A Letter To You

By the time you read this, I will be a lion and I know and I know. I know it’s hard for you to hear this; it’s hard for me to say this, but I am. I am almost a lion; this is what I’m telling you, what I’m saying. This is part of what I want and need you to hear.

Before I get to this, I should get to this. None of this is new or interesting. Not so deep down, I am not very good. A very good person, I don’t think and I don’t think I ever have been. Again, none of this is new or interesting or will surprise you. It has been hard for me to act like I don’t know this, am not aware of this, but I pretend like I don’t even though I do.

By the time you read this, I will be underwater. This is happening, has happened, and may happen at any minute and you know this already. My mother died by Death By Chocolate and by Death By Chocolate I mean a rare auto-immune deficiency that caused her internal organs to shrivel, corrode, and stop working; this is unnecessary, uncomfortable, and exactly what I am talking about. This was about ten years ago, before I went bankrupt, before I got married and divorced, before I turned into a lion. I was younger then, about ten years younger; I was not underwater then, and I had no idea this was going to happen. I have never had any idea that anything was going to happen and never have. I used to think I could tell the future. This was before the divorce, the kids, and the dead chocolate. This was before the underwater lion-turning-into. I can tell the future. I am telling you this now because it is true. I could tell it to you right now. Maybe not correctly. I used to think I could tell the future correctly and I would tell my brother this. My brother believed me even though I didn’t and couldn’t. I always knew I couldn’t tell the future correctly. I always knew I was lying. My brother is retarded.

I am about ready to die and mayb be dead by the time you read this. This could happen any day, could have happened already, could be happening right now. I am dying and this is what I think I want to tell you. I am dying, turning into a lion, am underwater. I need to tell you this.

My first wife does not know I am turning into a lion. She wishes I was dead though. She doesn’t care if I’m underwater or not. She hates me for a lot of reasons and some of those reasons are probably real. Two of my sons have autism and the other is mean, mean like me, mean like I. We are underwater, he and I are, he and me are, and I wonder and am wondering right now if we all are. If we all aren’t. I am sitting on the couch in the house where I used to live with my son who is like me in my arms. We are watching TV, television, a show about lions. My son points to the TV. He points to a picture of a lion. The lion is lying or laying down. He is in the grass, the lion is, flicking his tail. I wonder if he is swatting flies. The lion yawns and is all teeth. That’s you, my son says to me and it is. That’s you, too I tell him and he looks at me and smiles. He is all face.

You write about things you know and by you I mean I. I don’t know you, I don’t, even though it may seem like I do. It may seem like I know all about you and you know what I mean by you. So you write about what you know and I am telling you this, wanting you to hear this, needing you to know this. And it’s fine that it’s like this, it’s fine because this is exactly what this is, what this is like. So by the time you read this, I could be dead or underwater or a lion and I don’t know because I can’t tell the future. Correctly.

Dear Dead Dog

Dear Dead-Dog

First of all, I want to apologize for lunch today. It was uncomfortable and awkward and not at all like I’d planned. I thought it would be different, I thought it would be nice. I thought it would be like this. You and I sit down, we order sandwiches, we drink water or soda, whichever doesn’t matter. You could maybe get an iced tea. You see where this is going. We get our sandwiches, we eat them. We tell semi-humorous stories, recount semi-amusing stories from our not too distant past between bites of sandwich. We look around the room, admiring how nice the place is. We wonder why we don’t come here more often; we really like the food, and it’s so reasonable! We wonder this in our heads, not out loud. We say this was fun, we say we should do this more often, we say I know I know. We don’t check our watches if we have watches; I don’t, we pay our bill and we leave. That is what lunch was supposed to be all about, doesn’t that sound lovely? But as you know it was nothing like that and it was nothing like that at all and for this I can blame nobody but you and your stupid dead dog. Way to go.

