June 2004. Early evening.|
I have been working hundred-hour weeks for months, and finally tonight I am no longer part of the 'critical path'. I'm having dinner with my three girls for the first time in twenty-seven weeks, and I bet I won't stay awake for more than a few minutes of it.
The drive home is only about eight miles, but I'm having trouble staying between the lines. As I look down the highway, the cars first go out of focus, then the music goes silent, then I'm jolted awake by my head drooping heavily onto my chest.
The adrenaline rush from knowing that I could have just died and taken the rush hour drivers with me lasts for less than a minute and I'm jolted awake again.
All I want to do is sleep. If I go to sleep for just a moment, there is a high degree of probability that my Bronco will stay in a straight line on this straight part of the highway and I'll wake up and finish driving home, refreshed and revitalized. Ready to be daddy when I get home.
Somehow, I have managed to pull into my driveway, and my body doesn't want to leave the vehicle. My brain has trouble resolving a world in sunlight. Things look too orange. There's too much detail. It's making my head hurt. I need my fluorescent lighting and bad coffee.
Suddenly the curtains pull back and my oldest daughter's face pushes against the window. She is smiling, I think, and screaming out the side of her mouth into the rest of the house. A moment later and my girls come out to see me.
My daughters are screaming 'daddy' and my wife is asking me why I didn't want to come in and see them. Sigh.
I open the door and lazily pour out of the vehicle and onto the ground, legs unused to supporting my weight. In a near-drunken stupor, I drag my feet one in front of the other until I'm in the house and on the couch.
My god, were the walls really this red? Was the ceiling this green? The visual cues are so overwhelming that I feel sick to my stomach.
All I want to do is sleep. I'm trying to listen to my girls. I think I might even be faking a smile. It's so hard to keep up with the conversation because I keep dozing off like I did back on the highway. All I want to do is sleep.
I've finally had all can take. "Girls, I'm sorry. I just have to get some sleep. I'm taking tomorrow off so we can spend some time together." The little ones seem to understand. Empathy must come more naturally to children.
"Let's leave daddy alone girls. He doesn't want to talk to us. He's on HIS couch."
I thought a nap would make me feel better, but I just feel hung over. It's like I'm walking through a viscous fluid that resists all movement in my body. My eyes are even affected.
My girls are in bed, so I'll kiss them good night.
Where's the wife? Oh, she's in bed already. "Good night."
Good night. Hah. Why can't I ever sleep when I'm in a bed? I've been laying here for hours and can't quit working. How do these people just close their eyes and go to sleep...AND STAY THAT WAY?!?
What the hell was that?
June 2004. Early next morning. Change of tense.
My father and I had installed french doors on the back of the house, and I was never really happy with the way they locked. They were weak where the two doors came together in the middle and just a little amount of determination was required to push them open. Even though they were always deadbolted.
I actually asked myself what the sound was, but I knew it when I heard it. Someone had pushed the doors open.
I reached into my closet and silently grabbed my revolver, a Smith & Wesson .44mag, off the shelf. I stuck my head, shoulder, arm and revolver out into the dark hallway and peered down the long straight hall at the door that separated the kitchen from the hall.
Just as I heard two distinctly different voices whispering to each other to shut up, the hallway door opened and I saw the silhouette backlit by his accomplices flashlight. It was of a rather tall, large-framed person who was holding a long gun in his right hand.
I didn't even have to think.
I didn't feel the concussion from the gun. I didn't hear it go off. All I saw was the flame discharge from the end of the weapon.
I had always seen in the movies that when you shoot someone with a large calibre handgun they were supposed to fly backward. That didn't happen at all.
The first thing I noticed was that whoever I just shot was no longer standing so now I had the flashlight shining right in my face. Thankfully, before I could recompose to shoot again, the accomplice fled out the way he had entered.
I ran down the hallway into the kitchen, stepping on the guy on the floor, kicking his shotgun away from him and looking out the back for the other guy.
All of a sudden I was blinded by a wash of lights in the room.
