The Gig

Kumbuya bitches! Prof Box here again to share with you an account of the greatest show I ever played. Although the city of Austin did not share those same sentiments about the show, I am almost certain all over you wonderfully ignorant shit heads will. Enjoy 

  

“I quit.”, I said to my boss. 

“Okay”, she said. 

“That’s it? It’s really gonna be that easy?”, I say. I was a bit stunned at the degree of simplicity this took. Four years here and they didn’t even put up a fight! 

“Go right ahead Kevin, I practically stopped writing you on the schedule weeks ago.”, she tells me, while not once dropping a hint of emotion from the wry smile on here face. I fuckin knew she was a drone in disguise! 

“Alright…but I’m really leaving and I’m not coming back!”, trying to mask any regret in my voice with complete and total triumph. 

And I wasn’t coming back. I was sick of living the life of a soul-less working stiff. I wanted to chase all those dreams I had when I was a kid. Actually, it was more like when I was a long-haired, drugie teenager. (When I was a kid, I wanted to be an ice cream man. Shut up!) I was finally gonna live out my rock and roll fantasy. 

I was gonna play like Clapton. I was gonna sing like Mercury. I was gonna strut like Mick, and I was gonna move mountains like Jimi. I was gonna ride in limos, and trash hotel rooms, and do lines of blow off really expensive fake tities. I was gonna be what Paul Simon always wanted to be, but was never badass enough to pull off. I was gonna be a fucking superstar that would make the rock gods proud to call their son. But first I needed a gig. 

Three hours later, I find my self in Austin on 6th Street. If I was to get my start anywhere, it was gonna have to be in this landfill of characters. The air reeked of culture and day old vomit. After being there only eight minutes, I witnessed a man buy a newspaper and a bag of meth all from the same vendor. The man looked suspiciously similar to this. 

Somethings rehab just cannot fix. Like this face for example.

Oh yeah, these people needed a heavy dose of pizzazz in their diets. And I knew just how to give it too them. I took my guitar case and the $35 I had in my sock and walked down to the first fairly rockin place I could find. I walked in and talked to the man behind the counter. 

“What’ll it be sir?”, he asks me while cleaning out some empty mugs. 

“Bourbon straight. Three fingers worth.”, I tell him using my grizzled Vietnam vet voice. This aughta make a good impression. 

“Got something stuck in your throat, son?”, he asked as he poured my whiskey in a glass. 

“Oh…uhh ehem no. Just a bit parched from the road.”, I say. Damn you really can’t fool these bartender types. 

“Good, cuz for a second you started to sound a bit like my old platoon sergeant from back in Nam. And I know no snot nosed punk, would dare try to imitate a great war hero like that man!”, he says back to me. He then proceeded to pull out a 13″ inch Army knife and stuck it right next to my glass on the bar. A smidgen of piss drips out down my leg. 

“Of course not friend. I would never disrespect the dead like that.”, I tell him. At least not anymore. 

“I didn’t think so. Now what brings you in a place like this, at this hour? It’s a bit earlier than when my usual crowd piles in here.”, he asks. Like he’s never seen a stranger with a guitar come in and order a drink at 3 in the afternoon! 

“Well you see there…Fred…I was hoping that you would consider letting me play a few tunes on that there stage you got over there.”, I tell him. I start caressing my guitar case at this point. She had my back. 

There was a long pause. Followed by hysterical laughter between Fred and his cook, Gus. I considered grabbing the knife and ending both of them right then and there, but I remembered the piss on my shoe and thought best to just sit there and stare at my glass. 

“You wanna play a show in this bar? Son…do you have any idea how many bands have been booed clean outta town off that stage? And you wanna play a solo act up there? Boy you need more than just a double shot of courage…you need a damn prayer!”, he tells me, still laughing in between words. No one said this would be easy, Boxy.  

“Yeah that’s right, I wanna play a show. No scratch that…I wanna play the best fuckin show, you and your patrons have ever seen!“, I say to him. I down the rest of my drink down and slam the glass down on the bar. Fred just stood there with his mouth wide open. I left him speechless. 

“So…do you have that cojones necessary to allow the greatest rockstar this city has never seen and your girlfriend has never been fucked by, to play your bar tonight in front of a hot Austin crowd or what?”, I asked. With that much swagger, how could he not let me play? 

“Get the fuck out of my bar, and never EVER come back!”, he says to me after he astutely cocked and pointed a 20 gauge pump-action shot-gun at me. You gotta love the Austin friendlies. 

   

After I left, I decided there was only one other place I could go to truly flex my rock boner to these Austin folks (Or Aussies as I like to call them.) And that place was UT Longhorns Stadium. I grab a bus over there, and walk right in. It’s amazing how little security messes with you when you’re wearing a burnt orange shirt. After a few looks at the stadium schematics, I finally find my way to the field. 

The stadium was completely full. There must have 80,000 people there waiting to chant my name. It was amazing. It was perfect. It was too good to be true. To bad, it really was too good to be true. I got to about the twenty yard line with my guitar, when it was discovered that I had intruded upon the first game of the season. Luckily, I had been taken down by police and not a lineman. That might have been quite and ouchie! 

I learned exactly three things that day. The first, was HEB will always take you back. The second, was Austin police are just as similar in shitiness as Dallas police. And the third was, never let talentless bartenders crush your dreams. 