 

Before I really get into this, I should say that I’m not what you call a “dog-person.” I mean, if enjoying turkey sandwiches, telling jokes, and watching the Kansas City Chiefs makes you a “dog-person,” then I guess I am but I am pretty sure that is not what people mean when they say “dog-person.” I think, and I could be wrong here, that being a “dog-person” means you like dogs. That’s not me. I am a “turkey-sandwich person” a “joke-telling person;” I suppose I am, to a lesser extent, a “air-quote person” and I said a instead of an on purpose. To make it funnier. See, that is the kind of fun we could have been having at lunch today instead of having me listen to you crying about your dead dog.

 

I mean, I get it. He’s dead. Your dog is dead. That was the point, I guess, of the whole lunch, to tell me you had to have your dog put to sleep. Well, mission accomplished. Bravo. Hang a banner off of that battleship you call an ass. I get it, we get it, the whole fucking place gets it. Your dog is dead. You killed your dog. That is what I’m taking out of this, that you gave your dog cancer because you hated it and then when it got too sick, sick from the cancer you gave it, then you killed it. Is that about right? I think it is, but am not sure, because I am still hungry because I couldn’t eat my fucking lunch because I had to sit there feeling uncomfortable, saying shit like there there and it’s ok. At one time, I think this is when you were snotting and sneezing and sobbing all over that stupid fucking picture of you and that dumb not-dead-yet dog, the one where you’re dressed as Santa and he’s an elf; seriously, try and be more retarded, at one point I almost said he’s in a better place but stopped myself because what the fuck is that? I mean, what the fuck am I talking about there, with that, that kind of talk? A better place? Your dead dog is in a better place? It’s a better place than that fucking lunch, I can tell you that. Maybe that’s what I meant. Hey, shoot me up with some of that cancer. Anything to get me out of this goddamn lunch.

 

And technically? Technically, you’re not a “dog-person,” either. You’re not. You’re a “dead-dog” person; your dog is dead. I’m just throwing that out there.

 

What I’m saying is, it’s rude. It’s rude to invite somebody to lunch and then cry like a fucking baby all over the place, the whole time, and make that person, the person you fucking invited to lunch feel uncomfortable and shitty and awkward and not even able to enjoy his lunch. I would have liked to have enjoyed my lunch; I am a “liking-to-enjoy-lunch-person.” I have a picture of me and a lunch running down a beach; I would have shown it to you if you would have stopped crying for five fucking seconds. I didn’t enjoy my lunch today however, because I kept having to hold your stupid hand, literally and figuratively.  Because seriously, what was I supposed to do, go ahead and eat while you’re crying and shitting and throwing up all over the place about your dead dog? Come on. Even I know that. What am I supposed to, kind of nod, and sigh and say I know I know in between mouthsfull of French fries? Is it mouths-full? Mouth fulls? I don’t know; that’s another thing we could have talked about. Maybe next time. Maybe next time? Maybe next time, I invite that dead dog of yours, what was his name? Scruffles? Barnaby? Who gives a shit, he’s dead right? Anyway, maybe next time I dig up that dead dog of yours, bring him to lunch with me. Maybe then I can get a word in edgewise.

 

There’s a lot shit I could be crying all over the place about, a lot, but you don’t and didn’t see me doing it. That is because I am not rude like you. I am not a rude fucking jerk like you, is what I’m saying, and I’m just saying that. Maybe that’s why your dog is dead, because you are so rude and such a jerk, ever think of that? I just did. I get it now. I totally get it.

 

Dear Dead Dog,

I totally understand why you gave yourself cancer. I would rather be dead, too, than listen to five seconds of this idiot’s bullshit. I hope you enjoy hell.

Love,
Ben

 

That is a letter I just wrote to your dead dog. And maybe I shouldn’t have said he was in hell; that wasn’t very nice. I also didn’t need to say that your ass looks like a battleship earlier; that was completely uncalled for. And now that I think of it, maybe this whole letter is kind of out of line. I am going through a difficult time right now and am not thinking straight. Maybe we can talk about it over lunch.

How does Thursday sound?

Let me know,

Ben

Easter

And I’m going to say this as nicely as I know how because it’s Good Friday and all, but come on.

