The Mock Dock

No one said life would be easy.
Well my parents kind of implied it when they told me about an Easter Bunny, a Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I mean that is not exactly a warning of things to come.
So you’re mad at your parents because they didn’t tell you how messed up life can get?
No. I just thought it would be easier.
You’re a dummy.
I know. And that’s because I ignored what smart people were telling me when I was a kid. I thought it would be more fun to drink beer and masturbate and sulk. And it was! Sometimes I would do all three in one night. It’s been downhill ever since.
But still…
Yeah. I pretty much screwed up.
But you’re doing okay. Right?
I just wish I were smarter and more confident in my beliefs.
Which beliefs are those?
It doesn’t matter.
What is the best advice you ever got?
Always wear a condom.
What do you think is the most common mistake that people make?
They don’t wear a condom.
But if your dad wore a condom, you wouldn’t be here right now.
Exactly. And I wouldn’t be suffering through the worst blog I ever wrote.
It is pretty bad.
I’m in a bad place with my writing. Constipated. Stuck. All Blocked up…like a colon after eating a wheel of Edam. You get the point.
I do and it is exceedingly unfunny.
Penis. Vagina. Crap.
What are you doing?
Sometimes people find dirty words funny. Ass. Balls. Weiner. Doody.
It’s not working.
Fart. Beaver. Testicles.
This is pathetic.
Plus, I’m running out of dirty words. Uterus. Dick. Bottom.
I’m leaving.
Scrotum. Nipple. Vulva. Schlong.

You’re too uptight.
I’m doing the best I can.
You should do better.
How?
Just do better.
How?!! Give me one suggestion, you prick?
Yelling at me isn’t going to help. That’s part of the problem. You’re so angry.
Of course I am angry. For twenty years people have been telling me to do better, to feel better. But no one has any good ideas on how to do that.
Drink less coffee
Oh, thanks. I can already feel my problems melting away. Less coffee. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that when I was paying thousands of dollars for therapy, anti-depressants, double Jamesons with a splash and cigars? What a fool I’ve been.
Oh I get it. You are being sarcastic. And passive aggressive. Another sure sign of maturity.
Who even asked you to show up here?
Your brain.
My brain told you to come and make me feel like crap?
No. He said you were struggling with…everything. He suggested I come down and find out what the problem is. Think of me as a spiritual detective.
I have a better idea. I’m going to think of you as an buttheadjerkface.
Whatever floats your boat.
How about I jam my boat up your ass?
Sounds latently homosexual to me.
I give up.
Of course you do. You’re a coward. An angry latently homosexual passive aggressive coward.
You’re the worst spiritual detective ever.
I’m trying to provoke you. It will help me better understand your problems.
My problems are the same as every other person on earth. Disappointment with myself and those around me.
Interesting.
Seriously. That whole spiritual detective thing is a joke. Right?
No. No. It’s a real job. You have to take a eight week course to get certified. Cost me eight hundred fifty dollars.
You have money? I thought you lived in my head.
What are you stupid? Of course I have money. How else am I going to buy food and socks?
Where do you get food and socks?
At the Super Target here in your head. There’s always a line.
It’s the same down here. By the way, I am sorry I called you the worst spiritual detective ever. I just…I don’t really have any experience with people in your line of work. Do you have a badge or a card or something?
Yeah, I got something. A business card. Here. Take one.
Nice.
Thanks. Only cost me sixteen bucks.
Where did you have these done?
Staples.
There’s a Staples in my head?
And a Chipotle.
I knew it. My head is a sellout.

Today, Mockarena, Dame and I sat under a vaulted ceiling, in a room decorated in vivid oranges, blues, purples, yellows and reds. We chortled away as the servers toiled over plates of burritos and arroz con pollo, as bus boys (chicos del autobus) delivered baskets of fried tortillas. It was at this local mexi-rant that we looked fondly back at last Wednesday’s extravaganza, looked at today’s workload and pockmarks, and to our future endeavors of dining, working and playing.

As we dined, we covered topics such as long, black moustaches on 4-year-old girls, keeping quiet when your kids are with you in a hotel room, ear-Tron things that make businessmen and women completely chodely, and emergency phone calls.

As this fine experience came to a close (much like the middle class has done under our current economic leadership), we found ourselves making a list together. Each of us blurted out with aural dissonance:

Tacos

Toothpaste

Cats

Hot Pants

(I blurted 2 because I don’t follow rules well…such rebel)

After the list was done, Dame simply stated, “They all kinda have something to do with each other.”

Can any of our astute readers figure out what we were listing?

I have only one fear in this world. I have broken 33 bones, done my own stitches twice, had my right hand reconstructed after burning it down to the bones and tendons, survived being married to one of the meanest, most controlling people for 10 years (Dame and Mock can attest to this), and am willing to be in the dating world as a 34-year-old fat, balding father of two (amazing kids) who needs spectacles to see his awesomely developed calf muscles. None of these scare me….but SNAKES DO!

