I don’t recommend going to see The Fourth Kind. The Fourth Kind is just too damn frightening. And you’ll be furious with yourself for ever being scared when afterwards you do the research and discover that none of the “real” footage was real.
Come to think of it, I’ll bet there are already a lot of blogs on the topic of this film’s authenticity. And I’m willing to bet they all say pretty much the same thing. So I’ll spare you an accidental carbon copy of something you can most certainly find elsewhere. Instead, I’ll share with you an account on how scared shitless I was.
What is it about way-too-wide, slack-jawed human mouths that’s so goddamn frightening? Remember The Ring? Remember the girl in the closet, the dead one with the green face and way-too-wide, slack-jawed mouth? What is it about that expression that makes my skin crawl? Could it be the grotesque factor – the idea that a mouth should be stretched to such a misshapen extent? Certainly there is a corporeal gross-out in the equation. But it’s more than that. It’s the idea that the mouth, warped to such a degree, has been so afflicted NOT by the creative use of, say, a car jack, but by the workings of its own muscles. What plane of stanch fear must one be elevated to as to cause such a commanding, mutilating neurological response? What terror is so great as to inspire muscle to betray the innate propensities for self-preservation, to tear flesh and shatter bone? I can’t say. And honestly, neither can the makers of The Fourth Kind. Well, they don’t show it on the screen anyhow. What they do show is the human response to such horrors. And that in itself is plenty to inspire marrow-chilling revulsion in a captive audience.
As I watched this film my stomach was brimming with beer and popcorn and extra-cheese, extra-beef nachos. At the first scare, my stomach began to roll, churning the junk from its spackled walls and keeping it liquid in the tradition of a cement mixer. The second scare arrived, the one where the guy floats like Linda Blair in The Exorcist as his mouth tears to a far-too-large, broken-jawed hole. That’s when the turtle head emerged. It was a very wet turtle head, very threatening. But I clamped that guy off, my sphincter a veritable guillotine, and tight as a submarine airlock. But nothing could prepare me for that final scare. Not with the audio, a guttural and callous recitation of ancient Sumerian, the voice of a thing from Hell. And in its accompaniment were the evil eyes, and the mouth! The way-too-wide, broken-jawed mouth!
That’s when my hole gave up and it was out with the splatters. My date sniffed the air. And then she looked at me all accusingly. Her look of suspicion became one of disgust as she noticed what was rolling down my leg. And then she was gone. Out of there. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jamie has left the building.
I got back to my place and took a shower with every single light on and with my pistol loaded and sitting on the bathroom sink. And then I did my research and discovered the truth behind the “real, clinical footage.” Yeah. None of it is real. It was stunt similar to that of The Blair Witch Project, all manufactured and geared toward hype. But try telling that to me at three in the morning when I’m tossing and turning and losing precious sleep, haunted by the fucking images of the way-too-wide, slack-jawed mouth. That movie has me drinking much more heavily than I normally do.
If your health is important to you, don't see this film. Besides, Halloween is over.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Pizza Civil War
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vueKk5tnZWM
Oh Fuck! That’s a point for Philly!
It’s astounding that the Californian could muster the audacity to go on after the Philadelphian and come out strong for a goddamn veggie pizza. Veggie Pizza?!
“Pacific veggie is primo, dude.” That’s his fucking rebuttal!
But in seriousness. If you study this commercial, you’ll notice that the characters in either setting are arranged similarly. So check out the Latina babe to Philly man’s right (screen left). Positioned in the same spot at the California set is another Latina babe, only this one is way hotter. First, her bikini has been cut properly so as to expose more of her jugs. In addition, her hips aren’t blocked from view by the douchebag with the pizza as is the case with Philly man. And last, the fact that she’s eating veggie pizza as opposed to Philly cheese steak pizza leads me to believe that she is a healthier, better lover.
But that’s really all that California has going for it. If you take either babe, and move down the line to their right, skipping over the asshole delivery drivers, you’ll encounter either location's cultural representative. In Philly, this is a monstrous black dude in boxing apparel, mean-mugging the shit out of the camera, ready to kick someone’s ass if they disagree with his nasty taste in pizza. In Cali, you have a spinning-in-circles jackass with a guitar who’s dressed, naturally, like a Middle Eastern bad guy from an Indiana Jones movie. If you look close you can tell he’s on acid.