Fin

The Top-Floor

Top of the morning to ya. Prof. Box here, wanting to tell you jokers about another groovy story of mine. Lemme just start by asking, has anyone ever stolen something? How about, has anyone ever had something stolen from them? Well this ones sorta a bit more like the former question rather than the latter. At least it would be, had I been a smidgen more successful.

 

 

There is probably nothing that grinds my gears up more than rich assholes who love to flaunt their wealth. I mean really, does putting your kid’s little red wagon up on 24 in. rims make you feel like a bowsss? Or does your ocean liner really need a fifth helicopter pad on it? Sure I’d like my dog to have her own Segway and personal trainer, but I just can’t squeeze that into my budget this quarter. Quite frankly, millionaire people can lick my neighbor’s poopshoot!

I get into my truck one Thursday afternoon, and drive to the Hilton Anatole in Dallas. I knew if there was some rich snob that had an X-box hooked up into their ride, then they would probably have a room at the top of that fancy place. I get there and a group of valets start playing rock-paper-scissors to see which one had to park old Betsy. I would feel pretty excited to be chosen with such a task as well. The kid who lost, begrudgingly walks up and sticks his hand out.

“Go ahead and check the tire pressure while you’re at it, sport.”, I say as I toss the valet my keys. You don’t get many opportunities for the good life treatment like this.

“Man, you outta just park this thing in a lot somewhere and burn it. I can’t believe people drive these old things!”, the valet said back to me, as he looked at the hand crank for the driver side window.

“Well there just went your tip, choadbreath!”, I replied. I guess if it’s not a Prius, it’s not worth driving to these tools.

I walk on up to the door, where there stood a doorman with a big smile on his face. His name badge said Hank.

“Good afternoon sir. May I trouble you to ask who rents out the top floor suite?”, I ask him.

“Mark Cuban. He’s been renting that place out for years.”, he said, as he held the door open for me.

“Great, thanks. Say…has anyone ever told you look just like a young Gene Hackman?”, I ask him in a friendly small talk sort of way. These hotel type people eat this sort of stuff up.

“Fuck off!”, he told me, as he slammed the door shut right before I could walk through it. Even the underpaid workers are asshats. This was going to be difficult I could see. The elevator guy didn’t fare much better.

“What floor will it be, sir?”, he asks me.

“Top floor. I’m going to the Cuban suite.”, I tells him. I give him one of those daring looks that only a rich crazy man could give.

“You a friend of Mr. Cubans or something?”, he asks me. What was with the third degree?

“Oh yeah, me and Mark go way back. We have lunch all the time when I am in town from Chicago.” Am I master deceiver or what!!

“Really, cuz he does stuff with friends all the time, and I have never seen you here before, Mr….uh what did you say your name was again?”, he asks, as he eyes me real hard like. Who does this clown think he is…Clint fuckin Eastwood?? Luckily, this boy scout always comes prepared.

“Defrank. Michael Defrank. Here, let me show you my license my good man.”, I say to him, as I reach in my pocket for my wallet. What Mr. Kojack doesn’t realize is that I have no wallet with me. Only a fool would carry identification on a mission like this. What I do have is a 2 million volt stun gun that my trigger happy finger can’t wait to jam in poor Charlie’s ribcage. And I use it swiftly and without prejudice to hotel workers everywhere. Just this mother trucker right here!

 As we reach the top, I hit the lock button on the elevator doors and I quickly switch our clothes out. I imagine this going better if Cuban thinks I work for the hotel, and am not just some crazed impoverished man looking to extract my revenge upon our country’s highest tax bracket. I walk up to the door of the suite, and ring the bell. I grab my hotel hat and cradle it my arms like a baby and start petting it, just for added effect. The door opens.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cuban?”, I ask with the right degree of distraught in my voice.

“Yes that’s me. What can I do for you?”, he says to me. His teeth glistening like he brushes them with Evian water everyday.

“The main lobby just got a call. There….there has been a terrible accident involving your parents, sir.”

“What? My parents died four years ago. You must have the wrong person, son.”, he says back to me. Did not see that one coming.

“O..okay well no they aren’t YOUR parents exactly, but they are somebody’s parents. Anyways, it was such a horrific accident, and the doctors don’t think they will make it with out some really expensive surgery and stuff. You’re the only person in town closest enough to pay for that kind of surgery. Won’t you please consider coming down to help?” This will get him for sure.

“I…I don’t really know what to say. I am sorry for this terrible event, but I’m a busy man. I wish there was something I could do…”, he says back to me. Oh, but there is Mark. There is indeed!

“Hey look over there!”, I say as I whip out the stun gun and give him a good juicing with it. There is nothing like the feel of taking from the rich and giving back to the poor. Robin Hood must have been on cloud nine all the time! I start to drag his limp, unconscience body back to the elevator, when all of a sudden the place gets stormed by swat team agents. This was not good.

“What the hell gives!”, I yell as I’m being tacked and forced fed a piece of the burgundy carpet underneath me. I figured if I am going down I at least deserve some kind of explanation for this raid.

“It’s all over scum! Hank the door man called us and told us he suspected something bad was going to happen to Mr. Cuban today, so we got here as fast as we could. Your going away for a long long time!”, the apparent leader of the team said to me.