This irrational fear is justified. At the age of four, my family moved to northern Wisconsin from southern California. As we awaited our house to be built, we lived in a farmhouse owned by one of the parishioners of my father’s church. (Yes, I am a preacher’s kid…it might explain a lot.) My brother and I had to share a room during these months. Many nights, my brother (one of my true heroes) would gather a bevy of the harmless slithering evil wriggle-sticks (also known as Garter Snakes) and place them in the feeted region of my made bed. Hence, I would plop my puny, pre-awesome calves and push my scrawny self in to my bed only to find a pile of disgust writhing in my Aquaman sheets. As I screamed, my brother gloated and laughed.

This fear has never left me. The only way that I become stricken with dread is when faced with the beady, lifeless eyes and flickering tongue of a snake. (Allow me to say that I have dated a few women recently with the same characteristics…and I was not filled with apprehension.)

As I prepared to leave my home for my golf trip this past weekend, I was flipping the stations and happened to see a 10-second clip from a show highlighting an Australian family who found a boa constrictor curled up in their toileting place. A freaking snake was in the toilet! My heart raced and my brow furrowed (as if I had just seen Molly Ringwald at a tanning salon). As the sun fell and the night air poured through the community, I sat in my bed scheming.

Upon waking to the dew of morning, I knew I had only one hour to set my Snake Traps! I took from the pantry a new bottle of Lysol Toilet Cleaner with Bleach and emptied half of the bottle in each of my very own porcelain snake charmers. I then utilized the bristle-scrubber to effectively coat every surface in the “turd-zone” with the bleach solution. Without flushing (as the directions had guided), I closed the lids and placed “The Complete Works of W.B. Yeats” on the hall seat and an assorted collection of poetry on the master bath’s seat. And I waited….for my ride.

And then it hit me. I had to use the restroom. But the traps were set. And I still had 5 cases of beer to get out of the garage. As each of these dilemmas crushed my skull, I needed respite from this turmoil. Action will prevail. So I quickly grabbed the beverages and my clubs, raced my packed clothes, clubs and other must-haves out to wait. As my ride arrived, I loaded the truck and asked to stop a mere 1/2-mile from my home to use the restroom. Crisis averted. (I will have to elaborate another time on the crisis of “playing an away game“. I hate to use public restrooms…but snakes trump germs!)

Upon returning on Sunday evening, I checked my traps. Neither had been sprung nor tampered with. Obviously, the snakes in my sewers know who’s boss.
Absurdly yours,
Holmes

Only a few short weeks ago, I shared a wee gem from my life created by my 4-year-old daughter. This evening, she forced me to reconsider my assessment of her caring soul.

I was given the opportunity to pick my son and daughter up a wee bit earlier than normal from their mother’s house, so we had some extra time to play before bedtime. I asked them as we traversed the city streets, veering left to right, right to left avoiding the stumbling winos as if living inside a game of Frogger, “What would you two like to do tonight?” A resounding, “GO FISHING!” poured from the back seat in unison.

Now this is strange. I hate fishing…fish. I don’t eat them, lick them, smell them, touch them, take them to a drive-in theatre and try to touch their little scaly breast with the supple skin of my right hand. I just don’t. Where would they have learned this? It had to be a plan set in motion by pure evil alone.

All of this being said, I wanted them to have a blast, so we set out with tiny Scooby-doo fishing polls in hand, lures, bobbers, low self-esteem, a strong desire to leave this mortal coil and some awesomely developed calf muscles in tow. As I ineptly showed each of them how to cast out their line, as I try to cast out my “lines” in the restaurant bars of the midwest, only to sleep alone…very alone, I looked around and noticed the moment we were having.

A cool breeze grinned on the three of us. The lake water behind our home lapped gently against the shore, like a cat’s tongue on its furry partner cat. (”Mind if I lick you?” one kitten says to another. “I like the way your belly matches your paws.”) The afternoon sun played warmth against compassion on our pale, Irish skin.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

AS I gazed at this perfect afternoon and my son stood nearby enjoying the moment that we were having (he is very introspective…who knows where he got that), my daughter was swinging her midget fishing pole to and fro. For on the hook, she had caught a 5-inch fish. (I have no idea what kind…I just knew I had to man up and touch it.)

As I dislodged the now-mangled hook from the even more-now-mangled fish, my daughter burst in to tears. She wanted to put the poor fish back in the water so that it could find joy in the release (holy crap…I can’t believe I just typed that…heehee) and she could catch it again.

So, I learned this evening that my child, the very seed of my awesomely developed loin is not a fisherwoman. As my son basked in the quiet, found beauty in the nature surrounding him and reveled in each moment that we shared, my daughter had no desire to catch fish for dinner, as they were intended, but simply wanted to make them late for something.

Absurdly yours,

Holmes