I turned around and was amazed to see that the guy on the floor had pushed himself against the wall with one hand, pushed himself up the wall somewhat, and had actually turned the light on.
As I watched him for a brief moment, I noticed that blood was pumping from his chest and his back.
Afraid that my girls would soon be coming down the hall, I screamed to them to stay in their rooms, but I got no response. I was hoping beyond hope that they were still asleep.
The guy fell back onto the floor and screamed at me. It was a dry, guttural scream that wasn't human. Not even remotely. He kept screaming and started pulling himself across the floor to me, and to his shotgun behind me.
It was just then that I noticed that he was unable to control his body from mid-chest down, and that that part of his body was shivering uncontrollably. And that he stank of piss and shit.
Thankfully, he was getting weaker, and as he did so, he appeared to sober.
After crawling about five feet, he just stopped. He just lay there, breathing shallow, hard breaths.
I thought he had started convulsing, when all of a sudden I realized he was crying. He was face down on the tile floor with one hand under his forehead. He was whispering amid his cries "momma. momma."
He repeated that over and over again. Then he seemed to remember that I was in the room. He looked at me and whispered "help me."
It was just then that I realized I hadn't called the police. I called them and told them I had shot an intruder and they said they'd send a unit over shortly. The operator hung up.
"PLEASE GOD! DON'T LET ME DIE!"
Fuck he scared the shit out of me.
He went into a rambling fit and made all sorts of promises to god that if he was allowed to live he'd change. He'd change. "GOD I SWEAR I'll change. please. please."
He started to cry again. Quietly at first. Then his sobs slowly rose to wailing. He wailed like a baby. For a moment. Then he went silent. His shallow breaths came more and more slowly. More and more shallow.
I suddenly realized that I had just killed a man. Never mind that he was in my house. With a gun.
He had been a human. Now he was nothing.
I had killed a man.
I hope none of you ever finds yourself in a similar situation. I know I did what was right. I'd do it again without hesitation.
But there really is an emptiness that never seems to go away. I stay awake thinking about it. Less often now than I used to, but it frequents my dreams occasionally and I live it all over again. Sometimes he pulls the trigger first. Sometimes I pull first, but my gun is empty, or misfires, or is not a gun at all.
I don't want to think about this anymore.
All I want to do is sleep.
It started out innocently enough. I emailed the following picture from the Last Supper thread to some folks that included my family:|
The subject of my email was "Sacrilege". The reply from one family member was as below (you have to read it with a thick southern Georgia accent):
From: Godsnogger, Cousin
Sent: Monday, December 10, 2007 2:33 PM
Subject: RE: Sacrilege
Like you I am appalled that our Lord and Saviour has been mocked in this way. I remember when I was younger that everyone you knew was a devout Christian and walked hand in hand with Him. God's teachings have always been to turn the other cheek and practice mercy and kindness, but I am weary of watching my values and my Redeemer mocked in a way that no other religion has been expected to bear in such silence as Christians have been subjected to recently.
If we don't rally together now and confront these degradations, show a united front to the evil people who promulgate such violent and harmful images, the world will not be safe for our children, and our children's children to worship our Father God.
Thank you for warning us that a new attack was being made on everything that is good and righteous in this world.
Yours in Christ,
Well, to say that I was a little taken aback by this is a bit of an understatement. I was certain that everyone in my family was aware that I no longer believed in ghosts when one year I returned all of their religious christmas cards, re-enveloped and included with a note that said:
"The religious precepts of your letter are known to be harmful to human life and and foster ignorance and intolerance among those who practice these beliefs. Please refrain from sending these materials as there are children in my house. Thank you."
Unsure how to respond to my god fearing family member, I emailed my cousin a photo of a woman in a habit pissing in her panties.
I have to go now. The phone is ringing. It's probably my mom.
This is the most boring blog yet posted by anyone on the asylum. Turn back now. You have been warned.|
Some of you from outside of Dallas, and certainly everyone outside of Texas is probably wondering what the hell an El Fenix is. Or more accurately, you first wondered why you bothered visiting this blog, then wondered what an El Fenix is.
