and lap immediately. He swore at me, slapped me in the face, and I laughed. I called him “Mark Spitz” for the rest of the day. He didn’t even change his clothes! What a piece of shit.

That evening, after we had gorged on bagels, we did some nighttime water-skiing. Not much to tell there. Actually, I think we may have sliced open a guy. Not really sure.

The next day, our final day, started with me waking up Charles by loudly playing the piano with my crank. I was getting to the closing of “Flight of the Bumblebee” when Charles stormed in, bleary-eyed, and slammed the top down on my prick. Okay, that didn’t happen. I was actually just jamming it down on random keys. It sounded pretty good to me, at least. He didn’t have to close the keys on me.

We ended up sitting at the water, reading and talking about everything. It was pretty good. Real relaxing. We were discussing the nature of the war in Iraq (Charles is against it, I like big guns) when all of a sudden I noticed that there was a frog sitting at the edge of the water, staring at me. I ignored it, and we continued talking. An hour later, that damn frog was still staring at me. It was freaking me out. I put a sand bucket over it. A ripple from a motorboat on which a local opera singer stood on the bow and belted out his latest tune approached the edge of the lake and splashed the bucket off of the frog. I stared at it, it stared at me. Finally, after 3 hours of this bullshit, I just started screaming. I lost it. Charles was confused. I demanded that the frog stop, that it go catch some flies or something. It smiled at me. IT FUCKING SMILED AT ME. I said, “That’s IT!” I stormed into the cabin and got the driver from the included set of golf clubs (the owners of Lake Parches are trying to popularize aqua-golf, but they’re seriously a bunch of assholes). I hustled outside, lined up in front of the frog, getting my stance right. Charles watched silently, a perplexed look on his face, his jaw open. I took my backswing, and then I connected with the amphibian. It sailed. But it didn’t get very far. At that very moment, the same speedboat from earlier happened to be speeding by. The frog, line-driving, managed to shoot directly into the opera singer’s mouth as he was holding an indefinite fermata at the finale of his opus. It hit the back of his throat, causing him to vomit uncontrollably. Naturally, it all hit the driver in the face. He started screaming in disgust. Then the boat hit a ramp in the middle of the lake, a ramp the driver could not avoid because he was blinded by barf. The boat took the jump, turned slightly, and exploded mid-air.

Charles and I just stared at each other in disbelief.

Parches, people, Parches.

“Give me those!”

Long story short, I needed to be tested in order to climb onto our power pole so I can steal cable. I know I know, it doesn’t really make sense. But according to Rich, the guy that lives across the street from me, he had to get tested before he could do that for himself. When he told me this, I sighed, took a bite of the hot dog he was eating, and asked him, mouth full, who I had to get in contact with. He gave me the guy’s business card. I was walking away when Rich said, “Wait!” I stopped, and he ran over. He asked for the card back for a second. I was suspicious. I reluctantly handed him the card. Rich flipped the card over and wrote “Winston” across the back and handed it back to me. I stared at it for a second, trying to piece it together. “Winston?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“…But the guy’s card says his name is Jeff.”

“It does.”

I was really confused. “…So. Who is Winston?” Rich looked at me like I had 3 heads. “Winston is the card’s name,” he stated as if I belonged on the half-eaten-Twinkie bus. I threw my arms up in the air and walked away rolling my eyes with a scowl on my face, effectively telling him I didn’t give a fuck.

I went inside to call Jeff. Charles was on the phone. We have a few phones in the house – he was one the one that is a regular corded one that sits on the cradle with the two buttons on it – y’know, the standard phone. The kind you can pick up by the back and walk around with if you so choose. It looks something like this:

Anyway, I picked up the phone by the handle on the back and slammed it into the back of Charles’ skull. He crumpled to the floor without protest. I hung up on the other person, and when I got a dial tone, I called up Jeff’s number. While it rang, I turned the card over. “Winston,” I muttered to myself. “What a fuckin’ idiot.” Jeff picked up. I explained my situation, and he said he’d be right over to administer the test. I thanked him, he told me to fuck off, and I waited for him.

Fifteen minutes later he arrived in what I assumed was his own dilapidated Plymouth Somethingorother. He kicked out the driver’s side window and crawled out. I was already waiting outside for him, wearing my pretest boots. He gave me a once over, called me a fag, and proceeded to tell me all of the things I’d need to do to get a Certificate of Competence from him. He kept calling it a “C.O.C.” for the longest time, but I didn’t know what that meant, so I asked him what he was talking about. He called me a bottom-feeding cock, and told me what it meant (it stands for “Certificate of Competence” for all you retards that are reading this. I don’t know why I need this parenthesis – retards can’t read). So far, so good.