Nice fucking savior.

Seriously?

This is your guy, here?

I’m the son of God.

Fuck that,  I’m the Son of God, right? Stay with me. Here’s God, made the entire universe, everything in it.

God.

And here’s me,; I’m sorry, here’s Me, his actual physical Son, walking around on Earth. God’s son, water to wine, loaves and fishes, blind can see, and a couple of rabbis? A couple of rabbis with fucking hammers start coming at me, yammering around, starting shit.

Ok and seriously no disrespect here, but do you think I let myself get nailed to a cross? I’m the Son of fucking God over here, I can walk on water and raise the dead and I’m going to let you nail my hands and fucking feet to a board? Yeah, no, no I don’t think so. I don’t, shit I don’t know, shoot lasers out of my eyes or something? Fly away? Turn into a T-Rex? Do fucking something, for crying out loud, and yeah I almost said for Christ’s sake.

Seriously, guy, I’m  sorry but I could get nailed to a cross you know? It’d be pretty fucking easy and I can think of about twelve people off the top of my fucking head who’d love to do it. And they’re not even rabbis. Me and just about everybody I know could get killed pretty fucking easy, but what I couldn’t do is shoot wolverines out of my arms or turn my fists into snakes and fucking snake-fist the shit out of everybody.

YAHH!! YAHH!!! FSST!! FSST!!!!

That’s some Son of God shit right there, you ask me.

But that’s fine, you do what you have to do. Go make a chocolate rabbit and bring it back to life or hide it or whatever it is you do. It’s fine. Bring me back a marshmallow.

 

Why I Don’t Have Herpes

First things first, I don’t have herpes.That is the first thing, that right there, the me not having herpes, but there are other things that I will get to later. So. Let’s get that out of the way right now. Do you have herpes? That is the question you’re asking,  right? No. I don’t. There are a lot of things I have, a lot of things I used to have. Herpes is not one of them; herpes are not one them, whichever. I used to have lots of things, and we can talk about those later, but not right now.  One thing I used to have was I used to have an idea that things were better than they actually were or are; I used to think that things were better or were getting better. I used to think things were about to get better. I still have this, even though, even though, and I don’t know why I do.  I also have this, and this is another thing that is not herpes that I have. It is a story called My Tornado Face. This is a part of it. 

My Birthday:

 

For my first birthday, my father bought me a red two-wheeled bicycle. It was a nice bicycle. It was a big party. All of my father’s business associates were there and so was my mom and my older brother Simon. My father was making drinks and trying to look casual and hoping his associates wouldn’t think his wife was ugly or his sons were ugly or his house was too small. I looked at him and could tell what he was thinking because this is something I have always been able to do. When my father wheeled in my new bicycle everybody clapped. My mother clapped. My brother clapped but he claps at everything because there is something wrong with his hands. My mother said Isn’t It A Little Too Big like that and my father got very red in the pointy face and gave her a look that was all slanted eyes and dry skin and the look said Shut Your Fucking Mouth and It’s No Fucking Wonder I Cheat On You.

            From my crib I immediately noticed the tension so I said Thanks Dad Really It’s A Great Gift. Unfortunately I Lack The Motor Skills Necessary To Really Appreciate It Right Now But I Hope To Be Up And Pedalling Soon. I then thrust my wrinkled baby fist up in the air and gave what I hoped was a sincere looking thumbs-up which may not’ve been the best thing for me to do, looking back, but I did it anyway because I wanted the party to go smooth and for my father to maybe even like me. I used to be such a kiss ass it almost makes me sick.

            Something made my father happy and I don’t know if it was my baby thumbs-up or the fact that he knew I was trying to be a kiss-ass and that he could maybe hold that against me later. He started singing Happy Birthday To You to me and flailing his arms in what I think he thought was a rousing fashion so as to get his associates to sing. He was thinking If They See What A Good Father/Family Man I Am Then Maybe They Won’t Make Fun Of What I Perceive To Be My Physical Inadequacies or something like that. I was kind of wrapped up in the song and all the attention and all. I was kind of a ham. I turned my baby head around in my baby crib and tried not to blush even though I sort of felt like I was anyway. I was happy, I’ll admit it, and my father must have noticed this because he started glaring at me. He gave me a look which looked like the word sneer and the look said Don’t Think You’re Not Mowing The Fucking Lawn Today You Little Shit.

