Dear Caroline,
You know, I always tried to remain faithful to you. Don't know why, as things turned out. But such was my way in those days. I tried and I succeeded in limiting my sexual activities to our bedroom (or backyard on that one occasion). It wasn't too hard to do, because you had a slight kinky streak which put it all over the top. All the times we made up stories to tell each other while locked in the throes of passion...stories about possibilities. My tale of you being with multiple partners always seemed to elicit a more vigorous grinding on your behalf. Your stories of swingers and perverts brought me to the brink of orgasm on countless occasions. It wasn't until you mentioned a real person's name in conjunction with a fantasy you were entertaining that I got scared. All talkin', no walkin' for me. I don't guess it was the same for you. Or maybe it was just that I didn't approve of this particular person you wanted to bring in to the party. Probably not, though. I was unprepared to embark upon the depraved, immoral, unclean path you eventually chose. Look what it got you! Frank!
But I never committed adultery. At least not with you. And I wouldn't have done it against ANYONE were it not for those two gals who were impressed with my band. I tried my best to resist. I wouldn't have done it, I swear, if it had been only one of them. But the prospect of a threesome was too powerful to resist. A situation made even more attractive by the sheer volume of THC that was coursing through my veins in a mad dash to kill a few brain cells. It was a short hop, skip and jump to their house, where the pipe was produced. If there's one thing I like about marijuana, it's how the stuff settles you in to really enjoy sex. Plus, I don't know if it was the dope or the responsibility of pleasing two women, but my endurance was incredible that night. I got about an hour out of it, as compared to my usual 3 minute rut.
Sorry. You don't need to know that. It wasn't what I was writing for anyway. I was wanting to fill in a few details you may have forgotten (or never known) about the closest I came to messing around on you (uh...pretty close, if we're calling it "messing around", but you know what I mean).
I was playing in a rock band...it was the first time I'd had a chance to play that kind of music, so I was happy about it. Plus, I was the one who put the whole thing together, so that made me the "leader" of the band. With such power comes such satisfaction. I did a damn good job of it, too. I love to give orders. I can't abide anyone telling me I should "do it this way" or "do it that way". They're almost always wrong. Better to let me lay down the various laws than to let the project suffer from bad decisions which would invariably made if I didn't exercise my authority. It doesn't matter if they offer good ideas sometimes. Dismiss 'em. That's all you can do. If you realize they really are good ideas (and I can't help but do so, since I'm so in tune with what's best for the band) then you put 'em on the backburner until the person who suggested it has forgotten. Then you pull 'em back out and call them your own. That, my friend, will get the job done.
Anyway, some of the ideas I had about this band were incredibly good. The decision to play Devo's "Whip It", for instance. Everybody loves "Whip It", right? It's not really a hard song to play. So why wasn't anyone else in the tri-state area playing it? I'll tell you why...because none of those bands had a leader with such prescient vision as yours truly.
Another song I chose for us, "Centerfold" (as made popular by the J Geils Band), proved to be a real crowd pleaser. They especially liked the part in the song where I produced a copy of Playboy, held it up so that the centerfold would fall out, and then sang the last verse with a perfectly frightening sense of lechery. Hard enough to pull off such theatrics, made even more difficult by having to do it while playing the bass guitar. I swear to God I don't know how the hell I did it. But I did, and they ate that shit up like honey.
Then there was the most controversial decision I made for the group. I let "The Funk Daddy" stand on stage with us and pretend to play the synthesizer. Truth was he couldn't play any instrument at all. He had absolutely no musical talent whatsoever. But damn did he look cool standing there in his New Wave get-up...he looked like he was playing, and as far as I was concerned, that was enough. A band got a little more serious attention in those days if they were more than just a guitar-drums-bass trio. A synth was a basic requirement if you wanted to be taken seriously. Nobody said the synth guy actually had to be PLAYING, right?
So he was with us the day we played a Pep Rally at a school that was too small to have their own band...and they were fine with it, especially since they were to be entertained by an ass-kicking rock band that, gasp, actually had a synth player.
The show went well, for what it was. They might as well have been a captive audience. They loved everything we did, everything we said, the whole she-bang (especially when the Playboy was produced from out of nowhere). The boys were rockin' hard. The girls, however, were thinking of more than just "rockin' hard". There was a love light shining brightly in the eyes of practically every female in the house. To my surprise, few of them were trained on Funk Daddy. I was blown away that they were actually gazing at me with doe-eyed invitations to invade their virgin worlds.
The choice was mine to make...I suppose that's one of the perks that come with being a natural born leader.
Now, normally I do not like cheerleaders. I can't stand their routines. I can't stand the snobbishness that characterizes so many of them. I can't stand the way it's so important to them that they neglect things that really matter. I don't like the perceived social status that they believe cheerleading confers upon them.
But most of all I just hate the way every single one of them want nothing to do with me. Until that day...and maybe it was BECAUSE of this that I chose a fiery little sprite of a girl who just happened to be wearing a cheerleader's get-up.
Oh, man. She was really cute. I struck up a conversation with her and my suspicion was confirmed: this little girl wanted to know me better. She wanted to know what my dreams were. She wanted to know my hopes and my ambitions. She wanted to know where I came from and where I was going. She wanted to know if there was a place in my life for one such as her. Most of all, she wanted to know what my cock felt like in her hand.
My answers to those last two questions:
1. No
2. Play your cards right and you may find out tonight.
I knew, would go to the game that night and to the homecoming dance that followed. I told the guys in the band what was going down. I begged them to come with me to the game later. They all declined/chickened out. I looked at them with disbelief and they returned a gaze of scorn and disgust (they knew I was married, and that explains that). Fuck 'em, then. Right? It's as if they were starving and someone gave them a cornucopia of food...and they refuse it. Idiots.
When the time had come I got into my tight blue jeans and slipped on my black Talking Heads long sleeve t-shirt (it was a little nippy). If anyone in that little school doubted the breadth of my hipness, they would have to concede when they took one look at my "The Name of the Band is Talking Heads" tour shirt. It was one cool motherfucker, that's for sure.
