The Vile War
We have had battles: Ageless, timeless, and heartless battles; but we are a closely knit group of friends. When the warbirds struck Garret in the face repeatedly with a slamming door, onlookers ceased their activity, but did not flinch; when a giant tyrannical female oppressor infiltrated our barracks for the theft of anal virginity, not a soul shrugged; even on the Bridge of Tanzant when the queer eye of a security personnel squared my ethics, the ring of vengeance was drowned by meek laughter and jest. Nobody has tarnished my name quite as well as the people who know me best.
You might think you can empathize because you know very well that associates have been kicking each other in the balls since the fall of the Romans. But I can assure you, you’re nothing like us. A rap on the lumbar with a 9 iron from someone that’s shared the most intimate moments of your life will prove it. Most people have boundaries and uncrossable lines that would result in the disowning of even the most dear childhood playmate. We do not.
Some may say there was a certain civility to our war, NAY, this war was vile.
The FIRST shot was fired just after dawn.
My head was thumping to the beat of my heart. Swirls of magenta and sparkling marbles cascaded in my vision like river-dancing snowflakes. I should have left well-enough alone, but drinking is a sport that belongs to a man that needs to prove that his genitals are large. I was alone in a spacious one bedroom party-apartment, which meant that I had either pissed everyone off (or on) or they couldn’t wake me from my coma to go to early morning Denny’s. It was minutes before dawn though I couldn’t tell you in addition if it was December or Tuesday. I had hoped they had the decency to check my pulse before potentially leaving me for dead, whoever ‘they’ may have been.
I crutched my weakened torso on Chris’ entertainment unit as I rolled out of his bed. I had fallen asleep in his room and locked him out of it; not an entirely uncommon practice.
A wistful vomit knocked on the backs of my teeth asking for his friends carpet and bed to come out and play a round of hide-the-burrito-residue. I turned it away with a gagging swallow. I hate vomiting. It’s gross and messy. Shitting is a relief, but vomiting is a soul-dredge. You hang your most important body organ, as vulnerable as a newborn lamb, flushing out poison rather then breath. Not an experience I revel in. I vomit only when death is a possible alternative. I’ll shit simply for the sense of completion and relaxation. In a thoughtless decision I chose to shit in order to relieve some of the stress on my vomit induction. The science literati are misguided. If you have pressure build up on one end, you must release from the other. Simple physics and nobody is talking about it…yet.
As blind and crippled as most commercial airlines pilots, I made my way to the bathroom. It was magically delicious. Unidentifiable fluids were smeared on the mirror with obscure hand splotches. These were the same hand prints, once youthful, that made cement silhouettes and paper-mache turkeys, and now they smeared strange fluids on strange mirrors. What concatenation of events transpired here to send arms flailing into the mirror and hands streaking down it? This disarray can only be caused by sex, fights, or mayhem….no, bedlam.
I seized the toilet seat with one hand, hoping to slide my ass down the adjacent arm and plant it firmly on plastic. Pants down and ass up, I noticed something unsettling; the bowl was full of TP, there was no water, and doo-doo stains marked racing stripes down the sides of the porcelain. The reservoir was not running, which led me to believe that someone either flushed an anaconda or crapped one out, clogging the plumbing. I pulled the lid off because that’s what the pro’s do. The tank was full of water. It looked cool and tasty, but I reminded myself that life is hard enough without hepatitis. Maybe just a face dunk? No, I passed on that also.
A friendly gurgle reminded me why I was in the bathroom in the first place. I had a few options; can’t be mad at that. I could either pull the ol’ fish-out-of-water trick and simply shit on top of the already clogged mess, or the ol’ fish-in-the-bathtub, or the fish-in-the-sink, take it to the upper-deck, or get a bit resourceful with the ol’ ziploc’d-fish-in-the-freezer trick. Those were the only LOGICAL options.
My butt cheeks were being lightly tickled by the lapping waves of the reservoir H2O, for a fine upper-deck shit. I sat perched atop the toilet tank, smiling coyly without a care in the world. Had someone stumbled into the bathroom they might think perchance that they’d walked right into a poorly edited episode of ‘3rd Rock from the Sun’. And there is French Stewart, with his ass dangling into a toilet reservoir with a stupid looking grin on his face. Then, French wipes his ass ever so gingerly and throws the waste into a nearby trash can with a stupid grin on his face. Finally, French leaves the premises but not until leaving a note on the bathroom door that reads ‘I could have shat on your bed’, with an ultimately stupid grin on a stupid little face.
I was exhausted, and slept until 1 in the afternoon that day. After all, I’d need to get some rest, as I assumed repercussions to come swiftly.
Those dirty fuckers always leave their dirty-ass footprints whenever they come over. Like clockwork; I could even match the tracks with the animal. They knew it absolutely burned my crotch and they began seeking out new dirt piles to coat the soles of their shoes with before dropping in unannounced. My scolding was futile and locking the front door seemed a bit too juvenile.