El Fenix is a Tex-Mex restaurant within walking distance of my office. It really isn't very good. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that El Fenix is to Tex-Mex what McDonalds is to barbecue. It's one of those places you go to when Subway, 7-11, and Walgreens don't have anything appealing on the menu.
Nothing out of the ordinary EVER happens at El Fenix. You sit down, they take your order, they take your pre-prepared order out of the fridge and microwave it, you eat your food, swear you'll never come back, fart, pay, and leave. It is ALWAYS this way. I suppose that is why this place draws the clientele that it does.
The particular El Fenix I go to (it's a chain, amazingly) is patronized for the most part by the chronologically endowed and soccer moms. The old have been coming here so long that not even Alzheimer's can derail their dining experience. The soccer moms come because mexicans are used to kids running all over the place with no supervision.
Today was different for some reason.
I sat at a table next to two females who looked to be around 19, maybe 20. They were discussing ancient religious beliefs and reached the conclusion, one civilization at a time, that each civilization had believed in certain gods because they didn't have the education to explain the things that were happening around them. My food arrived and I paid less attention to the females than I had been. When I looked up from my plate of carbs, grease, and cumin, I noticed the blonde one was bawling her eyes out.
"How?!" she wailed, "How could my Gawd let my friends (pronounced "free yundz") turn away from Him? For some reason he just won't reveal Himself to my free yundz. Every one of the people I know that have gone off to college has turned away from the Lord. How can they live in today's world without His comfort?"
She then noticed that I was listening intently to everything she said. I'm sure I had a dumbfounded look on my face (seeing as how that's how I look anyway) and she asked across the distance if I felt the same way.
"Yes," I said. "The world would be a terribly different place if it weren't for the guiding hand of the Great Space Monster."
She didn't speak to me anymore. I'm not sure if I should thank Simon or the Troll for that.
As I looked away from the distorted face of this emotionally desperate female, I noticed that a man and his retarded son had sat down a few booths over. Normally this wouldn't have bothered me a bit, and I'm not sure why it did today, but I found it very difficult to eat. I picked at the food on my plate, but it was turning my stomach for that kid to be over there. He wasn't facing me. He wasn't being loud. He wasn't terribly malformed. He was just rubbing hot sauce in his eyes. Amazingly, all he did was make the OK sign, bend his wrist, and rub his nose with the back of his wrist while blowing as hard as he could through his nostrils.
Even that wasn't so bad until the coke he had in his mouth came out through his nose.
I was pretty much through eating at that point.
As I looked around for my waiter, I heard a sound off in the distance.
Clink. Scootscoot. Clink. Scootscoot.
Panning around the room, I saw it come into view. On the floor were two tennis balls, each with a brushed aluminum tube projecting from its top. The tubes curved upward toward each other and met neatly between a pair of old, wisened hands. He was shaking wildly, like Michael J Fox on speed, but he was moving about 3 inches each step. His mouth gaping open like he was expecting the mother penguin to feed him, regurgitatively. His face covered with blue-green hoses
Mother penguin was following behind with an oxygen tank on a 2 wheeler. She was most displeased with his progress.
Clink. Scootscoot. Clink. Scootscoot.
I asked my waiter for my bill and he left to retrieve it.
Clink. Scootscoot. Clink. Scootscoot.
My waiter came back with my bill. I left a tip on the table and went to pay.
Clink. Scootscoot. Clink. Scootscoot.
I paid for my meal and a praline and turned to leave. As I was turning, I noticed that Mother penguin was now in front of the old man pulling him along by his sleeve. And she had given him the 2 wheeler to keep up with.
So here is this old man with a walker dragging a 2 wheeler of oxygen behind him trying to keep from being pulled headlong from the restaurant by a woman who obviously despised his existence.
I was just about to leave, when it happened. He had let go of the 2 wheeler so he could advance his walker, and as he turned, the 2 wheeler fell forward, hit him in the back and knocked him to the floor. So, here is this poor old guy laying in the floor on top of his walker, his shirt pulled out of his pants (she never let go), with the tubes hanging out of his nose pulling his head back at a rather uncomfortable looking angle.