Philly’s closing argument: “You ain’t got nuthin!”
And the Californians, despite boasting that one slut with the shades and the big honkers, offers no rebuttal because they’re all too stoned.
Conclusion: Philly wins this round. But do they really win in the big picture? Because that looks like about the worst, most diarrhea-causing pizza imaginable. I honestly probably would prefer the veggies.
http://www.larrykincaidland.com/
Oh Fuck! That’s a point for Philly!
It’s astounding that the Californian could muster the audacity to go on after the Philadelphian and come out strong for a goddamn veggie pizza. Veggie Pizza?!
“Pacific veggie is primo, dude.” That’s his fucking rebuttal!
But in seriousness. If you study this commercial, you’ll notice that the characters in either setting are arranged similarly. So check out the Latina babe to Philly man’s right (screen left). Positioned in the same spot at the California set is another Latina babe, only this one is way hotter. First, her bikini has been cut properly so as to expose more of her jugs. In addition, her hips aren’t blocked from view by the douchebag with the pizza as is the case with Philly man. And last, the fact that she’s eating veggie pizza as opposed to Philly cheese steak pizza leads me to believe that she is a healthier, better lover.
But that’s really all that California has going for it. If you take either babe, and move down the line to their right, skipping over the asshole delivery drivers, you’ll encounter either location's cultural representative. In Philly, this is a monstrous black dude in boxing apparel, mean-mugging the shit out of the camera, ready to kick someone’s ass if they disagree with his nasty taste in pizza. In Cali, you have a spinning-in-circles jackass with a guitar who’s dressed, naturally, like a Middle Eastern bad guy from an Indiana Jones movie. If you look close you can tell he’s on acid.
Philly’s closing argument: “You ain’t got nuthin!”
And the Californians, despite boasting that one slut with the shades and the big honkers, offers no rebuttal because they’re all too stoned.
Conclusion: Philly wins this round. But do they really win in the big picture? Because that looks like about the worst, most diarrhea-causing pizza imaginable. I honestly probably would prefer the veggies.
http://www.larrykincaidland.com/
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Book Review: The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian
This is the best book. After I read this book I was so amped that I went and found and axe and chopped down a tree. And then I beat the shit out of the tree with my bare knuckles. But right before that, I smoked a crack rock.
Some dude came out of the back door looking all flabbergasted. He said, “What the hell?!” I dismounted the fallen tree and said, “What the hell you?!”
He said, “How did you get back here?! And why on earth did you cut down my tree?! Are you nuts?! Hey, is that my axe?!”
I’d climbed the fence from my house and into this dude’s lawn and had found the axe while rummaging through his shed. I’d also found a chest full of Playboy Magazines and had stolen them, having hoisted the chest over the fence and into my lawn. This had all happened not but five minutes after I’d finished reading the last story in Robert E. Howard’s The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, which is the very best book in existence.
“Well!” screamed the man. He was wearing a bathrobe and had a dark case of five o’clock shadow and looked to be about forty. “Don’t just stare at me like a lunatic! Answer me!”
I didn’t feel inclined to answer his questions. Instead, I bellowed a savage war cry.
He said, “What?! Who are you?!”
I said, “Conan!” And I yanked off my shirt and started pulling out my chest hairs by the handful.
“I’m calling the police!” he said.
“Frank!” cried a frantic, female voice from inside the house. “Frank! What’s going on out here?!”
The creature that emerged from the shadowy gap in the sliding doors was undeniably female. If the ample curves of the body revealed through the thin, silken gown weren’t proof enough, then there was the long, flowing hair of strawberry blonde which I could smell even given the distance. And the smell was that of flowery pheromones, the signature scent of recently exercised feminine sexuality, the ultimate aphrodisiac, and I realized at once that my tree chopping had interrupted some very special goings one within that house.
The lady said, “Who the hell is that asshole in our lawn?!”
I didn’t waste a millisecond.
