Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The Day I Slipped on Some Ice and Hurt Myself

My whole life I used to believe that those who slipped and fell on ice in the winter, seriously injuring themselves, were big dummies. I’ve slipped on ice prior to, and never suffered anything more than humiliation and a minor bruise, but this time it was different.

It all started at my former place of work a few years back. A severe snowstorm raged outside as I and my fellow cooks passed the time by molding Pokémon out of random kitchen supplies.
Don't touch the spikes on its head/back; they're poisonous.
The snow was piling up at an alarming rate. So much so, that the managers decided to book us a room at the local hotel. It was a state of emergency. Actually, none of this really matters. All you have to know is that there was snow on the ground the following morning when we departed from the hotel.

The next morning, a fellow cook and I lagged far behind as we thought it would be a great idea to have breakfast at the hotel. I had an egg sandwich. For $7 it was literally just a single fried egg between two pieces of dry toast. But again, the details of this horrific hotel restaurant don’t matter.

We exited the building and treaded through the snow. We came across a street cutting through the plaza that had recently been plowed. What luck, we thought as we leaped the snow bank. My coworker gracefully skidded on the ice and glided to a stop. Unknowing of the hidden patch of ice, my feet hit the ice and immediately flew from under me. My arms flailed and the purple Stop & Shop handbag I was carrying exploded above my head and flung lasted night’s empty beer cans and dirty underwear into the air.

I remember hearing “Hide and Seek” by Imogen Heap as my gently body fluttered in the wind. Unfortunately, the moment was disrupted as my body crashed against the unforgiving, icy cement. My head rang and my eyes were struggling to focus. My coworker’s laughter sounded eons away. I got up on a knee and could see the sky and the ground simultaneously.

“You alright?” my coworker managed to fit in between suffocated gasps. I turned toward him, and his face dropped as he uttered, “Oh, shit.”

Confused, I ran my fingers over the right side of my face and examined the crimson blood that was flooding from my ear.

My coworker helped me to a wall where he proceeded to take a picture of me to document the event... Because if there are no pictures, it never happened.
 
My long hair/expensive winter coat phase.
A grumpy, hefty man waddled over to us. I’ll call the ambulance, the lazy plowman sighed (seeing as the entire plaza should have been plowed at that point). He shuffled away, whispering obscenities to himself.

Finally, a local store that was opening allowed me to wait in their lobby just as long as I didn’t get any blood on their carpet. Though, there was no need to worry; I had yesterday’s underwear—the ones I let farts loose in—pressed firmly against the side of my head.

Eventually, the ambulance arrived and whisked me away for the generous price of $500 (=43,295 pesos for you European folk).

I later found out that I had punctured my right eardrum by hitting the ice perfectly flat on my ear, sending a gush of air flying through my ear canal and rupturing the eardrum.

Returning to work and after being told by my boss that “this wouldn’t have happened had [we] went to bed last night instead of staying up and drinking,” I was relayed the stories by other coworkers of how the accompanying cook had carried me on his back all the way to the hospital as I helplessly lost blood directly out of my head.

And that is how I learned not to insult those who have fallen victim to ice trauma.
Yeah, I was wearing shorts.

Friday, August 24, 2012

The Bull and The Buffoon


Yet another submission to Dude Write: Flash Mob, but I assure you, this story is not depressing like my previous entry. Enjoy! (The word count is 500 words. I swear.)
______________________________________________________________________

Never one to turn down a dare, Billy bravely accepted the challenge that would result in his demise.

It all started during a brisk day in the isolated mountain town of Pinesbury. The circus was making its annual round to the desolate village, and the townsfolk couldn’t have been more restless. Everyone stood by as colorful, mechanical gadgetries were moved from the hissing train to the dusty town square.

Billy and his friends gawked at the foreign objects that flooded from the carts. Suddenly, a loud, violent grunt disrupted the boys’ gaze. They snapped to attention as a massive beast was guided from one of the distant carts, a big, brawny bull. 

