Vengeance on Lay-away

I know that there are no new stories here. I am not at a loss for words - they have been stolen from me.

Every time I post a new story, it gets deleted or changed. Someone has hacked my fucking site. This is maybe the conspiracy theorist in me speaking; maybe it is the disgusting lack of sleep in the past week. In either case, something is definitely going on.

I have not NOT been posting. Someone has been toying. And I vow to all of you, in response to your emails and things of the sort, to get to the bottom of it.

Just not today.

Today is my birthday, and I am getting drunk. The Steelers are going to the SuperBowl, and I am getting drunk. Troy Polamalu is a god, and I am going to make it my goal to bang him REAL soon. Or at least figure out how to send him a slutty email (hey - it has worked for me before. Remember whose blog you're reading).

After these things are accomplished (read: on Tuesday when I am too hungover to do anything else) I will fix all of this. Even if it means brand new blog. I am not giving up. So please, don't give up on me.

Note: If someone deletes this, I will have you killed. I am a trained ninja, and my pops is an ex-Navy Seal. Shake in your boots, bitch.


crash the EX-otic dancer


... no, it's not a good story.

Someone agreed that the questionaire I filled out last week was relatively pointless, and challenged me to answer a few, more personal questions.

1. For how long did you believe in Santa Claus (and when did you decide he was a lie)? - I honestly don't know; I didn't have a big, dramatic, young-life altering breakdown in like the fourth grade or anything. I really don't remember when it dawned on me that Santa wasn't real. I guess I didn't care that much. Or maybe I never really believed to begin with.

2. Do you have any tattoo's/piercings? (besides the obvious one) - Yes. I have my lip pierced and my nipples pierced, and I have two tattoos in addition to the two Tucker mentions in The Tattoo Story. I have a large black sun that I designed on my left shoulder, and I have the words "eppur si muove" - "and yet it moves," in classical Italian - in the middle left side of my back (sort of on my rib cage).

3. When/how did you lose your virginity? - I lost it when I was fourteen. I bought a silky blue bra with clouds and teeny stars on it, and a thong to match, for the weekend that my parents went out of town. I got a GooGoo Dolls CD, and my best friend bought me condoms. I lit candles. Oh, I was smooth. The sex was terrible. and I still have the underwear set.

4. Do you like dogs or cats more? why? - I'm unquestionably a dog person. Not only that, but I am a large-dog person; little yappy dogs make me angry. I'm not sure why. I think it's because I like to be able to really play with my pets - run, wrestle, cuddle, that sort of thing. Also, my family bought a dog the week before I was born that didn't die until I was twenty one. I was raised a dog lover.

5. Have you ever seen someone die? - Yes. In October, a man was shot outside my bar. I helped pull him out from beneath the SUV he dove under to avoid being shot again. He died there on the pavement. I don't remember much else; that night has been blocked.

6. Have you ever considered joining the armed forces? why? - I have NOT. My father is an officer in the Navy, and for that reason, I've never wanted to be in the service myself. It's not a matter of rebellion or avoidance; I just have a desire to find my own path.

7. Do you prefer your guys shaved or unshaven? I don't like mustaches. Otherwise, I don't have much of a preference. I think stubble is sexy, but then, my vagina does not enjoy it.

8. What do you think about God? - I am an atheist. You can do with that what you will.

9. What do you think about George W.? - I don't follow politics enough to pass legitimate or intelligent judgement. However, I did not vote for him.

10. What would you do with a million bucks? - Pay off my credit cards, blow a few grand on senseless things, and then probably put the rest away for awhile. I'm too young to know how to wisely invest it or spend it, and smart enough to know that it's worth holding onto for a few years until I know better.

11. What's the wildest thing you've ever done? - Created life and taken it away. Oh, and shrooms.

12. Who's your favorite person in the whole world? - My little brother. He constantly surprises and impresses me, and being as cynical as I am, that's difficult to do. Now that we've gotten older and see eachother less, we've grown to actually enjoy each other's company when we do manage to get together. And he sends me great new music just about every day over the internet.