I put my head down and charged the back patio. The man tried to interfere and I made him regret it, planting my forehead firmly into his upper abdomen and assisting him out of my way. The woman was suddenly within reach, and, heedless to the fact that she’d looked a tad thinner at a distance, I scooped her at the waist and up she went, over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, one that screamed like a banshee.
She was a heavy one. But I’d been eating my kidney beans and my iron thews held strong beneath her impressive weight. It was primary a challenge of mental taxation. Her fists were balled into weapons and she repeatedly pounded me in the back which was demoralizing. And her banshee wails were so loud, so high pitched and piercing, that I’d not have been surprised if the glass of the sliding back door had suddenly cracked to ruin.
“PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Hussy!” I snarled. “What does it look like?! I’m rescuing you from slavery! Pipe down! Your banshee cries will alert the sentries!”
“Sentries? What the hell is wrong with you? Frank! Frank! Get the gun and shoot this jerk!”
I was approaching the fence, the same one over which I’d tossed the magazines. And now there was the matter of tossing this prize over, this prize that was bigger and heavier and certainly more awkward. But was I a man or was I something else, something weak and incompetent? No. No, I don’t think so. This man makes no excuses. This man does his shit.
I grunted and leaned forward and picked up the pace. The strain on my back was colossal. I could feel the vertebras being crushed together like a tightly packed shish kabob where the spinal cord was the skewer. My shoulder muscles seethed in fiery excruciation, and my eardrums were ready to burst with the overload of horrible, high pitched banshee wails. I gritted my teeth so hard that I cracked a molar. And then, the moment of truth, the moment when the fence, a wooden thing of six feet in height, was close enough for the toss, and I bent and the crunching knees and then leapt forward and –
Together, my lady and I barreled through the fence, converting a great portion to splintery shambles. We crashed down in my own lawn. A rusty nail stuck me in the upper leg, three or four inches from my scrotum. I thanked Crom, The God of the Grim Mountain, that my important organs were unharmed.
The woman was sitting on the back of my head and hollering something I couldn’t quite understand through the barrier that was her huge ass. After several minutes, I was losing oxygen and dying. At last, she got off of me. The police were on the scene. Frank was explaining to them how I stole his Playboys and then chopped down his tree and assaulted him and then tried to kidnap his wife.
As a man of direct action, I was just about to seize the axe from the yard to which I now had easy access through the busted fence and fight the cops to the death. But it soon occurred to me that I was pretty much paralyzed from injuries. The police called and ambulance and I was taken to jail on a stretcher.
The moral of the story: Don’t read The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, which is the best book, unless you’re willing to pay a hefty price.
COMING SOON: GREAT EXPECTATIONS
Some dude came out of the back door looking all flabbergasted. He said, “What the hell?!” I dismounted the fallen tree and said, “What the hell you?!”
He said, “How did you get back here?! And why on earth did you cut down my tree?! Are you nuts?! Hey, is that my axe?!”
I’d climbed the fence from my house and into this dude’s lawn and had found the axe while rummaging through his shed. I’d also found a chest full of Playboy Magazines and had stolen them, having hoisted the chest over the fence and into my lawn. This had all happened not but five minutes after I’d finished reading the last story in Robert E. Howard’s The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, which is the very best book in existence.
“Well!” screamed the man. He was wearing a bathrobe and had a dark case of five o’clock shadow and looked to be about forty. “Don’t just stare at me like a lunatic! Answer me!”
I didn’t feel inclined to answer his questions. Instead, I bellowed a savage war cry.
He said, “What?! Who are you?!”
I said, “Conan!” And I yanked off my shirt and started pulling out my chest hairs by the handful.
“I’m calling the police!” he said.
“Frank!” cried a frantic, female voice from inside the house. “Frank! What’s going on out here?!”
The creature that emerged from the shadowy gap in the sliding doors was undeniably female. If the ample curves of the body revealed through the thin, silken gown weren’t proof enough, then there was the long, flowing hair of strawberry blonde which I could smell even given the distance. And the smell was that of flowery pheromones, the signature scent of recently exercised feminine sexuality, the ultimate aphrodisiac, and I realized at once that my tree chopping had interrupted some very special goings one within that house.
