A Yarn of Excessive Height

On the advice of legal counsel, certain portions of the following account  have been redacted to limit liability (not to mention further punitive deportation)

Two weeks ago today; April 27th.

-Wait, wasn’t the 27th a Friday?  Also… isn’t April next month?

Look, I can either be a semi-schizophrenic asshole who rambles about meaningless crap on the internet or a calendar; I can’t do both. Further, are you telling the story, or am I? Now, butt out, you’re making things confusing.

Good. As I was saying. Sometime prior to now…

After what felt like hours of intoxicated struggling, I forced my eyelids to budge open. The afternoon sun skipped right past my eyes, preferring to shine directly upon my frontal lobe as the damnable noise continued. Realizing that whoever was knocking was more determined than I was unconscious, and that the only way to silence them would be to answer the door, I concentrated all my energy into raising myself from the floor, despite the pain and stiffness screaming along my every neural pathway. I tried to shake the mental cobwebs, since I only had the distance between the kitchen and the front door to decide whether to greet or murder.

Wait… kitchen? Hadn’t I ended the night in the bathtub? Fully clothed?

Blinking away the remains of the coma from whence I came, I confirmed that I was indeed standing in the kitchen, dressed in only a neon green and pink parka, neatly accented with the outlines of last night’s rivulets of drool leading a twisting path down the right sleeve. Making a mental note to check later for fresh tattoos or scars, I grabbed the jeans off of the dishwasher door, tossed the parka into the sink, and pulled on a shirt from the back of the couch. That’s me; Dean Martin by night, Martha fuckin’ Stewart by day. But I digress.

The door opened with the type of slow, drawn out creaking usually reserved for cemetery gates in shitty horror movies, much to the delight of my raging hangover. For ease of future reference, we’ll call my hangover “Jeff.” Jeff’s a bit of a dick. Uses lots of slang. Wears clothes straight out of a book of optical illusions; stitching that appears to converge and curve randomly without actually doing so, vivid colors seeming to melt together in an orgy of eye-gouging ‘aesthetics.’ It’s easier to stifle the urge to vomit when you’re imagining hideous violence upon the anthropomorphic condition causing the urge in the first place.

I gave up Photoshop for Lent, so imagine this is a shirt. Also, the person wearing it is a tremendous douche. And your head is about to split open, and you're about to vomit. Welcome to Sunday mornings.

I gave up Photoshop for Lent, so imagine this is a shirt. Also, the person wearing it is a tremendous douche. And your head is about to split open, and you're about to vomit. Welcome to Tuesday mornings in my skull.

The man darkening my doorstep was at least three times more clichéd than anything I’ve ever written, and easily twice as unappealing. He glared at me over too-large sunglasses, raising an eyebrow slowly (for dramatic effect, I presume; my visitor must not have known much about Jeff, and his effect on my ability to give a rat’s ass.) The sunglasses came off as he reached into his breast pocket and came out with a badge.

“Mr. Jankis? I’m with the [REDACTED].  I’m here regarding the matter of your substantial late fees from a number of  [REDACTED] stores.”

Now, considering I am not, nor do I know anyone named Jankis, I was a bit thrown. Jeff may be a world-class asshat, but he’s never caused me to hallucinate before. Still… this could prove to be more interesting than anything I had planned for the afternoon.

“Oh?” Witty repartee is my e-spe-ci-ali-ty.

He frowned. I didn’t get the joke, apparently. “No, shit-for-brains. Did you think we wouldn’t find you?” I wondered if growling at people like that hurt his throat after a while, or if his voice just sounded that way from a lifetime of draino and gravel consumption.

I paused, and did my best to appear contemplative. “Five. Cubed.” I nodded once, emphatically.

He flushed a little, so I feigned a yawn and slammed the door in his face.


…so that’s how I ended up in Chilé, and eventually formed a one-man mariachi band, after a short (but brutally unsuccessful) stint as a luchador. “El Culo Borracho,” they called me. Means “The Amazing Saint Who Taught A Nation to Hope.” Very efficient, those Chiléans, to say so much with so few words. But, while my two weeks there were amazing and inspirational, I eventually grew tired of their constant idolization and the unrelenting advances of their women, and so I donated most of my vast mariachi fortune to local orphans and bought a ticket home.


~ by tazehim on March 12, 2009.

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