Metallic ocean waves
will not devour me—
this moment, invincible.
Shaven-headed dude,
his hound veering
across the uneven plaza,
eagerly visualizing
some vague triumph—
shit teetering on the verge.
Beneath this devil sun,
vociferous men,
devoid of socks,
converse sharply
about investments
in rental ventures,
their glances evasive,
ignoring my overly long
verdant straw—
delivering this
shivery salvation:
iced beverage, victorious.
While you are sleeping
they are sharpening the guillotine
loading their guns
sheathing knives at their thighs.
Tiptoeing while you snore
they tie the noose,
deliver the poison,
and plant mines beneath your feet.
In your dream state,
They write the nightmares.
You have no idea
what awaits.
I was fortunate to attend the Pokey LaFarge concert at Terminal West in Atlanta on December 6. I’ve been wanting to see him perform for awhile now and I wasn’t disappointed. You can always tell when an artist or band has been touring for years. Their shows are tight and solid. This was certainly the case with Pokey LaFarge. They played an enjoyable selection of oldies, recents and brand new tunes and there wasn’t a dud in the bunch.
Good afternoon, Debbie.
Pay attention, because I’m about to order the greatest goddamn sandwich you’ve ever made in your short career at the Subway Corporation. How long you been here, baby? Three months? That’s adorable. You wake up inspired every day to craft better sandwiches? I hope so, Debbie, because I’m about to give you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build the most incredible motherfucking Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich anyone has ever tasted. You feel me?
Debbie, today is not just another day of slapping cold cuts and lettuce on bread like some goddamn assembly-line worker. No ma’am. Today, you’re going to transcend. Take your round little ass over to that oven and pull me out a warm 12-inch Italian Herbs and Cheese loaf. Not just any loaf, Debbie. I’m talking about the cheesiest, herbiest, most Italian-ass bread you’ve got back there. Grab that loaf like it’s a feisty colt and you’re ready for some bedroom bareback rodeo.
Now let’s get surgical. Slice that bad boy open, smooth as a hot knife through sweet cream butter. Split it delicately, like you’re opening the legs of a young virgin on a warm wedding night. That’s it. You’re doing great. Now hit me with some thick mayonnaise— and let me stop you right there— you do not wait until the end to squirt mayo on a sandwich. Who the fuck taught you that porn-scene nonsense? This is America, Debbie. Mayonnaise goes on the bread, not on top of the goddamn ingredients. Slather that shit on thick.
Beautiful.
Now we come to a very important moment. Pay attention, Debbie. I’m only going to say this once.
No. White. Motherfucking. Cheese. Repeat that shit back to me. Good girl.
Lay some sharp cheddar on there. That’s the color of cheese we’re talking about. Golden. Bold. Unapologetic. Just like me.
Now for the the star of the show: the chicken. Chicken is the most versatile meat in the world. Fried chicken. BBQ chicken. Chicken soup. Chicken and waffles. Chicken and dumplings. Hell, chicken can be anything. It’s super meat.
You see that piece of chicken right there? Third one down from the top? That’s the one. Put that glorious hunk of bird on my sandwich. Gently now, like you’re tucking a preemie into a blanket.
Next we turn up the heat.
Crank that toaster to 475 degrees and toast this motherfucker like it owes us royalty money.
While that’s cooking, let me ask you something, Debbie—are you familiar with Henry V? No? Let me enlighten you: “It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.”
That’s Shakespeare, Debbie. Cultured as shit.
All right, pull that masterpiece out and let’s cool it down with some lettuce. You know how every movie gets better when Samuel L. Jackson shows up? Same deal with lettuce on a sandwich. Lettuce is the Samuel L. Jackson of sandwich toppings. Pile that shit on.
Now here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna say some words, and you’re gonna add the ingredients.
Ready?
Tomatoes.
Cucumbers.
Black olives.
Red onions.
STOP.
You didn’t hear me say pickles, Debbie. DID I SAY MOTHERFUCKING PICKLES? No, I did not. So why in the holy hell are you reaching for pickles like they belong here? Did Jared himself rise from his dank prison cellblock to whisper, “Add pickles to Samuel L. Jackson’s sandwich”? No? Then back the fuck off with those pickles, Debbie. I didn’t ask for them and I sure as hell don’t want them.
Let’s move on.
To make things right, add two or three slices of crispy bacon.
That’s it, Debbie. You’re killing it now.
But we’re not done yet. You see that shaker of seasoning over there? Pick it up and shake it so hard I can hear your titties clapping together. Don’t be shy. That’s the sound of culinary excellence and it’ll also garner you an Oscar nomination. I know what I’m talking about.