The trip to the game was uneventful, unless you count the huge, ever-growing erection that pressed my ying/yang against the tightness of the jeans I was wearing. The prospect of the myriad possibilities of the situation had me in a state of arousal I had not experienced since first seeing Linda Blair in "Born Innocent". It was a very real concern of mine that the "moment" would occur before I even arrived at my destination. So I cleared my mind of the erotic fantasies I was entertaining and fixed my thoughts on Nancy Reagan. When this only seemed to further the intensity of my excitement I tried real hard to meditate on the mental image of Madonna. That seemed to work, so I put 'er in overdrive and motivated towards the football field.
I tried not to betray my negative feelings for cheerleaders in general as I watched her try real hard to get the apathetic crowd into it. It was easy to conceal those awful notions when I noticed that she had her eye on me almost the whole time. When a break came she would climb up the bleachers to sit with me. I didn't have to say anything. I was already in the door. She seemed too sweet to even consider deflowering. At least not that night. Maybe later down the road.
The game came to a conclusion with the home team losing. Yet, even in the midst of such sorrow and disappointment there were many, many players and other students who came up to me and praised my band's performance. Some worshipped me because of the leader I am. Others were jealous that I had this fine looking cheerleader on my are. Not a single one knew that I was a married man. Some secrets, I learned, are best kept that way. They all asked, "Are you coming to the dance?" To which my response was a leering glance at cheerleader babe, a knowing look returned to them, a wicked smile and a smirk that let them know that I had a plan. "Hell yeah!" they said. "I should have known! I guess I'll see you there."
The dance was actually quite fun. I had not enjoyed the dances at my Jr. & Sr. proms...basically because I couldn't find anyone to go with me that didn't look like a pit bull with tits. The tits were the only reason I even bothered to go. And they were nice tits.
I danced with cheerleadin' hottie on almost every song. Popular boys would step up to us and ask to cut in. She looked offended and said, "No!" I would look at the guy with sincere compassion, knowing how difficult it must have been to attempt to cut in on a superstar such as myself. Before I felt too sorry for him, I told him to fuck off and die. I didn't have time for this bullshit. I wanted to get what I came for and get the hell out of Dodge.
My expectations for this night were really not high. I wanted to get a good feel of this girl before making the decision to give her the dynamite. It very well could be a week or two before that decision would be made, because there were just too many angles, too many aspects, too many things that could go wrong. So it was not without caution that I approached this initial session. Besides, as much as I thought I despised Madonna, it turns out that her image in my mind nevertheless has the power to make me squirt in my pants. It was a good thing I had taken a spare pair with me. I'd originally hoped to change into them at the end of the night instead of the beginning. It turned out for the best, though, as I became even more convinced that she was an apple not quite ripe enough to bite into. It wouldn't be long, not tonight.
We drove around town for a minute or two in my sweet Chevy Nova with the Pioneer stereo, the graphic equalizer and the JBL speakers pumping Duran Duran. I'd just bought "Rio" a week before and it was fast becoming a favorite (which says a lot about the dismal state of the music industry that year). Cheerleader liked it a lot, too. If she didn't, she'd still say she did. It was the soundtrack to a very special night in her life, for I could tell that, even though I planned on taking it slow, she was hoping and praying to get her hymen busted by a rock star. She knew I was the closest she would ever come, so it's understandable that she would get worked up over it. Her virginity was definitely on the line. She was ready to present it to me like a gift wrapped present beneath the Xmas tree. Free of charge. No red tape. No hassles or commitments...the only thing she expected in return for this treasure was permission to spread the news to everyone in town. Unfortunately the request backfired when her father finally heard the news (which was not very long afterwards, I assure you).
I mentioned that we drove around for a minute or two. That was plenty of time to see what the town had to offer. Plenty of time to SEE THE TOWN 2 or 3 times. So we parked in front of an old gas station that had been closed down for ages. It was nice and dark. The only light visible was from the stereo that I left on, in hopes that we'd still be pitching woo by the time "Hungry Like The Wolf" came on.
Wound up hearing "Hungry Like The Wolf" a couple of times, as it turned out. In the cramped confines of my automobile I managed to get a good idea of her bra size and she found out the answer to her question about how my penis would feel in her grasp. She seemed to like it. At least she did when she could actually hold it all in her hand. If there's anything bigger than my ego, it's my ju-ju.
The only problem (and it was a serious one, IMO) was her mouth. Do you remember in my previous letter where I mentioned how dry your sister's pussy was? Well, cheerleader's mouth was every bit as dry, maybe even more. Cottonmouth to a degree I had not witnessed until I started smoking pot. I dunno, she may have been a swell kisser. I couldn't get over the arid dryness of her tongue, her upper palate, the sides of her mouth, every nook and cranny I could reach with my Gene Simmons-esque tongue (though I did purposefully avoid her uvula).
Still, she was too fuckin' gorgeous. Too cute for words. Now that I think back on it, she was also too young to be daydreaming about a man of my age. As the night darkened she asked me to take her home. She showed me how to get there, all the while snuggling up against my side, her angel's face illuminated by the dashboard light's glow. I knew that the dry mouth situation could not have been the usual state of affairs, and I looked forward to exploring her mouth and tasting her spit at a later date.
But, as you surely remember, I became increasingly guilty as the days went by. It was so hard to lie to you. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it for long. I also kind of figured you wouldn't mind so much what with all our epic love-making storytelling.
I confessed. I told you everything I thought was necessary to tell you. I felt like shit. I was glad to get it off my chest, even though it hadn't been there long enough to really matter. You were a little pissed, I remember. I slept on the couch for a few nights...that's fairly typical punishment for a transaction so relatively minor. I didn't fuck her, okay? So what if I'd hoped to? So what if I WOULD HAVE eventually, assuming that she do something about the dry mouth. But I DIDN'T. That is what counted.
You told me not to see her anymore. Actually I think your words were more like, "If I even catch you THINKING about that slut I'll take everything you own and leave you!" I didn't think you would ever do that (this assumption was proven wrong just a couple of years later when you did just that). But it seemed reasonable. My enthusiasm about an affair with cheerleader babe waned considerably (only to re-emerge at a later date when it became increasingly evident that you may not have been altogether serious in your threats). My interest in her was temporarilly curtailed by your objections.
