My Day with the ‘Analist’

Lance walks into his physic therapist’s office and slumps down.

“Hello” too effusive physiotherapist says. “How are we today?”

“Shitty,” I answer. “But we be chillin’”

“Oh no!!” he says. “We can never feel ‘shitty’, as you say; We are always ‘happy’.”

“Fuck you,” I say.

“Mister Marcom. WE do not talk this way.”

“Fuck you Doc, I talk this way. I am paying you so I can talk this way.”

“OK, why then, are you “shitty” as you call it?”

Leaning back… wondering how long this court – ordered bullshit must go on, I decide to hit him with it:

“I am feeling shitty ‘cause I have written some good shit on my blog and no one is readin’ it.”

“Do go on….”

“Well… there is that one about Southpark

“Yes?”

“Some great shit there.”

“No one reads it?”

“Yeah,” I say; “It is too long.”

“Why is it too long? Do you hate your mother?”  he asked brilliantly.

“Well, it took three days to write. An’…who are you? Do you even know what it is to write?”

“Let us focus on ‘your problem.’ shall we?”

“Doc, let us focus on yers: I don’t wanna be here. I just want folks to read my shit.”

“I cannot help you there, Son.”

“Then what am I paying protection for?”

Bring Yer Own Goat

So I’m standing in line at Kroger’s last night reading the tabloid headlines:

“Jennifer Lawrence gives birth to purple alien.”

”Perfectly preserved Elvis head found under back seat of ’57 Chevy in Dallas” (Why does this shit always happen in Texas?)

“Bill O’Reilly Comes Out” (Out of what? Stupidity?)

Just kiddin’ Bill. I love you man! Hahaha! (tongue firmly planted in cheek)

Anyhow, there is an elderly black gentleman in front of me, driving one of those grocery store golf carts. He has maybe five items in his basket. Still perusing the latest headlines, I hear the cashier say,

Bitch you crazy

It’s OK to say “Mother-Fucker” on my site. Tis rated “M”

“Eighty-one-fifty.”

“Eighty dollars?!” the man exclaims.

Now I look up.

“Yessir, eight-one-fifty.”

“Lan’ sakes chile. For what?”

“Well, you got them short ribs there… them was eighteen. Then you got that cough medicine, thas eight ninety-nine. Then you got that ‘luminum foil casserole dish, seven. Then you got them chips. Fo’ dollar. Then you got that gum there…. It all adds up.”

Black gentleman shakes grizzled head.

“Lawd ah mercy!”

“Yep. Y’all gonna be in big trouble onc’t y’all git home,” Cashier says. “Got a Kroger Loyalty Card?”

“Yessum, but far as I kin see, doan do no damn good.”

Now. I ask you: Since when do short ribs fetch nine dollar a pound? Since when does a nickel’s worth of aluminum foil shaped to look like a roasting pan cost seven bucks? Since when does a bag of potato chips cost four dollars? What has happened to my country?

Fuck it.

I’m moving back to Baghdad, where you can still purchase goat on the hoof for four bits a pound. (BYOB)

“Bring yer own bullets.”

No prob.

Make No Beans About It

???????????????????????????????

The ‘pinto bean’

“Phaseolus Vulgaris”

“texmexiconus pintofusiorius”

(My etymology)

Consider for a moment the lowly pinto bean. In The Great Republic of Texas the National Dish is Chili. Specifically: Texan Chili.

Which-Means-No-Beans.

Do not bean up chili. On pain of death Son, do not bean-up chili.

Still freshly pressed from California, (Actually four years into being ‘freshly pressed,’ but some things take more time to take than others) I did not know this.

My junior year in Honey Grove High School I volunteered to provide the chili for the fundraising endeavor of my class. We were to sell chili-dogs and Frito pies during the breaks—the break before lunch and the break after lunch just before liberty: Two of the hungriest times in High School. We would have a captive audience.

Yep.

On the Friday afternoon before the Monday break time when the ’74 Junior Class was to unveil their fundraising enterprise, I was at-a-loss. I had never until that day cooked anything resembling food. Once, during a camping trip years before, a man who was somehow kin to me, (by marriage—not genes), brought out some bacon and proceeded to throw it into a skillet on the camp fire.

“Hey!” I said. “Don’t you need to put some flour in there with that bacon?”

Yes. I was stupid.

Anyway… Here I was after shooting my big mouth off, now needing to produce tons of chili for the chili dogs and Frito pies. (OK. I do realize there are some not-Texans who have no idea what the fuck is a Frito Pie. Here is the quick version: Take one ah dem very small packs of Frito’s corn chips, slice it down the side, open it up, pour chili on top, et voila! Frito Pie, or as some call it: Meskin Lasagna.)

Dear Gloria, (My Stepmother, who was actually from ‘Up North—Montana- or sum such place), Dear Step Momma, I need to cook up a big batch O’ Chili. Kin ya help me?”

“Sure, Stepson, I can help you.”

Well… what do I do first?” I honestly enquired.

“Stepson, first you soak some beans.”

“Beans? I am makin’ chili. Why do I need beans?”

“You need beans, Red-Headed-Step-Son, to fill in the profit.”

“Ah don’t recall beans in chili, Step-Mom.”

“Trust me: Step-Son; beans are what everyone needs… in chili… here.”

“So… I need to cook beans before chili?”

“Yes.”

“How do I do that?” I asked.

“First you soak them. Soak them for twelve hours.”

“Then what?”

“Cook them. Cook them for about an hour.”

“And the chili?”

“Cook that for hours…”

“And then?”

“Combine.”

“So… I ‘combine’ the chili with them beans?”

“Do not say ‘them’ in this house.”

“Sorry.”

“Yes, you ‘combine’ the beans with the chili, and then you have a profitable enterprise.”

“I see, thanks Step-Mother-from-North-Dakota.”

Following Monday, I show up with my ‘CHILI’

“Marcom! What the fuck is this? This ain’t chili! This shit has beans! Beans! Beans!”

Imagine my shame.

“But…but…but… My Mom… er…my sometime Mom…

Ah shit!

Beans!

IN Chili!

I shouda know’d better.