comedy – Page 2 – aMediocreMan

Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar

roo I parked on a side street and walked towards the bar. A couple was sitting at one of the tables directly next to the bar door.

The man looked liked a biker; he was tall, too thin (almost crack thin), had a black skull & bones do-rag on his head, old stonewashed jeans and roughed up leather boots. He was smoking Marlboro Reds and drinking beer from a tall glass.

The woman with him looked worn. Her leathery skin made her look about 55 years old, but she was probably 30. She had what local Floridians call “crocodile” skin; dry and cracked. She seemed a little fucked up. Not drunk, probably just some pills.

She had a white chicken on her left shoulder. He/she was just sitting on her shoulder looking nervously around, like chickens do.

“Is that a chicken on a crocodile-skinned woman’s shoulder sitting outside a bar,” I silently asked myself. I knew 100% that I had never dropped acid, but I was suddenly wondering if someone slipped me some.

People walking by were marveling at this sight. Apparently I wasn’t the only person dumbfounded by this fuckery.

A man stopped and asked her, “Is that a pet chicken, can I pet it?”

Crocodile-skin lady smiled, revealing a missing tooth right where the vampire tooth is supposed to be, “Yep, he’s our pet chicken. His name is Chuck. Yep, Chuck the Chicken. Go ahead and pet him,” she said. Continue reading “Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar”

Meat counter nightmare

earth-fare-meat-case (This is a 100% true story)

I walked up to the meat/seafood counter and took a number. It was the number 12. I always like a good, even number.

“What’s kimchi?” she asked the employee behind the counter.

She was probably in her early 30’s, dressed in way too expensive workout pants and top. She had a toddler in the front of her cart who was whining a lot. I wasn’t sure if the toddler was a boy or a girl.

The employee explained that kimchi was a type of spicy, fermented Asian cabbage. She quickly became disinterested when the word “fermented” floated into the air. Her face wrinkled a bit as if she just ate some bad sushi.

She then pointed into the meat case and asked, “How about ground chicken? Is that ground chicken good?”

He told her that she was pointing at boneless chicken thighs and that there may be some ground chicken a few feet away in the refrigerated section. She appeared confused and now the employee was becoming noticeably agitated.

The boy/girl toddler continued to whine. The mom handed he/she a candy of some sort which reduced the whine to some even more annoying sucking and slurping sounds.

Fuck me, I just needed two pieces of salmon. How long was this going to take? This is the risk I take going to Earth Fare, a fancy grocery store similar to Whole Foods. Most of the shoppers here exhibit the highest level of douchery. Continue reading “Meat counter nightmare”

My Savior Is Tougher Than Nails

shirt I went to my local grocery store to get a few things yesterday. I was getting some butter when an older man, about 60 or so was heading towards me pushing a cart. I always buy the Kerrygold Irish butter, it’s fucking delicious.

He wore a black shirt with a huge cross and quote on it that said, “My Savior Is Tougher Than Nails.” His hair was long and white and his skin weathered.

There was even blood painted on the ends of the nails. When you think about it, it really is a sadistic shirt.

I couldn’t help but wonder about what fucking sicko would wear a shirt like that. By wearing it in public he was obviously saying to the world, “Fuck your beliefs and fuck whoever your savior is because my savior is way more bad-ass than yours.”

So fucking American of him. We are bigger, badder and fuck you if you don’t like it.

Personally, it seems like his savior kind of failed. I mean shit, being nailed to the cross really did him in. Sounds like he was kind of a big, giant pussy. (I mean no disrespect to vaginas.) I love vaginas and I’m truly sorry that I often refer to people I don’t like as “pussies,” but it just feels right. I’m old school like that.

I wanted to say something to him, but my balls just aren’t that big.

I wanted to say, “Hey asshole, you know what???? My savior is late night McDonald’s. The fries are so delicious it makes me forget about the horse-meat burgers. And guess what??? My savior will always be here for me. McDonald’s will never give up.”

grocery checkout line

In the checkout line. A woman, around 60 or so reading one of those gossip magazines while the cashier slowly pulls the items down the mechanical beltway towards the plastic bags.

“Brad and Jen???? Did I miss something, when did they get back together? Didn’t she adopt a bunch of kids or something?”

“Well, you know when she did that weird, whatever you call it these days…… with that Billy Bob guy, I just knew something was wrong with her,” replied the cashier.

The customer laughs making her huge tits bounce around while her pudgy jowls jiggle. “You know Jen never can seem to keep a man. Makes you wonder what kind of woman, especially someone as rich as her, can’t keep a man. Such a shame, such a shame.”

She put the magazine back on the shelf. “I just don’t have time to read the whole story. I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. There’s always a reason.”

I wanted so badly to explain to these cackling fools the difference between Jen and Angelina, but it wouldn’t matter. Two people at a grocery store doing what us, dumb Americans do best; buying a bunch of food we don’t need and marveling at the bull-shit world of celebrity.

a hipster massage

(This is from my website: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com)

Scene: Clemmy goes to Jude’s apartment to give him a massage. He is still floating in his Xanax dream when she arrives. She is wearing a robe to hide the clothes underneath so it will be a surprise.

Clemmy walked in to Jude’s apartment and he greeted her with a languid, sloppy hug.

“Wow, those pills really seem to be working. Now take your shirt off, lay on the coffee table because I’m about to blow your mind,” she said.

From her gingham bag, Clemmy pulled out four patchouli candles, patchouli massage oil and her cassette player. With Jude laying face down on the coffee table she lit the candles, dropped her robe to the ground and pushed “play” on the cassette.

Thelonious Monk live in Paris 1967 filled the air as she dimmed the lights.