First, I’d have to watch him climb up the pole on his own, and when he came down, I’d have to give him my observations. So he started to climb, and while he was up there, I noticed there was a brick sitting right at my feet. None of the houses in my neighborhood have bricks in them, minus the chimneys, but those are as unchanging as the rise and fall of the sun. I knew right then and there that it was a temptation, placed in front of me by someone bigger than myself. Naturally, I picked up the brick and whipped it at Jeff, halfway up on the pole. The corner struck him in the back, and he grunted, falling like a sack of shit to the ground. I went over to his car, reached through the window he had broken, and grabbed some blank C.O.C.’s that were lying in a manila folder on his passenger seat. I filled out a few for myself, one for Rich, hell, I even filled one out for Charles. I used it to clean up the bloody mess his head left on the kitchen floor. I sort of slid it under his head to catch any more blood that came out.

As I was doing this, the doorbell rang. I went over and a strange man said to me, “Congratulations! You passed the test!” “Thanks,” I answered. He turned around and walked down my steps, humming some happy tune. Then he got on one of those asshole bikes (the ones where you’re low to the ground and your legs are perpendicular to your torso) and peddled off into the soft breeze that was setting into the air.

Tomorrow I’m gonna hook up the cable – can’t wait.

Yes yes YES! I’ve been waiting for today for weeks. Today was the day that I could finally bite those fuckin’ dogs.  Well, not could, rather did.  It’s still not really permissible, but I did it baby.

I hate Charles’ dog, and I hate my neighbor’s dog.  I took today as an opportunity to let them know that.  I started this morning when I woke up.  Charles’ shitty dog scampered up to me, jumping on me and panting, so I did what I planned to do – I bit it, really hard on the neck.  It yelped, yelped again, and tried to get out of my jaw’s grasp.  I let go and watched it run away like a scared child.  Gold!

After work, the neighbor’s dog looked at me in a scared manner behind its fence when I walked to my door- it must have been talking to Charles’ dog.  I opened the door to my house, stepped halfway in the door, then threw down my coat and briefcase, jumped off the porch, and sprinted toward the dog, which started running away as soon as he saw me throw down my shit.  I leaped over the chain links and gave chase.  I could tell the dog was frightened – it wasn’t making rational decisions.  Instead of running by the trash can and knocking it over in my path, the dog jumped straight over it, effectively slowly itself down.  Then, when it definitely could have crawled under the rear deck, something even a  mentally-deficient pot-smoker could figure out, it decides to try to jump the fence.  What a moron.  I tackled it harder than a greasy nerd tackles an enticing math problem.  I bit the fucker’s hind haunch so hard it started bleeding profusely all over the grass.  I stood up, screaming in victory, pumping my fists in the air.  I added in, “How do you like it?!”  The dog limped away in defeat.  My neighbor’s wife stared at me from the other side of the siding glass door to the deck.  I waved and calmly walked away, again jumping the fence.  I picked up my stuff and went inside.  Charles asked what I did today.  I told him to shut the fuck up.

Well! I was supposed to have lunch with my mother today, and we were to get in a fight about my immaturity outweighing the mud I left on her plate (untrue – my mound was huge), but she had to cancel at the last second.

Then, I was going to regale you with a story of my day, all about how I was driving around and saw a pickup truck engulfed in flames (which I cleverly called a “firetruck”) and how once I saw this truck, I immediately drove off the road into the base of a water tower with the hope that it would capsize onto the truck and douse the flames (it did, but it also drowned a nearby box of kittens, so my victory was bittersweet at best). However, when I was in the middle of writing the captivating story, my computer shut itself off. Since I didn’t think to save the marvelous tale, I can not get it back. I spent over an hour detailing every little thing I saw, smelt, experienced during the blaze, and I can not even think of getting it all back.

So, as such, I have decided that I am going to give a rather apathetic effort and present to you: The Thought Patterns of a Skeleton!

Man, am I dry. Sure am hungry too. That guy that sold me that moisturizing cream – it didn’t do shit! I got a bone to pick with him. I can make so many jokes! Like, hey, feed me, I’m nothin’ but skin and bones, minus the skin! Alas, Hamlet knew me, Poor Yorick! I wonder if I should be in a science classroom somewhere. A lot of shy chicks there! And they always stare. It’s not polite to stare! Well, maybe I should have a drink. Wait, I can’t – I have no organs! I won’t even be able to taste it! Frankly, I don’t even know how I’m able to think right now – I’m a real bonehead!

Okay, this fucking sucks. I’m gonna go smother Charles with a plastic bag.