My brother Matthew Fucks With My Art
My brother Matthew cracks my ass up. Here's his version of FWMA:2, and it's funnier than George W. Bush on a Tilt-a-Whirl after two corndogs and three lemonade shake-ups.
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Here is your story...complete with the happy ending you always wanted.
Someone told me this is not a happy story. I happen to disagree.
She was sitting on the stairs of her apartment building the first time I saw her. The steps were concrete, but the porch itself was wood, old and warped and ready to collapse. Obviously I noticed her white hair, first, bleached and spotty, as if some had fallen out in clumps. As if her cat knocked a bottle of bleach off the dresser as she slept, and it sunk into her skull, damaging the roots, leaving only spots. But her beauty superceded or exceeded or some other seeded that small imperfection. She was so fucking beautiful. No description of her is going to do her justice. You just think of a beautiful woman with snow-white hair, and then make her more beautiful, and that was her. Not untouchable beauty, somehow, but no less devastating.
The next thing I noticed was that she was crushing tree shrews between her thumb and index finger. She’d smash one open like that, pick out the meat, and drop the shell into the grass of the yard. Just kidding.
They were walnuts, not rodents. I was kinda staring at her, but she didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t pissed, either. After a minute or two, she reached behind her back and pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Raising Sheep the Modern Way (by Paula Simmons). It looked dated to me, but how much does sheep farming change anyway?
I surveyed the whole situation again, and suddenly my pants were too tight. Before I knew what I was doing, I had walked up the sidewalk to her. She peered over the top of her book and looked me in the eyes. I said, and I quote…
“I like sheep too!”
She began to laugh hysterically, which all but crushed my ego, until I realized I’d just made myself sound like I had water on the brain.
She asked if I’d read the book for a class and I said no. So she smiled and we went inside. Just because I lived just off campus at North Dakota State University didn’t mean I knew anything about sheep farming. I was here on a swimming scholarship.
Her apartment smelled humble (if that is an accurate word) and, well, not unlike a sheep farm. The soft wooly aroma immediately made me feel comfortable. The temperature was perfect, she had sweet peach tea, and every book on her shelf was amazingly fucking weird. The Enneagram Made Easy: Discover the Nine Types of People. Beyond the Sky and the Earth: A Journey into Bhutan. You get the idea.
We talked for hours, and I learned about the history of her hair. Yes, it had turned white in a bleach accident. Yes, it had been caused by the cat. And, yes, the cat, named “Millard Fillmore, had clumps of bald and clumps of white fur. Her hair was once
red like mine - before the unfortunate cat incident, which she referred to as the catastrophe. I couldn’t help but laugh.
We talked for hours, until it was dark outside. I finally asked her about the walnuts, and she hesitated for a moment, like she was about to reveal her secret identity. Which she sort-of did. She had a peanut allergy, which caused her throat to swell. She cheated death once with walnuts, and found that they did not bother her at all. She ate them to defy death. And she spoke of craving a pecan log roll from Stuckey’s. I told her I’d buy her one next time I drove through Effingham Illinois, the Crossroads of America.
She had me at Stuckey’s. We started dating, which involved lots of cooking, talking, and necking. Yeah, I said “necking”. Everything was amazing. We decided not to have sex. No, not until the time was right. Spring break came. I skipped work. We took off in her car, a Chevrolet Cavalier, the worst road trip car ever. But with her, nothing could be wrong. Our destination was almost as sad as the car. But nothing could be as sad as a Chevy Cavalier.
I’ve gone over the scene a million times in my head, and I swear it couldn’t have been any more perfect than it was. I was excited since we passed Vandalia, the seat belt uncomfortable on my loins. Yes, I said loins. We stopped at Stuckey’s, right where it should have been - Exit 159.
The clerk couldn’t tell us the difference between the different pecan log rolls in all the different packages. She was allergic to nuts she said. And she worked at Stuckey’s. That was hell in itself.
The Hampton Inn glowing in the horizon was like an orgasm, eagerly anticipated, and every bit as wonderful as it should have been. Once in the room, we slowly unwrapped the phallic pecan log rolls in some sort of symbolic gesture. We dove in to the sugary treats as we dove into each other. Jimmy Buffet completed the moment by singing “Last Mango in Paris”on some country station. The late night DJ, clearly a parrothead, and clearly not a professional, closed his show with a quote from Wild Palms:
“You’re not afraid, are you, Darling Monkey? If you’re afraid of the rhino, the dream goes away. And then you’ll be like everybody else. And that’s the most terrible thing in the world.”
I started to wonder what that meant, but then, naked and spent, I fell asleep. With my own darling monkey.