13. Have you ever been in love? - I have. He died.

14. What's your preferred type of humor? (toilet-humor, sarcasm, farce, irony, etc.) - I respect any humor that has a foundation in smarts or wit. Sometimes that includes toilet humor. My own humor is more sarcastic than anything else.

15. Have you ever gotten in a fist fight? Is it a good story? - I punched some douchebag in the jaw my Freshman year of highschool. He called me a whore (he was a bright fellow) so I punched him. So, no, it's not a good story.


A little bit of crazy with a pistol on the side

I'm spending a few days at the family compound in NC for Christmas. This wouldn't be so bad if it didn't involve my family, or their compound; I have nothing against the state of North Carolina. Actually that's not entirely true either. I'm kind of pissed that it isn't warmer, and the only things this part of the state really has going for it are vast stretches of highway and toothless folk who drive upon them in pick-ups looking for a new patch of woods in which to shoot some deer with their $39.99 WalMart rifles.

Maybe I'm derailing a bit here.

My point is, I am not at home, in Pittsburgh. I am in a house that is not mine, that does not have cable television or any decent DVDs, has a sub-par satellite internet connection, no boxes of pasta in the cupboards, and not nearly enough hot water.

-Being away from Pittsburgh sucks because I am missing out on shifts at the bar, holiday parties, my best friend's birthday, and am also possibly losing the one chance I had to fuck the everloving shit out of this guy who... actually, he's a story for another time.

-Being in a house that is not mine sucks because I am neurotic and obsessive-compulsive. This becomes important later.

-I would ordinarily be alright with the lack of decent programming; I don't have cable, and most of my movies suck too. But when there's nothing else to occupy your time, Law & Order marathons are always the perfect way to kill a few bored hours. I am denied this luxury.

-Shoddy internet anger needs no justification. You're here; you understand.

-The pasta thing is a big deal because I eat a lot (an unspeakable amount, actually), and pasta is quick and easy. I eat it twice a day, minimum. What household doesn't have any dried pasta in the cabinets? This, too, will soon be important.

-Saying that there isn't enough hot water in the house isn't very fair. The truth is, there isn't enough hot water in the house for me. I take 35 minute showers, at the quickest, and I usually don't even turn the cold water nozzle on. If I do, it contributes only the tiniest drip the steaming waterfall. My dad and his wife have a really great house on the shores of Lake Jordan; I am not dissing their plumbing. Mostly I'm just cranky.

I was forced to help my stepmother find a book for my dad today, titled Finding God Through Sex. Not only would I not consider my pops to be a religious man, I also would not enjoy imagining the two of them humping for their savior. After they went to bed, I went into the kitchen to work on whipping up a part of their Christmas gift, when I took a hefty chunk of flesh off the tip of my middle finger. Between the cold showers, the no macaronis, the pray-n-plow, and the near-fatal wound, I was more than ready for bed.

Then my crazy hit me.

This happens to me every once in awhile. I have my disorders - everyone does these days. You're fucked up if you don't. I don't take medication and I don't see a shrink. I think psychology is a lot of bullshit (notice how I did not say "total"? Keep your lectures to yourself). Instead, I opt to just deal with my own neuroses like a self-sufficient human, and for the most part, I do an ok job of this.


Every now and then, my wacko tackles me. The resultant fumble isn't so bad; it could, without question, be much worse. This is what I do. I go paint crazy.

I have been an artsy little thing since I was a baby. I always preferred paints and markers and clay and glue to Barbies or Full House or bo- whoa, almost typed "boys." Clearly having a rough night. Anyway, I was a goddamn little Raphael until I gave up painting in highschool when I realized my parents would never let me go to an art university. I said a reluctant goodbye to my passion and vengefully went on to major in Philosophy, teaching my parents a lesson in what actually constitutes a useless degree.

Having suppressed all that desire, I guess it's no surprise that it bubbles up, uncontrollably, from time to time. I lose my shit and I need to paint. It happens. It's like PMS or the BackstreetBoys reunion tour. It's shitty, but there's nothing you can do about it; just sit back, let it take it's course, and eventually, it will all be over.