My interest in cottonmouth cheerleader was PERMANENTLY curtailed a few days later when I got a phone call from her father. I don't know how he got the phone number of the place I was staying. I don't know how much he knew about what went down. Most importantly, I didn't know how serious he was about confronting me with a shotgun if ever there came a time he found out I was within shooting distance of his daughter. At first I thought he may have been angry because she had become like this hardcore radical Duran Duran fan in the days since our rendesvouz. I was a little slow on the intake at that point, but looking back I would probably rightly assume that he was more concerned with her virginity than she was (definitely moreso than I was). He spoke with such authority that I had no choice but to take him seriously. Not only that he was pissed, not only that he had a shotgun, but, more importantly, that he would, without a second thought, use it.
I never told you about that phone call. No doubt you think that your ultimatum was successfully responsible for putting an end to the affair. It was not. She may well have been worth breaking up a marriage, but she was definitely NOT worth taking a bullet in the gut for.
Okay, now you know. If only you were reading these letters. I would love to find out if you were as "faithful" to me as I to you. I know this: you would never have confessed, and I would not know, even to this day. I have my ideas. One of these days I might just elaborate on those ideas.
Until then,
Love,
Orenthio
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Letter #2: Lost my faith, bitch...
Dear Caroline,
How have you been? Has Frank beaten you lately? You know, you really should ditch the guy. It shouldn't be hard. After all, you walked out on me and I never laid a hand on you. I never thought you were one of those women who are so insecure with themselves that they'll let their old man abuse them just so long as he doesn't leave. Hell, if I'd known you were one of those women I might have slapped you around a little. It's not my way, that's true. But if it would have meant not losing you, I think I could have done it. Who knows? It may have been more satisfying than kicking the dog.
Of course there was that one time. But you threw the first punch, so I don't count it. I know, I know...they all say that it isn't right for a man to hit a woman under any circumstances. For the most part I do agree with that. But you were not a "woman" that night. Strawberry dacquaris and cheap weed turned you into an animal...a vicious 4-legged beast stalking the jungle for prey. I happened to be that "prey" and, as it was before so it is now and always will remain, I will not be devoured. So never forget how you stepped up to me and, even more importantly, how I put you back down in your place.
Like I said, if I'd only known you liked it, I would have beat you down on a regular basis. Still, I think it would have been a lot harder whip up on you than the dog. At least with the mutt you don't have to listen to long hours of crying and moaning. A yelp or two and their over it, no matter how bad they're hurt.
So, anyway, I guess you'd like to know what I've been up to the last few years. Yes, for a long, long time I missed you terribly, but I finally got on with my life and as I look back I can see that, yes, some shit went down.
Let's see...where to start.
You know how importanty church was to us? Surely you remember that. Every Sunday morning and evening, every Wednesday night...we could almost always be found at the United Methodist Church. Hell, we should have packed up our furniture and moved in. Devout motherfuckers, but you know what? Every time I prayed I felt like I was doing it wrong. I felt like I didn't even know how to pray and that, if I did, God wasn't listening. I'd read book after book about Christianity and religion, but I never read the Bible. I never gave a damn thing to the poor and I hated the word "Christian", even though I considered myself one. I never spoke with you about it because, frankly, I was ashamed to admit it. Plus, I was scared silly that you'd put poison in my spaghetti if you ever found out I was a "closet heathen".
One thing, though...the pastor there was ace. What a calm, collected, intelligent, compassionate, caring man. So different from most preachers. After you left and I got kicked out of my folks' house he felt sorry for me and put me up in the house where the youth director lived. You probably didn't know about that, but it's just as well. No concern of yours.
But that youth minister didn't like me. He never came out and said it, but I could tell. I didn't like him much, either, because he would always talk about the times when he sold drugs and partied all night long. I never could tell if he was telling me in a cautionary way or if he just missed those days. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, he was still into that scene. Don't know why he would have told me though, if that were the case.
Did I mention that he didn't like me? I think part of the reason for that is because I blew one of his high dollar stereo speakers and blamed it on one of the kids in his youth group. The guys came over to listen to some shitty song I had written and I guess I turned the amplifier up too loud. There was a loud POP and after that there was an irritating and unlistenable fuzz that saturated every frequency the high end unit was capable of reproducing.
It should have known it wasn't a good idea to blame the bozo kids. Dipshits that they were, I know he trusted them more than me. I was nothing to him but a washed up loser with no prospects, walking across town to the grocery store to shoplift a pound of sausage and a can of cheap soda pop. You could see the contempt in his eyes every time he glanced my way. He never said anything to me to confirm my suspicion, but you know I'm pretty good at reading people. And this guy did not want me there.
So it was no surprise when he evicted me. I'm not sure if it had anything to do with the fucked up stereo. Probably that was part of it. I tend to think that he valued his privacy more than his duty to the local Methodist church and it's well-intentioned pastor.
I doubt his opinion of me was boosted when he found several of his record albums amongst the items I had packed up for the move. I don't know, maybe ten, maybe twenty. All I remember is that one of them was "Rocks" by Aerosmith. Damn good record. Last decent album they ever recorded as far as I'm concerned.
But I stray, my dear, from my original topic. Religion.
It all boiled down to this: you left, you took the baby, I said "fuck it all" and I "lost my faith". For years I wandered the great flatlands of Oklahoma without a care in the world for God, for Jesus Christ, for ANY of it. You won't believe this...it's not like me...but for a long time I considered myself a Satanist. I would draw upside-down crosses and pentagrams on the pages from the notebook in which I wrote "I-been-beaten-down-please-feel-sorry-for-me" poetry. Bad stuff, too. Satan would probably be embarrassed if anyone saw his logos on the same piece of paper as my god-awful blank verse.
Hey...I gotta go. Billy Bob just got here with the sack of pot I ordered and the inevitable financial transaction soon to occur takes precedence over this letter to you. Tell Frank I said "hello".
Love
Orenthio
How have you been? Has Frank beaten you lately? You know, you really should ditch the guy. It shouldn't be hard. After all, you walked out on me and I never laid a hand on you. I never thought you were one of those women who are so insecure with themselves that they'll let their old man abuse them just so long as he doesn't leave. Hell, if I'd known you were one of those women I might have slapped you around a little. It's not my way, that's true. But if it would have meant not losing you, I think I could have done it. Who knows? It may have been more satisfying than kicking the dog.
