Dating With Satan

Well, even though I had a really good time, I didn’t exactly have any intentions of drinking at Hell’s Bar anytime soon.  It made me nervous, self conscious, sweaty, fumble my words and…pass gas.

These are all the tendencies I have when I’m on a date.  And believe it or not, last Tuesday, I was on my first one in like, two years.  Her name was Eliot, I met her at a coffee place.  She asked me.

I haven’t exactly been…getting any lately, and she wasn’t that bad looking and from the words of a very wise friend of mine, “The only way to be happy, is to lower your standards”.

And Eliot, well, when I first saw her, she may’ve been a little under my league.  She ordered the same latte thing I did and my name was called right after hers.  It was meant to be.

Okay, so, here’s some advice from another wise friend, “The only easy way to get with chicks easier than drugging them, is to stand behind one you like at Starbucks, get in there real close—to show you’re interested, and listen. Listen to what they’re ordering, then, carefully and precisely order the exact same shit she does.  Guaranteed, she’ll want to ask you about it.  Not to mention, it’s way cheaper than roofies.”

I’m not gonna admit to buying 7 iced/hot latte things over a three hour period one Saturday afternoon at a Starbucks before I got some chick’s number, but I am gonna say that’s where I met Eliot, right after she was all sweaty and got back from the gym, which, I’m usually into but she wasn’t really working it.

So, I was real confident going into last Tuesday where we met at a pretty modest restaurant.  Then I saw her.  Some girls, man, they know how to clean up.  Two words in (they were “Hi, Ted”)and I started getting the sweats and the farts and my tongue got all big and I was swallowing a lot and my sentences were cut short and goddamn, I must’ve looked like such a jabroney.

After our appetizers I thought I for sure was going to shit my pants with all the gas I had(and I’m pretty sure it was making its way toward Eliot) So, I excused myself.  When I was dropping my potatoes in the crock pot, some little kid was running around with his light up shoes.  For some reason that’s beyond me-on account of the smell being an absolutely unhealthy odor to both expel and even more dangerously to induce-the little bugger stood right in front of my stall. Little light up kicks and all.  

I couldn’t take my eyes off the flashing red lights. Then, the the room started getting all hot.  I let out a dangerous amount of shit and was whisked to Hell’s bar, where I found myself again, a patron.

“What’ll it be—-oh, it’s you.  Back again so soon?  I should just give you a lifetime membership!! MWAHAHAHAHAH”  Satan said as the eternal flames of hell rose with his laughter.

“I can’t stay long man, got a date.”  I said.

“Oh?  A date you say?  Who’s the lucky man?”  Again, the laughs and the flames.  ”Well, how’s it going?”  He asked.

“You know what, not so well”.  I told the dark one.

“Ehh, lose her.”  A voice said to my left.  ”I mean, why have 1 when you can have 72?”  It was Bin Ladin.  I got the heebies looking at the guy I’d seen on newspapers and tv and shit. Even couple of my buddies went over to get rid of him, or something.  And, did he smell.  In hell and the guy’s still smelly, you believe that?

“I’ll drink to that.”  Satan said, and he pissed in his shot glass, downed it and shook his head as he let out a howl.  I looked to Bin, who shrugged and lifted his glass.

“To Monogamy.”  And he and Satan, man they really lost it. I nearly shit my pants as the dark lord laughed and stomped his feet and punched Al-Quidah in the arm, incinerating a large hole where his bicep used to be.

“Pussy.” Satan said, snapping and filling, returning the guy to normal.

“Well, Satan, got any advice?”  I asked the dark lord.

“Hmmm, it’s been many a moon since I last dated, those were my angel days.  Make sure you never let her talk, always put yourself first, assert dominance and tell her she looks terrible.  But of course, things may have changed in 100,000 years”  He said, rubbing his goatee.

“Well, best advice I’ve gotten so far.  I’ll give it a shot.  Thanks, Satan”  I said and I was whisked back to the bathroom.  The kid, who was frozen, mid-hop, returned to the floor and all motion continued.  The kid went on to pass out from the smell and I wanted to, I really wanted to find his parents and tell them their kid was unconscious on  an Olive Garden bathroom floor.  Man, if I had a dollar.  But, the Dark Lord’s been wearing off on me and I let it slide.

I returned to my date, following orders as before and only ended up deeper in the hole than earlier.  I thought about telling her that I was just hanging out with Satan and Bin Laden but in hindsight, that would’ve topped the shit charts…MY shit charts, a very challenging feat, for stupid shit you say on first dates.  

I excused myself, again. I knocked the kid’s shoes on the floor so they’d light up and I was back in front of Satan.  I told him everything.