Oh what a bitch! I thought me and Hank were cooler than that, but apparently I was a huge misjudge of character. This was all your fault Gene Hackman.

I hope where ever they end up sending me, there is somebody there who was once a hotel doorman, so I can stomp their ass for all of this. That and I hope the food is tolerable.

Fin

 

The Robot

Sup. Prof Box here again, to tell you colon cleaners about my greatest invention. This wasn’t just any ordinary one of my cockamamie ideas put into action. Although I was pretty damn proud of my bacon flavored energy drink. No no, this story here is about the one time when I created more than I ever could have bargained for: LIFE 

  

Boxworth, you are a fucking genius!! This was the exact thought I woke up with every morning when I open my sleepy little eyes for the first time. At least before this day. No no, I still pretty much say that every morning still. But now I do it with an air of caution in my mind’s voice. (Which btw, sounds just like Patrick Stewart) For this day had the same vibes as Hiroshima did, right before it got nuclear ass raped by Eisenhower’s boys. Scary. 

I get up, and piss out my usual quart or two of excellence. I make myself a big bowl of Awesome N Shit, with a half a pop tart. Okay fine it was a whole pop tart! (No one ever eats a half of a pop tart. They are just too fuckin delicious.) And I chase all of this down with 30 minutes of a nice heaping dose of moral lesson learning in the form of Family Matters. All I can say is, I wouldn’t mind it if my dad was Carl Winslow. 

  

Every great decision I've ever made, I made because of this man.

 

After my morning routine of the Lifetime channel and toe touches is done, I decided work must be done. No not actual work. Its my day off, and you can’t fucking make me go. No it was time to create work. Or maybe just create. I run with this idea as I start drafting designs for a robot. Why a robot you ask? Well frankly put, I really am genius. 

 Laugh all you want, and I’m sure you all are. But I have a brain capacity that far out reaches my own ambitious fruitions. (Note: That means I’m too smart to get shit done.) I have totally been wasting years of potential genius work for years now. The other obvious reason, is that robots are probably the coolest things ever. Next to Stallone movies and low-cut shirts, robots stand atop the hierarchy of sweetness. (Especially robots that help get you pussy!) Take some of these guys for example. 

He sure made me want to be a cop. Even if he did lose complete use of his penis.

 

Droids can't be gay together. Their processors can't comprehend homoeroticism.

 

You guys all remember him, right?

 

Alright bad example, but this fire crotch is most definately a robot!

 

The time had finally come for me to create my own robo-offspring. This wasn’t gonna be easy, but if any underachieving genius could do it, I sure as hell could. I drink two Monsters and masturbate, and finally I’m on with my design. It was like poetry in motion. 

The feet and hands were made of chapstick tubes. The arms and legs were empty 2 liter bottles. The chest hair was some old carpet samples, and the intestinal track was fruit-by-the foot. For the head, I jammed a couple of shot glasses into an old deflated soccer ball and sewed a mouth on from a zipper I found from a soiled pair of jeans laying around. For the circuitry, I welded a few wires and boards together from an old Gameboy and Light Bright I had in my closuhh…attic, that I had in my attic. 

It was the most glorious looking thing I have ever imagined. And I have imagined some glorious shit! Aside from the fact that it was being held together with bungee cords and band aids, it was perfect. All I had to do was put the central processor in, and my baby boy would be born. I placed in the robot the processor I stole from my mother’s computer. She’s gonna be soooo mad!! 

I put my Houses of the Holy cd on. I want the first sounds robot hears to be good ones. And I put on the best looking dress clothes I own. I want robot to think his creator is a suave, sophisticated gentleman. I press the On button on the front of robot’s chest. It started twitching a little, and a bit of black smoke started coming from its inwards. Not good. I lower my head and shake it in disappointment, when all of a sudden, robot sprung to life. And I mean literally sprung. 

This mother starts Yoda flipping all over the place, while making very acute high pitch screaming sounds. Maybe robot thought it was a teletubbie? I try to catch it, but it is much too quick for me. My dog Roxsy tries too, but to no avail. This little guy was really moving. I will have to write a letter to the band aid people, and tell them they have won my respect. 

 While I draft a plan to capture the robot, he makes his way outside the house. It only took about three minutes or so before I began hearing the sounds of women and children fleeing and police sirens. It only took about 15 seconds to remember that I stitched my name in about seven different places on the robot. Yep, somewhere I could hear the very acute sound of lawyers drafting up yet another bangin lawsuit for yours truly. I decided to name the robot Carl. 

Fin.

The Boxpire Strikes Back…

Well kiddos, it would appear that after a year or so hiatus, ol’ Boxy Pop is back in action!!

Where is you went off to, you ask?

Well its a very complicated story that involves tribal priests from Borneo, a magic 8 ball, and some of the best dust a young scant like me can get my hands on. (Note: Never soak your drugs in anti-freeze and then dry it out before use. Bad bad bad idea!!)

Actually, I had a period of no steady Internet use, and it took me awhile to get back t0 my original form of making funnies.

But, I’m back now bitches. So relax, sit back, and wait for the ejaculate to come flying out of your pants. I know I will.

