FatKidsLie

"That lady did some voodoo on your hat!

—Some crazy lady that my sister overheard on Main St. here in my hometown.

The hat?

… Based on the descriptions given.

A friend of mine works at a retail store where they sell video games. They keep the games in glass cases, and then add a sort of security lock to the little bar that the games are attached to, so that you can’t just grab a game, you have to ask for it. It’s called “Loss Prevention” and is a big part of corporate retail strategies. (The more you know….)

So some dude comes in, jimmies open the case and grabs armfuls of video games. Like when he goes to sell them at the flea market or off of a card-table in the projects anyone’s gonna doubt that they’re stolen? Or care?

Well the store security catches him and chases him into a corner. Where he proceeds to take his pants down, take a dump and smear it all over the video games, and then hold out his hands to sort of ward off the security guards.

Which worked.

Because he got away.

But not with the games.

Which had to be marked as a loss. By one of the minimum wage earning kids.

At least they didn’t just restock them…

But here’s the thing that bugs me… I can’t poop on demand like that. My BM’s are so regular that God uses them to plan sun-up and sun-down. You can synchronize Gregorian, Hebrew and Chinese calendars to my poops. But anyway, I’m thinking that this guy planned that as a backup plan. That’s what I’d do. Either that or fill a Supersoaker with piss. and leave it to ferment for a couple of days.

But that’s just me.

To the “Family Dollar” store on Main street:

I’m sorry for stealing half a bag of off-brand Mexican Cheeze-Kurls last Friday when my sister and I were shopping for school supplies that only your bargain-basement prices can put into my unemployable price-range. It is not in my nature to steal, or commit any crimes, especially when I know that the 99c jumbo bag’s sale would have pushed your margins into the black. I do not offer any excuses for my behaviour other than an explanation.

There was this old woman. Who was wearing every article of clothing that she owned. And has probably been wearing them non-stop since she had her be-mulleted grandson tip over one of those “clothe the homeless” boxes that seem to be at every Home Depot and Christmastree Shop location in my home town. There was an aura about this woman that prevented myself and all but the most seasoned and gnarly sanitation workers from being being within four yards from her centre of mass.

This woman, in short, stunk.

Like rancid piss, death and Jagermeister.

She smelled worse than the overflowed septic systems I used to clean out when I was in high school. Worse than the mattress after a Rosie O’Donel/Oprah Winfrey/John Goodman 3-way sex party.

My sister and I made every attempt within human reason to avoid being overwhelmed by her death-blossom bouquet, however after several minutes not one square foot of the store remained viable and uncontaminated. Without any words, the decision was made to cut our shopping trip short, get on line, purchase the items in our cart and return at some future date, hoping that this was an incident rather than a common occurrence. Unfortunately the odoriferous woman got in line immediately before us. And I could cue myself up behind her.

In direct line of fire from her farts.

Which actually melted a pair of glasses.

My sister and I then walked into the snack aisle and debated our plan of action. At this point I must say that it is wholly my fault and responsibility for the theft of the half-bag of fake-cheese “flavoured” Styrofoam puff balls. She had nothing to do with it. Whatsoever. I left the store and she chased me out to force me to pay.

She should not bear any of the of the legal repercussions. She’s wracked with guilt about it as it is. She thought that the police that were chasing around the projects that your store is located in were actually after her. She’s a woman, so the logic of cost/risk/benefit relations escapes her and does not realise that the police would not even bother with that level of petty crime. Since we’re white, I mean.

In closing, please accept this as an apology as well as my redemption since it has taken me over twice as long to write this than the community service sentence would have taken. If I even went to trial.

Since I’d resist arrest. ‘Cause I ain’t goin’ back to jail. I’m too pretty in there. And prison-rape is not fun.

There’s this guy on my block who’s not really a traffic cop but he directs traffic. And wears a uniform.

He wears a red windbreaker that was a promo item for a now-defunct web startup from the late 1990’s. A baseball cap that he’s spraypainted neon green. He uses a red bandanna stapled to a backscratcher as a flag.

The guy is old, like, 80 or so. He says he was in the mafia, but nobody believes him. Even though he talks to himself. ALL the time. He talks in nonsensical mutterings, often complaining that people don’t follow his directions for where they’ve gotta go… Like he’ll tell me to cross the street even though I might not want to because I’m going around the corner and I just plain don’t need to… Or when the cars on my block decide to follow the traffic lights rather than this little old man with no teeth who smells like… well.. an old man who needs to be taken care of.

He was really upset this morning. He was sitting on the bench on the corner by the church’s parking lot muttering to himself about how they closed the street yesterday because of the street fair/block party and they didn’t tell him and now he looks like a foolish old fart because he was out there trying to direct the police.

At one point the guys setting up the stage for the bands told him to get lost after he came out and tried to get them to move it to the parking lot… where they were told they couldn’t set up by the guys making the block party/ street fair.

He had to go home, and he was crying a little. I don’t know if he’s sad (as in “upset”) or if he’s sad (“pathetic”). I don’t really much care.

My biggest concern is that my job is going to melt my brain to the point that I turn into him. Only fat. And hairy. And bald. That is my fear. That may be my destiny.

Stay tuned.

I’ve been meaning to write about this for weeks but I keep getting caught up on doing school work and cleaning up my apartment and walking my dog and earning enough money to buy malt liquor to dull the pain and shame of my life.

Anyway, there’s a lady that walks around at night playing a saw. Yes. A saw.

Like the kind that lumberjacks use.

… I think I’ve gotta move out of this neighborhood.

I’m assuming that she’s in a band. Or something. because there’s a guy that walks around with her playing bongos and singing opera with her.

The first time I saw her was coming out of the coffee shop across the street when it was closing for the night. She was in a floral mumu, hair-curlers and galoshes. He was wearing a tuxedo and a straw hat. They played a wonderful adaptation of David Bowie’s Man Who Sold The World. But i think he was singing in Esperanto.

The other night it was warm out, but not warm enough for the air conditioner. I was awoken to the sound of the screechy saw, and a harmonica. They then started playing a medley of 1980’s Saturday morning cartoon songs. I watched them as they entered the hipster bar on the corner. They couldn’t have been in there more than one minute before i heard them arguing with the bouncer.

I asked around and, the bartender told me that she got into a fight with the DJ that was playing that night. She wanted the stage and when he wouldn’t relinquish the floor, she started cutting his cables with her saw.

The other day I was working late, getting home at 1am. I saw her sitting on a park bench by the baptist church’s parking lot. Playing a sad sad song. Humming to herself. Not even in the same tune that she was playing in. Her bandmate/husband/brother (maybe one of those, or a combination of those who knows) was sleeping on the other bench next to her. He woke up, looked at me and threw a bottle of Aunt Jemima’s pancake syrup at me.

As i ran away I saw him pouring a sort of borderline of syrup on the ground. The next day I saw that he poured syrup all over the benches. Just like how a dog or a cat marks their territory.

I haven’t seen them in a while. Most of the crazies in my neighborhood stick around, and I can sort of get an idea of where they live or spend their days when they’re not being your average street creepies. These people? Not so much.

They change outfits, even though they keep with the same uniforms: I’ve counted at least 7 different Mumus, 4 different galoshes and 9 different straw hats, so I’m fairly certain that they’re not homeless. I think that there’s a possibility that they are guerilla street performers. Or maybe time travelers.

But I miss them. They were a crazy noisebrigade mariachi couple. With maple syrup defense systems.