Straitjacket: V-17X – Page 17

Hollywood Jim and Sparkly Sam Drive to the Disco

The two friends walked up to the club’s front door, only to find a notice that read:

Hello, would-be disco-goers. Disco Grande has had to close its doors due to a draining interest in the culture. We are sorry for the inconvenience, and would like to offer you a complimentary condom. Please take only one from the bowl, as we’re operating on the honor system.

God bless–

Jamie Bliss
Former Owner of Disco Grande (the #1 dance club in the tri-county area for three years straight)

May 19, 1980

Upon reading the note, both Jim and Sam were obviously crestfallen. They looked around for a bowl of condoms, but didn’t see anything even remotely resembling one. Jim turned to Sam.

“Cheap bastards ran outta condoms.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in an interesting combination of surprise and amusement. “You being serious? That note’s from 33 years ago.”

Jim was unfazed by his friend’s arithmetic. “Nice math there Sam, but where’s the bowl?”

“Who gives a shit about some bowl? Someone probably took it like 25 years ago.”

Jim’s countenance grew weary. “I guess I wasn’t the first person to think about taking it.”

So Hollywood Jim and Sparkly Sam walked back to the parking lot, empty aside from Sam’s sedan.

“What do you want to do now?” Sam asked.

“Find that bowl?”

The Miracle of Moisture

Trefoil tattoos mark the patch of skin where Washington holds the fragments of his battered lip balm container to his heart and sobs like a little girl. He doesn’t remember where or when the cheap possession came to be his, but his cherishing moments are seldom overlooked.

He remembers how windbeaten his lips had been that dry winter day, and how he bundled himself against the elements to at least attempt relieving some of the pain of existing in those conditions.

Suddenly he came upon a convenience store, open 24 hours a day and boasting wonderful room temperature. He dug into his pockets for currency, procuring three dollars and change. He was overjoyed to learn that lip balm only cost a buck seventy-nine. He accepted the two dimes and a penny with his left hand while applying lip-saving moisture with his right.

And now that the balm tin is depleted of product, Washington keeps it in his left breast pocket to remind him of the wonders of the civilized world while providing ceremonial protection against bullets aimed at his heart.

Woodchips

“Your anger isn’t unfounded, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Spit out the woodchips and we’ll have a serious conversation. Your lovely little distractions can only blind me for so long to the true matter behind all of this. You know what I’m talking about. Come on now, there can’t be that many woodchips in your piehole. Jesus, were you going for a world record? I doubt you had the foresight to intentionally stuff your mouth and have an excuse not to speak to me. Are you about ready? I can keep nagging you until you’ve got every last scrap of landscaping material out of your mouth. You don’t think I’m serious? Let’s give it a shot.

“You don’t communicate with me. This is most obvious right now, but you only contribute a small fragment to our daily interactions. It’s like I’m the one who does all the talking for the both of us. I can only come up with so many original things before I feel like I have to repeat myself.

“You don’t listen to me. I can’t remember how many times I’ve caught you just looking up some girl’s skirt while I’m trying to get something important across to you. Then I have to repeat myself again! Every time that happens, a little piece of me dies. I hope you’re happy about that.

“On second thought, you’re not allowed to be angry. Only I can feel hurt at the moment. This conversation has become solely about me, and I don’t care what you think anymore. What do you say about that?”

“I have a splinter in my gums.”

Å Meets A

Å: Excuse me, do I know you?

A: You do if you want to, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen you before.

Å: The park?

A: You’ll need to be more specific. I go to… I go to many parks.

Å: Kennedy Memorial?

A: Odd time to talk about fallen presidents. No, I haven’t gone.

Å: No, the park on the west side.

A: Oh, right! Uh… no, haven’t been there in… ever.

Å: Do you even go to parks?

A: When I feel like it.

Å: Which is when, exactly?

A: When I feel like it.

Å: I’m starting to think I don’t want to know you.

A: Wait, please. I’m just trying to entertain you with foolishness and show you that my earnest side is actually quite pleasant.

Å: How does foolishness show me that you’re earnest?

A: Look at my eyes.

Å: They’re greenish brown.

A: Hazel. Like yours.

Å: Mine are bluish green.

A: Still hazel. I’m an expert on the subject.

Kicking the Can

“Yeah, the marmot’s a little shaggy. So what? No skin off your ass.” Harold kicked the can down the road, glaring at Rhonda all the while.

“You are rude. The marmot needs a clipping ASAP and you don’t even care.” Rhonda flushed with righteous indignation, the color of kool aid. She fixed her vision on the can Harold was kicking.

“As I’ve said a hundred times, the marmot is fine. End of story.” The can was getting quite dented, a standard aluminum soda can that doesn’t have the protection necessary to shield from foot contact.

“This isn’t a story. What is this la-la land you inhabit?” She was still transfixed on the can and getting rather tormented by the fact that this narrative could indeed morph into an epic tale the world has never yet seen.

“Everything’s a story. Most of them get lost because nobody wrote them down.” He stopped kicking the can and looked at Rhonda. “I don’t have a pen.”

“So now what do we do? Find a pen? That would make a great story.”

Harold had the look of a toddler who just learned his first swear word. “You’re right.”

“We’re making a story now? I thought we were just kicking that can!” Gesturing to the can with her left hand, Rhonda choked back tears (fake or genuine, she wasn’t sure), hoping to get out of another half-baked idea that Harold always seemed to be coming up with these days.

@ ∂ (•)

@: Do you want a carrot?

∂: I thought you’d never ask.
Wow, these are fresh.
Where’d you get ’em?

@: If I tell you that, it won’t be a secret anymore!

∂: Isn’t that why I asked?

@: Oh you.

∂: Now I really want to know.

@: What’s to know? It’s just a bag of carrots.

∂: The freshest carrots I’ve ever laid eyes on.

@: You’re not getting that information from me without a fight.

∂: Fisticuffs? I’ll throw down.

@: No, I meant trivia.

∂: How can we play trivia without an impartial judge?

•: Dudes, I’m right here!

@: SHIT, Darwin. You scared the bejesus outta me.

∂: God dammit, me too.

•: I brought my trivial pursuit this time.

∂: Good, ’cause if you didn’t…

@: Ease up on him, he’s just a kid.

•: I sleep the best at naptime. Is it naptime yet?

Jesus! I’m on the Shitter

“I want a grilled cheese!”
barked the stage man to his uncle.

“We’re out of cheese,”
the old man said.

“Well listen up, the truck has gas.
Go down to the store and pick some up.”

“I have no time for your petty errands.”
He was old, but his comments were fiery.

“Jesus! I’m on the shitter.
Just get the cheese.”

“Shit or get off the pot.”