bowled over by anger

Charles watched with wide eyes as the obsidian orb graciously curved its way down the glossy bowling lane. He continued to hold his follow through and his breath as the ball precariously flirted with the gutter’s edge. He stomped his foot on the varnished floor and pursed his lips as the ball rolled directly between the remaining two pins. He was well aware that had finished in last place again.

Charles clenched his fists as he walked back the to seating area. He tapped his bowling shoe impatiently as he waited for the machine to regurgitate his ball. He stiffly extended his middle finger as members of his bowling league extended their hands for a post game handshake. He gritted his teeth angrily as he stormed out of the bowling alley into the bright sunlight. He was temporarily blinded.

Charles let out a glottal grunt as he chucked his bowling ball at a random car in the parking lot. His eyes flashed with satisfied anger as the ball shattered the innocent vehicle’s windshield. He jumped into his Camaro and screeched out of the parking lot as “Born to be Wild” came on the radio. He sped through a red light as the sound of sirens began to crescendo behind him. He hit 75 mph as he shot up the ramp onto the highway. He hit 100 fifteen seconds later.

Charles looked into the rear view mirror as red and blue flashing lights crested the highway horizon behind him. He cursed under his breath as “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond came on the radio. He turned off the radio.

Charles’ ex wife was named Caroline. She was the one who encouraged him to join that stupid bowling league in the first place. 

eye of the elder tiger

Phil continued to peer out across the street at some hot young thing who happened to be jogging past jovially. He squinted with delight.

Mentally, 82-year old Phil was still on the prowl. Physically, Phil’s catlike eyes were the only remaining attribute from an earlier life where he would have eagerly pounced on the young female jogger as if she were the red dot projected from a laser pointer.

“Liked that one, didn’t you?” I asked him.

“Sure didn’t used to make them like they do nowadays, eh?” He chuckled and took a sip of ginger ale.

“She had gold digger written all over her,” I remarked, “but judging by how much you pay me to mow your lawn, I’m guessing you could barely even afford a can of gold spray paint,” I stated matter of factly.

“Weh?” Phil contorted his face and held his hand up to his ear.

“You remember your first beer?” I repeated my original question.

“You remember the first time you suckled on your mothers teet?” He shot back, not missing a beat. Phil was fast, semi-automatic octogenarian fast. I thought to myself for a second, then shrugged. I had to have been like what, 4, 5 minutes old, tops?

“First beer I ever had, got no recollection of it, or that entire night for what it’s worth,” Phil reminisced. “What I do remember is waking up the next morning alone in my backyard with Betsy Stevenson’s poodle skit lying next to me.”

He held out his clenched, arthritis-laden hand. I tapped it gently with my fist. “You were quite the cool cat back then weren’t you.”

He chuckled and grinned and modestly started to prune the pot of geraniums that was positioned between the two of us.

“Had it easy back then, buddy. All my competition was overseas, roughin’ up them goddamn Krauts.” It was a noble confession from a noble man, justified by the 8 months he had served fighting in Vietnam shortly thereafter.

“Phil, how about you hit me with some grandfatherly advice," I beckoned. If hindsight was 20/20, I figured this witty oldtimer’s was at least 20/10. Maybe even better.

He removed his hands from the geraniums and leaned back in his chair, his eyes keenly surveying the street, left, right, left again. The coast was clear. He turned to me and pointed to his face with two fingers.

“You see these, son?” He directed my attention to his eyes. They were fierce and abounding with eagerness. “To succeed in this world, you gotta have the eyes of a tiger.”

I instantly understood the theme song from Rocky.

“These fellas are your desire to succeed. The first thing somebody feels when they see ya, the last thing they remember as you walk away. I don’t care if you’re talking to your boss, or pushing your grocery cart full of Hot Pockets past some pretty face wearing those spandex pants in the produce aisle.”

I remembered the time when Phil tried to pay me in Hot Pockets for mowing the lawn. 

He wasn’t done yet. “Boy, it don’t matter if you’re talking to your teacher after class, or you just trying to have an intelligent conversation with your babysitter, you ALWAYS gotta have them tiger eyes in. That’s how you get things done in this world, and that’s how you let people know that you intend on getting things done in this world.”

I made a mental checkmark in my head. I nodded slowly. “Phil, let me ask you a question- who did that poodle skirt belong to again?”

Quick to respond, Phil repeated the girls name. “Belonged to Ms. Betsy Stevenson, yesiree it sure did.”

“And who was this Betsy Stevenson may I ask?”

Phil proudly chewed on my question for a few moments before answering with a senile smirk. “Sunday school teacher.”