All right, here comes the grand finale. Take that magnificent creation and cut it—not in half—but into four motherfucking pieces. Yes, I know it’s unorthodox, but trust me. It’s the way this sandwich was meant to be enjoyed.
Now wrap it up.
Let me tell you something—I’ve been in over 100 films, Debbie. More than any other goddamn actor in history. But do I know how to wrap a sandwich? Hell no. That’s your department. Just make it tight enough to keep it from leaking on my lap but loose enough so I don’t have to hack it open like a cockpit full of snakes.
Perfect.
Now stick some extra napkins in the bag, grab me a bag of BBQ Sun Chips, and tell me how much I owe you.
What the hell do you mean you don’t accept Apple Pay?
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, August 18, 2015.]
I wish to state right from the start: I completely and without reservation wish I wasn’t dead. If I had been aware of what death would feel like, I would have fought harder to stay alive. Sure, the last few years of my life, I went around saying things like, “I can die now” or “I’m ready to meet my Maker.” Poppycock! What was I thinking?
First and foremost, there is no “Maker.” I don’t know who conceived the notion of mansions, streets paved with gold, or angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, but let me assure you, it’s horseshit. Hell, I haven’t seen a cloud since 1929! The reality is, you’re buried in a pine box, and that’s the end of it. No music, no clouds, no angels. Just you and the darkness. And let me emphasize: this darkness is unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. You could light a torch, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Not that I have a torch. Or hands to hold one, for that matter.
I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I still had one. What I wouldn’t give for anything that beats, pounds, or throbs. This place is too quiet, too dark, and the smell… Good God, the smell! I hate to admit it, but I think I’m the source of it. And it was much worse those first few years, especially with the farting. Did you know corpses fart? Oh yes, decomposition gases. It’s absolutely revolting. And don’t let anyone tell you “your own farts don’t stink.” Those people clearly haven’t been dead. Or farted.
Now, you might be thinking, “Well, at least you can catch up on sleep.” But let me stop you right there. Sure, it might feel like a twelve-year nap at first. However, you wake up with an itch on your face, and guess what? You can’t move your hands to scratch it. It’s absolute torture. Although, now that I think of it, eye weevils are even worse. Nobody warns you about those little bastards. In the first 24 hours underground, they move in, suck your eyes dry, and you just have to lie there and let it happen. Like Mrs. Hogg on our honeymoon.
Speaking of Mrs. Hogg, she’s lying a foot and a half to my left. We can’t communicate, hold hands, or even make love. It’s just like the last twenty years of our marriage. Despite this, I miss Schatzi. That’s what I used to call her. She made the best blackberry cobbler. And her ironing? Flawless. I’m actually wearing one of her shirts right now — no wrinkles, even after decades underground. Sometimes, I try to catch a whiff of Schatzi on the fabric. But alas, I haven’t smelled anything since blowfly maggots hollowed out my nose during the Great Depression. A man can dream, though. Even a dead man. I sure do wish I wasn’t dead.
Sometimes, I try to distract myself by reminiscing about my happier days. For instance, there was this time in Budapest when I shared a sarsaparilla with Mari Jászai. An actress with a doll-like face and a laugh that could melt icebergs. She was engaged, but I couldn’t resist kissing her. She grabbed my necktie and pulled me toward her, then dunked it in her drink. It was my only necktie! I was furious! But then, she giggled that irresistible giggle of hers, and suddenly, we were laughing like fools. See? For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot about the family of millipedes living in my skull.
Here’s the kicker of being dead: you can hear everything. It’s as if my hearing has become superhuman. Super dead human. Conversations from miles away, halfway across the globe — I can hear them all. Last week, I had to endure an Alabama farmer whistling “I Get a Kick Out of You” while milking cows for four excruciating hours. I’ve never been so close to clawing my way out of this bone hole. Not that I could, because — you guessed it — I’m dead.
I try not to complain, but honestly, what’s worse than death? I think about all the moments I squandered while alive. Night after night, I passed out in a scotch coma, while Schatzi cried herself to sleep. I wish I could relive those nights. Instead, I spent my life chasing career aspirations. I aspired to be the Shoe Polish King of the Northern Hemisphere. And for what? Even George Vanderbilt is lying nuts-up in a crypt somewhere. Probably listening to a goat herder yodel.
Anyway, I should return to lying still and rotting. I’m not even sure if this whole “communicating with the living” thing is permitted. The rules here are quite straightforward: Be still. Rot. I’m mostly bones at this point, but I must admit, I haven’t looked this good in years. My suit finally fits, and it makes me want to dance. That whole “dancing skeletons” thing? True. We’d cut quite the rug if we could actually move.
But we can’t. Because we’re dead. God, I wish I wasn’t so fucking dead.
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 2, 2015.]