Without missing a beat, the old wench yells "Goddamnit, Albert! This happens everywhere we go!” Her tirade never ended that I saw.
Since everyone else seemed too afraid of the old lady to help him, I picked him up off the floor, made sure his O2 connections were OK, placed his walker upright in front of him, and told him I'd walk the 2 wheeler out to his car for him.
He said thanks and asked if I was married. I told him I was.
He said, "You're a damned idiot."
First and foremost: I was fully awake when this happened and guarantee the authenticity the following content.|
So, my kids are in a play along with two other kids at a local theatre. Of the kids, three are homeschooled. One is not. Let's call the one who is not "Dumbass".
So, I'm backstage with the kids trying to keep them quiet (reminder to me to seek advice from Hawley) and Dumbass says "Watch! I can make my faith (face) turn weewy weewy wed."
She then proceeds to make faces like she is trying to make feces. After about a minute of this I said "Hey, Dumbass. You're gonna make yourself pass out if you don't stop."
She stuck her tongue out at me, while maintaining proper strainage, and continued with her feat of ignorance.
I went back to reading my audio magazine and forgot about the kid. About another minute after that, I heard one of the other kids say "Don't fall on me!"
I looked up just in time to see Dumbass fall face first into the corner of one of the makeup tables.
It was the most awesomest thing I ever did see.
Homeschool >>>> public school.
She came into this world without a sound. Her simple, serene gaze fell upon everyone in the room; her baby blue eyes enrapturing us all with just a glance. Just looking upon her made my heart fill with a love that I never knew could exist.|
I felt privileged to be the one she looked to for comfort when she was hurt or afraid. During her earliest years, she was my constant companion. Always delighting me with stories, jokes, or simple, silent company. Always effortlessly offering in return what I was so happy to give.
Her personality was very magnetic, and so she naturally began performing theatre. She didn't care which role she was given. She just wanted the opportunity to make someone laugh. To make their day a little better. I was always so proud of her. She had more courage in her nine-year-old, sixty pound frame than I had in my thirty-year-old, 240 pound husk.
It was such a delight to watch her live her life that I soon forgot how miserable I had been. Every day was a lesson from her in how a life should be lived. Without pettiness. Without prejudice. Without fear. I'm certain that I learned more from her than she learned from me.
For ten years, I was blessed to know an angel. She brought meaning to a life that had had little purpose. She brought joy and happiness to a heart that had never known it so fully before.
And in a moment, her little heart that had such capacity for love and compassion, and that with its every beat gave my heart a desire to beat along with it, stopped.
There are dreams. There are nightmares.
This was both.
I hated being the white knight in high school. I was always told "You're like a brother" or "You're a really good listener". Something about my nature made me try to help all of the girls I knew feel better about themselves. When I graduated I decided that I was not doing it anymore.|
So, I'm 19 and I'm sitting at home late one Saturday night trying to figure out what I'm going to do. I call a few friends and we decide we should head over to one of their houses and watch a movie (I'm almost certain it was Life of Brian). Just as I'm getting into my truck my mother sticks her head out the door and says that there's a girl on the phone for me.
So I pick up the phone and say "Hello" and a young lady on the other end says "Hey, fubar, it's Stormy. Could you come pick me up from my Dad's house?"
Stormy was a little bitty girl. All of about 4 foot 10 inches and about 85 pounds. Her dad's house was in Mabank, TX, which is no short drive in the middle of the night, but I hadn't heard from this chick in a year or so, and the last thing I had heard about her was that she had been busted for stripping at the age of 16. It was a year later, and Texas had changed the age of consent from 18 to 17.
So I drive an hour and a half or so to get her and on the way back to Dallas she starts telling me about all the bad stuff that had happened to her and how she had finally turned her life around. Quit smoking pot. Got away from the jealous boyfriend. Got a real job. Blah. Blah. Blah.