Of course there was that one time. But you threw the first punch, so I don't count it. I know, I know...they all say that it isn't right for a man to hit a woman under any circumstances. For the most part I do agree with that. But you were not a "woman" that night. Strawberry dacquaris and cheap weed turned you into an animal...a vicious 4-legged beast stalking the jungle for prey. I happened to be that "prey" and, as it was before so it is now and always will remain, I will not be devoured. So never forget how you stepped up to me and, even more importantly, how I put you back down in your place.
Like I said, if I'd only known you liked it, I would have beat you down on a regular basis. Still, I think it would have been a lot harder whip up on you than the dog. At least with the mutt you don't have to listen to long hours of crying and moaning. A yelp or two and their over it, no matter how bad they're hurt.
So, anyway, I guess you'd like to know what I've been up to the last few years. Yes, for a long, long time I missed you terribly, but I finally got on with my life and as I look back I can see that, yes, some shit went down.
Let's see...where to start.
You know how importanty church was to us? Surely you remember that. Every Sunday morning and evening, every Wednesday night...we could almost always be found at the United Methodist Church. Hell, we should have packed up our furniture and moved in. Devout motherfuckers, but you know what? Every time I prayed I felt like I was doing it wrong. I felt like I didn't even know how to pray and that, if I did, God wasn't listening. I'd read book after book about Christianity and religion, but I never read the Bible. I never gave a damn thing to the poor and I hated the word "Christian", even though I considered myself one. I never spoke with you about it because, frankly, I was ashamed to admit it. Plus, I was scared silly that you'd put poison in my spaghetti if you ever found out I was a "closet heathen".
One thing, though...the pastor there was ace. What a calm, collected, intelligent, compassionate, caring man. So different from most preachers. After you left and I got kicked out of my folks' house he felt sorry for me and put me up in the house where the youth director lived. You probably didn't know about that, but it's just as well. No concern of yours.
But that youth minister didn't like me. He never came out and said it, but I could tell. I didn't like him much, either, because he would always talk about the times when he sold drugs and partied all night long. I never could tell if he was telling me in a cautionary way or if he just missed those days. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, he was still into that scene. Don't know why he would have told me though, if that were the case.
Did I mention that he didn't like me? I think part of the reason for that is because I blew one of his high dollar stereo speakers and blamed it on one of the kids in his youth group. The guys came over to listen to some shitty song I had written and I guess I turned the amplifier up too loud. There was a loud POP and after that there was an irritating and unlistenable fuzz that saturated every frequency the high end unit was capable of reproducing.
It should have known it wasn't a good idea to blame the bozo kids. Dipshits that they were, I know he trusted them more than me. I was nothing to him but a washed up loser with no prospects, walking across town to the grocery store to shoplift a pound of sausage and a can of cheap soda pop. You could see the contempt in his eyes every time he glanced my way. He never said anything to me to confirm my suspicion, but you know I'm pretty good at reading people. And this guy did not want me there.
So it was no surprise when he evicted me. I'm not sure if it had anything to do with the fucked up stereo. Probably that was part of it. I tend to think that he valued his privacy more than his duty to the local Methodist church and it's well-intentioned pastor.
I doubt his opinion of me was boosted when he found several of his record albums amongst the items I had packed up for the move. I don't know, maybe ten, maybe twenty. All I remember is that one of them was "Rocks" by Aerosmith. Damn good record. Last decent album they ever recorded as far as I'm concerned.
But I stray, my dear, from my original topic. Religion.
It all boiled down to this: you left, you took the baby, I said "fuck it all" and I "lost my faith". For years I wandered the great flatlands of Oklahoma without a care in the world for God, for Jesus Christ, for ANY of it. You won't believe this...it's not like me...but for a long time I considered myself a Satanist. I would draw upside-down crosses and pentagrams on the pages from the notebook in which I wrote "I-been-beaten-down-please-feel-sorry-for-me" poetry. Bad stuff, too. Satan would probably be embarrassed if anyone saw his logos on the same piece of paper as my god-awful blank verse.
Hey...I gotta go. Billy Bob just got here with the sack of pot I ordered and the inevitable financial transaction soon to occur takes precedence over this letter to you. Tell Frank I said "hello".
Love
Orenthio
Letter #1: This husband of yours...
Dear Caroline,
There was something I wanted to write about. I spoke with your brother last night and he told me some very interesting things about the day-by-day goings-on in your life...
This husband of yours...the guy you married a year after you ditched me...word on the street is that he "takes it where he finds it", which I suppose could mean a lot of different things, but in this case it means that he's not very particular about who he buys his crack and meth from. And he buys a lot of it, if my sources can be trusted. More than any normal man should be able to consume, which leads me to think that maybe, just maybe, he's selling it himself. But your bro says he's talked to EVERYONE in the small one horse community you call home, and NOBODY admits to buying from him (and they wouldn't lie to your brother...he's well respected and much loved there).
So I can only assume that he's buying for himself, for you, and for the five children the two of you have sired since I last saw you.
And what the fuck is that about? I NEVER used a condom when I was with you, and you never took birth control. I know our sex life leaned a lot toward fellatio & a wee bit of cunnilingus (not that you were particularly good at the former, but what did I know? It's not like I had a lot of experience getting my knob slobbed). Nevertheless, your vaginal orifice was injected with my semen many, many times and, in light of how you've churned 'em out lately, you'd think that your reproductive organs were fertile ground on which MY seed could could have been successfully sowed. But no...WHY NOT?
I have my theories. I'm sure one of them is correct. Perhaps he gets randy when the meth kicks in. That could well be. He gets high, drags you into the bedroom (though I'm sure you're not kicking and screaming), throws you down on the floor (fuck the bed, eh?), rips your clothes off, thrusts himself onto you and into you, then bangs you like the cheap piece of trash you are. Cheap as hell, trust me, I know. Cheaper than a Kentucky Fried Chicken sack that's been emptied, crumpled up and thrown into the drainage ditch by some teen hustler who had no use for it after devouring the chicken and the mashed taters and the green beans and the corn and the biscuit and HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT EXACTLY WAS IN THE BAG??? FOOD, GODDAMNIT! That's right...food. Nutritional energy to keep the punk ass hooligan going.
That's what you offer your pervy hub Frank. "Food". Sex. The one thing he married you for. But after he's taken it? As far as he is concerned (and the world, for that matter), your worse than a dirty, soggy, moldy, crumpled up Kentucky Fried Chicken sack.
