3 toed sloth is my biggest animal crush.

• [point]

1 person who I told this to (Sherry!)

4 people Sherry told (Todd, Linda, Agnes, Troy)

1 gym teacher who found out (Mr. Stallworth)

5 babies I wanted to have with Mr. Stallworth, but he’s already married with a baby of his own

9 drawings of 3 toed sloths I made for Mr. Stallworth but did not send

2 times I watched Mr. and Mrs. Stallworth sleeping from outside their bedroom window

6 pairs of red athletic shorts that Mr. Stallworth has that I want for my altar

5 classes I got Bs in my freshman year before Mr. Stallworth told everyone about my sloth crush

3 kids who teased me about my sloth crush

5 years I will wait until I burn down each sloth crush teaser’s house with techniques I learned from Backdraft

8 is the number infinity standing up and I will stand up to bullies forever

9 th grade is the worst grade ever

7 th grade sucked too, but for different reasons

9 girls went to a party, and I wasn’t invited

3 times my dad and I watched Predator 2 with Danny Glover the night of the other party

2 times my dad had to fast forward Predator 2 because of sex scenes

3 boxes of peanut brittle we ate with chocolate milk

8 wishes I made when Danny Glover fought the Predator at the end

4 times we talked about Mom during the first viewing of Predator 2

6 men Mom had been with since I was born besides my dad (said my dad in a sort of kidding voice)

2 Vietnamese brothers I have (said my dad but totally joking because he dodged the draft)

6 handball tournaments I would have won if I had 2 Vietnamese brothers

4 skin that my brothers would have had before the brisk we would have given them

3 brothers I really have who don’t have foreskin because we’re Catholic

[interchangeable]

3 brothers who don’t mind my sloth crush

8 three-toed sloths that I want to start my special sloth ranch in Alabama

3 acres for each sloth

2 people to run the special sloth ranch: me and Mr. Stallworth

7 kinds of food we would feed them: licorice, hay, baby mice, Grape Nuts, bamboo, chicharones, and black mission figs

9 times me and Mr. Stallworth would do it in the sloth tree while they were off eating baby mice in the special sloth cafeteria

CONTRIBUTED BY P.R. GRIFFIS (Austin, TX)

At ease, Private.

(assuming parade rest) Yes, Drill Sergeant.

Private, I’m afraid I’ve got some very sad news for you.

Drill Sergeant, you aren’t sending me home because I’m patently unfit for military service, and it’s stunningly obvious to everyone here that I’ve made a life-destroying mistake, Drill Sergeant?

(Blinking, a crease forming between brows) You a college boy or something, Private?

Yes, Drill Sergeant! Although the Private failed out his sophomore year and…

You cracking wise with me, Private?

No Drill Sergeant! The Private is prepared to receive the very sad news Drill Sergeant.

We received word, Private, that your grandmother died last night at approximately twenty-two hundred hours. All of us here in Training Battalion 432 are very sorry for your loss. The chaplain will be by later to issue you formal bereavements. I just wanted to tell you first, so you could prepare yourself.

Thank you, Drill Sergeant. The Private appreciates you telling him… me… Drill Sergeant.

You don’t seem terribly upset there, Private.

Drill Sergeant?

I mean, I tell you your goddamned Nana died, and you’re standing there like a rock. You got deep-seated emotional issues there, Private? Are you a goddamned sociopath?

Does the Drill Sergeant know whether it was mom’s side or dad’s side, Drill Sergeant?

(Standing up quickly, squinting like Clint Eastwood in… well, every single one of his movies) What the fuck did you just ask me, Private?

Mom’s… or Dad’s… side? Drill Sergeant?

(Getting up in face such that campaign hat is poking just where the bridge of the nose meets the eyebrows) You filthy, worthless puke. You better not be telling me you played favorites with your goddamned Nanas.

Drill Sergeant… the Private’s… that is… my grand… or, well, the Private’s nana… one of them lived out of state, Drill Sergeant. The Private didn’t get to see her all that often.

(Now pecking at the bridge of the nose with the brim of the campaign hat, which hurts) You don’t think a Nana’s love can cross state lines? Is that what you’re telling me, maggot?