So, here I am listening to all this crap just like I had promised myself I was going to stop doing. While she's squawking away like the teacher on Charlie Brown, I'm having this conversation with myself about whether I should offer to take her somewhere just to get her out of my truck, listen to her moan about how bad her life was, or ask her if I get to have sex for listening to her bitch.
But before I can decide what to do she asks me if I had any sexual fantasies. Being quite Rico Suave, I used my most romantic line and said "Yer finer 'n shit. I jus' wanna fuck you."
Now how could a woman possibly turn that down? I mean really. I affirmed her beauty and expressed a desire to please her. It was all there.
Much to my amazement she said "No, that's not what I'm talking about. I mean is there anything you ever wanted to do to a woman, but figured she'd only laugh at you because it was too demeaning, or too gross, or illegal?"
OK. So now she's scaring me. I tell her that I never thought about it, and slip back into listening mode.
She tells me that while she was in juvenile, she would see girls piss on another girl who was rinsing her hair out, and it really turned her on. She said that she was leery of asking one of the girls in there to do it to her since she was the only white girl in her dorm. And that when she got out, all she wanted to do was call me and tell me about it.
"Why did you want to tell me about it?" I asked somewhat indignantly.
"Well, when we were in school together, you would listen to my problems and never seemed to be judgmental." she said.
"Well, I was wondering if you would pee on me while I finger myself."
"..." blink "..."
"I'm sorry. I was afraid you might think it was too weird."
"..." blink "..."
"Oh, just forget I said anything. Just please don't tell anyone."
Finally I said, "Look, I'm not going to tell you that tjis doesn’t shock me just a little. And I have to admit that we have a little bit of a problem."
She put her hand up and shook her head and said "I know. I know. You always were fairly religious and..."
I stopped her and said "Listen, I shed religion a few months ago. That's not the problem. The problem is that I pissed at the gas station just a few minutes ago. I couldn't pee now if I tried."
She looked at me with a certain degree of confusion until I said "Let's stop by 7-11 and I'll get a Big Gulp. I know a park in Mesquite that's nice and quiet."
So I replenished my fluids and we headed to the park in Mesquite. She was wearing a white tank top, no bra, a little plaid skirt, and some tennis shoes. Quite the little schoolgirl.
I pulled into the parking lot and we both got out of the truck. We walked once around the park while we both finished our drinks, and also made sure we had it to ourselves. We picked out a bench that was back in the trees, but still had a good view of the rest of the park.
She sat down on the bench and made small talk while we waited for the Mountain Dew to descend. Finally I told her I really had to go, and she said to wait until I was absolutely about to pop.
She slid her panties down around one of her ankles and started to finger herself. After a minute or so she took off her shirt revealing a beautiful B-sized set with perfect silver dollar nipples.
Watching all of this gave me a raging hard on. Have you ever tried to direct your piss while you have a hard on? And I'm not talking about morning wood. I thought the head of my dick was going to explode and shower Stormy with blood and gristle.
I told her that I had to pee NOW and asked her where she wanted it. She said she really didn't mind where.
So I tried to start peeing, and all I was getting was a trickle. In order to get any on her she had to lay down on the bench while I straddled her.
At first, it just puddled in her navel and drained over her right side. But as I started to relax and get a better flow going, I started bouncing it off her breasts. As she was about to come, I was just starting to develop a good stream. I let her have it as hard as I could and she seemed to enjoy me peeing right on the end of her nipples.
When she finally came, we noticed headlights pulled into the parking lot. She sat up quickly to put her clothes back on, and I was still pissing like mad. It got in her face. It got in her hair. It got all over her shirt.
And then the blue and reds start flashing. Fuck.
I finally pinched off the flow and the bitch runs off into the woods and leaves me alone to talk to the cop.
I walked up to my truck and the officer asks me if it is mine. "Yes sir." Did I know that this park closed at 10pm. "Yes sir". Was I able to explain what I was doing in the park?
Was I able to explain? What the hell was I supposed to say? For some reason, all I could say was "My little sister ran away from home. She likes to hide in the woods here."