The lady said, “Who the hell is that asshole in our lawn?!”
I didn’t waste a millisecond.
I put my head down and charged the back patio. The man tried to interfere and I made him regret it, planting my forehead firmly into his upper abdomen and assisting him out of my way. The woman was suddenly within reach, and, heedless to the fact that she’d looked a tad thinner at a distance, I scooped her at the waist and up she went, over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, one that screamed like a banshee.
She was a heavy one. But I’d been eating my kidney beans and my iron thews held strong beneath her impressive weight. It was primary a challenge of mental taxation. Her fists were balled into weapons and she repeatedly pounded me in the back which was demoralizing. And her banshee wails were so loud, so high pitched and piercing, that I’d not have been surprised if the glass of the sliding back door had suddenly cracked to ruin.
“PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Hussy!” I snarled. “What does it look like?! I’m rescuing you from slavery! Pipe down! Your banshee cries will alert the sentries!”
“Sentries? What the hell is wrong with you? Frank! Frank! Get the gun and shoot this jerk!”
I was approaching the fence, the same one over which I’d tossed the magazines. And now there was the matter of tossing this prize over, this prize that was bigger and heavier and certainly more awkward. But was I a man or was I something else, something weak and incompetent? No. No, I don’t think so. This man makes no excuses. This man does his shit.
I grunted and leaned forward and picked up the pace. The strain on my back was colossal. I could feel the vertebras being crushed together like a tightly packed shish kabob where the spinal cord was the skewer. My shoulder muscles seethed in fiery excruciation, and my eardrums were ready to burst with the overload of horrible, high pitched banshee wails. I gritted my teeth so hard that I cracked a molar. And then, the moment of truth, the moment when the fence, a wooden thing of six feet in height, was close enough for the toss, and I bent and the crunching knees and then leapt forward and –
Together, my lady and I barreled through the fence, converting a great portion to splintery shambles. We crashed down in my own lawn. A rusty nail stuck me in the upper leg, three or four inches from my scrotum. I thanked Crom, The God of the Grim Mountain, that my important organs were unharmed.
The woman was sitting on the back of my head and hollering something I couldn’t quite understand through the barrier that was her huge ass. After several minutes, I was losing oxygen and dying. At last, she got off of me. The police were on the scene. Frank was explaining to them how I stole his Playboys and then chopped down his tree and assaulted him and then tried to kidnap his wife.
As a man of direct action, I was just about to seize the axe from the yard to which I now had easy access through the busted fence and fight the cops to the death. But it soon occurred to me that I was pretty much paralyzed from injuries. The police called and ambulance and I was taken to jail on a stretcher.
The moral of the story: Don’t read The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, which is the best book, unless you’re willing to pay a hefty price.
COMING SOON: GREAT EXPECTATIONS
Monday, September 29, 2008
Lessons in Ass Nairing
One time my fuck buddy told me, “Hey! If I’m going to be shaving my pussy all the time, then you need to think about shaving your balls, your butt, and everything in between! I’m not the only one who needs to look pretty, mister! Hop to it!”
Ain’t that some bullshit? Well, I drove to the store and bought some Nair, thinking that it’d be a good alternative to shaving. There was something about having a razor that close to my veiny cock that just made me nervous. I felt like a real tool buying Nair and nothing else. So I decided to get an eighteen pack of Miller Genuine Draft as well.
The cashier, a tiny Asian man of middle age, rang me up. I told him that the Nair was for my girlfriend. He laughed and bragged about how his wife, an Asian gal, didn’t need Nair because Asians didn’t have any body hair. I told him he was a lucky man and also how I’d sure like to bone ...
read more at http://wholarrykincaid.googlepages.com/lessonsinassnairing
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I asked my best friend Donkey Douglas to come take a look at something. From his seat on the couch, he looked over at me and then quickly looked away saying, “Hell no, motherfucker!”
“Hell no yourself!” I yelled. “Get over here and help me out! Fuck it. I’ll come to you. Now, is this a spider bite or what?”
Donkey said, “No, dude. That’s definitely a dick wart.”