No, Drill Sergeant!

Are you calling me a liar, Private?

No, Drill Sergeant!

Anybody who’d play favorites with their Nanas would cheat at solitaire, Private. And that’s the lowest goddamned individual there is.

(Trying desperately not to think about how Jeffrey Blumgardner back in high school used to refer to masturbation as “playing solitaire,” trying desperately not to think about how one might cheat at masturbation (trying especially hard now not to imagine the near-apoplectic Drill Sergeant cheating at solitaire)) Yes… Drill… Sergeant.

What’s so goddamned funny, Private? You want me to send you up to the psych ward? I just told you your Nana died, and here you act like you’re at a goddamn Henny Youngman concert.

The private is maybe overcome with grief, Drill Sergeant.

Bullshit. You couldn’t give two shits about your Nana. They probably could’ve both died in a terrorist attack and it wouldn’t bother you a bit.

No, Drill Sergeant!

You calling me a liar again, Private?

I’m… that is, the Private isn’t… attempting to… that is, the Private doesn’t want to suggest…

You a goddamned lawyer or something, Private? Spit it out. Yes or no, do you love your Nana?

Yes, Drill Sergeant!

Then process your grief in a healthy goddamned fashion. Sound off!

Drill Sergeant?

Cry, goddamnit!

Drill Sergeant?

Have you lost your ability to understand American English? Am I speaking goony goo-goo? You understand what crying is, don’t you?

Yes, Drill Sergeant!

Then what’s your malfunction, numb nuts? I’m ordering you to weep cathartically and unabashedly until I feel better. Until I feel cleansed of my grief.

The Private’s confused, Drill Sergeant.

No shit you are.

The Private thought the military eschewed all non-rage-type emotions, Drill Sergeant. The Private is fairly shocked that the Drill Sergeant didn’t maybe say something like I lost my Nana in Vietnam, but you don’t see me crying, do you? That’s ‘cause I had my tear ducts surgically removed, or something like that, Drill Sergeant. Also, the Private hasn’t ever had to cry on cue, Drill Sergeant, and the Private is starting to get performance anxiety.

I’m going to start counting, Private. When I get to three, you better be emoting like you’ve never emoted before.

Drill Sergeant?

One.

The Private… that is…

Two.

The Private would like to request an extension…

Two and a half.

Such that he can maybe drum up some old fond memories of his dear sweet departed Nana…

Two and three quarters…

Did you say whether it was mom’s mom or dad’s mom, Drill Sergeant?

Three.

Except I just throw rocks through windows in Seoul.

I am 7-years old and my neighbor takes care of me while my mother works nights.

Mostly he watches TV, but never too loud because that would keep me awake.

We don’t talk much.

I hardly see him at all because my mother puts me to bed, and then he comes over.

One night though I hear him on the phone. I can’t  make out the words until he yells, “There’s no such thing as the northern lights.”

He hangs up and turns to see me behind him.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks.

“I had a bad dream.”

“Do you want some milk?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to call your mom?”

“No.”

“Well, come watch TV until you get tired.”

I find a place on the couch among the unfolded blankets.

“Do you like Johnny Carson?” he asks. “You’ll like Johnny Carson. He’s funny.”

We watch, and when he laughs I laugh too, not knowing what anything means.

Soon I am tired, and he tells me I should go back to bed.

He walks me to my room and stands at the door as I get under the covers.

When he sees that I’m settled, he goes back to his chair.

Finally, as I’m drifting off to sleep, I remember that I’ve seen the northern lights–once the summer before when my mom had the night off and we stayed up past my bedtime. I want to tell my neighbor, but I am tired and I don’t know what he’ll say if I tell him he is wrong.

]]> http://themurkyfringe.com/2010/03/northern-lights/feed/ 0 http://themurkyfringe.com/2010/03/northern-lights/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/themurkyfringe/~3/sNXwCCx1V4I/ http://themurkyfringe.com/2010/03/how-to-survive-a-3-way-with-alfred-hitchcock/#comments Tue, 09 Mar 2010 04:33:35 +0000 The Murky Fringe http://themurkyfringe.com/?p=2993

Breathe out of your mouth.

When in doubt, lean into it.