Just then the female jogger jogged back into Phil’s peripheral after having looped around the backstreets. Phil smiled and reached into his breast pocket. He took out a crisp 5-dollar bill and handed it to me. “Go give this to Long Legs and tell her I said to keep up the good work.” As he said this his elderly tiger eyes were ablaze with excitement. I took what was presumably my lawn-mowing money and obediently did as I was told.

Phil’s tiger eyes followed me across the street and barely moved as the jogger slapped me in the face and sprinted off.

Phil shook his head. “Tiger cub’s got a lot to learn” he growled humorously to himself.

you've got mail

As Roger peered into the cast iron cage, he captured the beautiful eyes of his terrified catch. He gazed upon her physique and nodded his head in approval. The strawberry-blonde hair coupled with the fairest of skins was a rarity in this business. She was worth at least $7,000. And that was based on last year’s rates. With the recent shortage of mail order brides, this one might even catch upwards of ten grand.

Roger had been catching mail order brides for a little over 2 years now. It was a rewarding business, and Roger was quickly making a name for himself in a handful of circles. He continued to oggle at the entrapped blondie. She snarled viciously and started to shake the cage angrily, her supple breasts swaying like pendulums. Roger smiled. He knew that whoever the rich American businessman was that would be receiving this one would certainly have his hands full.

Roger was a hunter by nature. His father had been a poacher, long before poaching became illegal. As a child, Roger’s toys were all made of rhinoceros ivory. As an infant, the only baby powder Roger’s behind knew was that made from finely ground-up elephant tusks.

When the time came for Roger to pick a profession, it was right around the time when mail order brides were becoming a fad. Across the Atlantic Ocean, rich businessmen, greedy Mormon husbands and hopeless romantics alike suddenly all wanted mail order brides, and they were willing to pay top dollar for a postage stamped piece of holy matrimony.

It wasn’t hard to catch a mail order bride either. These feral women went after anything that was shiny, or mixed with alcohol. It didn’t take a master baiter to catch one. It simply took a strategically placed ring made of sterling silver, or a carefully placed martini to get a young and wild lass to crawl into the cage. All Roger had to do then was pull the string to trip the trap, tranquilize the caged lady, and then pay for shipping and handling.

The particular mail order bride-to-be that Roger was admiring was more than your typical mail order bride. She was a trophy wife. The Vince Lombardi trophy of mail order brides. Roger reached for his tranquilizer gun. Fumbling around in his pocket, he accidentally triggered the trigger, and he felt a sharp pain in his leg. Shit, he thought to himself. The world started to go dim, and the voice in his head suddenly began to slow down and become deeper and richer, like James Earle Jones’.

Roger woke up 72 hours later with a ring on his finger, deep in Russia. He couldn’t believe that this was real life.

“Karma’s a bitch,” Roger groaned to himself.

“You’re my bitch now,” growled a husky female voice next to him. It belonged to his new wife, who’s name also happened to be Karma. Karma was a retired Russian roller derby skater who had recently responded to an ad on Craigslist for a mail order husband.

“I’m the only Karma you’re gonna know from here on out” she continued. “Now you march your little tush into the kitchen, you make me a sandwich, and when you come back out I’m going to show you how us Russians like to keep warm during the winter.” She winked at him and slapped him on the back side.

Roger frowned, and then did as he was told.

a Sesame Street tale

Jon paced nervously back and forth, side to side. His brow damp with perspiration, his turtleneck uncomfortably tight with elastic. This was by far the most emotionally-taxing audition he had ever been a part of. It was ironic that the letter of the day was ‘S’, because Jon wassss sssstresssssed.

He had dressed the part, there was no doubt about that. The vibrant red turtleneck, the goofy hair. The velcro shoes (not pictured). Now he just had to audition for the part. When he got off the Sesame St. trolley stop he had been surprised to see Big Bird smoking a cigarette on the street corner. Jon would have absolutely killed for a drag of that cigarette right about now.

If he could crack the cast of Sesame Street, his lifelong goal would be complete. If he got shafted, well, he’d probably throw a molotov cocktail though Mr. Hooper’s store. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Down the hallway he heard Elmo laughing hysterically. Shit, Jon thought to himself selfishly, that actor who just went in there is absolutely killing it!

Jon felt himself beginning to hyperventilate. He walked outside to grab a quick breath of fresh air. Across the street he saw Bert and Ernie sharing a cup of frozen yogurt. Two muppets, one cup. They were still in their matching PJs, and appeared to be in the midst of a loud and heated argument. Jon watched in disbelief as Bert stood up and smashed the fro yo on Ernie's head and stormed off. 