The License

Aloha ass bandits! Prof. Box here, taking a little time to tell you a little short story of mine. I don’t quite know what it is, but there is just something about the warm summer air that brings the love out of people. It seems like everyone I know are either married, planning a wedding, getting engaged, talking about getting engaged, or scaring the bejeezes outta their half-drunk boyfriends with talks of rings and such (Kylebaby, this is your cue to run like the shit is about to drip, and never ever look back!).

Anyway, being the responsible young scant that I am, I decide that I better go ahead and get myself a marriage license. Even though I have not had a relationship in about 3 years, or a pregnancy scare in about 3 weeks, I decide it is better to be prepared just in case I meet that Misses Right. Whom, I am hoping will look something like this.

It takes DECADES for the wheels to start falling off of a woman like that.

 

However, I have accepted that the woman I am destined to be with will most likely look something like this.

Laugh all you want. This REALLY is somebody's grandma, asshole.

 

I wake up bright and early one morning to see if I couldn’t beat the lines at the courthouse. Also, I have been itching so bad to sneak up on the sun before he peeks his little head over the horizon. That son of a bitch gave me an awful sunburn last weekend, so I wanna make sure the first thing HE sees on this morning is my full mooned ass! Too bad the sun doesn’t come up at 11:30. I was so close this time. I put my socksies and shoesies on, and rollout.

I’m a little nervous at this point. I have never had a reason to go to the county courthouse before, and government folks have always made me more than a little uncomfortable. But at least I looked damn good while doing it. I decided to put on a tuxedo for this occasion. I know its a bit much, but hell I did it for every other license I ever got. The ladies at the DPS office always loved it. Maybe not so much whenever I insisted on them slow dancing with me after they took the picture. But hey I am a gentleman. I would have let them lead if they wanted to.

I walk inside the door of the courthouse, and see a woman sitting behind a desk. Her name tag said Martha. She looked more like a Prudence. She told me, “My middle name is Prudence, ya nosey jerk! Now how may I help you?” Evidently I was thinking my thought bubble out loud. Courthouse mistake number one. “Where do I go to get a marriage license at?”, I ask her with a smile. Her identification badge shimmered in the light with authority. My level of sweating had risen to profusely now.

“Uh second door just down the hall on your right.”, she said, giving me a very confused look as she cocked her head to the left and to the right to see if anyone else was with me. I must have been the first one there today. I walked into the room for the marriage licenses and it was empty. Jackpot. I stroll right on up to the handsome judge sitting behind the glass. His name tag said Jasper.

Jasper: “Yes sir. How may I help you?”

Me: “Good afternoon, your honor….”

Jasper: “Sir, I am not a judge.”

Me: “Oops my B! What shall I call you then, your honor?”

Jasper: “Mr. Jones will be fine.”

Me: “Alright then Jonesy. What I need is a marriage license.”

Jasper: “You came alone? I need both parties present in order to do a marriage license.”

Me: “Uhh….both parties?”

Jasper: “Yes….you and your future spouse.”

Me: “Oh that bitch! Yeah, I haven’t met her yet. This is just a precautionary license. You know kinda like how rubbers are a precautionary to kids.”

Jasper: “…..I’m afraid I don’t follow you there, sir?”

Me: “Look Captain Jo-Jo, here is the skinny….I’m good and single right now, but I don’t wanna meet a girl, fall in love, plan on getting married, and then don’t because the line to get one of these things is out the door. Like when you try to get tickets to a Paul McCartney concert….ya just can’t do it man!…..I wanna get it out of the way is what I am sayin.”

Jasper: “Yeah….it doesn’t really work that way, sir.”

Me: “Oh really…..not even for a few of your favorite presidents?”

I reach into my coat pocket and pull out four crumpled up bills and slam them visibly against the glass. All of them ones. Courthouse mistake number two.

Jasper: “Sir, this is a government institution. It is highly illegal to accept any sort of bribe or gift.”

Me: “Wow!….you are no fun at all my man. I don’t know how your assumed wife lives with you!”

Jasper: “Excuse me?”

Me: “Is there another judge in this building who can get me my license, or are you the only scrotbag who can do it?”

Jasper: “I think you need to leave this building before I have you thrown in jail.”

Me: “Whatever your honor….I’m out of here. You can go eat one!”

No, I did not get my marriage license that day. But I did learn a few valuable lessons. Marriage isn’t about being prepared. It is about two people wanting to spend the rest of their lives in the warmth of each others undying affection for one another. And that the people who aren’t planning marriage, shouldn’t feel the pressures that their marriage seeking loved ones place upon them. I also learned that wearing a tuxedo in jail does not get you any special treatments by the guards or other cellmates. Whoda thunk that one?

Fin.

The Dentist

Anybody ever wish they didn’t have teeth, and everything could just be swallowed whole with no problems at all? Or maybe just a whole mouth full of razor-sharp, solid steel teeth like Jaws from the 007 movies? Well I sure do. This one time, I got a coupon to go get a teeth cleaning, because I have no dental coverage to go and do it regularly. Here is my story…..