“What do you mean she got offended??  Alright kid, I didn’t want to do this, not good for your heart.  Besides, it ain’t cheap.  But, here you go.”  And, he reached up his nose and pulled out a little blue pill with a smiley face.  I popped it.

And from this day forth…ecstasy shall be known as…The Snot of Satan.

Let me just say, I’ve done a lot of E in my day and gave it up, THOUGHT I gave it up, when I turned 23.  I was skeptical at first because I’d definitely built up a tolerance.  Plus, I only took one stack.  But god damn, Satan’s E really packs a punch.

And whew, what a night.  Never before have I known exactly what to say to a girl and never before has SHE asked me for a second date.  You know, I had my doubts about Satan too, and I don’t want to say I’m a fan, but the guy’s not so bad.

Some sort of Memory

The sound of the door being pulled shut echoes indelibly through my memory.

The privacy that the moment seized is what separated me from her.

And it was away from me, that she partook in such illicit

clandestine debauchery.

But, I am no one to hang on to.

My disdain should be just as illicit.

My presumptions beyond excessive.

I am but this dreamer man

and I will stay there

where she is with

me

if nothing is real, anything is possible

Shots With Satan, A New Series

Well,

“When in Rome, I’ll do as the Romans do.  And when in Hell, I’ll take shots at the bar.”

It was the strangest thing, I was late, walking to work—-hungover as all hell.  I stopped at the crosswalk, the light was red.  I yawned and closed my eyes, letting them rest a moment.  Then, everything got hot.  Uncomfortably hot, I got the ass sweats.  When I opened my eyes, I was sitting on a barstool in hell.  Satan was looking me right in the eyes.  He was standing behind the bar, washing out 10 oz. porcelain cups with a very dirty rag.

“What’ll it be—“The dark lord asked, “me vomit or me piss?”

 Turns out, Satan’s a ginger.  He stared into me with his deep hazel eyes, his short, red, curly, pubescent hair waving in the breeze given off by the eternal flames of hell.  He’s also scottish.  Yeahp.  And everything he says—he yells.  It’s a real loud, booming, commanding, intimidating, horrifying yell.

You get accustomed to it.

“I guess I’ll start with…your piss…”  I said, and the dark Lord pulled out his tiny member under his fiery red pubes and drained his lizard into the cup he was wiping out.  He made sure to shake and top off my glass with a couple a clear, foamy, piss drops.

“This first one’s on me”.  He said, handing me the cup.  I’m not really one for shots, but I downed it.  Tasted like rubbing alcohol, or hand sanitizer, both of which I’ve mistaken for Vodka.  I’m pretty sure it was just EverClear, which, may I suggest, is the beverage of choice if you wake up with a hangover and somehow find yourself in hell.

And from thence day forth, EverClear shall be deemed—“The Piss Of Satan”.

“You zhoulld haff heem tllry yourll volmeet nesht, Zhatan.”  A Sadistic, Germanic voice to my left said.  Turns out, Hitler likes drinking in hell too.  He had a whole mess of empty shot glasses in front of him.  He gave me the “Hein” salute and started leaning in toward me.  Though I was still mightily hung over, taking shots in Hell with Hitler and having Satan as your bartender has to date, been the most effective cure for a hangover I’ve encountered.  Who would’ve guessed.  So, my nerves began to grow tense as Hitler’s minute stache neared me.

“Shdo you happen to have das light?”  He asked, holding up a cigarette.  

“Well Oy’ll be”.  Satan said, in his Scottish accent.  ”Oy think me forgots moy lighta this mornin’”.  

I pointed behind me, to the primordial, infinite flames of hell and said, “What about those?”  Hitler gave in first, then Satan.  They both gave little itsy, bitsy chuckles until they lost it.

“Get’s ‘em every time!”  Satan said and he pounded his fist on the table as Hitler put the cigarette in his mouth.  Hitler got not only a light, but his entire head was incinerated.  The cigarette remained in tact, however.

“Hmph.  See how he likes it, emm Oy right?”  Satan said.  ”Would you get that for me, kid?”  He asked.  I picked up the cigarette and handed it to the Dark Lord who lit it with his pinky.  He took a puff and eschewed a face of discomfort.

“Menthol”.  He said.  ”Of course Hitler would smoke menthols.”  

The Dark Lord put the cigarette on his tongue and swallowed it.  He proceeded to ask me several questions before telling me I was “no fun”.  He went into a kick punching routine before pounding his tail on the table, restoring Hitler’s head.

“Thash shnot funny, Zhatan.  Shtop showing off to our new friend!”  Hitler said, as the devil’s laughs carried into the night before being halted by a coughing spree.