Around the corner Jon heard the rustling of cans. He peeked his turtled neck around the corner and saw a homeless muppet aimlessly pushing a cart full of empty soda cans. It was Roosevelt Franklin! Sesame Street's long forgotten Muppet homie. Jon knew his muppet facts- he knew that Roosevelt Franklin had been off the show for years. Evidently, Roosevelt Franklin had fallen on hard times. Poor guy, Jon thought to himself. He took a crumpled dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the muppet. Roosevelt Franklin reeked of cat piss, liquor, and garbage. Probably what Oscar the Grouch smells like, Jon though to himself. He shuddered and went back inside the studio.

Sitting on the couch, Jon picked up a copy of the Sesame Street Gazette. He soon wished that he hadn't. The top story informed him that Cookie Monster's type 2 diabetes had gotten so bad that the cookie addict had to have his left leg amputated. In other news, Miss Piggy had apparently sold out and had joined the cast of the Jersey Shore. To add insult to injury, Kermit had also recently been busted with an ounce of marijuana on his person. It's not easy, slingin' green. 

Jon tugged at his constraining turtleneck. He looked at the clock. Elmo's obnoxious laugh broke the silence once again, echoing up the hallway. But it was no longer the laugh that Jon had grew up with. This laugh was diabolical, nefarious. 

Jon stirred uncomfortably in his slacks. He got up and walked to the door of the studio as calmly as he could. Sesame Street has changed, he though to himself. His childhood dream had morphed into a adulthood nightmare. Jon opened the door and began to walk quickly back to the Sesame St. trolley stop. Somewhere behind him he heard the Count counting down backwards, 3...2...1... then the sound of automatic rifle gunshots peppered the air. Jon broke into a terrified sprint as he rounded the corner and fled towards the trolley station only to discover that it had been completely engulfed in flames!

"CAN ANYONE TELL ME HOW TO GET, HOW TO GET THE HELL OUT OF SESAME STREET?" Jon screamed at the top of his lungs. 

Suddenly out of nowhere, Grover pulled up on a motorcycle, screeching to a halt next to the terrified actor. "Hop on!" the muppet exclaimed. "Let's blow this mother fucking popsicle stand."

Colt 44

Logan swirled the amber contents of the chalice around three times, then gently dipped her nose below the rim to analyze the beerquet. 

Her nostrils were immediately met by a malty aroma that exuded the most curious of sulphuric fragrances. The tip of her nose dented the beer's pillowed head as she inhaled the bursting bubbles of carbonation. The smell of hops was ubiquitous. She took a slow sip.

Logan coyly flashed a smile as she looked up from the glass, crinkling her nose. With her right hand she reached up and playfully removed her glasses. "I just had a completely unique experience," she stated seductively.

"Cut, cut, let's try that again," the cameraman said as he poked his head out from up above his camera. "You have foam all over your nose. Here, take this towel, clean off your schnoz, and let's try it again."

Four hours later, not much progress had been made. "Cutttttt" the director groaned dismally. They had already been through 43 takes and the young actress was clearly beginning to feel the woozying effects of all the cheap malt beverage sips.

"Ok we're going to try this ONE LAST TIME," the cameraman started. "Put some emotion into it, and try not to slur. I want you to experience the beer. Communicate telepathically with the beer. Connect with the beer. You two are soul mates. Give me some feeling, c'mon, you got this." The cameraman repositioned himself behind the camera. "Ready? Alright. Take 44. Aaaaaaand action." 

Logan swirled the cup around once more. Daintily, delicately. She closed her eyes and gently inhaled the beer mist that hovered closely above the frothy head. She took a teensy sip of the frosty brew. She savored it. She swallowed it. She opened her eyes and did that Colbie Caillat thing with her nose. She slipped off her glasses, turned her body to the left and looked over her right shoulder, straight into the camera. Her eyes conveyed a riveting display of desire and intensity.

"I just haved [hiccup] a completelyyy enuch, sexperience," she slurred. "And I haves to break the seal and feeds my cat," she stated sternly, drunkenly, "like, now." Logan reached into her purse and took out a cat clutching a loaded Colt .45 revolver, "So don't you even try and think about trying to think about trying to stop us." The cat fired a warning shot to show that it wasn't a pussy.

The cameraman ducked behind his camera and smiled. It wasn't Logan's best take by far, but it was probably going to go viral once somebody invented the internet and created Youtube. It was rumored that Youtube was going to love cat videos.