 

SHIT MAN….CANNOT BELIEVE I WOKE UP 15 MINUTES BEFORE MY DENTIST APPOINTMENT…..WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING HITTING SNOOZE SO MANY TIMES…..I JUST HAD TO CATCH THAT LAST HOUR OF CONAN FOLLOWED BY ANOTHER FIVE HOURS OF CALL OF DUTY….SHIT MAN….SSSSHHHHIIIITTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay. I am dressed, on my way, and impressively brushing my teeth while whizzing through traffic. It is still awe inspiring to me, the things you can do when you have to do them. (Like when you have to shoot a horse after it breaks its leg. Or when you have to shoot your friend for borrowing your favorite jacket without asking.) I drive for roughly twelve minutes or so before I wake up enough to realize, I don’t know where the hell I am even going.

I look at the back of my free-teeth cleaning coupon to look at the address, only to realize it is in a very bad part of Dallas. I’m not talking bad just for small town white guys like myself. I’m talking bad for everyone. Captain America wouldn’t even clean these streets. And Oscar the Grouch sure as fuck wouldn’t live there either. I decide to jimmy my steering wheel off and carry it around with me, just in case I needed to use it to bust a fool up. I also decide to wait until I’m off the road and parked before I try and do so. Definitely a good idea to not die before I get my free cleaning. I hate wasting good coupons.

I find a spot to park old Betsy and get out. I take one last good look at her (while she is not stripped and put up on blocks), and start trekking up the side of the building to find the entrance to the dentist. There are alot of doors on the building, but no signs as far as which offices are which. I see a couple of the common locals standing against the side of the building, freestyle rapping. So I candidly walk up to them and ask them if they know which door was that of Dr. Soapdish’s office? They both stop rapping. One of them spits on the ground right next to me. The other says nothing, but just lifts up the front of his shirt only to reveal a shiny .38 caliber hanging out of his jeans. They must be out-of-towners too. At that point, I just start peeking into doors until I see one that most closely resembled a dentist office.

I walk in and see a very lovely woman sitting at the front desk. And when I say lovely, I mean she looked something like this.

Somebody has gotta wanna bag and tag that eventually, right?

 

“Hello!” I say, smiling my freshly brushed teeth. ” I had an appointment for a teeth cleaning this morning. I am the one with the $80 coupon. I hope I am not too late.”

” Name, please?” she said. She had to have roughly somewhere between 3 and 13 pieces of Juicy Fruit in her mouth.

“ Nicholas Irion” I replied. I gave them a different name, just in case my check bounced. I sorta have a gambling problem. But I am sure Nick is good for it. Theatre actors make great money.

“First room on ya left. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.” she said. She was starting to give me one of those looks. The kind of look a starving tiger gives a t-bone steak right before it is ready to pounce. This is not what a sleep deprived young man needs from a large African American receptionist. As I turned to walk towards the waiting rooms, I felt a slight pinch on my behind. My walk turned quickly into a dead sprint for the first room on the left.

This place was unlike any dentist office I had ever been to before. For one thing, there was no running water. For another thing, I could hear the very distinct sound of a woman’s moan coming from just the down the hall. And the wallpaper/carpet pattern was all kinds of strange. It didn’t come close to matching, or at least even complementing each other. I started getting real nervous. Maybe this wasn’t even a dentist office. Maybe it was a Nazi prison camp.

Just then, Dr. Soapdish walked in the room. He looked a little something like this.

His fluoride treatments are Flavalicious.

 

Soapdish: ”Good day to ya my nig! I’m Doctor Soapdish. What seems to be wrong witcha grill today?”

Me: “Oh uh nothing special doctor. I am just here for a reutine teeth cleaning.”

Soapdish: “You want da gold package or da platinum package wit dat?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Soapdish: “Man, you want a gold grill put on or a platinum grill put on?”

Me: “Neither. I just came here for a teeth cleaning.”

Soapdish: “Man, nobody comes here an just gets a teeth cleanin! Now you gonna buy some yay with that grill or no?”

Me: “What?….no no no….I don’t want any of that stuff. I can only afford a teeth cleaning and I have to use a coupon at that. So please doctor….if I may, I would just like my teeth cleaning now.”

Soapdish: “Aight fine. But everyone of my teeth cleanins comes wit a complementary hoe for da afternoon. Will dat be a problem witcha?”

Me: “Will she be covered in the coupon?”

Soapdish: “Sho’ enough”

Me: “Absolutely I don’t have a problem with that. She doesn’t have the clap does she?”

Better safe than sorry I say. I get my teeth cleaning, and take my hoe and steering wheel back to old Betsy. Her hoe name was Silver (her real name was Anna). I take her back to my bachelor pad(parent’s house) and we get to down to business. She informs me that, even though she was covered with the coupon, fucking evidently was not. I had no cash, so she watched me play Call of Duty until I passed out. I woke up to a missing TV and Xbox. All in a days work.

Fin.

The Walk Pt. 4

Previously on The Walk: Our hero Box has finally made it to his fair maiden’s dwelling. And now, he is ready to enjoy the rest of his afternoon, drinking vodka and having his balls slowly sucked on. Much like Stalin did. And so, the adventure continues…..

 

Something deep inside of me awakened the second I rang that doorbell. Something violent. Understanding this door could open at any waking second, I turned toward their front bushes and puked. It was a good, hearty puking. Something else awakened inside of me at that moment. I turned around and pulled my pants down and let a stream of warm diareah Hydro Pump its way out of my ass. Evidently, that cotton candy wasn’t done ruining my life just yet.