So that's what I do. A few times a year, I lock myself into total solitude when the need arises, put a paintbrush into my hand, and then relax. I paint for hours - days, nonstop - without effort. My answer to Western psychotherapy comes in the form of a 4-foot canvas and a 37 ml tube of Winsor & Newton Cadmium Green Pale. A day and fifteen giant canvases later, give or take, and I am not only spent but cured. I'm not nuts anymore, and I won't be for another few months. I sleep and then I go back to living life outside my tortured-artist apartment.

Maybe now you see my problem. Trying to go to bed tonight, I got hit with the all-too-familiar itch to throw canvas all over my walls and lash around with some paintbrushes for a few days. But I can't do that here. My dad and his wife have white carpets and nearly-white haired children and a white cat. I would get paint all over each of these things. Not to mention the fact that I'm not in my apartment, and I don't have my "For Your PsychoAss Emergencies" art supplies; at best, there's probably one of those old plastic watercolor trays buried in my stepsister's bedroom somewhere. That isn't therapy. That's further emotional torture; painting with that would be counterproductive.

So, there I was, two hours ago, sitting alone in their kitchen, feverishly nursing a cup of tea and quite literally on the brink of a breakdown. I turned to the only other physical comfort I know (besides the orgasm, and I'm saving that for the aforementioned guy who is a soon-to-be-told story): food.

Food and I go way back. Even further than paint and I. I realize that most of us can say that (unless you grew up in Nigeria or something), but I have a tight bond with the edibles. You know how people say, "Oh yeah, me and so&so go back years," and some of these folks have just been casual acquaintances for a long while, whereas others who say it have actually been best goddamn friends since they were nursing? I am of the latter group.

I ate so much as a toddler that my face ballooned out before the rest of my body. My parents had people stopping them in malls, asking what agency they used to adopt their daughter - strangers thought I was Asian, my eyes were so narrow from the chubby cheeks pushing up on my lower lids. Fortunately, my metabolism sped up and now rivals that of the gazelle.

My apetite, however, has remained the same. I eat five large meals a day, and I snack a lot in between. When I order Chinese food for Mike and I, I get two entrees for myself. Lunch for me often consists of an entire pizza. I think the slices of cheesecake at The Cheesecake Factor are too small. Food and I? We've met.

Teetering on the edge of sanity (or my semblance of it), I turned to my father's refrigerator. I should have been turning to his cupboards for a pot and some radiatorre, but he failed me in the pasta department. I knew I was going to have to make some serious culinary effort, because Dad and his wife eat some of the most boring shit in the world, but I was willing. I was already plotting out a recipe or five when, bent over surveying the contents of the white Whirlpool obelisk, I saw it, hidden in the back, as though they were ashamed to have bought such junk - an entire package of bologna.

My arm darted into the chilly depths before I could even check to be sure there was bread and mayo and stuff like that. My fingers wrapped themselves around the plastic packaging and my arm began to retract. NO! There was too much on the shelf with it. Two cartons of eggs, a few of my bottles of POM Wonderful, two whole Christmas turkeys, and the produce bag of spicy peppers, leftover from the jalapeno ice cream I made earlier, all blocked my Oscar Meyer from getting into my belly.

I wiggled this way and that, trying to free the trapped meat product, but it was no use. I could have put the bologna down, pulled some things off the shelf, and gone in after it again, but I literally could not convince my digits to loosen. The bologna was to be mine!

At this point, it also occured to me that I could put the bologna down, shut the refrigerator door, and try to stop being such a goddamn lunatic. This seemed like a better plan in the long run, but it didn't net me any bologna, so it was given the deep-six.

Then, I get the GENIUS fuckin' idea to just yank the package with all my might. Before I could contemplate the pros and cons of such an action, I found myself sitting on the creamy tiles, surrounded by broken eggs, little green chilies, and a semi-frozen Butterball, clutching the little yellow packet of lunchmeat, nearly in tears over the mess and the crazy and the bruise that was developing where the turkey landed on my ankle. I sat there in the mess and ate half the (jumbo) package of Meyer, as well as my entire batch of jalapeno ice cream, a carton of egg nog, a sack of those little baby carrots, and a piece of leftover pizza.