You know it wouldn't have been that way if you had stayed with me...don't get me wrong, I'm glad you didn't, but it's true. I treated you right. You deserved to be treated right back then. But maybe not. Maybe I just hadn't seen your true colors yet. It matters not. I treated you like a goddamn queen. A QUEEN!
It's cool, though. You'll never be lonely now that you're with Frank. But you have to admit that he and I are nothing alike. You'd never find me passed out on the couch with a crack pipe in one hand and my penis in the other. You'd never have to turn off the DVD player when you got home because I had passed out and left it on. Consequently you never would have witnessed the unnatural sight of a woman sucking off a donkey.
And where DOES Frank get these DVDs? Did that ever cross your mind? What's next? As he continues to descend into the abyss of crack addiction whose to say that his sexual peccadilloes won't adjust to his woeful condition? Today bestiality, tomorrow necrophilia.
For God's sake, woman. Get out of this while you can. How far has he already dragged you down with him? It's shocking to me that you saw the donkey show video and yet you are still with the man. What does that say about you?
Take my advice, girl. When/if he kicks into Rob Zombie mode there will be no more good vibrations. The abuse you endure (and secretly crave) will pale in comparison to the "Hostel"-like punishment he will mete out to you. 3 days later he'll be back at Boots 'n' Saddles looking to score and you'll be 6 feet down underground wearing a cheap dress with all your jewelry stripped (all of which, by the way, will be found at the Cash America pawn shop on sale for considerably less than their original value).
Please don't let it come to that. Leave it all behind. Leave the brutal, abusive husband. Leave the 5 rotten, stinking kids, the offspring of a devil. Leave the house that was never a home. Leave the tiny little town where everybody knows everybody else's business (and makes it their own). Leave this once grand state, now contaminated with the likes of your husband and your brood of rabid vermin.
Leave it all. Find a home in the city aqueduct. Sleep in a cardboard box with your head resting on a pillow of solid rock. Conjure up the ghost of Tom Joad so you'll have someone to talk to, but just don't tell him how you gave up the good life with me to make a new one with a man who only married you because he knew you wouldn't "spoil all the fun", as he likes to say.
Hope all is well with you and yours and I'll write again soon.
Love
Orenthio
There was something I wanted to write about. I spoke with your brother last night and he told me some very interesting things about the day-by-day goings-on in your life...
This husband of yours...the guy you married a year after you ditched me...word on the street is that he "takes it where he finds it", which I suppose could mean a lot of different things, but in this case it means that he's not very particular about who he buys his crack and meth from. And he buys a lot of it, if my sources can be trusted. More than any normal man should be able to consume, which leads me to think that maybe, just maybe, he's selling it himself. But your bro says he's talked to EVERYONE in the small one horse community you call home, and NOBODY admits to buying from him (and they wouldn't lie to your brother...he's well respected and much loved there).
So I can only assume that he's buying for himself, for you, and for the five children the two of you have sired since I last saw you.
And what the fuck is that about? I NEVER used a condom when I was with you, and you never took birth control. I know our sex life leaned a lot toward fellatio & a wee bit of cunnilingus (not that you were particularly good at the former, but what did I know? It's not like I had a lot of experience getting my knob slobbed). Nevertheless, your vaginal orifice was injected with my semen many, many times and, in light of how you've churned 'em out lately, you'd think that your reproductive organs were fertile ground on which MY seed could could have been successfully sowed. But no...WHY NOT?
I have my theories. I'm sure one of them is correct. Perhaps he gets randy when the meth kicks in. That could well be. He gets high, drags you into the bedroom (though I'm sure you're not kicking and screaming), throws you down on the floor (fuck the bed, eh?), rips your clothes off, thrusts himself onto you and into you, then bangs you like the cheap piece of trash you are. Cheap as hell, trust me, I know. Cheaper than a Kentucky Fried Chicken sack that's been emptied, crumpled up and thrown into the drainage ditch by some teen hustler who had no use for it after devouring the chicken and the mashed taters and the green beans and the corn and the biscuit and HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT EXACTLY WAS IN THE BAG??? FOOD, GODDAMNIT! That's right...food. Nutritional energy to keep the punk ass hooligan going.
That's what you offer your pervy hub Frank. "Food". Sex. The one thing he married you for. But after he's taken it? As far as he is concerned (and the world, for that matter), your worse than a dirty, soggy, moldy, crumpled up Kentucky Fried Chicken sack.
You know it wouldn't have been that way if you had stayed with me...don't get me wrong, I'm glad you didn't, but it's true. I treated you right. You deserved to be treated right back then. But maybe not. Maybe I just hadn't seen your true colors yet. It matters not. I treated you like a goddamn queen. A QUEEN!
It's cool, though. You'll never be lonely now that you're with Frank. But you have to admit that he and I are nothing alike. You'd never find me passed out on the couch with a crack pipe in one hand and my penis in the other. You'd never have to turn off the DVD player when you got home because I had passed out and left it on. Consequently you never would have witnessed the unnatural sight of a woman sucking off a donkey.
And where DOES Frank get these DVDs? Did that ever cross your mind? What's next? As he continues to descend into the abyss of crack addiction whose to say that his sexual peccadilloes won't adjust to his woeful condition? Today bestiality, tomorrow necrophilia.
For God's sake, woman. Get out of this while you can. How far has he already dragged you down with him? It's shocking to me that you saw the donkey show video and yet you are still with the man. What does that say about you?
Take my advice, girl. When/if he kicks into Rob Zombie mode there will be no more good vibrations. The abuse you endure (and secretly crave) will pale in comparison to the "Hostel"-like punishment he will mete out to you. 3 days later he'll be back at Boots 'n' Saddles looking to score and you'll be 6 feet down underground wearing a cheap dress with all your jewelry stripped (all of which, by the way, will be found at the Cash America pawn shop on sale for considerably less than their original value).
Please don't let it come to that. Leave it all behind. Leave the brutal, abusive husband. Leave the 5 rotten, stinking kids, the offspring of a devil. Leave the house that was never a home. Leave the tiny little town where everybody knows everybody else's business (and makes it their own). Leave this once grand state, now contaminated with the likes of your husband and your brood of rabid vermin.
