Two Tub Mantooth

It may appear to the untrained eye that I am a man who “has his shit together.” You may look at me and say, “that man really has his motherfuckin SHIT together!”   But let me blow your feeble mind and admit that I have NONE of my shit together.  In fact,  I am a damn mess.  First of all, my last three bowel movements have resembled something more like Custer’s Last Stand than anything you’d associate with a healthy crap.  Second, these boots that I bought not too long ago are kind of floppy.  Zappos.com lead me to believe that they would stand straight up, you know, like boots usually do.  No, these kind of flop around like some weird foreskin.  When my pants are covering them they look great.  Actually, no–they look awesome.   But I live in constant shame that underneath I’ve got these languid flaps of leather flopping about like so much excess penile skin.  And I guess I could look at this as a metaphor for the human condition, that we all have a little foreskin we’re trying to hide to keep up appearances, but it still doesn’t erase the pain.

Compounding this is THE BOX I have carried with me since the day I left for college.  THE BOX was supposed to a little filing container so that I wouldn’t lose my student loan promissory notes, so that I could one day look back upon them and weep over my folley.   Instead it became a receptacle for every little goddamn piece of paper that came into my life.  I somehow assigned immense importance to each little piece of paper I put into this box, that somehow nefarious persons may steal my identity if I threw them out. THE BOX is a lot like the pants that I am currently wearing to hide the fact that my boots are really made out of flimsy foreskin–it hides the fact that I am really a sloppy bastard with no sense of organization or fashion sense, my anxiety and slew of neuroses trumping both.   

For example, in this box I found the following:

-plastic turtle
-scraps of paper with various caricatures of my own face, drawn by my own hand
-flyer for a Fuerza X show
-hundreds of unopened bank statements, some dating back to 2001
-sand and leaves
-really terrible lyrics to a Warzone Womyn song that was never written

 Aside from the plastic turtle and the sand/leaves, I really have no recollection of ever having said to myself, “on second thought, I should maybe keep this Fuerza X flyer because it was a really awesome show and Fuerza X wowed me with their totally NOT mediocre thrashcore.  In fact, they thrashed my fucking face off and I will keep this flyer so that I will remember forever what band horribly disfigured my beautiful face.”

So I decided that I would “get my act together,” perhaps “grow up a little bit” and “not be a dumbass” by cleaning out THE BOX.   As I started digging, I started uncovering the time in my life where I was brutally run down by a car while riding my bike through downtown. 

I was riding my bike on Penn Ave. where the new Greyhound Station was being built when I noticed a car coming towards me swerving in and out of its lane.   My first thought was that it was going to run over my girlfriend who was riding just ahead of me.  My second thought was “OH FUCK NOW IT’S GOING TO RUN ME OVER.”   Most people describe these situations as going in slow motion, but I recall the car almost speeding up as it veered over the yellow lines with its driver slumped over in his seat.  As I swung my leg over, the car crashed–no, SLAMMED (because only slam is real)–right into my bike, which I had feebly turned into a shield.  The following is what SHOULD have happened:

1) I was caught underneath the car and dragged into the Greyhound Construction site.
2) I was crushed to death in the Greyhound Construction site
3) It was fitting since every time I have ever ridden Greyhound it has felt like a state of living death. 
4) Everyone would have cried and been real sorry I was gone.

But instead the car somehow changed course, clipped the truck behind me, and crashed through a fire hydrant, and finally into the construction site.   Maybe I should have taken this as a sign from god that I should change my wicked ways, stop listening to heavy metal, and become a good christian man.  Instead I took it as a sign that I really needed to go to Klavon’s Ice Cream Shop and eat ice cream. 

Anyhow, I found some insurance papers with the person who hit me and decided to ask the all-knowing Google entity if this man had died in the accident.    Instead of showing me an obituary, it told me that this man had in fact won the motherfucking LOTTERY in 2007.    Sure, it was only $1,000, but that is certainly more than what I got for my ruined bike and years of mental anguish, leading me to “not have my shit together” and buy boots that don’t stand up and look like foreskin.   In fact, I bet you could trace all my poor shoe purchases back to this single incident.  I should have sued this bastard back to the stone-age when I had the chance.  You see, I didn’t have insurance then.  And I’ve never had a car insurance, let alone even a driver’s license.  So I had, what they call in the legalsphere, unlimited tort.   At least that’s what I think it’s called.  I might have just invented that term.  I guess I could ask the Google entity, but that’d be more likely for a person who “has his shit together,” which we’ve already established that I do not.

So I sat there for a long time, perhaps longer than I should have, and contemplated the injustice of it all.   Unable to muster any thoughts, my hatred for Pennsylvania’s third most famous groundhog  grew like a black-hole in the back of my mind until it consumed me, effectively dooming me to a life of “not having my shit together.”  

Behold! The Face of the Eternal Motherfucker! 

LORD OF SHITSACKS–DELIVERYMAN OF THE RAW DEAL!

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 21st, 2008 at 4:45 pm and is filed under what. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.