I cleaned up the kitchen, made myself another cup of tea, and parked myself here with my sucky internet, a pomegranate, and a few English muffins. I think I have calmed down enough to go to bed. I also think I have made some progress - I did not have a meltdown. Granted, I cried over processed pork product, but everyone does that on occasion.

And if somehow I wake up tomorrow with any shred of that crazy remaining, it's ok. I won't get into a panic over the lack of paintbrush. My dad has already promised me something to keep my hands busy - I get to play with the 9mm on his shooting range tomorrow.


36 Things Nobody Needs to Know

Since you were all so quick and eager to help me find a couch, I wanted to post that "24 hours" story for you. I promised, and I am a woman of my word.

Except on the days when I am a woman with the IQ of a pubic flea.

I honestly had every intention of posting it for you, but in my flustered must-not-forget-to-pack-anything state, I up and left Pittsburgh for a week without my little jump drive. I forgot to pack it. Now I am in North Carolina, and my story is at home, and I have failed you all after you were sweet and helpful in my quest for some furniture.

I feel so badly about this that I am going to do something for you. I have been awake for 30 hours; I have been in and out of airports all night and all morning long; I am travel-weary and fucking cranky. But you were good to me, so I will be good to you. Tit for tat. I can be nice.

I've gotten a bunch of emails asking why I don't have an "About Crash" section. I have a few answers to these questions. For one thing, I don't understand Blogger well enough to set one up. I don't know if it is even possible, and I am too "busy" (lazy) to figure it out.

I also have qualms with creating said section because Tucker has one. Tucker has his site, I have mine. I do not intend for it to be a carbon copy.

Apparently, however, you do.

Someone emailed me one of those internet surveys and asked that I fill it out and post it, in place of having an "About" section. The questionaire that was sent to me is suspiciously similar to the one Bunny just posted on her blog a few days ago. Actually, it's not similar, it's the same goddamn one.

I could bitch about the lack of originality in asking me to do something that has already been done - but I won't. I'm playing NiceCrash today, remember? I'm going to answer the questions, ask that you forgive me for being a forgetful assclown, take a shower, and go to sleep. You can read the answers, forgive your beloved, think about me showering, and cross fingers that I survive a week with my stepmother.

1. What time did you get up this morning? I have been awake since eight a.m. - yesterday.

2. Diamonds or pearls? I wear diamond earrings and two weeks ago I stole a plastic pearl necklace from some whore when I was not quite sober.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Jarhead.

4. What's your favorite TV shows? That question is poorly written. The answer is Sex and the City. For this, I am ashamed.

5. What did you have for breakfast this morning? A bottle of POM Wonderful. And I swallowed my gum during take-off.

6. What's your favorite cuisine? I eat anything.

7. What foods do you dislike? Hotpockets. The mongoloid that invented those can bite my bush. Or could, if I didn't shave. That was a two-fer; not one but TWO useless bits of Crash trivia. Lucky.

8. What is your favorite chip flavor? Chips suck.

9. What's your favorite CD at the moment? The Good Life's Album of the Year

10. What kind of car do you drive? I had my wallet stolen a year ago and never got around to getting a new driver's license, and I never pay my parking tickets so the city of Pittsburgh took my car. Needless to say, I do little driving these days.

11. Favorite sandwich? Primanti Brothers. The black angus steak one.

12. What characteristics do you despise? This is too vague and I am too tired. Not answering. Guess that sort of negates the two-fer I gave you.

13. What is your favorite type of clothing? Boyshort underwear. Gift from the gods.

14. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? Vietnam.

15. What color is your bathroom? White...ish.

16. Favorite brand of clothing? H&M and D&G. I mean that, I'm not trying to be cute.

17. Where would you retire? You're going to have to ask me this after I've seen the world.

18. Favorite time of the day? Any time I have food in front of me. And the busiest hours of the night at the bar when I'm working.