Leave it all. Find a home in the city aqueduct. Sleep in a cardboard box with your head resting on a pillow of solid rock. Conjure up the ghost of Tom Joad so you'll have someone to talk to, but just don't tell him how you gave up the good life with me to make a new one with a man who only married you because he knew you wouldn't "spoil all the fun", as he likes to say.
Hope all is well with you and yours and I'll write again soon.
Love
Orenthio
Monday, February 1, 2010
Tasty Beverage
…and that reminds me of what may possibly have been the meanest thing I have ever done to another human being. It’s something I would not want to be done to me and I would NEVER do it again. Yes, I wish I had never done it, but there you go…
I was staying at a house in the country. I was sort of watching over it, as the owner lived in a different home several miles away. I thought of myself as “security”, but in reality it was simply a case of a generous man giving a homeless person a place to temporarily stay.
It had only been a couple of years since I’d been released from the Naval hospital, A year and a half since my wife left me. About half a year since I’d stopped taking meds. I’d been booted from my dad’s house by his wife. I wound up at John’s place by chance. I didn’t even know the guy. Seriously, I’d never met him until the night he offered me the place after hearing my tale of woe.
John was the manager of the band my brother was playing with at the time. He owned all of their P.A. system, which stayed at the house, so it actually was a benefit for him to have me there watching over it, keeping it safe from thieves. The house was out in the boonies and it would have very easy for anyone to steal whatever they wanted from it at any time, day or night.
Anyway, I’d been there for a little over 3 months when a guy they called Bear started spending a lot of time at the house. Looking back on it, I wouldn’t be surprised if John had been planning on moving him in to replace me as their “security man”. His wife didn’t like me at all. Eventually I learned that she was convinced I had stolen a gun they kept (hid, they thought) in an unused bedroom. HA! I had no idea there was a gun, where it would be, or even how to use it if I HAD ripped it off.
But that’s neither here nor there. Point is that Bear was the kind of person who grated on the nerves. I was stuck with him on a regular basis. He disturbed my precious solitude, and that was his only sin.
Okay…so there was rarely anything to eat at John’s house. It was almost as if we survived on the Busch beer he left behind. He would stop by every day on his way home from work to check in and see how things were going. He’d almost always bring a 12 pack of beer that he would share with me, leaving behind several for me to enjoy the next day. There was almost always beer. It wasn’t unusual for the refrigerator to have a couple of cases in it, left behind from the band’s rehearsals (which always devolved into parties).
When we did run out of brews, Bear would make up a gallon of iced tea. I never liked tea so he was the only one who drank it.
And this is where we get to the MEAN part…
Bear had been getting on nerves that day. Not that he actually TRIED to annoy me. It just came naturally to him. In fact, I don’t think he even disliked me. There were a couple of times when he gave that impression, but those could probably be attributed to a bad mood. He was a nice guy.
One afternoon while he was gone I took his pitcher of tea, which about half full…AND I PISSED IN IT. I put it back into the refrigerator and waited for his return.
When he came back I was sitting inside the fenced patio, strumming an old guitar that had been left at the house from one of the band rehearsals. I was making up impromptu songs when he joined me. He sat down and listened.
It wasn’t too long until he got thirsty.
He went into the kitchen, found some ice, and poured up a nice, big glass of tea. Then he came back to the patio, sat down…and took a huge gulp. Of course he could not taste it, so he had no idea why I bust out laughing. I laughed and laughed and he kept asking me what was so funny. He didn’t believe when I told him it was nothing. I just dept guffawing.
Then I started playing a couple of chords on the guitar and sang, in a nasally voice and in a manner that assured he wouldn’t understand a single word…
“Pissed in your tea
Oh yes, I pissed in your tea
Ain’t you so pissed off at me?”
I still have this on a cassette tape somewhere, as I had been trying to write some songs that afternoon and used a recorder to capture ideas. It had serendipitously been running during this exchange.
Bear never found out about my practical joke. Which is a good thing, because he was a big ol’ boy, bigger than me, and had very likely been the one who stole the gun I mentioned earlier.
I got booted from the house because John’s wife hounded him to get rid of me. She didn’t think I pulled whatever weight she figured I should be pulling. And the gun thing, of course. I don’t know why she hated me, but, seeing as how I was the kind of person who would spike someone’s beverage with urine, I imagine she had some strong instincts that told her I wasn’t a good ‘un to keep around.
I don’t blame her. They say that “what you don’t know can’t hurt you”. That may well be, but I’d hate to think that my Dr. Pepper had been pissed in somewhere down the road, even if I DID deserve it.
Karma? Oh boy…
I was staying at a house in the country. I was sort of watching over it, as the owner lived in a different home several miles away. I thought of myself as “security”, but in reality it was simply a case of a generous man giving a homeless person a place to temporarily stay.
It had only been a couple of years since I’d been released from the Naval hospital, A year and a half since my wife left me. About half a year since I’d stopped taking meds. I’d been booted from my dad’s house by his wife. I wound up at John’s place by chance. I didn’t even know the guy. Seriously, I’d never met him until the night he offered me the place after hearing my tale of woe.
John was the manager of the band my brother was playing with at the time. He owned all of their P.A. system, which stayed at the house, so it actually was a benefit for him to have me there watching over it, keeping it safe from thieves. The house was out in the boonies and it would have very easy for anyone to steal whatever they wanted from it at any time, day or night.
Anyway, I’d been there for a little over 3 months when a guy they called Bear started spending a lot of time at the house. Looking back on it, I wouldn’t be surprised if John had been planning on moving him in to replace me as their “security man”. His wife didn’t like me at all. Eventually I learned that she was convinced I had stolen a gun they kept (hid, they thought) in an unused bedroom. HA! I had no idea there was a gun, where it would be, or even how to use it if I HAD ripped it off.
But that’s neither here nor there. Point is that Bear was the kind of person who grated on the nerves. I was stuck with him on a regular basis. He disturbed my precious solitude, and that was his only sin.
Okay…so there was rarely anything to eat at John’s house. It was almost as if we survived on the Busch beer he left behind. He would stop by every day on his way home from work to check in and see how things were going. He’d almost always bring a 12 pack of beer that he would share with me, leaving behind several for me to enjoy the next day. There was almost always beer. It wasn’t unusual for the refrigerator to have a couple of cases in it, left behind from the band’s rehearsals (which always devolved into parties).