I said, “Shit! I thought as much. Well …” And I went and got the toaster out of the kitchen and took it to the bathroom were I’d filled the tub to the brim.
read more at http://wholarrykincaid.googlepages.com/dickwartsanonymous
“Hell no yourself!” I yelled. “Get over here and help me out! Fuck it. I’ll come to you. Now, is this a spider bite or what?”
Donkey said, “No, dude. That’s definitely a dick wart.”
I said, “Shit! I thought as much. Well …” And I went and got the toaster out of the kitchen and took it to the bathroom were I’d filled the tub to the brim.
read more at http://wholarrykincaid.googlepages.com/dickwartsanonymous
Monday, September 15, 2008
High School Freedom Essay
That guy in the band called Sublime thinks that it takes 40 ounces to become free. I think it takes at least 120. Allow me to make some points.
Read more at http://wholarrykincaid.googlepages.com/highschoolfreedompaper.
Read more at http://wholarrykincaid.googlepages.com/highschoolfreedompaper.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Neighbor Fight!
My neighbor came over to my cabin with some weed. I gave him a beer and another and then another after that. We smoked his weed and drank all the beer and got into the tequila. We got bombed.
My neighbor told me to kiss his ass. He also called me a shit head and a motherfucker too. I called him a douche and told him that his wife had some jacked up teeth, huge and crooked like someone had taken a hammer to a bunch of piano keys. I told my neighbor that it was because of his wife’s teeth that she looked like a horse. I told him to get the fuck off of my porch.
My neighbor busted me in the chin with a right hook. He then kicked me in the cock. I retaliated with a left that went nowhere, and he came in with an elbow to my nose which busted it like a ketchup packet. My neighbor picked up a trash can and launched it at me like a missile. It hit me in the ass, and trash, mostly beer cans, went everywhere. I had just enough time to wonder why he’d aimed at my ass as opposed to more harmful areas of my body when he suddenly retrieved the aluminum trash can from the ground and smashed me in the head with it. I saw white lighting and I went down, a heavy pulse hitting sharply in my temples, the pressure of which was threatening to burst the veins in my aching forehead.
Luckily for me, my head had absorbed the entirety of that second trash can collision, and all of my important limbs that I needed for fighting were still in good shape. But now, time was of the essence. My neighbor had brought me to my knees, and would any second now be closing in to finish me off, probably with a two handed tomahawk chop to the back of my head which was his signature finishing move.
My neighbor laughed. I heard a series of resonant, staccato thuds, and I knew he was beating his chest, his typical celebration reserved for when an imminent victory was his. The planks on my porch creaked and whined under my neighbor’s hasty footfalls. He was making his final charge; his fists joined and raised high above his head, he shouted cusswords at the top of his lungs.
Einstein will try and tell you that the faster you move, the slower time will pass for you relative to someone who is idle. Or something like that. I’ve reason to believe that that’s some bullshit. For as I knelt, head hung between my shoulders, a dangle of crimson drool drooping from my lip and swaying like a pendulum in the dim morning breeze, Time Itself suddenly slowed to a snail’s crawl. The convective vibrations which had formerly threatened to rattle my knees loose from their ligaments was presently a sensation of sluggish, individual tugs, sometimes pulling this way, and sometimes that way, and was on the whole very calm and gentle and soothing, a force comparable to that which acts on a boat by the whims of a tenderly rolling ocean. The shrieks of cusswords morphed into a singular, unintelligible, sans syllabic baritone hum. At once, I was like Spiderman, witness to a world in perhaps 1/500th of real time. Things were slow, mercifully slow. For in this realm of absolute unhurriedness was I granted permission, privilege rather, to ponder, to consider, to think. I knew what this little skirmish was really about. A mouth full of jacked up piano teeth wasn’t nearly enough to keep me away from my neighbor’s wife. He knew I’d been partying over there when he was out working graveyard. Hell. I deserved this beating. I deserved it and then some.
