Story 3 of 3, not *really* sure where 2 went.
There *was* a story number 2. I had plans. Now, some weeks later, that has apparently been overridden, or more likely, abducted. But I remember number 3, for the rest of my life I will remember number3.
The story is PROOF OF ALIENS
We recently decided to get the trim on the house painted. B. knew a guy through work, so that's who we hired. Like all contractors he has disappeared 3/4 of the way through, but I've also found that to be a requirement of being a contractor. I digress.
One weekend he was here painting (a lovely Benjamin Moore shade of olive-y sage green). And we were talking in the yard. We were talking about where we had lived, how we ended up doing what we are doing. I made some comment like "yeah, where are the time machines when you need them".
He became animated, he said, BUT THERE ARE TIME MACHINES! "You know how people see UFOs? Those aren't flying saucers, or spaceships, they are time machines coming back from the future. The aliens are just people from the future. I've been abducted more times that I can count. Yeah, they take you, then poke you and prod you and stroke you (his words), and then they put you back".
I decided to play along. "Really, that's crazy, but how do you know?"
Mr Painter continues "Oh, I'm positive of it, and the thing that gives them away? They don't know how zippers work. When they put your clothes back on they never know how to zip up pants. I can't TELL you how many times I've been walking around and found my fly down. Those motherfuckers abducted me again."
You see why this story stuck.
Comments
BWAHAHAHA!
Posted by: Scott | August 4, 2006 08:30 PM
so that's why....
Posted by: suzy | August 7, 2006 05:58 PM
okay, so: fuck this. i know, i know, i cuss too much, but imagine how frustrating this is, oh talking crow dear?
depending on when you peruse your catch next, i'll probably be down at the river, washing away my sins, but the dog says i gotta make a statement. the aliens time-travelers/ whatever agreed.
listen; this is my plea: curious as i am as to whether you'd post this rant/ diatribe, my purpose is quite clear: i counted you as 'friend,' a long time ago, and you know how i am about that shit. i try to ignore those that don't stay around, but when i come on it and get reminded, i tend to get cranky. so the question is: does the heartache warrant the dice?
i can imagine why i'm the fucker you 'used to know,' as you so quaintly put it, and that's all your business. everybody survives their way: pance looks at me and lowers her ears and gives me big 'please scratch me behind my left ear' puppy-dog eyes, i collect weapons and ammunition and drop pills, you run away and hide. who am i to judge?
but what i am saying, here, and i'd like to think b.'d agree with me, is that - assuming you feel any fucking benefit would come from my presence - life's too goddamn motherfucking short. you've got buck and grace and b. and your mom - joshing, just joshing - and, seriously, whomever you love - maybe the question is when you have enough. maybe you do.
being a selfish cocksucker, however, i have to note that it's harder for me to fill those spots than it is for you - and, again, seriously: that says a lot. maybe i can wind this up far more quickly than anticipated by being solipsistic and stating this:
i'm the idiot who judges folks on their punctuation, movies by the amount of blood in their violent scenes, songs by how little they repeat, and parents by their abilities (or lack thereof) to care for the children they should never have had. i hate cutting the grass, not necessarily because it's a tedious pain in the ass, but because the grass is alive and should grow as the gods intended. i cry uncontrollably watching *stuart little*, have nightmares in which i have to introduce a double blade to the back of a friendly's head, wish i could catch bullets for my dog and anyone i deem worthy or innocent, and have dreams or interfaces with my grandparents that continue from wake to sleep to wake, leaving me exhausted... i want to get all those trapped under the rubble out, i want to teach my fucking father that camus and christ don't shake hands, and i miss that naive 13-year-old knucklehead that used to have a four-tiered plan for saving the world... ("end 1.war 2.hunger 3.disease 4.poverty")
that's my resume, motherfucker, and it's ridiculous that I'm giving it. You already know it. But I miss you, [and so many people - why are our lives so complex?] and the dog misses you (she rolls back, sighs, and gazes up at me), and I'm crying again, and I'm tired. Your bloody reply consisting of one link leaves me more cussing to do than I have life to do it in, and you know that's cowardice as much as I do... Unless the link leads to a lie, of course, and I'm currently just practicing my compositional skills on a pretext.
Smoke out, drink up, meditate, do whatever it is you do these days; ignore, roll your eyes, laugh; have a family reunion - not the genetic one, silly, you know that - clean the bones out your closet and flap the dust off them grimy wings, 'cause Hugin and Munin are riding my neck and the dog needs to swim the Nooksack.
I challenge you. I could really use another fucking laugh at your expense.
It's rather a large compliment, this.
Not that I'm full of myself.
Posted by: Anonymous | August 12, 2006 01:18 PM
A painter, huh? Maybe he's been sniffing a little too much paint? Just maybe?
You will have to ask him the next time you see him to bring back some yarn from the future...just so we can be the first to see it. :)
Posted by: Miss Lime | August 15, 2006 07:09 AM