Proving that Jewish folk are as crafty as they are long in the nose, I took measurements of the walkway leading to the front door of my modest domicile: A mere two feet wide. Without price deterring my decision, I invested in the largest and most technologically advanced doormats Home Depot had in stock, along with their most powerful adhesive. With simple, anally charged handiwork, I had the most obnoxiously large dirt absorbing door mat ever constructed. Nearly 50 pounds in weight and 2ft by 4, I had built Le Eiffel Church of Dirt Conception. I stood on my doorstep and admired it with a sheepish grin.
Please, any passerby…anyone, remove your dirt at my doorstep and continue on a path of cleanliness.
Of course, THEY wouldn’t make an appearance when I more than welcomed it. I spent quality time with my carpet guards. They lay as plaques to commemorate the immaculate furnishings just past their gates. I chuckled abrasively before retiring to my couch for a mid-afternoon slumber.
I had a wonderful series of dreams about eating food directly off of my carpet, laying nude and making carpet angels on the floor, and licking the very tips of the carpet strands tasting its very sanitation.
There was then a peculiar rap-tap-tapping at my door, which awoke me prematurely. It wasn’t a fist, or a claw, or the wind, maybe a bird, I thought. Suddenly it ceased and I was alerted to hear the sounds of heavy footsteps….escaping. I rolled my eyes before dragging myself off of the couch and to the door. I hesitated in claiming my prize.
The rap-tap-tapping was the difficult to identify sound of the perpetual tone made by a stream of urine against the door. Though, the worry of urine was fleeting. With what looked like a montage from a proctology horror film, I was peering over at least 3 different and autonomous blends of excrement on my Mega-Guardian Doormats. I’m no expert, but it was clearly human waste. Before my eyes, it was spreading slowly like a feeding anemone; viscous from a few nights straight of heavy drinking. 3 termite hills of shit on my prize mats clearly indicated an act of revenge. I held my 2 generals tightly as they slid behind me across the ground, mortally wounded. I dragged them down the path leading away from my front door, down a flight of stairs, through a parking lot, to finally maneuver them beside a dumpster. My path; was made to appear as though I was trailed by an asshole dragging dog with serious stomach problems. I added a brown pinstripe to the entire apartment complex.
I needed to strike back immediately.
There was only 10 seconds left in the game and it was easily the most heated contest of the March Madness tourney. I had more important things weighing heavy on my mind. I needed to leave before my pocket began to smell and my cover would be blown.
“I’ve got to go, I’ll see you guys later…bye…see you later…bye now.”
I was poorly masking my anxiety and they wondered why in the fuck I was leaving. I made eye contact with Chris, and he knew immediately that something was terribly rotten. Admittedly, it was more than rotten.
At halftime in the game. I had hatched a plan in order to get Chris back for ass-scabbing my beautiful door mats. With a severe case of the rectal mud, I quietly made my way to his bathroom, to the site where the first shot was fired. This time I severed my ass cheeks over the top of a pearly bathtub. I blasted my runny fluids down the tight slope in the back of the tub, allowing the flow to pick up enough speed to traverse down to the drain. A river of Tijuana gold did just that and I beamed with pride. If I was to simply wipe my ass and flush it I would have been the work of an amateur. From my back pocket I removed a plastic grocery bag that I had nicked from the kitchen a few minutes prior. Each bundled piece of shit-ticket found its way neatly into the bag. I then carefully rolled the bag with it’s contents compacted, and shoved it into my back pocket like a summer sausage.
After hastily leaving the waning moments of the game I charged to finish the plan already set into action. I knew by the time I had reached Chris’ car to deliver the goods, he had discovered the stool in his tub. Mentally, I gave my self 2 minutes to finish my work or I’d be foiled. I ran to his car and chucked the always unlocked passenger door open.
(one minute and forty-five seconds remaining).
With a pen I found in the center console I popped out the American fabricated A/C vent
(one minute and fifteen seconds remaining).
Daintily, I unsheathed the rolled plastic bag, placed the open-end directly over the vent and pushed my hand through.
I wedged the crap covered two-ply up the vent as far as my finger tips could reach
(One minute remaining).
I new my time was running short so I hustled to put the vent back in place. I fumbled it onto the ground, just outside the car door. When I leaned down I heard the rush of footsteps gaining on my static position. Then in a flash of wet dripping cloth, I had been smashed across the face. The towel I was struck with wrapped around my head like a tightly wrapped turban. I was momentarily stunned and remained sitting in the car seat, with all of the worlds vulnerability upon me. My eyes and mouth were tightly pursed, and with a graceful Brooklyn shimmy, I dumped the towel from it’s clutch on my cranium, revealing the damage. Chris’ resourcefulness proved to be the decider in this bout. Without a seconds time wasted, he reached for the towel from his floor and wet it in his sink. Holding his breath, every mili-ounce of feces from his tub was scooped onto it and smeared around perfectly. He whipped me in the face with his full force leaving badly bruised eyes, crap dripping from every nook and cranny of my body, and a severely damaged ego. I drove home gasping for air and deliverance.
Though I felt beaten, this was not Appomattox. From the shadows, I will rally and strike again.