Billy inquired to the others of the bull’s purpose. One of his friend’s spoke up, “It’s called bull riding, Billy. Ain’t you never heard of it?” With a shake of Billy’s head, the friend continued. “See that man dressed like a cowboy?” He pointed to a towering gentleman trailing the bull as if he were sizing him up. “His job is to straddle that bucking bull for as long as he can.”

“What’s so special ‘bout that?” Billy inquired.

 “You act like riding a two ton bull ain’t nothin’. Betcha you couldn’t last a second on that thing” his friend retorted.

“Oh, yeah?” Billy didn’t have to hear the words leave his friend’s mouth. He knew this was a dare. One he was willing to accept.

That night, Billy hatched a scheme that would guarantee a shot at riding that bull.
...
The following day, he began for the cowboy’s trailer. It was hard to keep his head still with all the colorful tents and electronic buzzes surrounding him, but if he was going to prove his friends wrong, he had to keep focused. A group of clowns snapped him out of his trance. If there was one thing he was petrified of, it was clowns. He raced by the terrifying freaks and reached his goal.

Before he entered the trailer, he studied the spiced rum he’d hid in his shirt pocket. Surely this would do the trick.
...
Moments later, Billy departed the trailer dressed from head to toe in cowboy apparel. It took the entire bottle of liquor to inebriate the cowboy past consciousness, but he’d done it.

Donning a handkerchief, he masked his identity as he coerced the circus staff to permit him to ride the bull.

Within moments, he was straddling the massive creature within the confines of the holding cage.

He heard the gun fire as the latch opened. The bull bucked with much more force than Billy had predicted, and in a second, he was in the dirt. Knowing that he was the bull’s primary target, he scurried to gain composure. When he finally did, he turned for the fence. However, waiting by the fence was his foremost fear, a rodeo clown, frantically waving toward Billy. Fright took hold of him as he stopped dead in his tracks, allowing the bull the upper hand.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Conception



How something so immense was supposed to emerge from an orifice so small was a notion only the devil, himself, could conceive. I let out a cry of pain as I called upon my breathing exercises. Hee hoo. Hee hoo. Hee hoo. This was a result of my actions. I had asked for this. My creation. And it brought tears to my eyes; though, I was unsure of the nature of the tears. Was it pain or was I just happy that it was finally happening?

I cursed myself for choosing to birth it the natural way. I knew I should’ve accepted the morphine. It felt like a herd of sharks wielding scimitars was trying to besiege a drainage pipe. It was like the grim reaper was prodding the nozzle of a straw with a baby seal. It was like a big ol’ thing was trying to fit through a small ol’ thing.

I balled my hands into taut fists until the color had bled from them. How much more of this could I take? I’ve been trapped in this bleak, white room for hours, and it feels as though no progress has been made. Unfortunately, I knew it was past the point of getting it surgically removed. I really wouldn’t have minded the scar had I known I’d be in this much pain.
What felt like a century had passed and I could feel my creation crowning. Progress was beginning to take form. Not much longer until I’d be free from this agony.

I had finally reached the home stretch. With all my might, I gave one concentrated push. I let out an exasperated sigh and down it fell until it collided with the water below.

And that is the last time I ate an entire box of mozzarella sticks.

Yeah, you just read an entire post about a person taking a poop. Don’t you feel shitty (even though you probably guessed the outcome after the first sentence)? I certainly do. The guy next to me on the train is mapping out what looks like an intricate, architectural design on some futuristic, space software, while I sit here and write about poop.

Also, it may come as a bit of a surprise, but I don’t know much about the pain that accompanies the joys of giving birth, so, to you mothers, feel free to let me have it in the comments section below.

Toodlepoo!