When we did run out of brews, Bear would make up a gallon of iced tea. I never liked tea so he was the only one who drank it.
And this is where we get to the MEAN part…
Bear had been getting on nerves that day. Not that he actually TRIED to annoy me. It just came naturally to him. In fact, I don’t think he even disliked me. There were a couple of times when he gave that impression, but those could probably be attributed to a bad mood. He was a nice guy.
One afternoon while he was gone I took his pitcher of tea, which about half full…AND I PISSED IN IT. I put it back into the refrigerator and waited for his return.
When he came back I was sitting inside the fenced patio, strumming an old guitar that had been left at the house from one of the band rehearsals. I was making up impromptu songs when he joined me. He sat down and listened.
It wasn’t too long until he got thirsty.
He went into the kitchen, found some ice, and poured up a nice, big glass of tea. Then he came back to the patio, sat down…and took a huge gulp. Of course he could not taste it, so he had no idea why I bust out laughing. I laughed and laughed and he kept asking me what was so funny. He didn’t believe when I told him it was nothing. I just dept guffawing.
Then I started playing a couple of chords on the guitar and sang, in a nasally voice and in a manner that assured he wouldn’t understand a single word…
“Pissed in your tea
Oh yes, I pissed in your tea
Ain’t you so pissed off at me?”
I still have this on a cassette tape somewhere, as I had been trying to write some songs that afternoon and used a recorder to capture ideas. It had serendipitously been running during this exchange.
Bear never found out about my practical joke. Which is a good thing, because he was a big ol’ boy, bigger than me, and had very likely been the one who stole the gun I mentioned earlier.
I got booted from the house because John’s wife hounded him to get rid of me. She didn’t think I pulled whatever weight she figured I should be pulling. And the gun thing, of course. I don’t know why she hated me, but, seeing as how I was the kind of person who would spike someone’s beverage with urine, I imagine she had some strong instincts that told her I wasn’t a good ‘un to keep around.
I don’t blame her. They say that “what you don’t know can’t hurt you”. That may well be, but I’d hate to think that my Dr. Pepper had been pissed in somewhere down the road, even if I DID deserve it.
Karma? Oh boy…
...and that reminds me
The names in this piece have been changed to protect the innocent...and ME. The author does not guarantee that the events described herein are accurate or even factual.
…and that reminds me of what may possibly have been the meanest thing I have ever done to another human being. It’s something I would not want to be done to me and I would NEVER do it again. Yes, I wish I had never done it, but there you go…
I was staying at a house in the country. I was sort of watching over it, as the owner lived in a different home several miles away. I thought of myself as “security”, but in reality it was simply a case of a generous man giving a homeless person a place to temporarily stay.
It had only been a couple of years since I’d been released from the Naval hospital, A year and a half since my wife left me. About half a year since I’d stopped taking meds. I’d been booted from my dad’s house by his wife. I wound up at John’s place by chance. I didn’t even know the guy. Seriously, I’d never met him until the night he offered me the place after hearing my tale of woe.
John was the manager of the band my brother was playing with at the time. He owned all of their P.A. system, which stayed at the house, so it actually was a benefit for him to have me there watching over it, keeping it safe from thieves. The house was out in the boonies and it would have very easy for anyone to steal whatever they wanted from it at any time, day or night.
Anyway, I’d been there for a little over 3 months when a guy they called Bear started spending a lot of time at the house. Looking back on it, I wouldn’t be surprised if John had been planning on moving him in to replace me as their “security man”. His wife didn’t like me at all. Eventually I learned that she was convinced I had stolen a gun they kept (hid, they thought) in an unused bedroom. HA! I had no idea there was a gun, where it would be, or even how to use it if I HAD ripped it off.
But that’s neither here nor there. Point is that Bear was the kind of person who grated on the nerves. I was stuck with him on a regular basis. He disturbed my precious solitude, and that was his only sin.
Okay…so there was rarely anything to eat at John’s house. It was almost as if we survived on the Busch beer he left behind. He would stop by every day on his way home from work to check in and see how things were going. He’d almost always bring a 12 pack of beer that he would share with me, leaving behind several for me to enjoy the next day. There was almost always beer. It wasn’t unusual for the refrigerator to have a couple of cases in it, left behind from the band’s rehearsals (which always devolved into parties).
When we did run out of brews, Bear would make up a gallon of iced tea. I never liked tea so he was the only one who drank it.
And this is where we get to the MEAN part…
Bear had been getting on nerves that day. Not that he actually TRIED to annoy me. It just came naturally to him. In fact, I don’t think he even disliked me. There were a couple of times when he gave that impression, but those could probably be attributed to a bad mood. He was a nice guy.
One afternoon while he was gone I took his pitcher of tea, which about half full…AND I PISSED IN IT. I put it back into the refrigerator and waited for his return.
When he came back I was sitting inside the fenced patio, strumming an old guitar that had been left at the house from one of the band rehearsals. I was making up impromptu songs when he joined me. He sat down and listened.
It wasn’t too long until he got thirsty.
He went into the kitchen, found some ice, and poured up a nice, big glass of tea. Then he came back to the patio, sat down…and took a huge gulp. Of course he could not taste it, so he had no idea why I bust out laughing. I laughed and laughed and he kept asking me what was so funny. He didn’t believe when I told him it was nothing. I just dept guffawing.
Then I started playing a couple of chords on the guitar and sang, in a nasally voice and in a manner that assured he wouldn’t understand a single word…
“Pissed in your tea
Oh yes, I pissed in your tea
Ain’t you so pissed off at me?”
I still have this on a cassette tape somewhere, as I had been trying to write some songs that afternoon and used a recorder to capture ideas. It had serendipitously been running during this exchange.
Bear never found out about my practical joke. Which is a good thing, because he was a big ol’ boy, bigger than me, and had very likely been the one who stole the gun I mentioned earlier.
I got booted from the house because John’s wife hounded him to get rid of me. She didn’t think I pulled whatever weight she figured I should be pulling. And the gun thing, of course. I don’t know why she hated me, but, seeing as how I was the kind of person who would spike someone’s beverage with urine, I imagine she had some strong instincts that told her I wasn’t a good ‘un to keep around.