The door finally swung open, and up walked my 5’6″, red haired, big titted goddess. Just in case you forgot, here she is.

Giggiddy giggiddy goooooooooooo!!!!!!

 

She stands there and cocks one eyebrow, trying to figure out who this lovely gentleman is and why he is standing on her lawn. And then, she shockingly realized she very much knew who this lovely gentleman was, and most likely, why he was standing on her lawn

Maddie: “Kevin?”

Me: “Hi Maddie!”

My boner decides to let his presence be known. He just loves nose rings!!

Maddie: “What the hell are you doing here? Don’t you still live in Texas?”

Me: “Yes, yes I do. I came here to see you silly goose.”

Maddie: “I….I don’t know what to say…..you came all this way just so you can see me?”

Me: “Yep. I sure did. I brought you some flowers and vodka too.”

Maddie: “Aww how sweet. You….you came all the way to Alabama just to give me flowers and vodka?”

Me: “Oh fuck no!I came to Alabama cause I ate some highly hallucinogenic cotton candy and walked all the way here in a zombie like trance. But….I decided to stay here because of you. I think I love you and I couldn’t keep myself away any longer.”

 

At this point, I began to tell her about the whole story of the events of the previous three days and how I ended up here. Her face turns very ominous at the sound of all of it. This cannot be good.

 

Maddie: “So let me get this straight….your dumb ass goes out with some friends and decides to have a Hangover experience by getting fucked out of your minds, and taking some pills you probably shouldn’t have?”

Me: ” No….that is not what happened at all…..”

My boner decided to tone it down a notch or two. He amazingly can spot a train wreck happening before I can. Crazy penis.

Maddie: “…..and in your half-retarded state of mind, you decided you were gonna hitch a ride from every trucker willing to let you blow them for a couple hundred miles down the highway, just so you can try and test your luck getting me in the sack?”

Me: “I…..how did you come up with all of that?….that was an extremely graphic and detailed story!!”

Maddie: “Because mother fucker….you began leaving me messages on my phone three nights ago telling me all about your plan. You said you had a bottle of lube, a lucky condom, and a pocket full of roofies. AND you wanted to use them all on my tight little asshole!!”

Oh dear God, this is bad.

Me: “and….and the part about the truck drivers?”

Maddie: “Hehe that part seemed too funny to be true. But I’m pretty sure you sent me at least one message while giving a hand job. You sounded out of breath and I heard a man tell you to stroke it.”

Oh dear God, this is really REALLY bad!!!

Me: “So….so absolutely nothing I remember about the story is actually true?”

Maddie: “When you first called me, you did sound like you were at a carnival. Kept saying something about hot carnival bitches and a stuffed bulbasaur?”

Thank God, I did not just imagine Bulby!!

Maddie: “Kevin, if you really wanted to sleep with me, you didn’t have to be a raging dickhead about it! Just be yourself, like you always have been to me, and you probably would have come here and gotten some.”

Me: “Well, I guess its a good thing you have such a monster sense of humor….cuz you just got Punk’d!“

This was indeed a desperation move. My getting laid this afternoon, or ever again, is dangerously at stake.

Maddie: “What?”

Me: “I was just joshing ya….about all that stuff. I saved up and flew in this morning. I was gonna surprise you, but I thought all those funny messages would be better.”

At this point, my boner had completely crawled itself back into my body. The look on my face said something like I’m a lying sack of crap, but I floss regularly. She looks me over real hard now. Like a CIA spy catcher, reading my body language for any chink in my bullshit armor. But to my surprise, she totally bought it.

Maddie: “Aww your so damn funny!! You really had me going there too. I figured you just got some friends to help you make all those crazy messages. Come here sexy, I got some sugar for ya!”

Dear diary….JACKPOT!!!!

She steps forward, and just catches the bushes from the corner of her eye. I was so close too.

Maddie: ” OH MY GOD!! What the fuck happened to my bushes?”

Me: “What that? Oh I can easily explain that one….”

Maddie: “…….”

Me: “………”

Maddie: “I’m waiting for it!”

Me: “I didn’t do it. Somebody else must have.”

Maddie: “…….You smell like shit and vomit….care to explain that one?”

Me: “This is how I always smell. It’s hard to tell that from over the computer.”

Maddie: “Hose my bushes off and get the hell out of my yard.”

Me: “Okay pumpkin. You wanna fuck now, or wait till later?”

Maddie: “I’m calling the cops. Don’t ever call, text, or IM me again you son of a bitch!”

Definitely later.

This whole thing could have gone worse I suppose. Wait…..no it couldn’t have. I lost the girl, my stuffed bulbasaur, most likely my job, and any way of me getting back home. And I have vomit and diareah rolling down my clothes. This was, quite literally, the shittiest week I have ever had.

My only stroke of good fortune came when I ran into the Autobots and they offered to give me a ride home. Turns out they were in town for a civil rights rally. They love black people. And they cleaned me off at a local car wash. That hot wax felt great. I love those guys. They are more like regular people than most might think. They like pussy too.

HEB took me back right away. They didn’t even care. Thought I needed some time off and just charged it to my vacation time. Shit. Oh well, I have a new wallet and phone to pay for now. My parents were pretty mad though. You should have seen the look on their faces. Scary. Priceless. I need a beer.