I read an article that working in a cubicle actually makes you dumber. I'm starting to believe it's true.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Chronicles of a Deadbeat Husband


Day 1
And there went my wife. Out the door, never to return… well, until her business trip was complete, anyway.
I’ve reclaimed the castle for a week, and I have prepared my reign accordingly. The freezer is stacked with Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese, Hot Pockets, and frozen Celeste pizzas. The fridge is adorned with lavish ales and bottom-of-the-barrel brews. The Xbox is wired to the 60” LCD, and I’m already severely naked.
And so begins the greatest week of my life.

Day 2
Sporadic flashes of light emanated from the dimly lit kitchen. I rushed into the kitchen to discover the cause of this treachery. Smoke billowed from the microwave and lightening threatened to escape the mechanical contraption. Being the quick-minded individual that my wife married me for, I hurdled over the kitchen table (suffering but minor scraps, bruises, and torn muscles) and fired my fist into the ‘stop’ button. The microwave-sponsored firework display ceased, and I opened the latch ajar, letting the dense smoke clear.
Once the smoke had cleared, I had come to realize that the fork I had used to mix my macaroni before reheating it was mistakenly left in the trough. An absentminded mistake had cost me the chief cooking utensil in my kitchen, but I managed to fight back the tears and mark it as a minor speed bump in what surely will be the best week ever.

Day 3
After Googling how to cook Hot Pockets in the oven, I knew I would soon be able to restore my body with sustenance. I preheated the oven, and resumed playing Dragon’s Dogma.
3 hours later, I realized I had forgotten to press ‘Start’ on the oven and therefore had to sit idly by an additional 5 minutes. My stomach was radiating inhuman sounds in anticipation for the glorious feast that would soon transpire. I slipped the Hot Pocket in its protective sleeve and slid it onto the searing hot grate.
I allowed the Hot Pocket to roast as I continued to slay defenseless rabbits with my iron broad sword. Minutes passed as rabbits’ blood began polluting the rivers and streams of the virtual world of Dragon’s Dogma. That’s when the smoke appeared. Could it be… the dragon? I quickly realized that it was not in fact a dragon, but the result of the protective sleeve sheltering my Hot Pocket being set ablaze by the overabundance of heat resulting in the destruction of my stove.

Day 4
My food supply was worthless without the means to heat it. I had already chipped a tooth trying to munch on a frozen Hot Pocket for breakfast. Beer seemed to be my only form of sustenance at the moment. I found that I could keep the hunger at bay as long as I kept blasting beers into my stomach.

Day 5
Apologies for the previous entry being so short. It appears that I had blacked out midway through.
Today, I had decided to stock up on food that doesn’t require a source of heat. I had the grocery list all made out:
-Slim Jims
-Lunchables
-More beer
I hopped in my car, ready to purchase the necessities for me to survive. I looked back as I went in reverse out of my driveway… except I wasn’t going backwards. As I crashed into my porch, it dawned on me. I was still drunk. I ventured inside as I

Day 6
It seems I had passed out yet again.
My stomach curses me with foul gurgles. My wife would be home tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure I would make it until then. I had to eat something. I went upstairs to get a change of clothes. I thought perhaps that I might brave the harsh 70 degree (Fahrenheit) weather. The sun felt like… well the sun on a moderately warm day, but my pale skin was not fit for such abuse. My crusty, unwashed shirt did nothing to repel the sun. Lacking the means and the energy to reach the store, I crashed down on the couch, excepting my fate.

Day 7
Still alive. My wife returned to the house apparently to the sight of me naked on the kitchen floor with an empty ketchup bottle by my side. Before throwing me out of the house after reading my will awarding her my Pokémon card collection and leaving the rest of my possessions to my drinking pal, Brazen Bill, she cooked me up quite the fanciful feast. Apparently she doesn’t think I can live on my own, so she told me to return tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall return to the house and apologize, but today, I thank the heavens for allowing me one more day on this Earth.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Excuses Are Like Butts

Hey everyone! If you're looking for a silly post to brighten your mood today, I suggest you move on through to the next blog on your feed. Essentially, this post is about what I'm up to as of recent. You may be wondering why I haven't been following my usual schedule of 2 posts per week. I wish I had a better answer other than, "I'm in a funk."
The Dictionary of Chiz:
funk1 [fuhngk] noun - not having the momentum to update a blog (see also; lazy).