###
I wanna know why this fucker doesn't submit his shit to places that...umm...accepting writing from mental patients.
b
---
Here is your story...complete with the happy ending you always wanted.
Someone told me this is not a happy story. I happen to disagree.
She was sitting on the stairs of her apartment building the first time I saw her. The steps were concrete, but the porch itself was wood, old and warped and ready to collapse. Obviously I noticed her white hair, first, bleached and spotty, as if some had fallen out in clumps. As if her cat knocked a bottle of bleach off the dresser as she slept, and it sunk into her skull, damaging the roots, leaving only spots. But her beauty superceded or exceeded or some other seeded that small imperfection. She was so fucking beautiful. No description of her is going to do her justice. You just think of a beautiful woman with snow-white hair, and then make her more beautiful, and that was her. Not untouchable beauty, somehow, but no less devastating.
The next thing I noticed was that she was crushing tree shrews between her thumb and index finger. She’d smash one open like that, pick out the meat, and drop the shell into the grass of the yard. Just kidding.
They were walnuts, not rodents. I was kinda staring at her, but she didn’t seem to mind. She wasn’t pissed, either. After a minute or two, she reached behind her back and pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Raising Sheep the Modern Way (by Paula Simmons). It looked dated to me, but how much does sheep farming change anyway?
I surveyed the whole situation again, and suddenly my pants were too tight. Before I knew what I was doing, I had walked up the sidewalk to her. She peered over the top of her book and looked me in the eyes. I said, and I quote…
“I like sheep too!”
She began to laugh hysterically, which all but crushed my ego, until I realized I’d just made myself sound like I had water on the brain.
She asked if I’d read the book for a class and I said no. So she smiled and we went inside. Just because I lived just off campus at North Dakota State University didn’t mean I knew anything about sheep farming. I was here on a swimming scholarship.
Her apartment smelled humble (if that is an accurate word) and, well, not unlike a sheep farm. The soft wooly aroma immediately made me feel comfortable. The temperature was perfect, she had sweet peach tea, and every book on her shelf was amazingly fucking weird. The Enneagram Made Easy: Discover the Nine Types of People. Beyond the Sky and the Earth: A Journey into Bhutan. You get the idea.
We talked for hours, and I learned about the history of her hair. Yes, it had turned white in a bleach accident. Yes, it had been caused by the cat. And, yes, the cat, named “Millard Fillmore, had clumps of bald and clumps of white fur. Her hair was once
red like mine - before the unfortunate cat incident, which she referred to as the catastrophe. I couldn’t help but laugh.
We talked for hours, until it was dark outside. I finally asked her about the walnuts, and she hesitated for a moment, like she was about to reveal her secret identity. Which she sort-of did. She had a peanut allergy, which caused her throat to swell. She cheated death once with walnuts, and found that they did not bother her at all. She ate them to defy death. And she spoke of craving a pecan log roll from Stuckey’s. I told her I’d buy her one next time I drove through Effingham Illinois, the Crossroads of America.
She had me at Stuckey’s. We started dating, which involved lots of cooking, talking, and necking. Yeah, I said “necking”. Everything was amazing. We decided not to have sex. No, not until the time was right. Spring break came. I skipped work. We took off in her car, a Chevrolet Cavalier, the worst road trip car ever. But with her, nothing could be wrong. Our destination was almost as sad as the car. But nothing could be as sad as a Chevy Cavalier.
I’ve gone over the scene a million times in my head, and I swear it couldn’t have been any more perfect than it was. I was excited since we passed Vandalia, the seat belt uncomfortable on my loins. Yes, I said loins. We stopped at Stuckey’s, right where it should have been - Exit 159.
The clerk couldn’t tell us the difference between the different pecan log rolls in all the different packages. She was allergic to nuts she said. And she worked at Stuckey’s. That was hell in itself.
The Hampton Inn glowing in the horizon was like an orgasm, eagerly anticipated, and every bit as wonderful as it should have been. Once in the room, we slowly unwrapped the phallic pecan log rolls in some sort of symbolic gesture. We dove in to the sugary treats as we dove into each other. Jimmy Buffet completed the moment by singing “Last Mango in Paris”on some country station. The late night DJ, clearly a parrothead, and clearly not a professional, closed his show with a quote from Wild Palms:
“You’re not afraid, are you, Darling Monkey? If you’re afraid of the rhino, the dream goes away. And then you’ll be like everybody else. And that’s the most terrible thing in the world.”
I started to wonder what that meant, but then, naked and spent, I fell asleep. With my own darling monkey.
###
I wanna know why this fucker doesn't submit his shit to places that...umm...accepting writing from mental patients.
b