Pace yourself.

No harnesses.

Make eye-contact before you pivot.

Keep it clean…unless he wants it messy. If he wants it messy, then make it as messy as you can stand. Then, when it can’t seem to get any messier, keep going.

His safety word is Raskolnikov.

Fast beforehand.

Pinch anything but the jowls.

Hum when your mouth is on things.

Make sure to distribute your attention evenly, never giving yourself fully to one person…unless it’s him.

No Cockney accents.

Whatever you’re doing, make sure he can see it.

]]> http://themurkyfringe.com/2010/03/how-to-survive-a-3-way-with-alfred-hitchcock/feed/ 0 http://themurkyfringe.com/2010/03/how-to-survive-a-3-way-with-alfred-hitchcock/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/themurkyfringe/~3/2M8DiZBEtW8/ http://themurkyfringe.com/2010/03/suck-americans-talk-about-vacuuming/#comments Mon, 08 Mar 2010 04:14:47 +0000 The Murky Fringe http://themurkyfringe.com/?p=2948

Paul Rosenthal (Bend, OR)

Vacuuming used to relax me after therapy, until my psychiatrist moved to L.A., because he “had an opportunity to be closer to his kids.” Well, you shouldn’t get divorced in the first place, but you can’t give advice to a psychiatrist. No. They don’t make poor decisions. My new doc is a lady and she doesn’t get me. I vacuum, sure, but it’s not the same. I think sometimes about smashing all the jars of Ragu at Safeway, and then I remember the guy who would have to clean it up.

Erin McNally (Minneapolis, MN)

I got my first Dust-Buster when I was 4. My dad brought it back from a business trip in Tokyo. I took it everywhere: Grandpa’s arraignment hearing, camping, cockfights, and into the bathtub (with the batteries taken out). I still remember when it died. I was home from college and some girlfriends and I went out clubbing. It fell and broke on the dance floor at Extasy. I didn’t let my girlfriends see me cry, but I was pretty upset. There were some pieces missing when I tried superglueing it back together the next day, and the club was closed when I went back. No one teaches you how to bury a friend.

Jessica Del Rio (Albuquerque, NM)

Fuck vacuums. Sweep ’til I die.

Yousry Sharif (Miami, FL)

My family is Egyptian, so people assume that we do not believe in vacuums or vacuuming. In truth, vacuuming is tremendously popular among Egyptian Americans as well as the Egyptian nationals. In our culture, it is the man’s right to first vacuum. I watch mostly while my husband cleans dirt from our rugs.  If I were a better wife, I would keep the carpets soiled with sand and crumbs, but we have a big house and I’m not some perfect Tunisian.

Allen Young (White Plains, NY)

What I don’t understand–and maybe I’ll never understand–is how flipping a switch on something turns it on. How does that happen? I know now that it has nothing to do with faeries and spells, but how man ever harnessed the power of lightning–not too mention the tornado–I’ll never get it. I worry sometimes, are we playing God when we should be worshipping Him?

Dorothy Sivic (Arlington, VA)

Corners. That’s where all the dust bunnies go, and that’s where I go with my Shop Vac 261Z to kill them. I vacuum 7 times a day, that’s once after every bath. I wrapped the suck hoze in pink tape that my dad  made at his factory. People call him Colt because he brings gravy to work for his sandwiches. Sometimes there are dust bunnies on the walls, but they disguise themselves as cobwebs. I still kill them. My cat eats dust bunnies. We hunt together.

Randal Cavendish II (Walla Walla, WA)

I find it offensive when people in the U.K. refer to vacuums as hoovers. I don’t care about the etymology or the cultural signifiers. What if we were to call our garbage disposals chamberlains? That’s fair play, is it not?

I tried snails once.

My catheter fell out.

Should’ve bought better socks.

What does gestalt mean?

Too many Belgian waffles.

I came; I saw.

Never won at checkers.

Mom said not hers.

Cleaned up after camels.

People liked my brother.

Couldn’t remember state capitals.

Pool parties, not invited.

Spent time with goats.

Still have my virginity.

Elks Club Vice President.

Could’ve sent it back.

Rapids City tax collector.

Can’t hear Jesus talking.