19. What was your most memorable birthday? My favorite is my 21st, but I don't have any actual cogent memories of it.

20. Where were you born? Holy Cross Hospital

21. Favorite sport to watch? Football.

22. Who do you least expect to send this back to you? It was already sent to me.

23. Person you expect to send it back first? I don't want it sent to me again...

24. What fabric detergent do you use? Cheer.

25. Were you named after anyone? My paternal grandfather.

26. Do you wish on stars? I live in Pittsburgh. We don't have stars, we have clouds and dirt and homeless people. I guess I could look up and wish on the sneakers that hang from every block of powerline.

27. When did you last cry? It was like a week ago. I watched Blow and was a complete wreck. I know; what a fucking pansy. But I can't believe she never visited her pops in jail. What a bitch.

28. Do you like your handwriting? I do, actually. But that is only because I used to hate it so I trained myself to have artsy-fartsy script. I'm a loser.

29. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Like hell.

30. Are you a daredevil? Do I need to answer this?

31. Do looks matter? Yes.

32. How do you release anger? I talk to my friend... Jager.

34. What were your favorite toys as a child? My Ewok treehouse. Goddamn I loved the Ewoks.

35. What class in High School was totally useless? I went to a science and tech magnet high school. I hated it at the time but in retrospect I learned a lot.

36. What is Your Favorite dessert? Creme brulee and orgasms. Together.

For the record - that was pointless, and I'm kind of pissed off that I chose to do that instead of sleep. The things I do for you.


An Email to Tucker Max

You got me kicked out of a bar last night.

I'm out with two friends, and as I'm trying to order our drinks, some
obnoxious fat broad comes up and interrupts me. My buddy says something
dumb, along the lines of "Are you interrupting her? Do you even know
who she is? Have you ever heard of Tucker Max?" Before I can nudge him
and tell him to shut-up, she says, "Oh, I've more than heard of him,
buddy. I've fucked him."

There is no way. I couldn't even pay you to poke this dog. I start
laughing, and I say, "No. You absolutely did not."

She pretends to be offended and says that yes, she definitely did, and
not only did she fuck you, but she had a threesome with you and THE
TATTOO GIRL, and didn't we know that that happened in Pittsburgh?

The two guys I'm with lose their shit, cannot stop laughing at this
girl, because now we all know she's full of it. Blah blah blah, I keep
egging her on to see how far she'll take her bullshit, and finally
she's just like, "Look, I'll call him right now."

Bitch pulls out a phone, dials some number, then she puts this
douchebag on speaker phone. He claims to be you, blah blah blah, the
three of us are in tears, and the fat whore is getting angrier and
angrier that we don't believe her. Finally, in her drunk rage, she
fucking throws her beer at us. Somehow this gets my friends and I
thrown out, but as we're walking away, I see her sneering at us through
the big front window. I walk over and unzip my pants, drop them, and
press my hip to the window. My own little Good Will Hunting moment. The
look on her face was worth being covered in Amstel Light in late

Much much later that night, we're walking down the street and run into
a friend of ours, who was headed into Kopy's (the bar we'd been removed
from). He asked us to go, and I told him we'd gotten kicked out

Then he tells me that he was in Kopy's earlier that night, as well -
and then he adds, "Oh, babe, I almost called you - there was some fag
in the bathroom while I was taking a piss, on the phone with someone,
claiming to be that Tucker dude you're friends with."


Couch, bitches. COUCH.

My story is done, but I am withholding. I will post it when you people give me what I want and need.

I want a couch. I need a couch.

I have become a woman possessed. I have ordered, and then cancelled, at least seven couches online. Too expensive, too big, too ugly. I have scoured Craigslist, estate sales, Salvation Army. IKEA furniture makes my eyes itch. I have run out of avenues, and don't know where else to look.

This is where you come in. YOU start looking for couches for me. It cannot be ugly, and it cannot be huge. Futons are acceptable; a sleeper-sofa would be better. Leather is nice. Solid colors are a must; if you find me a plaid couch I will buy a dog just to sic him on you.