In case you missed the horrific attempt at a joke, the reason I'm not posting anything is because I'm super duper lazy. However, I believe there are a few excuses I can pull out of my ass to warrant my absence from the blogosphere. So, bear with me a moment while I try to dig up some excuses... Here's a picture of a chicken finger, covered in Monterey Jack cheese, wrapped in bacon, deep-fried, and covered in more cheese that I made a while back. Hopefully it will prompt you to grab a bite to eat while I continue to think of excuses.
Diabeetus

Alright, are you back from your snack break?
Oh, you never went on one?
No, it does not look disgusting.

Anyway, I managed to think of a few excuses while you've been gone.

1) I actually have a post 3/4 of the way completely and was ready to get it online by yesterday night. I just needed to get home to finish it up. Well, it turns out that my sister was visiting the house (though, nowhere to be found), and she brought her newly adopted Beagle/Lab mix.Upon me entering the house, the dog immediately starts flooding the house with his piss. I acted quickly, slapped a leash on his collar and took him for a walk as a stream of lemonade stalked me out the door. After a 10 minute walk, he did not go to the bathroom. Not even once. So, I figured he'd exhausted his supply of pee inside the house. Upon returning to the home, I unclipped his leash and set him free as I began to wipe up the cavalcade of piss (I know that term doesn't fit in this sentence, but it sounds phenomenal). That's when I heard the pitter patter of peepee in the next room. The dog was at it again, unleashing a maelstrom of golden rains upon the couch. Long story short, I didn't have time to finish the post because I had pee all over me.

2) My birthday was last weekend, and my girlfriend's is this weekend. Therefore, I've been running around like a chicken with its legs cut off. Running around in squares. If only I could kill two birds with one bullet. But alas, I was only barking up the wrong bush. In layman's terms, I've been busy celebrating my own birthday while trying to get my shit together for my girlfriend's birthday (if you didn't get that from my strategic placement of idioms, then go eat... something).

3) I'm pretty sure there is a pterodactyl stalking me. I keep hearing strange noises outside my window at night. I looked up the noise "nyaacacaca" on Google and, according to science, it is in fact the mating call of a male pterodactyl.
This photo screams 'heavy metal'.

Therefore, it is quite obvious why I have been neglecting my blogging duties. If peeing dogs, birthdays, and pterodactyls are not enough excuses to explain my absence, then I don't kow what you guys expect.

Anyway, I promise the shit out of you that I'll resume my 2 posts per week schedule starting next week. Basically, the point of this post is to let you guys know that I'm not dead.

Also, ignore any spelling mistakes. I wrote this at work, and my computer doesn't have spell check.

Added Bonus!

I'd like to thank all those who voted for my flash fiction for Dude Write's Flash Mob (July). Because of you, I tied as winner of the popular vote award with Daniel Nest over at Nest Expressed. An additional thanks goes out to the judges. In particular, I'd like to thank Madeleine Farraday for awarding me with an award, as well. I congratulate the creators of Dude Write for their excellent work in putting together the first Flash Mob. For those of you who missed my submission, here's the link: The Bunker.

Added Bonus-Bonus!
I have also been awarded the Asshole Award (I think) by Blondie McBaffled! Graciously accepted, Blondie!
Digital confirmation that I am indeed an asshole.

Important Announcement!

Dan over at Shameful Promotions is hosting a fantasy (American) football league, and we are short 6 or so players. If you think you have what it takes to choose top-notch players and strategically place them in their corresponding slots, then go to this link and follow Dan's directions: Get Your Game Face On!

Also, I hear there's talks of a prize for the winner!

