Disfunction as far as the eye can see

"Candy!" A tiny woman in a light blue windbreaker approached me outside the miserable little Wal*Mart in Martinez. "Buy a candy bar!"

"Buy a candy bar, Mister." The item the woman was clutching was not so much a candy bar any longer so much as a candy dodecahedron. She had been grasping it in her hot little hands too long. "It's my last one. They been selling me out like crazy!" She indicated two young children, also selling candy.

"What's it for?" I asked.

"It's <lost in translation> charity <lost in translation> helpin' the homeless get back on their feet." she replied. The woman looked like she'd been dipping into the candy herself a little too often over the years. She only had two teeth left in her coconut and they were not in any way neighbors, so when she spoke it sounded like "plplhelpin' plplthe plplhomeless plplget plplback plplon plpltheir plplfeet."

I motioned the two children over so I could purchase band candy that was still solid. I always buy that crappy stuff because I always remember the one year I went out into Garden Grove, the new sub-division -- boring ranches and split-levels that had once been a great big orange grove for as far as my young eyes could see -- to sell candy for some school function or other.

I remember riding my off-brand, gold and black bicycle with the banana seat, the band candy in the metal basket on the front. The nut holding the arching handlebars to the frame had loosened and the handlebars wobbled and shifted every second, threatening to throw me, ass over teakettle, into the street. What a wretched venture that was. From that day I never ever wanted to run my own business or work in sales ever again.

My upstairs neighbor, Squeaky Bed Sandy, seems to have entered into a fairly stable relationship with a new boyfriend. They've been bashing the beaver pretty regular, giving truth to my nickname for Sandy and her box-spring. Same routine every time -- squee-squee-squee-squee-squee-SQUEE! and then STOMP STOMP STOMP as the gentleman rushes to smudgement and heads into the bathroom or living room or wherever it is he flees after finishing first in the one peter dash. No cuddling in the afterglow for that one. And what he brings in sheer forcefulness he loses in stamina, let me tell you. The time it took you to read this is the time it takes him to drop his coins in front of the slot machine, as it were. Unless you're a drooling nincompoop in which case Sandy had a pretty good night! Good for youuuuuu!. But no, Sandy can't be happy and I don't think her bed can take much more.

In other news, I have a severe case of cabin fever which, in sunny California, makes no sense whatsoever.
  • Current Mood: dis function dat function
Do people really cuddle after sex? It's always been my assumption that post-sex is time for vacating your bladder.

I looooooove your posts so much. You are such a good and humorous writer.
Perhaps it's time to start leaving flyers and ads in front of her door extolling the wonder and comfort of platform beds.