I'm going to shower instead of scouring the internet for one, lay off the coffee a little bit, and maybe go for a run. I am going to stop obsessing over furniture for one whole hour. And when I come back from a run, tired and out of breath, I'm going to have to sit on the floor, since I don't have anywhere else to put my ass. I will do this until you complete your mission.

Goodluck, and godspeed.


Hate mail, patience, and lazy Crash

I have taken down the "24 Sluttiest Hours of My Life," but only temporarily. As soon as I'm done, I'll repost it in its entirety. I'm a student (a shitty one, but still) and I'm addicted to my job - the combination of liquor and senior finals have turned me into a lazy fuck lately. I promise I'll finish it soon.

I don't regularly read the comments left here; I'll peruse them every now and then, but I pay a lot more attention to my emails, which take up a lot more of my time since I make it a point to respond to all of them. Since I was deleting that last entry, however, I figured I would give all of the comments a good once-over, since they were soon to be lost forever.

A couple of people called me out on my, as well as my friends', drinking abilities. These people are clearly in highschool; I'm guessing sophomores. Quick bio lesson: the human body is programmed to, over time, build up a tolerance to just about every foreign molecule - including Absolut. When I write about a time I have been seriously taking liquor to the face, I'm not fronting as though I'm superhuman. Were you to witness some of these events in person, my friends and I actually look and act fairly subhuman; most conversations are indecipherable to witnesses and most actions cannot be justified or explained. That said, it takes a lot to get us to that point, because we do it often. Once you've managed to sneak a few more Miller Lights from your father's fridge in the garage, you'll start to understand.

People have left comments accusing me of emulating Tucker. To these people - no shit. Have you seen the title of my blog? Have you read The Tattoo Story? It's not plagiarism, it's working from inspiration.

The majority of the comments were actually very nice, and I appreciate it. I even respect the comments of people who are criticising, as long as they have something legitimate to say. You can hate; it's cool with me. As long as you're saying something marginally intelligent, I appreciate your taking the time to respond. That's why none of my emails - even the nasty ones - go unanswered.

A bunch of you have suggested that I post my hatemail. Honestly - I can't. I don't really get any. I have gotten over five hundred emails, but only two have been nasty. I'd post them, but there really is no point. One was from a guy who just wanted to say that I was an insecure whore - that's not original sentiment anymore. Trust me, I've gotten a lot of that; it's bland at this point. The other email was from a married woman and was really poorly written; it was just pathetic. Neither were entertaining enough to warrant posting.

Consider this an open invite - I will grant your wishes and post some nasty emails if I get some worth posting.

So - Crash's "Coming Soon!" includes the finished story (I promise), some emails (if they're worth it), and a few other things I'm too lazy to get into right now (like a big travel plan, which I'm going to need your help with). For now - get off the internet and go drink.


The Wedding: An apologetically long Part Three

My aunt catches my eye from her position at the “altar.” She shakes her head with wide eyes, and mouths “Just listen.”

The lesbian proceeds to tell us that, just two weeks prior, my father and his bride-to-be traveled to a mountain. At the foot of said mountain, they gave each other journals and parted ways; Trixie climbed to the top, and Pops stayed at the bottom. For two days and two nights, my dad was allowed to eat and drink not only for himself, but also for his beloved. For her. Trixie, in return, was not able to ingest anything for the full 48 hours. Because my dad was doing so for her. They were each to write in their journals, and, when Trixie eventually descended the mountain and rejoined my father, her camel, at its base, they would compare journals. If their thoughts and feelings during their time apart paralleled, it would be proof that their souls were destined to intertwine and forever blind them to the reality that they were both absolutely motherfuckin’ crazy.

As their luck and my misfortune would have it, their journals mirrored one another perfectly. My father and his dearest were, quite literally, on the same page. Bring on the lesbians and let us be married at once!

