prose – aMediocreMan

Harold, my first experience with real death

(this is a true story, I witnessed this while driving to work several years ago)

I saw papers flying into the air, a small explosion

like a defunct roman candle, not a bottle rocket

up into the air about 10 feet, then scattered around by the wind

onto the curb, onto the median, onto the hot, Florida concrete

like shards of nothing

quick red lights forced closely to my front bumper

a woman, yelling and running from the fruit stand across the street

I got out, walked around the vehicle in front

The bottom corner of the windshield cracked in a soft ball sized circle

with dirty strips of brownish, black hair stuck between the cracks Continue reading “Harold, my first experience with real death”

another hotel bar

Another hotel bar; I’m on the corner bar stool, minding my own shit, hoping no one tries to talk to me, only thing I want to say is “Yes, one more please.”

Another business man, probably mid 40’s and a little fatter than most, sat down next to me, his eyes scanned the rest of the bar, looking for some strange pussy, hoping some desperate clit will let him in. His Brooks Brothers button up is wrinkled from sitting behind a computer for the past 8 hours and there are visible pit stains. He should work out more, he’s too puffy for a hookup, especially given the 10 to 1 male to female ratio. That’s the typical ratio, damn the women are “lucky.”

He ordered a Glenlivet neat. Shit, the puffy man has bigger balls than most. He’s really trying to impress, really trying to show the rest of the bar that his expense account is for real.

The bartender took notice, but only because the scotch means her tip should be bigger. Her bangs and wrinkled forehead tell me that she’s either 25 or 50 and she’s probably seriously questioning her life choices. He will talk to her about his two divorces, child support and how he’s hoping to retire to South Florida one day and buy a boat. “Do you like boats,” he asked her. She says she that she does, but only because she has to say that so she can make a payment on her Boost mobile cell phone the next morning before it gets shut off again. Continue reading “another hotel bar”

Ramada Inn tiki bar

tiki bar I ordered a Heineken and immediately I’m an alien.
“No Bud Light? No Miller Light?” They know I’m an outsider.

There are four men at the bar and me the fifth. Everyone smoking except for me. One guy is a New Yorker who recently moved here. Another guy is ex Navy, or so he says. Military guys always make sure everyone around them knows they were in the service.

Then two guys who could be gay, not sure, but they have that red-faced look that only seasoned alcoholics have and they are smiling weirdly at each other after each sip.

The bartender is tall, crack skinny with purple black, long hair and looks like she just came off of a meth binge. Her face is stained with pitted, shaded spots and she has a scar on her neck that probably came from a “dream” of bugs trying to scurry into her brain via her trachea. Continue reading “Ramada Inn tiki bar”

extra mayo

steak When I asked for extra mayo on the side, she stared at me with those banjo eyes. You know the eyes I mean.

The eyes that seem to be much farther apart than they should be. Eyes that have watched cousins touch each other in the dark, warm areas only non-relatives should be allowed to touch.

Her quizzical expression reminded me of how a squirrel’s mind must feel when it crosses the road in front of a car safely, then darts back from where he came from. But her expression was far less urgent than the squirrel narrowly escaping death.

“Extra mayo? You sure about that,” she said with a southern baptist twang.

“Absolutely dear. Haven’t you ever had mayo on a philly cheese steak?” I answered a bit angrily.

And why did she give a shit about my mayo ordering habits? After all, this was an Applebees in the deep south and not exactly a bastion for health nuts. I naturally assumed that mayo was quite popular here. Continue reading “extra mayo”

rest areas trip me out

Always an old creepy white guy loitering near the stalls, waiting for someone to take a shit, waiting to wave his wrinkled hand under the divider, hoping someone will wave back, suck him off or play with his old balls.

Why can’t old gay dudes just go to a gay bar, find someone there to fuck, find someone there to touch his taint?

Always a carni-worker, sweeping up trash, wearing a stale, brown outfit, looking sadly at the life that passed him by. Putting up the chain on one of the two bathroom entrances, “this side closed for service“, so he can mop up the misguided piss, clean up the old man jizz, throw away the leftover shit stained scraps of toilet paper stuck to the cold concrete floors, flush the un-flushed toilets and then do the same to the other side. Continue reading “rest areas trip me out”

that bitch on the bread aisle

pants1 It was staring at the whole wheat, organic, high fiber, no trans fat, sodium free, steroid free loaves

It was wearing bright pink sweat pants with the word “JUICY” spread across both ass cheeks, the “UI” sucked into the designer thong cavity, screaming for release.

I couldn’t find the 99cent generic Publix brand hot dog buns,
My eyes strained for the all white bread goodness, its eyes reading labels to disguise an attempt at being healthy.

I wanted to stop staring at it, but I couldn’t, I needed to see the blood from the train wreck, the pieces of bone from the auto crash, the land mine aftermath.

“Excuse me, do you know where the hot dog buns are?” I asked it.

“I don’t eat hot dogs, I wouldn’t know,” it replied without even looking in my direction.

Well shit, my fucking bad, I guess I should’ve known.
It was just a bitch on the bread aisle who wants to be 20 again.

Thanks for the collagen, thanks for the Ughs, thanks for your husband fucking his secretary instead of you. Thanks for the suburban, thanks for the diamond studded Iphone.

I found the buns and walked out with my soul.

pretty, pretty poems

So tired of your pretty poetry, your “intellectual” poetry

poetry that needs a dictionary

poetry that replaces emotion with a thesaurus

poetry that is devoid of fucks, shits, whores and pussy.

So tired of your pretty poetry, your fluffy clouds and pillow poetry

poetry that takes long walks on a beach and marvels at the sun escaping into water

poetry that hasn’t hacked up smelly clumps of the night before into the bottom of a yellow-stained toilet.

So tired of your pretty poetry, your “I’m not rhyming, so please publish me” poetry

poetry that begs to fill a nonexistent void on some bull shit literary e-zine,

poetry that has never been fucked in the ass,

poetry that hasn’t smelled the dirty finger from the stank crotch of real life.

So tired of your pretty poetry.

douche flute in cuff links

“I’m a salad kind of guy,” he said as the waitress looked away in disdain. Understandable disdain from her considering this was a sports bar, not Tavern on the fucking Green.

He wore tight designer jeans, way too expensive shoes, a royal blue blazer and diamond-studded cuff links that were protruding aggressively outward so everyone could see. He was fit, had great skin and tight cropped hair, almost military hair. And yes, his teeth were fucking perfect too.

He had wireless iPod ear buds, so it was nearly impossible to tell if he was speaking with someone in real life or someone from his contact list. A contact list full of hundreds of people who aren’t his friends, but just people who somehow make him money.

He continued to engage the waitress. “Do you have any healthier options.” In an increasingly strained tone, she apologized and said that was the only menu they had. I could feel her hatred growing and I understood it. Everyone at the bar understood it.

He ordered a grilled chicken salad with balsamic dressing on the side and a Stella draft.

As if I didn’t already know, his beer order solidified the fraud. Someone who dresses like him should never drink a Stella. Stella is just a fancier version of Coors Light. What a cunt. Continue reading “douche flute in cuff links”

A Mediocre Man

My middle school science teacher always used to say, “Never strive for mediocrity.” Unfortunately, I’ve been letting him down almost every day of my life. I am in fact a Mediocre Man.

Welcome to my world of prose, poetry and semi-intelligent ramblings.

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