Excuse me, Ms. Oates? Me and the rest of the guys here are really big fans. Everyone’s read We Were the–

[Okay go.]

–We Were the Mulvaneys…no, thank you. That book changed my–

[Go.]

–changed my life. I’m sure you get that all the time. And let me just say–

[Okay go.]

I was heartbroken when Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize. Not that she didn’t deserve it, but, well, if they were going to give it to an American from the last 25 years.

It should’ve been you. Really, I’m not just saying that.

Plus, it should be for a lifetime of work, not a single piece. You know what I’m saying.

You can go ahead, Ms. Oates. It’s clear all the way down, and I’ll make sure it’s clear until you hit the pool.

It’s the least I can do.

I just want you to know that I’m not trying to replace your grandmother.

My grandmother voted for Eisenhower. You’re a dude. I’m not worried.

You know what I mean.

Were we in algebra together?

Papi said you’d have a hard time with this…with us.

Were you his caregiver at Shady Pines?

He says you mock things when you’re afraid. He says you don’t take enough risks.

You’re right. Maybe I should be more like you. Maybe I should find somebody who survived the Great Depression and suck on his balls.

Poor Stephen, so angry.

CONTRIBUTED BY EIRIK GUMENY (New Jersey)

At first glance, the pizzeria isn’t anything special. At second glance, it’s still not. It’s a tiny little space in the middle of a strip mall, next to that Korean nail place your sister goes to.

The neon in the window advertises PIZ A, HEROS, and CALZONES. The specials are scrawled on a piece of cardboard taped to the glass, Wednesday abbreviated as Wend.day.

Upon entering the pizzeria, the bell on the door makes a thunking sound. Somewhere an angel weeps. A dozen sets of suspicious eyes train themselves on you before returning to their dinner. Conversations do not stop for this.

The booths are all taken, as are all the seats at the counter. Sure, there are technically stools open there, but the sweaty, grease-and-oil covered workers staggered along the length of it are hunched over their slices and their sandwiches in the time-honored pose of those wishing to politely communicate “Fuck off.” You’re getting the pizza to go, anyway.

Behind the counter is an old Italian man. He makes eye contact with you and nods, but he steadfastly refuses to take your order. He simply stands there, alternately crossing his arms or leaning on the cash register. Eventually a younger Latino man walks up to the counter. He makes eye contact with you and nods, indicating that you should tell him what you want.

There are a few other Latino men behind the counter, either rolling dough or sliding sandwiches into the oven. None of them seem to care for the old Italian man. The old man returns the sentiment. They all seem to care even less for you.

The TV in the corner jumps in and out of static. The old man wanders out from behind the counter to fix it. This entails grabbing a rabbit ear in each hand and maneuvering them in the same manner one might manipulate an excavator at a dig site. This has the effect of making the reception worse. The old man notices. In response, he throws the rabbit ears at the side of the TV. There is a loud thud. No one seems to notice. The picture is now immaculate.

The cashier asks again if this is to go. You say yes. He looks insulted. A man who is neither the cashier nor the old Italian man, and who, up until now, has not even acknowledged your presence, hands you a paper bag. The bag is oddly shaped, with splotches of grease soaking through various parts of its surface. An onlooker would not be blamed for believing that the bag is holding something more akin to a football-sized lump of soggy clay than two slices of pizza.

The pizzeria does not accept credit cards. There is a credit card machine, yes, but should you choose to pay by plastic, the cashier will stare you down, take ten minutes to run your card through the machine, and then take ten more minutes to hand you the receipt to sign. The cashier will not let you leave without signing. The cashier will hate you forever.

You pay cash. The cashier nods. The old Italian man nods and says “Have a nice night.” You say, “Thanks, you too,” but they’re already watching the TV and ignoring you.

You open the bag on your way out of the pizzeria, removing a slice from the two paper plates positioned in a reenactment of a Venn diagram. The pizza slice is excessively large. You fold it, creasing it down the middle, but the point still flops toward your shoes. To counter this, you lift the slice above your head.

The pizza is hot, the pizza is oily, and the cheese has not even the slightest intention of sticking to the slice.

The pizza is absolutely fucking perfect.