10-15-2003, 03:07 PM
Forward: Last Night, I wrote this piece during the consumption of a 25oz Fosters. I have not proof read it to see if it makes sense. On all accounts, it should make less sense at the end then the beginning. I wrote this mostly because a former poster said he used the former board as an avenue for him to write. Well, here is a goofy essay from me. Who knows, maybe I might write another on on Friday.
Ode to an Oil Can
It is 7:36 when I open you, a 25 oz can of Fosters. You are my intended company on an hour long train ride that will start in 15 minutes. I could have ignored you and instead played Mine-Sweeper or Spider, or even some low level DOS game that I have forgotten to have illegally put on my work computer. But no, I have other source of entertainment, so instead I will write about your virtues and about the trip I travel with you. You are cold and pleasing to the lips, but unfortunately, you have been mistreated. You are as bitter and soured as an emotion from Amy, but that will not stop me from consuming your tonic. I try to ignore you and play a game, but that just barely amuses me and raises my bitterness. Maybe you will become a cathartic release, an emotion enema. We stop at 125th and I drift into mild amusement. The phone rings. Oh! I really should have called my wife to tell her what train I am on, but you have allowed me to forget about her and the moral dilemma that surrounds her. I not brief enough 90 seconds trying to communicate when I shall arrive home is attempted; I panic because of my rudeness and try to be brief but not loud, but I believe I fail. The environment possibly forgives me; I am sure they do not need to know about my request for two pieces of meatloaf, but surely it is more exciting than Parisian fashions, a German Mag, and the impending arrest of 2 relief pitchers. I am sure it is forgotten when the conversation is over, but I could feel their fear build that I would be that loud cell phone guy.
Back to my dilemma. Like I should really communicate to any of you, but I have 40 minutes left and I can either discuss why the guy reading the German mag looks like a cucumber fucking kid toucher or how disgusted I am with traveling into NYC. Fuck it and fuck you. Actually you are really fucked. For so long I have tried to establish the precept that, as a member of society, we aught to attempt to improve society, not reduce it for our own petty desires. You have people out there who hawk and wait upon any racial impropriety so to collect monies and fame. We should be attempting to grow as a people out of silly misconceptions and tendencies towards hate, yet we are constantly dragged back. I have also noted that beside the maturity level, the intelligence level of society has been allowed to deteriorate. I won't claim genetics, but families who value education, who get college degrees reproduce at a lower and have a longer generational gap then those who don't, those whose undesired pregnancies cut short any long term goals and force couples into difficult situations to which they might not be prepared thereby possibly removing the Ying or Yang from a child’s upbringing or setting an example that producing offspring at a young age is a great idea. No, I am 30+ with no kids. Hell, my biggest fear from age 16 was knocking up a girl and having to raise a kid before I reach any point of my potential. I will iterate that I have not tapped any part of my potential, but that's why man created alcohol... to try to forget own mistakes so he can make bigger ones.
So fuck, (White Plains) I'm married to a wonderful woman, one who would get my parents and sisters in any divorce settlement, who is intelligent (not as ruthlessly logical as me, but intelligent none the less), kind, yadda yadda yadda. Oh, and tall, well 5'10", and I hit 6'0" in the morning. Well, despite my better efforts, she gets what she wants, and she wants an eating/shitting/drop-out-of college machine. As I see it, it my unending arrogance, the next generation could benefit from another possible rocket-fucking-scientist. I attempted, I failed, I got drunk. But my kid will have the tools to do it, and I don't think any of her uncles are gay, so it is a possibility. There are just two things: I will be raising this kid and this kid will inherit some of my shortcomings. First the shortcomings: fuck you. You bastards already know them; fucking list them. If the kid makes it past the teenage years without killing himself or someone else that will be a wonder of his/her strength and the fact that I am doing a better job than my father. As for the fact of me being the primary male figure, this kid will be fucked. At two in the car with his mother, I turn back: "What band is this?", "Metali-fucking-ca!" At ten: "You got to be strong, Johnny. Your intensity is for shit! What? Do you want to blow you fucking ride?" At 18 "All girls are psycho and they expect that you want to fuck them. If you are hanging around them and you are not fucking them, you never will. If you fuck them and they are psycho, you're majorly fucked. If you try to be nice to them and don't try to fuck them, they will get confused and hate you. Find them, Feed them, Fight them, Fuck them, Flee them, Forget them." At nineteen: "Ima a fucking A-T-O. Let's find their house and I will do 2 funnels before you can find a cute girl for me to hit on."
So that is my dilemma.... Wait, I thought I was writing about a shitty can of Fosters. Well there's about 2" left and we have just pulled into Pleasantville. I am pleasantly pissed, although I don't know what the fuck I am typing, whether or not it makes sense, or if it would pass a 3rd grade English teacher's desk. But yeah, I feel the pressure you are applying to me down low. It is strange; it's not in the kidneys, but the lower extremities of my willie. Well, maybe another sip will help me forget. Quarter to nine and 25 oz on an empty stomach... will I be able to climb the stairs, make it into the car, get home before I have to pee.... Some how I always do... Well, we are approaching the end, my dear blue can. It seems that I twisted the focus off of you and onto me. Gee, I never do that. People find themselves the most interesting topic, but everyone else I meet never seems to be interested about me.