“What’ll it be, me vomit or me piss?”  I opted for the vomit this time and the dark lord put his finger down his throat and purged into a cup.  The contents were of a radioactive green color that I was even more hesitant to try. Had Hitler not continuously pounded his fist on the bar while yelling “Hein” I probably wouldn’t of downed it.

It tasted like straight Absinthe.  Because it was, pure Absinthe.

And from this day forth, Absinthe shall be called, “The Vomit, Of Satan.”  

I started seeing shit.  A green devil and a little green angel were  floating in front of me.

“Oh shit.”  Satan said.  ”I can’t risk losing another one at the bar.  Here kid.”  Satan, making sure to take off his black shirt for fear of exposing just how unhealthy his scalp was, began scratching his head, spreading his dandruff all over the counter.

“Don’t do it, say no to drug—-“The little green angel was saying before Satan grabbed her and ate her.

“You’re always brining out zee dandruff.  I vant peels!  I’m zho tired of bumping linesh.  De wallsh of my nose cannot take zees anymore.”  Hitler said, rubbing the space just above his minute stache and das lip.

“Shut up, bitch.”  Satan said.  Then, the dark lord purged again.  ”Chase that shit with me vomit.”  And so I did.  After I downed the green shot, I was taken back to the street corner.  Someone bumped me from behind, telling me the light was green and I was now allowed to cross the street.

I’m not entirely sure—-but I think I kind of enjoyed drinking with Satan as my bartender…  

——to be cont…..——

1:44, streaming thoughtings

I’ve got plenty to do.  The kind of plenty I usually wish I had at my whim when I’m faced with the ‘nothings’.  

This room is quiet.  I’ve got all the music 75% of the world knows about(the other quarter being the ones making the music and/or with exclusive, inside opportunity’s to hear the elusive ‘unreleased’)yet I can’t find a single song that I’d like to hear in my discomfort.

Every six times i eat anything peanut related my chest gets tight and my breaths truncate and the acid from my stomach that’s not supposed to come up comes right up and I ask my myself, “why???” and it sucks.  It sucks for a long time and it sucks now.  Right now when I have shit to do and things to hear and air to breathe.

I just ate these peanut butter crackers for the 2nd time today.  The first pack, rocked.  They’re made by, Lance.  Toasty Crackers.  Now this pack, as aforementioned, ‘s given me some trouble.  By cracker two i could feel my chest getting tight and by the end of the pack I was guzzling water and it wasn’t all getting sucked in and it started seeping out of my mouth with cracker residue, down my chin, on my white shirt which I shouldn’t be wearing, making stains and tiny, sordid, cold, little, vexating, made that word up, blotches.  

The only way to catch my breath is to make myself burp, and these burps man, way acidic.  They rip my chest in half.  The acid files right up through my esophagus, which is an astounding process when considered, our bodies, well hopefully not your body, my body has seemed to’ve conquered gravity and takes my belly juices from wayyyy below and right up through my chest, in between my ever weakening lungs and into my throat which must be in the early stages of establishing holes.  

That was an odd sentence, an unusual means of expressing such a debilitation.  ”my throat must be in the early stages of establishing holes”.  

The process is probably either acid reflux or indigestion.  Both of which I am capable of treating myself.  I can choose to eat at reasonable times, at the right times(not too late), drink less, stay away from smoke/smokers, stay away from already acidic foods(which comprise my entire diet)elect to resists foods I am aware give me issues(Lance.)go easy on the soda, drink more water, easy on the tea.  And as I list my treatments I burp up another, hearty helping of saliva and acid that slowly and painfully seeps up to the horizon of my tongue and my hangy thing at the back of my thorat(ubuala?)and again, trickles down my esophagal(another made up word, I think)lining, burning, raping and pillaging, inch by inch by inch.

But i have work to do, and songs to hear and air to breathe.  This stream of conscious bullshit should be read.

By, 

-No one…

Socks

Your face, it isn’t hers

She’s not here but I want something 

And your eyes say that you want it too

And we begin our conversation in the kitchen

And we will finish in your bedroom

And I’ve been here before

But not this room

And you’ve been here

And this means so little

We’re only here for statistics

Stories

And

Ourselves

Despite this we need each other

It’s a lively paradox, like we talked about

Either in the kitchen or the walk home where I made promises

Now it’s morning

I walked you home

Where I made promises

But there’s no one to walk me home

I’m no longer wearing any socks

It’s okay, I’m glad there’s no one to talk to

Because, I don’t want anyone to wonder

Whatever happened to my sockies

I touch my face

and I think 

BEARd

sO WEIRd