Or not. As my neighbor, and John was his name, drew nearer, his fists joined, his knuckles white and just aching to smash me in the forehead, I recalled a bit of our history as neighbors. Was this not the same John that had spray painted my penis that day I passed out in the lawn? Was this not the same John who had one time bagged all the Freon out of my window unit for his own personal huffing habit, effectively raising my house temperature to a level unbearable in the Texas summer? And was this not the same John who had pooped in the upper deck of my toilet while I was in the lawn, naked and passed out with a purple painted penis? Across the board the answer was yes. So I answered the fourth and final question - had I yet been afforded my just recompense for John’s many trespasses? - with an entirely different answer: Nope.
I spit out the drool and raised my head. Onward came my slow-motion assailant, yelling his caveman battle cry, his mouth and cheeks bouncing and rebounding stupidly under his heavy strides like a skydiver facing the rush of wind at terminal velocity. I resolved to react with an offensive of my own, one that would both injure and insult, even considering that I’d just hours prior thrown John’s wife in the jackhammer and boned her all night long to a Def Leppard album.
In a jarring transition, time returned to its familiar speed. My arm, straight and taut and terminating in a potent, heavy fist, acted mechanically, moving with lighting haste as the hand of a clock, describing perfectly the 90 degree, counterclockwise path from six to three. Crunch! My fist slammed home – right into John’s balls – and in my mind’s ear, I heard that ding, that very same one that results from that carnival game where you swing the sledgehammer in an attempt to drive the metal piece up the long shaft and into the crowning bell.
John’s double fisted tomahawk chop never fell. As he stood there, abruptly stopped in his tracks and joining his knees to one another and forming a face like a lemon sucker and grabbing himself, I wasted no time. I was back on my feet and brandishing the empty trashcan above my head, shaking it maniacally like Leatherface with his saw. And now it was my turn to shout cusswords!
I brought the trashcan down mightily over John’s head, covering him to the waist. The can’s aperture was of such a diameter that it fastened his arms to his sides and prevented him from an easy escape. His hands flapping madly about at the wrists, sealed to his sides just below the can’s opening, John bellowed shrieks and curses (which were comically muffled by his aluminum imprisonment) as he ran repeatedly into the support beams of my porch, rebounding again and again like a goddamn circus clown. I laughed and pointed. After bouncing off of several supports like a pin ball, John staggered off of the porch and ran in the direction that he instinctively recognized as the course to his home. Muted, echoing oaths resounded incessantly from beneath from the can-on-legs as he rammed into the telephone pole, the fence, and finally, his piece of shit car, putting a dent in the hood and activating the alarm. What better show of comedy ever?!
Victory! Raise the Larry banister! No one comes on my porch and drinks my beer and liquor and tries to kick my ass, even if they do bring me some weed! For yet again, I earned the title which is mine by sweat and blood! Undisputedly, the biggest partier in my neighborhood!
My neighbor told me to kiss his ass. He also called me a shit head and a motherfucker too. I called him a douche and told him that his wife had some jacked up teeth, huge and crooked like someone had taken a hammer to a bunch of piano keys. I told my neighbor that it was because of his wife’s teeth that she looked like a horse. I told him to get the fuck off of my porch.
My neighbor busted me in the chin with a right hook. He then kicked me in the cock. I retaliated with a left that went nowhere, and he came in with an elbow to my nose which busted it like a ketchup packet. My neighbor picked up a trash can and launched it at me like a missile. It hit me in the ass, and trash, mostly beer cans, went everywhere. I had just enough time to wonder why he’d aimed at my ass as opposed to more harmful areas of my body when he suddenly retrieved the aluminum trash can from the ground and smashed me in the head with it. I saw white lighting and I went down, a heavy pulse hitting sharply in my temples, the pressure of which was threatening to burst the veins in my aching forehead.
Luckily for me, my head had absorbed the entirety of that second trash can collision, and all of my important limbs that I needed for fighting were still in good shape. But now, time was of the essence. My neighbor had brought me to my knees, and would any second now be closing in to finish me off, probably with a two handed tomahawk chop to the back of my head which was his signature finishing move.
My neighbor laughed. I heard a series of resonant, staccato thuds, and I knew he was beating his chest, his typical celebration reserved for when an imminent victory was his. The planks on my porch creaked and whined under my neighbor’s hasty footfalls. He was making his final charge; his fists joined and raised high above his head, he shouted cusswords at the top of his lungs.