 

What They Said Later Was This:

 

Get Him Out Of There. Out Of That Fucking Crib. Make’m Mow That Fucking Lawn.

Mow The Lawn. Jesus, You’re Insane.

I’m Insane?

You Are.

Why? Why Am I Insane? Because I Don’t Leave You Right Now? Because I Buy You A Fucking Mercedes? Because Someday I’m Going To Have An Affair With A Lesbian With Bad Teeth? Is That Why I’m Insane?

A Lesbian?

What?

A Lesbian With Bad Teeth? I Don’t Get It.

Jesus. It’s A Figure Of Speech. You Don’t Understand Anything. Figure Of Speech.

It Is?

Forget It.

Oh. No. No, You’re Insane Because Evan Can’t Mow The Lawn. It’s His First Birthday.

I Don’t Give A Fuck What Day It Is. Listen. See If You Can Understand This. See If Somebody As Dumb As You Can Understand This. I’d Be Interested To See Just How Fucking Dumb You Are. We’ll Pretend This Is A Game. Ready?

Fuck You.

Are You Ready? Listen Up, Now: There’s A Lawn. It Needs Mowing. Someone’s Fucking Mowing It. And He’s The Fucking Guy Mowing It. Because I’m Not Mowing It. You’re Too Stupid To Mow It And That Other Kid, Well, He Just Isn’t Mowing It.

It’s His First Birthday He Can’t Mow A

Oh. Oh. Ohhhh! Evan Can’t Do This, Evan Can’t Do That! That’s All You Ever Fucking Say, Do You Know That? Fuck That! Why? Why Can’t He Mow The Lawn? Is It Because He’s A BAYYYYBEEEE? Is He A BAYYYBEEE?

 

What I Said:

 

            When my tiny little father was yelling at my mother shortly after my first birthday party I told him I would kill him as soon as I could. He had just finished yelling at my mother and I remember his pointy wrinkled face was right in front of my round smooth face and I gave him a look. The look said Yeah I’ll Mow Your Fucking Lawn But Watch Your Ass. He saw that look and knew what it meant and didn’t say another word to me until the day I killed him.

           

 

Dear Chinese Kissing Machine

When I was eleven years old, I shot myself in the face.

This was with a gun. It happened when I was eleven and I may have said this already but that is not important, the when isn’t.  What happened after was. What happened after, what happened right after I shot myself in the face with a gun when I was eleven was that I decided that I would never, ever again not have a blog. 

I know.

This raises some questions, and by some I mean three.

One would be what is a blog. I don’t know. This? Something like this? Something like this. My friend Trevor has a blog. So does everybody else on the planet. One time I thought I was going to start a blog called Bag Of Cobras. That is a solid name,  for a blog, for a band, for a anything. Just for the record, the a in the last sentence is pronounced like ah and just for another record, I never did start Bag Of Cobras although I probably could have if I wanted to. 

The second question, the question that would be labeled with a #2 if I was or were the kind of guy who numbered things, is what kind of gun I shot myself in the face with when I was 11 and the honest answer is I don’t remember; I forget, I forgot, and I have forgotten. I had lunch with a girl today. We had wraps. On her bachelorette party she had a penis gun. The gun I shot myself with was a different gun. I am almost positive about this. 

There is a third question that I know I should be answering right now but I don’t know if I can right now. It has something to do with the book Red Hot Dogs, White Gravy. It has something to do with An Evening Of Romantic Love Making. I wrote one of those books and am writing the other one. The question that I can’t answer right now is why Chinese Kissing Machine. There is probably a good reason for this. There almost has to be.

 

#1

This is the first post for my new blog, Chinese Kissing Machine. 

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