Fin.

An Intermittent Thought About Snowmen

Hello gang. I’m famous blogger, and known free lance tattoo artist, Box Spaccavento. I am currently in the process of finishing a story I over heard in bar one day by a Vietnam vet with no arms or legs. You may have heard of it. Its a spicy little, New York Times Best Selling number called The Walk.

Now, I am gonna be honest with you all for a moment. It is starting to get difficult to safely pinpoint how I can put into words the many different directions this story takes place in. I mean, I haven’t even told it from the stuffed bulbasaur’s point-of-view yet(which FYI, is fucking amazing when you consider he has an MBA from Yale). Anyways, I thought I would take a little mental break from finishing my story, to tell you about something else that’s been on my mind.

 

Neighborhood teenagers knocking down freshly made snowmen during the winter time.

 

What the fuck is the point in knocking over someone else’s snowman just for laughs? To me, this has to be the penultimate dickhead move of all time. Unlike real men, snowmen take time and effort to make. There is a lot of rolling and packing that needs to be done in order to birth even a moderately decent looking snowman. And then, you have to find charcoal, a carrot, a couple of sticks for arms, and if you really wanna get frisky, a top hat and scarf.

Sort of like this.

 

 

Now, to your average, no good punk ass teenager, they would probably ask that all snow men look something like this.

 

 

Or maybe like this.

 

 

 

But since most snowmen do not, they, much like society, chooses to destroy what they do not accept. And this my friends is wrong. A snowman is like a house. They take alot of hard work to build. They are full of warmth and love. And most importantly of all, they are your property to defend with extreme prejudice.

So the next time winter rolls around, and you just snuggled up by a warm fire with a cup of hot chocolate in your hands. All because you just spent the last four hours making a grand old snowman out of the snow you shoveled from your driveway. And you spot a pack of hoodlums, stomping down the road, and mowing over any giant snow statue they see in their wake. Just remember, throwing snowballs with ninja stars in them at the teens is no less wrong then them knocking your house(snowman) down. No less wrong indeed. Good day.

The Walk Pt.3

Previously on The Walk. Our hero has discovered that his love for sugar and Quaaludes has finally back fired on him, and sent him all the way to the land of the rising sun, also known as Alabama. He has also learned that the plot of his quest has thickened, with the addition of a fair maiden. One who is desperately seeking his companionship in an afternoon courtship ritual (that means gettin it on.) And so, the adventure continues……

 

I fucking hate Alabama. Just in case I did not make this abundantly clear already, this state is a cultural melting pot of gorilla shit and Hannah Montana Cd’s. The streets could have been made of chocolate pudding, and I would still write a letter to Congress, demanding annexation. I have walked into like seven different stores, politely asking the person at the counter if they could tell me where I am at, and how far it is to Phoenix City. And every single time, I get the exact same response from each of them.

Me: “Scuse meh cuh…I aint from aroun hurra, and uhh I wuz wondin if you cood teh me howda getda Pheenix Citeh?”

Store Clerk: “No. We don’t serve your kind around here, boy. I suggest you better head on out of here real soon!”

Me: “Man, dont be lik dat to meh cuh. I juss wanna get sum darektions from ya. Ya feel meh, cuh?”

Store Clerk: “You get on outta here NOW!  I keep my Winchester locked and loaded for folks like you!”

Me: “Aight fine….Ai roll up out hurra. Peece be witcha, cuh!”

Who do these people think they are? I have seen more than enough BET documentaries to know, that this is how you talk to people in the dirty south. I mean, I look like warmed over hell and I am missing my socks and shoes. The least they can do is show a little bit of hospitality.

Then I remembered one very important fact about those documentaries. No white people. Surely the regional dialects of the Alabamian people could not differ solely based on race could it? Running out of time and patience, and having no Bulby to answer my questions for me, I decide I must be wrong. I spot a white guy walking his dog and I quickly stop him.

Me: “Excuse me sir, I really hate to bother you, but could you please tell me how far it is to Phoenix City? It is very important that I get there as soon as I can.”

Man: “How far? Son, we’re in Phoenix City right now.”

Me: “What! We are, seriously?”

Man: “Yeah. You must not be from around here are ya?”

Me: “No, no I am not. I have traveled a long long way on a cotton candy binge, and now I need to find a girl named Madelyn Fry.”

Man: “Oh you wanna find the Fry girl. She is a cute one. Her and her folks live just down the road from me. I can show you where her house is if ya want?”

Me: “Yes, yes! Please sir, I will surely pay you for your troubles if you do. (reaches into pocket and remembers no more wallet.) Fuck…I forgot I lost my wallet! I will repay you somehow though.”

Man: “That ain’t the only thing you lost. Where the hell are your socks and shoes, son?”

Me: “Uh, its kind of a long story. That I’m not even completely all sure about. But I can tell you everything that I do know on the way to Maddie’s house.”

Me and the guy had a nice long talk on the way back to his block. His name was Earl. No, not the same one from My Name Is Earl, but just as cool none the less. He also caught me up to speed on a few things. Like the fact that it was now Tuesday instead of Saturday like I originally thought. Evidently, instead of hitchhiking like normal, doped up creatures of the night, I literally walked all the way from Texas to Alabama. For three fucking days and nights. That might explain the shoes and socks at least. Just like a classic car, you can only get so many miles out of them.

