UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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Friday, June 25, 2004
I step out of the office yesterday for a walk around the block and I put a tic tac in my mouth. I walk around the block, passing the store that still has Father's Day window dressings. Walk through clot of people outside another building and breathe deeply of their smoke, which smells secondhandedly terriffic. I roll the tic tac across my hard palate with the tip of my tongue, which is getting raw from worrying tic tacs and rubbing my teeth, which constantly feel dirty from all the sugar. For ten paces I walk alongside the slouching Nipponese art student so I can get some of his secondhand, too. I roll my tic tac vertical between my left second bicuspids and split it in two like a log for firewood. Its coating is totally gone, now. The day porter walks by me on the street, screams "JER-UH-MY-EE-AHHH!!" unbelievably loud and slaps my hand with similarly improbable force. I bite through my tic tac.
Stupid train, stupid sweat. I put a tic tac in my mouth. To keep from going immediately home and stewing in my juices too long, I go to Max Fish and play some Terminator 2 pinball. But I'm getting frustrated by the table. They fixed the mechanical game built into the backboard so I can get my rightful 5 million points in RPG mode, but the table still has a really irritating starboard list and I don't get multiball until ball four and when I do, all three balls somehow drain at the same instant, before I can get a single jackpot, which I really want because Arnold says "Jackpot" every time you hit it. (Go ahead and imagine that in your head: "jagpawt," he says. Now imagine George Pataki saying it. Ha! Two Governors enter, one governor leaves: no contest.) I put a tic tac in my mouth. I'm starting to brutalize the table a bit, slapping the buttons with the force of my entire arm when I should chill out and just use my fingers, and I'm screaming curses intermittently, which impresses no one. Go home, boy. Reading Nathaniel West's Miss Lonelyhearts on the train does not exactly improve my mood, as the title character is one gloomy fuck. I put a teatree oil-flavored toothpick in my mouth. I start trying to scrub plaque off my every tooth with that pick, which involves some manual/oral acrobatics, and I can sense, without looking up, that there are various looks of feminine horror being directed at me. You know, in case I look up at them, they want to have their horror faces ready to show me, to sternly rebuke me for my antisocial ablution -- but I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of looking at their horrorfaces. Perhaps they will freeze that way. That all sounds totally paranoid, but it's not, I swear. Anyway, it's worth it -- the fronts of my incisors feel smooth as a new Teflon-coated Nokia. I do not fall asleep on time, and in fact I don't even shower until 02:00 hrs, which should be lights out, time to put some drool on the pillowcase. Finally down at 04:00, maybe, but I start seeing the clock at 06:00 again and I get that feeling where you're like "I have not slept at all" but really you're just drifting in and out and looking at the clock a lot. Abandon the horizontal charade at 08:30, wait for Democracy Now to come on the radio and horrify me with some bit of news that I won't hear anywhere else. Have to wait through the preceding show, which confuses me, as there is a person they keep talking about, like a DJ or host, named... well it sounds like his name is pronounced "tee-oh'-ka-sin" which is not a name I've ever heard. He sounds like he's from Brooklyn. Confused and bleary, I put a tic tac in my mouth and abandon the 24-hour-clock/military-time charade. They're making tic tacs bigger now. 30% bigger, with "more enjoyable freshness." Yeah. Guess the focus groups didn't like the sound of "more not enough tic tacs in the box." Goddamnit. Those fucking fucks can eat hott coxx. On the way to work I stop to buy some more tic tacs. My aunt said that when she quit smoking -- which she did without patches or pills, the old cold bird -- she had to replace the oral fixation, which was conventional wisdom, but she felt a need to replace the ritual fixation too. Some people do things to keep their hands busy, rubbing rabbits' feet or river rocks, but she chose tic tacs because the act of opening the box, extracting a tic tac, putting it in her mouth, and closing the box with a satisfying plastic click mimicked the ritual of the cigarette almost perfectly, only omitting the flame. I put a tic tac in my mouth. I've never been a big fan of spearmint anything, but the best all-around tic tac is the dark green spearminter. (Hey: "spearminter" sounds like the way a hick would pronounce "experimenter." I hate that shit -- and as per what I said yesterday, I already wrote about how I hate that shit in the FNGL. Slap!) The spearmint tic tac has structural integrity. It lasts a long time and it never softens, hard like a diamond till you pulverize it with molars. I go to work, and I work on some work I had to work on, and I work on a box of tic tacs. Eventually I'm done with work. So I put a tic tac in my mouth. I think my sense of smell is already improving, because I'm detecting odors I hadn't before. Unfortch, this is New York in the summer, where your best-case scenario is no nose at all. Some guys on the train, I'm noticing something: guys wearing big baggy jeans, like they can't compromise their style, or they have to show off their retardedly overpriced SeanJohns or whatever before they go out of style, even when it's 90° in the shade. You wear jeans all day in the summer, you brew up some serious fonk, my friend. The denim oven takes the sweat that rolls down your spine, past the waistband, and picks up some assfunk on the way to completely soaking your legs with a misty, sticky layer of nasty fecal treacle, cooking in your big-ass jeans. Yeah: you smell like a fucking butt. Please wear some shorts, or wipe your ass better. Please. My sense of smell is coming back. I get off the train and the first raindrops hit my greasy head, justifying the umbrella I've been carrying all day. I hate carrying the umbrella because there's no way to look cool with an umbrella. Of all the flavors, the weakest tic tac is orange, which turns into a sad mush between your molars after only 30 seconds in your mouth. I put a tic tac in my mouth. 0 comments |
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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |