Sunday, November 9, 2008

Black T-shirt

I'd like to start my latest diatribe by quoting Ben Folds, one of the greatest philosophers of our time.

"Fuck you too. Give me my money back, Give me my money back, you bitch. And don't forget to give me back my black t-shirt."

Now, that being said and out of the way, I will forewarn you that this posting was to be all about me pissing and moaning, griping, slinging monkey shit, and basically tearing my ex-fiance a new one, but....I decided that was boring and I just might chase away my viewers (all three of them). Sure, I haven't got my t.v. or my tools back from her, nor my coffee pot, and bamboo plant. I won't bitch about the restraining order or the 3 a.m. phone calls asking for help because her Victoria Secrets are walking away from her in the hands of a man she's never met before, after waking up in a Sex on the Beach haze, in the middle of the Tomato Street parking lot. That is all so trite, juvenile and lazy of me to continue on that path.

So instead, I thought I'd discuss a strange desire I have. No, you sickos, it doesn't involve Crisco and Saran Wrap. That's for a another day.

No...what I'm talking about is living through a hurricane. I got the idea from a Carl Hiassen book. See there was a character by the name of Skink, an ex Florida governor that goes rogue/hermit on the hanging chad state. Skink, now he plays a recurring part in Carl Hiassen books, doing all kinds of crazy acts, avenging the mangroves that people so easily desecrate and roasting up all kinds of road kill morsels along the way. But it was at the moment that he ties himself to the girders of a bridge before a Category 3 hits that made me start thinking about that hurricane thingy.

Okay, my plan isn't exactly to duct tape myself to an immovable object and take the full brunt of the Gods devastating destruction, but more like live through it by hanging with several other dozen crazy SOB's in a bar in Key West. You know the people I'm talking about. You see them every time a bad ass storm rolls through the Caribbean. They hang out drinking cheap beer and taking shots, laughing, and taking interviews with the news media any chance they can get.

"So, why are you not heeding the advice of the Monroe County authorities and the Key West police department and evacuating the island?" Katy, the pretty blond reporter from channel 4 news asks, obviously nervous about the sixty mile an hour gusts.

A drunken man wearing plaid shorts, a Dale Jr. ball cap, a t-shirt that reads REDRUM Drinking Team and double fisting two bottles of Corona responds, "Cuz, dude, don't you see this?"

"What?" Katy innocently asks.

"This," wildly flailing his arms at nothing in paticular, twirling his body like a tornado produced from the current natural disaster, nearly braining the pretty reporter. "The wind, the waves, man. Frickin' sweet!"

"Now back to you Charlie," the beautiful but very frazzled Katy says, quickly ending her interview, the drunk man seen in the background running out of the picture with surf board in one hand, still clutching one of his cerzesas in the other.

Now you have to see what I'm talking about, right? To be in the middle of insanity, palm trees being shredded, mailboxs moving parallel to the ground, the stray cow mooing its way upwardly and out of the picture (wait, that was Twister), holding on to the brass bar rail for dear life, and having a ball at the same time. My God, think of the pictures and stories (the hangover) that would come from that night of celebrating. What could constitute a better time?

One day maybe I'll find out but I do know it won't be the same without my black t-shirt.

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