All the while the lesbian is telling us this story, I am screaming in my head for her to stop. My father is a neurophysiologist. He does medical research for the United States Navy. He went to the Citadel; he teaches part time at Duke. He is a recovering alcoholic with my stringy, dry sense of humor. He coached my soccer team for eleven straight years. He built us a swing set and taught me to change tires. He read USA Today and enjoyed football and had bonded over the American Pie movies with my younger brother. However, sometime between his asshole daughter’s departure for college and Queen Tofu’s arrival into his life, he had gone from Captain America to Chief Birkenstock. The batik-swaddled lesbian waxing poetic about love and destiny was making me realize that the man in front of me, whose choice I was pretending to celebrate, was a complete stranger to me.

Almost in tears, I looked around the room. My family, as well as my father’s friends, all looked nearly as sad as I felt, and as uncomfortable, bewildered. We were supporting the marriage of my father to a woman who had turned him into someone we no longer knew. It seemed so illogical.

I turned back to face the wedding party, and again looked at the woman with long hair and the weasel tied to her waist. I realized I was angry at her. Irrational, maybe, but that’s more or less to be expected of me. I reached into my long-empty whiskey glass and fished out a few ice cubes. A quick hand movement, a bartender’s trick, and five cubes flew through the air. As they rained down on the lesbian’s head, I could feel the stifled laughter from behind me. No one had seen me do it, but my relatives all knew I was the sole guilty party; not only was it a joke I was known to pull, it was something no one else in the room but I would dare to do. I felt marginally remorseful about not taking the wedding seriously, but whatever; anything in the name of comic relief.

The lesbian, now flustered, wrapped up her kismet drivel and moved on to the next part of the ceremony. Temporary recovery settled over me, and as I was no longer quite so emotional, I picked up my program. The upcoming portion of the ceremony was signified by a single word:


Apparently, in the journals that they kept while on opposite poles of a mountain, Dad and Trixie had written poems to one another which they had decided to share as part of the ceremony. My father read his first, and while I did not commit it to memory as it was mildly uncomfortable to listen to my father wax on about his love for the dumb cunt next to him, I remember thinking it was nice, sweet.

While my father folded his note cards and returned them to his breast pocket at the end of his reading, Trixie pulled out a fucking ream of paper, and begin reading, in a notably soft voice, the poem which she had written for her groom. I cannot recall this poem either; it was so disturbing I had to mentally block it. The only phrases I can recall are “sweaty bodies,” “a oneness of two,” and I swear to the gods, “throbbing manhood.” Halfway through the reading of Trixie’s penthouse letter, my grandmother (quite by accident, we swear to this day) hit my arm and sent the remainder of my ice cubes clattering around the ballroom floor. Even my father seemed grateful for this interruption; he grabbed Trixie by the arm with raised eyebrows, indicating that under no circumstances should she continue.

As amusing as I was finding the ceremony, I thought nothing could top Trixie’s smutty ode, and I became antsy and impatient for it to end. I sat like a bored first grader, fidgeting, not paying a bit of attention. Hours passed (nestled within them is an episode wherein the entire wedding populace gets to sobbing, something my father started, but I’m not even getting into it) and eventually my attention was garnered when the ubiquitous “I do” floated from Trixie’s lips.

I rejoiced. The end was near! I could see the open bar at the end of the tunnel. I sat up and gathered my things, figured I could politely listen to Dad mirror Trixie’s vow, applaud for the obligatory two minutes as the newlyweds exited the ballroom, and then reunite myself with the bartender and his bottle of Jack. It was as genius and as simple a plan as ever there was.

A plan which was about to be – as the entire wedding before it had been – seriously fucked up.

Remember that this ceremony had been conducted in front of a large window, overlooking a cow pasture. All evening long, the large and lazy bovines chewed their cud and swatted flies with their tails and did other cowish things in a respectful quiet; we’d been completely uninterrupted. It was as though they understood, and were waiting for us to finish up our wedding business.

Apparently, they lost their patience.

As my dad was saying his vows, two cows started to hump at the edge of a steep hill. Bear in mind all cows are female; I don’t need to point out the irony. As Cow 1 plows away at Cow 2, the animals inch nearer and nearer the edge of this mini-cliff, until they’re teetering right at the peak. Suddenly, in a torrent of bovine ecstasy and anguish, the room in which we sit and celebrate is filled with the unholiest of moos; Dad’s “I do” is lost and heard by none.