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Find God in Your Pet

Not too long ago, a shady looking man and woman in business suit approached my front door holding a briefcase. Are they hitmen? Or would it be hitpeople in this case? No matter. Is it because the CIA found that I mistakenly received an extra burrito with my Taco Bell order the other day? I’m finished for sure. Before I knew it they were ringing my doorbell. Ding-ding-ding-ding… ding-dong-ding-ding…ding-ding-ding-dong……….ding-ding-ding-ding………..bwong-bwong. Accepting the consequences of my poor decision to not notify the cashier of my extra burrito, I open the door and shut my eyes.

“Hello, sir. We are Jehovah’s witnesses.”

Shit! It’s worse than I thought!

They continued. “We’d like to tell you all abo—”

“No,” I interjected.

“But, just a moment to—”

“No.”

“Please, sir, for your salva—”

“No!”

“Maybe if we could jus—”

“No. No. No. No! No! NO! NO! NO! NO!” I was steadily losing control as I began foaming at the mouth. They took a step back as my mouth began reciting evil incantations against my will. Spit was flying everywhere and burning bottomless holes in the earth. It wasn’t long before they retreated, but not before hurling a bushel of pamphlets at me.

Luckily, the cool air snapped me out of my trance, and I regained focus as I grabbed a handful of the pamphlets. My eyes glided over the header. Find God in your Pet. It was a curious pamphlet, but I had unfortunately thrown them all away by accident before getting a change to delve into the contents.

Moments later, after weeping over the poignant season finale of 16 and Pregnant, my dog strolled in the room. It may have been the emotional, fragile state I was in or the header of the aforementioned pamphlet, but I was immediately struck with an eagerness to find God in by gentle dog, Pogo.
Actual picture. Not photoshopped at all.
I lifted him off the ground and stared into his eyes, but an unexpected sneeze shot dog boogers all over my face. I drowned out my anger and stuck in a dark corner and continued to study my dog. I flipped him upside-down and leftside-right, but there was absolutely nothing God-like about this stupid animal. The only thing miraculous about him was the infinite amount of fur on his body. I’ve pulled fur from his coat that’s taken up more mass than his body, and still there were loose fur patches all over him. I suppose that’s somewhat God-like, but I needed more.

I placed him down and studied his movements. He wearily made his way to the couch and flopped down on one of the cushions. I know it is hard being a dog, but he sure sleeps a lot. He is one lazy animal. Like a slo... like… a sloth. Sloth. One of the Seven Deadly Sins! How can a creature be God-like if he’s guilty of one of the Cardinal Sins? So, I thought about it further. I ran through the rest of the list.

Wrath. He is undoubtedly guilty of this sin. He’s drawn blood from me on numerous occasions. Sure I may have riled him up a bit, but he should learn to suppress his anger like me and unleash it on the internet.

Greed. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on him, yet he still requires more. More food, more water, more toys, more cookies, more designer sunglasses. It’s no question that he’s guilty of this sin.

Pride. I can tell just by the way he walks that he’s full of pride. He walks as if he’s in the Westminster Dog Show, like there’s a camera on him at all times. Plus, when I call him over so I can pet him, he looks at me, scoffs, and walks to the next room. Guilty as charged!

Lust. He’s humped the legs of at least a county’s worth of men and women. I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s my dog at times, what with all the hump attacks and all.

Envy. If competing for attention was an Olympic event, he’d be the first athlete to win gold, silver, and bronze all in the same event. He’s such an envious whore.

Gluttony. He’s a dog.

So, that just about solved it. I had concluded that my dog was a spawn sent from the underworld.

I didn’t waste any time. I immediately started carving his dog food into mini crucifixes and lacing his water with holy water and concentrated silver. This lasted for a good months with no significant results aside from him shitting mercury.

With all the failed attempts to rid my dog from a supposed demon, I never once stopped to think that perhaps my dog is Satan incarnate.

That is how I concluded that my dog is the devil.

If you have not already done so, pop over to Dude Write, and cast your vote in Dude Write's First Ever "Flashier Than You" flash fiction contest. Read every contestant's short story and vote for your favorite. Also, this post is a submission to Dude Write 8.