I told him all about the fair, the dumpster, and even the Klansman store clerks. He got a nice kick out of it. Especially the part about the orange cotton candy. Evidently, Earl did his fair share of LSD back in the day. He finally stopped me right in front of a big brick house at the end of the street we were on.

Earl: “Alrighty son. This here is the Fry’s place. You sure did come a long way just to see this girl.”

Me: “Yeah. Lets just say I came to deliver her a good dose of Vitamin Box!”   Lol.

Earl: “I don’t know what that means, but I’m betting it might do ya some good if you had these.”

He reaches underneath his dog, and pulls up a lovely arrangement of flowers and a bottle of Smirnoff vodka.

Me: “What? How the hell did you do that? Or better yet…why do you even have these things with you in the first place?”

Earl: “Ah shit son, I only use this dog walking thing as an alibi for my wife. I really just go and pay Lurlene, my girlfriend, a visit this time everyday. You gotta have more than one bowl to keep all your sugar in, ya know.”

Me: “Wow, this just got real awkward, real fast! Well, I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me, Mr. Earl. But I think its now time that I go up to that house and fulfill my destiny.”

And with one hand clutching the flowers and the other hand clutching the vodka, I waved good-bye to Earl and walked up towards the door. Not quite sure what the fuck I was gonna do or say whenever that door opened, I held my breath and gave the door bell a nice little push.

 

Gotcha. Okay no, but seriously, stay tuned for The Walk Pt. 4. This time, the story WILL END. I promise.

The Walk Pt. 2

Previously from The Walk: Our hero Box was waking up from a dumpster, trying to remember the enigma that was the night before. He has it narrowed down so far that, he ate some bad carnival food and may or may not have been gang banged by some local street vagrants. And so, the adventure continues…..

 

I slowly stood up and began searching my surroundings. Partially, because I did not recognize the area surrounding this dumpster. Partially, because I had to poop and my legs were falling asleep. Something about this place seemed a bit strange. A bit delusional. The air was not the sweet Texas air I was used to. And yet, still familiar. But why?

I stumbled around, trying to look for answers or clues as to what had happened. How had I gotten here? Where was this strange place? Was the ground always this damned hot? I licked my lips and could taste something sticky and sweet. Had I fallen asleep watching Def Leppard music videos again? There was no TV in that dumpster. so I’m gonna pass on that idea. And then suddenly it hit me…..

THAT DAMN ORANGE COTTON CANDY!!!!!!!

That vile stuff had to be responsible for bringing me here. Why else would walking out of the fair, while eating it, be the last memory I had of the previous evening? And why else would there have been so many warning signs telling me not to eat it in the first place? I can only guess that whatever sinister creature created it, must have done so straight from the devil’s pubes!

First thing is first though. I need to figure out where the hell I ended up, so I can begin to make my way back home. I looked around for a phone book, but to no avail. There is a surprisingly aggravating lack of people on the streets of this town in the middle of the day. I am also somewhat eluded by the fact that there are so many cars around with Alabama license plates. But that would probably have to mean that I ended up somewhere in……OH NO……OH GOD…….OH GOD, NO PLEASE……ANYTHING BUT……..THIS SHIT HAS TO BE A MISTAKE!!!!

Alabama….

ALABAMA…….

ALAFUCKMEINTHEASSBAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How in all that is righteous and holy did I end up Alabama?The last time I was in Alabama, I went with my church on a mission trip to Birmingham. And God, did I absolutely hate that trip. For me, it was my life’s exodus. Absolutely nothing good came from it. Why on Earth….or Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, or Uranus for that matter….would I ever want to come back to this hellacious state of anarchy and segregated drinking fountains? (note: I still like to imagine the world as it was in 1963 sometimes.)

And without warning, it hit me. Like the tolling of some great iron bell, I had realized what brought me to this place. It was her. The girl I had met sometime back, whilst browsing the confines of the Internet one day. The one who lived in Alabama. This girl.

Yeah, you'd cross three states to get you some of this too.

 

She had a dirtier mouth than I did. She could make me laugh without even trying. And she could match wits with me on even her worst day. I didn’t know what her natural hair color was(red?/brown?/black?). And I could only begin to guess what her cup size is(somewhere between big and really fucking huge!). But there were three things I was absolutely sure of about her: Her name was Madelyn. She loved to drink Vitamin Water. And she wanted to fuck me eight ways from Sunday!!!

And because of that fact, I had made a quiet, yet serious, promise to myself that one day I would in fact make my way to Alabama, so as to let her do just that. Now, I am guessing whatever magical powers that cotton candy had held, it decided that it was gonna make me take myself up on that promise.

And so it began. Not my long and exciting journey home. No that part of the story is actually quite boring. I am talking about my journey to find the girl. I have no idea where in Alabama my candy-induced haze had taken me to. But what I did know is that somehow, someway I needed to make my way to Phoenix City. This is where my journey would end, and where my prize would await. I hope my prize doesn’t mind I haven’t cleaned up down there in a couple weeks. I guess there was only one way to find out.

 

Stay tuned for the shocking conclusion of the story, with The Walk Pt. 3. This is when I finally make due on the goods. And by goods, I mean butt-fucking alien robots. Enjoy