Last dry warm sip. 5 more minutes and I will be off this train. What a strange angry trip it's been.
Ode to an Oil Can
It is 7:36 when I open you, a 25 oz can of Fosters. You are my intended company on an hour long train ride that will start in 15 minutes. I could have ignored you and instead played Mine-Sweeper or Spider, or even some low level DOS game that I have forgotten to have illegally put on my work computer. But no, I have other source of entertainment, so instead I will write about your virtues and about the trip I travel with you. You are cold and pleasing to the lips, but unfortunately, you have been mistreated. You are as bitter and soured as an emotion from Amy, but that will not stop me from consuming your tonic. I try to ignore you and play a game, but that just barely amuses me and raises my bitterness. Maybe you will become a cathartic release, an emotion enema. We stop at 125th and I drift into mild amusement. The phone rings. Oh! I really should have called my wife to tell her what train I am on, but you have allowed me to forget about her and the moral dilemma that surrounds her. I not brief enough 90 seconds trying to communicate when I shall arrive home is attempted; I panic because of my rudeness and try to be brief but not loud, but I believe I fail. The environment possibly forgives me; I am sure they do not need to know about my request for two pieces of meatloaf, but surely it is more exciting than Parisian fashions, a German Mag, and the impending arrest of 2 relief pitchers. I am sure it is forgotten when the conversation is over, but I could feel their fear build that I would be that loud cell phone guy.
Back to my dilemma. Like I should really communicate to any of you, but I have 40 minutes left and I can either discuss why the guy reading the German mag looks like a cucumber fucking kid toucher or how disgusted I am with traveling into NYC. Fuck it and fuck you. Actually you are really fucked. For so long I have tried to establish the precept that, as a member of society, we aught to attempt to improve society, not reduce it for our own petty desires. You have people out there who hawk and wait upon any racial impropriety so to collect monies and fame. We should be attempting to grow as a people out of silly misconceptions and tendencies towards hate, yet we are constantly dragged back. I have also noted that beside the maturity level, the intelligence level of society has been allowed to deteriorate. I won't claim genetics, but families who value education, who get college degrees reproduce at a lower and have a longer generational gap then those who don't, those whose undesired pregnancies cut short any long term goals and force couples into difficult situations to which they might not be prepared thereby possibly removing the Ying or Yang from a child’s upbringing or setting an example that producing offspring at a young age is a great idea. No, I am 30+ with no kids. Hell, my biggest fear from age 16 was knocking up a girl and having to raise a kid before I reach any point of my potential. I will iterate that I have not tapped any part of my potential, but that's why man created alcohol... to try to forget own mistakes so he can make bigger ones.
So fuck, (White Plains) I'm married to a wonderful woman, one who would get my parents and sisters in any divorce settlement, who is intelligent (not as ruthlessly logical as me, but intelligent none the less), kind, yadda yadda yadda. Oh, and tall, well 5'10", and I hit 6'0" in the morning. Well, despite my better efforts, she gets what she wants, and she wants an eating/shitting/drop-out-of college machine. As I see it, it my unending arrogance, the next generation could benefit from another possible rocket-fucking-scientist. I attempted, I failed, I got drunk. But my kid will have the tools to do it, and I don't think any of her uncles are gay, so it is a possibility. There are just two things: I will be raising this kid and this kid will inherit some of my shortcomings. First the shortcomings: fuck you. You bastards already know them; fucking list them. If the kid makes it past the teenage years without killing himself or someone else that will be a wonder of his/her strength and the fact that I am doing a better job than my father. As for the fact of me being the primary male figure, this kid will be fucked. At two in the car with his mother, I turn back: "What band is this?", "Metali-fucking-ca!" At ten: "You got to be strong, Johnny. Your intensity is for shit! What? Do you want to blow you fucking ride?" At 18 "All girls are psycho and they expect that you want to fuck them. If you are hanging around them and you are not fucking them, you never will. If you fuck them and they are psycho, you're majorly fucked. If you try to be nice to them and don't try to fuck them, they will get confused and hate you. Find them, Feed them, Fight them, Fuck them, Flee them, Forget them." At nineteen: "Ima a fucking A-T-O. Let's find their house and I will do 2 funnels before you can find a cute girl for me to hit on."
So that is my dilemma.... Wait, I thought I was writing about a shitty can of Fosters. Well there's about 2" left and we have just pulled into Pleasantville. I am pleasantly pissed, although I don't know what the fuck I am typing, whether or not it makes sense, or if it would pass a 3rd grade English teacher's desk. But yeah, I feel the pressure you are applying to me down low. It is strange; it's not in the kidneys, but the lower extremities of my willie. Well, maybe another sip will help me forget. Quarter to nine and 25 oz on an empty stomach... will I be able to climb the stairs, make it into the car, get home before I have to pee.... Some how I always do... Well, we are approaching the end, my dear blue can. It seems that I twisted the focus off of you and onto me. Gee, I never do that. People find themselves the most interesting topic, but everyone else I meet never seems to be interested about me.
Last dry warm sip. 5 more minutes and I will be off this train. What a strange angry trip it's been.
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