The cow-gasm forced Cow 2, the taker, off the edge of the steep hill. She plummeted to her death as her partner bayed in post-coital bliss, herself moaning as she tumbled. [Edit: My family is divided, 50-50, over whether the cow actually died; seems no one can remember. Whatever; it still fell and it still made a lot of noise.]

All of this happened in an instant. Dad’s vows went unheard; he finished and shut up. The cows silenced themselves as well. Everyone was in complete shock. An entire minute of uncomfortable quiet passed. It seemed that no one knew quite what to do.

No one but myself; I knew what was to be done. Drinking was to recommence, and this ceremony was to be fucking over. You’re in love, you kiss, Amen, where’s my fried goat cheese and salmon polenta? I stood and walked to the altar. I kissed my father, and I pretended to hug Trixie in a loose and impersonal embrace. I turned on my heels and marched right up the aisle and back into the lobby – headed straight for, of course, the bar. Being good little sheep, the rest of my family followed closely behind.

The rest of the night proceeded without much further incident. My cousin 30 was lit after a glass of champagne and spent the evening puking in the bathroom, with a flood of family members running in with cameras flashing and laughter bellowing. My baby brother, as nervous as he was, gave a toast as best man, in my father’s honor, and made me so damn proud that I cried - though that may have had a bit to do with the whiskey I had successfully reunited myself with.

All was well until, after having seen my brother offer up a toast, Trixie’s youngest, Ella, a six year old ball of blonde, decided to match her new stepbrother. She stood on her chair and said the touching things about love that only a naïve and honest child can say – then added, “And I know you two are in love, because I’ve heard you two when you are in your bed together and you can be LOUD and I hear what you say when you tell each other to spank you, and Mommy always says that punishments come from love, so-”

As a hand was clamped over her wedding cake-hole and she was placed back into her velvety chair, my Aunt and I decided we’d had enough celebrating. We gathered 30 off of the tiled restroom floor, blew kisses to the newlyweds, and spent the next two hours smoking weed in my hotel bathroom in our underwear with my brothers. Our brains were in desperate need of some fogginess; we were still too cogent on the events of the day.

Weeks later, I arrived back in North Carolina for Christmas. As I wandered around Dad’s farmhouse, wondering how I was going to survive the holiday, I saw the wedding gift I had given to him and his new wife.

Tucked into an unused corner of their home, out of the way of sight and traffic, was the rocking chair Dad had sat in as he sang me to sleep so many years before. I had dug it out of a basement, had it restored and shipped to their home as a surprise, awaiting their return from a honeymoon in Tobago. I knew they would never be having children of their own, but I had wanted them to find a way to integrate that piece of furniture, which had been a foundation in the earliest years of my family as an infant, into the foundation of their new, infant family.

Turns out, Trixie hated the chair. She shoved it into a corner, and tried to politely tell me that she would keep it out of harm’s way, allowing it to be brought into the living room “just for Jess-visits!” Well, yeehaw, bitch, I'm glad you liked it.

After everyone was asleep on Christmas Eve, I got onto the internet and arranged for my chair to be reshipped to my mother’s home, where it still sits, safely in bubblepaper, in the basement. The next morning, Trixie unwrapped my gift to her – not only a Christmas gift, but also a replacement wedding present for the ill-received and Indian-given rocker...

a bottle of whiskey with a gift tag that read, “Just for Jess-visits.”


Goddamn porn

I knew it was coming; it was a matter of time. My downloading habits have bitten me in the crotch, and my computer is chock full of pornovirus. VAIO is being repaired, and as soon as she's up and running, I will post the last bit of my story (which is written and still saved to my computermachine, TechSupport has sworn). It will be up soon. So, while I adore the hundreds of "I love the story, but post the rest you slackass" emails, stop yelling at me. Love and hate mail is still accepted, but if you try to get bossy on me and tell me what to do, I will send you pornovirus.
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