She dripped the patchouli massage oil on the middle of Jude’s upper back and whispered into his ear:

“Just relax my sweet Jude. Picture yourself riding your fixed-gear bike alone on the beach as the waves gently splash the shore while I await you with a vegan Kale shake.”

Jude let out a soft moan as he began to sink into the coffee table like it was luxurious Marriott hotel pillow. Continue reading “a hipster massage”

another Florida hotel bar

bar woman Another hotel and another hotel bar in Florida.

An older lady, mildly attractive wearing a beige pant suit ordered a beer and burger from the bistro. Her perfume was too strong. It reminded me of opening a Cosmopolitan magazine when I was a kid. The fragrance ads were always out of control, but I kept looking because the models were sexy.

The 20-something girl working the counter politely told her it would be ready soon. She appeared older than she was; hair somewhat disheveled and wrinkles were already creeping in around the lower part of her eyes. Continue reading “another Florida hotel bar”

An ode to Mountain Dew

According to Wikipedia, in 1940 two Tennessee beverage bottlers named Barney and Ally Hartman invented the formula for Mountain Dew.

Below is my tribute to those two fine men:

I walked into the 7-11 and quickly made my way to the back of the store where the drink coolers are located. Immediately, I could see it staring back at me.

The 12-ounce, green canned goddess looking into my eyes.

It was screaming, “Touch me, open me, drink me down you dirty boy. I won’t quench your thirst, but I taste so good, so slippery and so sugary. Everyone is drinking me, just take me, take me now.”

I couldn’t resist, I grabbed it and jumped to the cashier and butted in front of an old lady with blue hair and a walker. I couldn’t wait.

Beads of sweat began trickling down my forehead towards my nose. The cashier looked at me like I was a crack or meth head looking for my next hit. Well, she wasn’t that far off.

Much like meth addiction, if I continue my assault on these green canned goddesses, my teeth are sure to start dropping out of my mouth indiscriminately.

She scanned the bar-code, “that will be $1.06 please,” she said as she annoyingly chewed her gum and twirled her poorly bleached blond hair. Continue reading “An ode to Mountain Dew”

destroying a toilet

(I have some deep-seeded public restroom issues.)

The Scene: My wife and I at a tapas restaurant sitting at the bar.

The Event: I felt a pain in my stomach that almost knocked me off my bar stool. Although loud music playing in the bar area, I think everyone in the place could hear the rumble inside my belly. I told my wife I had to pee and found the bathroom.

It was like a mini-gastric-earthquake ripping through my body. I dropped my pants and the second my pasty, white cheeks touched the porcelain seat, EXPLOSION!!! It was like a giant cow patty. Final, relief was mine…….. for the moment.

The Problem: I cleaned myself and reached to flush. HOLY, FUCKING, SHIT………… the toilet would not flush. MAYDAY, MAYDAY………the toilet would not flush.

I pulled the back lid off and started tinkering with the mechanical innards, but nothing worked. My cow patty was not going anywhere.

Decision time: I washed my hands quickly and carefully cracked the door to see if anyone was waiting in the hallway. The coast was clear so I walked briskly back to the bar and stood next to my wife at the bat.

“Wow, that sure was a long pee. Aren’t you going to sit down,” she said.

“Nope, it’s time to go. We have to leave now,” I said as I put down plenty of cash next to our plates.

As we were walking out the door, I looked back over my shoulder and noticed a few employees gathering in the bathroom where I left my destruction.

Relief, it was a close call.

I like glue in my coffee

(This was from a writing prompt on the old blog site Xanga, called “I like glue in my coffee”. I’m still not sure why I did this.)

I like glue in my coffee because I’m a white, gangster, mutherfucking bitch. Fuck the cream and sugar, I rip tags off mattresses bitches.

When my teacher told me not to eat the glue, I stood up at my desk and said, “I don’t need to eat the glue bitch, I like glue in my coffee mutherfucker.” She sent me to the office and the principal asked me what my problem was.

I told him, “Fuck you honkey, cracker bitch, you wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be a middle-class white kid trying to make a dollar and pass the sixth grade. Shit is real in my neighborhood, the HOA is cracking down on people parking on the streets and making my parents keep the landscaping presentable. That’s why I like glue in my coffee bitch, because it eases the stress.”

He told me if I had one more outburst that he was going to expel me.

So I replied, “That’s why I like glue in my coffee mutherfucker, because I want to get expelled, go to an alternative school where I will fit in better nigga’. I’m tired of all these trick ass ho’s trying to make me do math and read and shit. That’s why I like glue in my coffee.”

Face in the pillow (hipster sex)

(This is from my hipster blog: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com It’s a hipster/emo love story)

After the protest, Clemmy found herself sexually attracted to Jude like never before. Watching him stand up to Billy Emo without a shed of fear absolutely toasted her hairy loins.

His new-found manliness reminded her of a quote in Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer; “I have found God, but he is insufficient.” Jude was her God now.

“Tonight’s the night. Take me to your apartment and put my face in the pillows,” she whispered into his ear.

She wanted to be ravaged by her man. She wanted her stud to relieve all those weeks of built-up tension and anxiety. She wanted her man to provide that cathartic release she had been missing for so long.

Hand in hand, they both rushed to Jude’s apartment; his mustache blowing in the wind and her female scent escaping into the night air. They barely made it inside the door before Jude’s tongue was licking the side of her face. His greasy mustache brushed up and down her cheek, turning her skin red.

She let out a strangled moan of sheer, hipster ecstasy. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh.”

In one motion, he pushed her through the doorway, spun her around almost violently onto his couch. He pushed her face into the couch pillows, pulling her butt into the air as her back arched. Continue reading “Face in the pillow (hipster sex)”