Why the hell did I say that? That had to be the dumbest thing I ever said to a cop.
Fortunately he said he had a sister and knew how weird they could be, and that he'd help me find her. So we looked around a bit and I slowly wandered over to where I knew she was hiding. I went into the woods and got her and screamed "I found her". While the officer made his way over to us I explained to her as quickly as I could what I had told the cop.
When he got to us, he asked her if I was her brother. She said yes. He asked why she had run away from home. She said because Mom wouldn't let her friends spend the night. He reprimanded her and told her that who-knows-what could have happened to her if her brother hadn't come looking for her.
He sent us both home and we left as quickly as we could. I guess we were fortunate that he didn't notice, or didn't care, that her shirt was wet with piss and you could see everything through it.
I drove her to one of her friend’s houses and stopped out front. As she opened the door she looked at me and laughed. I asked her what was so funny. She said it was just nerves.
I walked her to the door (one does want to be a gentleman). Her friend answered and she went inside. I asked him if I could come in and finish peeing.
He said I couldn't because he was about to nail Stormy. He slammed the door in my face.
I never saw Stormy again.
My only hope is that that scumfucking asshole licked my dried piss off her body.
On the upside, I had a hell of an excuse for ditching the guys.
I dated this chick for about 8 months and had a hell of a time getting rid of her. Well, I guess date isn't the right word. We had one date in 8 months and the rest was just sex, mainly oral, mainly her deep throating and swallowing. She was what you might label a moped. I told her before we ever did anything that I did not want a girlfriend and if she was OK with just sex we had a deal, otherwise we shouldn't even start.|
Anyway, she and her mother started introducing me to the rest of her family as her boyfriend. They'd say "Aunt Fefe, this is Cherry's boyfriend fubar." And I'd say, "No, it's just fubar."
Then she started telling me she loved me right after she'd swallowed a load, and I'd say "I'll be back tomorrow after work. Can you make me one of those pecan pies?"
Well, before I went off to college I told her that she needed to start dating other people and lose my phone number because I was going to do the same thing about her. She cried and screamed and asked me why I didn't love her anymore, and I told her I never did love her, but that she did give the best head I'd ever had. Thanks for the memories. Hope they tasted good.
So I went off to college and toward the end of the first semester I get a phone call and the chick says "Is fubar there?". It sounded just like an ex-girlfriend from high school, who was friggin' hot, so I got really excited and said "Hey! How are you? I was just thinking about calling you to see if you wanted to hook up this weekend." It was Cherry, and she had never sounded so happy to hear anything in her life.
I tried to explain to her that I had thought she was someone else, but the words just weren't getting through to her.
The next weekend, I'm leaving the dorm with my roommate to go to a poker game and who is standing in the parking lot, having packed on a good 40 pounds? Cherry.
She says, "Hey fubar". And stands there waiting for me to introduce her to my roommate, who has heard all the stories and is openly laughing at me in her face.
Cherry says "I'm in room xxxx at the hotel. I'll be there all night if you want a hummer."
Now, a deepthroating swallower is a rare commodity. Not so much so with fat women, but I had sworn off porkers when I went to college, and as such, hadn't been able to find a hottie with similar abilities.
So, I'm standing there talking to my roommate in front of Cherry, and I'm telling him I'd rather go play cards than get head from the heifer standing before us. And he tells me that if I turn down a blowjob from a chick, I'm a fag.
Sounds logical. So I tell him to save me a spot and I head off to the hotel with Cherry. We go into her hotel room and she pushes me onto the bed, does her thing, swallows the kids, and I stand up, zip up my pants, say "Thanks. Got a card game to get to.", and leave.
I found out about a year or so ago that she had gotten married and had a couple of kids and had finally found someone who wanted to be with her.
So why am I telling you all of this?
I heard yesterday that she was in a wreck with a drunk driver and her kids were killed. I guess I'm feeling guilty that I had added what appeared from my vantage point to be a pretty miserable year to her life.
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