Einstein will try and tell you that the faster you move, the slower time will pass for you relative to someone who is idle. Or something like that. I’ve reason to believe that that’s some bullshit. For as I knelt, head hung between my shoulders, a dangle of crimson drool drooping from my lip and swaying like a pendulum in the dim morning breeze, Time Itself suddenly slowed to a snail’s crawl. The convective vibrations which had formerly threatened to rattle my knees loose from their ligaments was presently a sensation of sluggish, individual tugs, sometimes pulling this way, and sometimes that way, and was on the whole very calm and gentle and soothing, a force comparable to that which acts on a boat by the whims of a tenderly rolling ocean. The shrieks of cusswords morphed into a singular, unintelligible, sans syllabic baritone hum. At once, I was like Spiderman, witness to a world in perhaps 1/500th of real time. Things were slow, mercifully slow. For in this realm of absolute unhurriedness was I granted permission, privilege rather, to ponder, to consider, to think. I knew what this little skirmish was really about. A mouth full of jacked up piano teeth wasn’t nearly enough to keep me away from my neighbor’s wife. He knew I’d been partying over there when he was out working graveyard. Hell. I deserved this beating. I deserved it and then some.
Or not. As my neighbor, and John was his name, drew nearer, his fists joined, his knuckles white and just aching to smash me in the forehead, I recalled a bit of our history as neighbors. Was this not the same John that had spray painted my penis that day I passed out in the lawn? Was this not the same John who had one time bagged all the Freon out of my window unit for his own personal huffing habit, effectively raising my house temperature to a level unbearable in the Texas summer? And was this not the same John who had pooped in the upper deck of my toilet while I was in the lawn, naked and passed out with a purple painted penis? Across the board the answer was yes. So I answered the fourth and final question - had I yet been afforded my just recompense for John’s many trespasses? - with an entirely different answer: Nope.
I spit out the drool and raised my head. Onward came my slow-motion assailant, yelling his caveman battle cry, his mouth and cheeks bouncing and rebounding stupidly under his heavy strides like a skydiver facing the rush of wind at terminal velocity. I resolved to react with an offensive of my own, one that would both injure and insult, even considering that I’d just hours prior thrown John’s wife in the jackhammer and boned her all night long to a Def Leppard album.
In a jarring transition, time returned to its familiar speed. My arm, straight and taut and terminating in a potent, heavy fist, acted mechanically, moving with lighting haste as the hand of a clock, describing perfectly the 90 degree, counterclockwise path from six to three. Crunch! My fist slammed home – right into John’s balls – and in my mind’s ear, I heard that ding, that very same one that results from that carnival game where you swing the sledgehammer in an attempt to drive the metal piece up the long shaft and into the crowning bell.
John’s double fisted tomahawk chop never fell. As he stood there, abruptly stopped in his tracks and joining his knees to one another and forming a face like a lemon sucker and grabbing himself, I wasted no time. I was back on my feet and brandishing the empty trashcan above my head, shaking it maniacally like Leatherface with his saw. And now it was my turn to shout cusswords!
I brought the trashcan down mightily over John’s head, covering him to the waist. The can’s aperture was of such a diameter that it fastened his arms to his sides and prevented him from an easy escape. His hands flapping madly about at the wrists, sealed to his sides just below the can’s opening, John bellowed shrieks and curses (which were comically muffled by his aluminum imprisonment) as he ran repeatedly into the support beams of my porch, rebounding again and again like a goddamn circus clown. I laughed and pointed. After bouncing off of several supports like a pin ball, John staggered off of the porch and ran in the direction that he instinctively recognized as the course to his home. Muted, echoing oaths resounded incessantly from beneath from the can-on-legs as he rammed into the telephone pole, the fence, and finally, his piece of shit car, putting a dent in the hood and activating the alarm. What better show of comedy ever?!
Victory! Raise the Larry banister! No one comes on my porch and drinks my beer and liquor and tries to kick my ass, even if they do bring me some weed! For yet again, I earned the title which is mine by sweat and blood! Undisputedly, the biggest partier in my neighborhood!
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