I don’t blame her. They say that “what you don’t know can’t hurt you”. That may well be, but I’d hate to think that my Dr. Pepper had been pissed in somewhere down the road, even if I DID deserve it.
Karma? Oh boy…
…and that reminds me of what may possibly have been the meanest thing I have ever done to another human being. It’s something I would not want to be done to me and I would NEVER do it again. Yes, I wish I had never done it, but there you go…
I was staying at a house in the country. I was sort of watching over it, as the owner lived in a different home several miles away. I thought of myself as “security”, but in reality it was simply a case of a generous man giving a homeless person a place to temporarily stay.
It had only been a couple of years since I’d been released from the Naval hospital, A year and a half since my wife left me. About half a year since I’d stopped taking meds. I’d been booted from my dad’s house by his wife. I wound up at John’s place by chance. I didn’t even know the guy. Seriously, I’d never met him until the night he offered me the place after hearing my tale of woe.
John was the manager of the band my brother was playing with at the time. He owned all of their P.A. system, which stayed at the house, so it actually was a benefit for him to have me there watching over it, keeping it safe from thieves. The house was out in the boonies and it would have very easy for anyone to steal whatever they wanted from it at any time, day or night.
Anyway, I’d been there for a little over 3 months when a guy they called Bear started spending a lot of time at the house. Looking back on it, I wouldn’t be surprised if John had been planning on moving him in to replace me as their “security man”. His wife didn’t like me at all. Eventually I learned that she was convinced I had stolen a gun they kept (hid, they thought) in an unused bedroom. HA! I had no idea there was a gun, where it would be, or even how to use it if I HAD ripped it off.
But that’s neither here nor there. Point is that Bear was the kind of person who grated on the nerves. I was stuck with him on a regular basis. He disturbed my precious solitude, and that was his only sin.
Okay…so there was rarely anything to eat at John’s house. It was almost as if we survived on the Busch beer he left behind. He would stop by every day on his way home from work to check in and see how things were going. He’d almost always bring a 12 pack of beer that he would share with me, leaving behind several for me to enjoy the next day. There was almost always beer. It wasn’t unusual for the refrigerator to have a couple of cases in it, left behind from the band’s rehearsals (which always devolved into parties).
When we did run out of brews, Bear would make up a gallon of iced tea. I never liked tea so he was the only one who drank it.
And this is where we get to the MEAN part…
Bear had been getting on nerves that day. Not that he actually TRIED to annoy me. It just came naturally to him. In fact, I don’t think he even disliked me. There were a couple of times when he gave that impression, but those could probably be attributed to a bad mood. He was a nice guy.
One afternoon while he was gone I took his pitcher of tea, which about half full…AND I PISSED IN IT. I put it back into the refrigerator and waited for his return.
When he came back I was sitting inside the fenced patio, strumming an old guitar that had been left at the house from one of the band rehearsals. I was making up impromptu songs when he joined me. He sat down and listened.
It wasn’t too long until he got thirsty.
He went into the kitchen, found some ice, and poured up a nice, big glass of tea. Then he came back to the patio, sat down…and took a huge gulp. Of course he could not taste it, so he had no idea why I bust out laughing. I laughed and laughed and he kept asking me what was so funny. He didn’t believe when I told him it was nothing. I just dept guffawing.
Then I started playing a couple of chords on the guitar and sang, in a nasally voice and in a manner that assured he wouldn’t understand a single word…
“Pissed in your tea
Oh yes, I pissed in your tea
Ain’t you so pissed off at me?”
I still have this on a cassette tape somewhere, as I had been trying to write some songs that afternoon and used a recorder to capture ideas. It had serendipitously been running during this exchange.
Bear never found out about my practical joke. Which is a good thing, because he was a big ol’ boy, bigger than me, and had very likely been the one who stole the gun I mentioned earlier.
I got booted from the house because John’s wife hounded him to get rid of me. She didn’t think I pulled whatever weight she figured I should be pulling. And the gun thing, of course. I don’t know why she hated me, but, seeing as how I was the kind of person who would spike someone’s beverage with urine, I imagine she had some strong instincts that told her I wasn’t a good ‘un to keep around.
I don’t blame her. They say that “what you don’t know can’t hurt you”. That may well be, but I’d hate to think that my Dr. Pepper had been pissed in somewhere down the road, even if I DID deserve it.
Karma? Oh boy…
Ice Storm 2010...some photos
We just made it through another ice storm. Lost power for about 5 hours on Friday. Another hour or two on Saturday. Knew it was coming, though, so we were prepared. Snapped up a few decent pictures and thought I'd share a few.
Oh...and this is what a fool like me does when the snow is a foot deep on the ground...
My god, what an idiot!
Oh...and this is what a fool like me does when the snow is a foot deep on the ground...
My god, what an idiot!
Here's a new video that's been released from Jonsi's camp. I can't say I'm too enamored of it. In fact, it's very hard to watch. Meaning "literally" as opposed to subject matter or what-have-you. You'll see why. Nevertheless, you can close your eyes and hear a very nice acoustic performance of a song I can only assume will be on the solo album set to be released in late March or early April. I've heard both dates mentioned, but who knows. They could surprise us and put it out tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, it's a pretty cool video, as far as "concept" goes.
Sigur Ros' website reports that there will NOT be a new SR album this year. Orri and his wife just had a baby. Georgi and Kjartan also have young children to care for. I assume they will not be touring (and that SUCKS!). Jonsi will spend a month in the States promoting "Go", but the chances of him making a stop in Oklahoma are mighty slim. Maybe in Texas, but with finances the way they are now I don't think I'd be able to make the trip. Bad news all around, eh? Still, it's good to have something SR-related coming down the pike. Hopefully it will tide me over until next year.
Bethnal Green, London. January 28th, 2010 from Jónsi on Vimeo.
Sigur Ros' website reports that there will NOT be a new SR album this year. Orri and his wife just had a baby. Georgi and Kjartan also have young children to care for. I assume they will not be touring (and that SUCKS!). Jonsi will spend a month in the States promoting "Go", but the chances of him making a stop in Oklahoma are mighty slim. Maybe in Texas, but with finances the way they are now I don't think I'd be able to make the trip. Bad news all around, eh? Still, it's good to have something SR-related coming down the pike. Hopefully it will tide me over until next year.
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