Stag Pool Party.

(A Farmer’s Insurance commercial that literally makes me laugh so hard I nearly hyper-ventilate, every time).

NOTE: Between the second and third scenes with the lights coming on, the diving board in the background…omfg…

 

Notes to Self #420

Self-memo RE:cowl neck blouses and smoking weed:

Dear Self,

Yes, you’re still a pothead…puff – puff – pass.

Being of the branch in the pothead tree that is populated by less socially glorified potheads; as in: the kind who find smoking utensils and miscellaneous pothead paraphernalia to be (in the spirit of the good Miss Pross from Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities) absolute nonsense; it is now a recognized necessity to NOT combine the two elements if I plan to leave the house.

Imagine…

what the person thought when I leaned over to sign a document and spilled like a quarter ounce out of the folds in my neckline from hours before – when I rolled a joint (and apparently spilled a bunch down into my shirt, somehow…

 

Ode to a Young Buck in a Liquor Store.

I couldn’t help but to smile under my Jackie O’s,

after being hit on by some 20-year-old,

who stared like I was a spread-eagle centerfold,

a boost to my battered and tattered ego,

 

I was dressed like a Female Assassin en Vogue,

a hoodie and shades, cause that’s just how I roll,

but the kid still told me that I was beautiful,

as he passed me by on his way out the door.

 

The Un-Secret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J.

37ecb4a337120a8de5d2e377c6c853d7

The paper airplane landed gracefully into a patch of bare skin just above the collarbone of the whiny redhead named Tasha, who sat one desk to the left of J, who sat dead center – in the very back row of the classroom; she jumped and started to cry immediately, rubbing her skin and looking around like a hunted animal. J stifled a laugh best she could and shot a look at S, sitting in the far right hand desk about a meter away from the teacher’s desk. S was turned completely around in her seat, staring at J with those searing green eyes, intensely willing something.

Typically, the two young trouble-makers could communicate almost totally through expression and mannerisms, but J was at a loss as to what S was trying to tell her this time. The teacher, Ms. Melody (whose name only cruelly misled any student going into her kindergarten class), spun on her cane in front of the chalkboard, accidentally flinging the stick of chalk that she had been using across the room and hitting the aid in the rear who silently graded papers. The aid wore his earphones and paid little attention to the classroom happenings while he was there, so he was caught completely off guard by the sudden smack of a stick of chalk against his brow, and nearly started enough to flip his chair over backwards – papers flying up over his head and landing like snowflakes on his lap and around his surprised form as they settled. The class exploded in laughter then, a cacophony of high-pitched voices, snickering in glee at the impromptu spectacle; Ms. Melody washed over with that reddened look of shocked outrage that was so familiar o the children, S and J especially, and barked an order that was snuffed out by the collective noise.

 

Pick up the airplane!!!

The thought finally struck J as if a mallet had from behind, and she scrambled to grab the small folded note that S had (poorly) thrown only nano-seconds before the aid was shot by the teacher with a piece of rogue chalk.

“Nice pitch…”

J mumbled to herself as she swiped up the note with an extended lean over her desk, almost flipping headfirst onto the carpet, herself, in the process.

In a single motion that both S and J had come to interpret as Doom, Ms. Melody snapped her left handed fingers and pointed at S in the front of the classroom, all while locking eyes with J in the very back at the same time, and for a very long and drawn out moment.

“Give me the note right now, J.”

the teacher said calmly.

“May I read it first?”

asked J, sincerely.

The click of Ms. Melody’s tongue gave J her answer, and she stood, looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, looked over to S (who sat with a condemned look of guilt on her puckered face), and nonchalantly put the paper in her mouth, chewing it briefly before swallowing. The class exploded again with unruly hysterics that only 5 year old children can produce; and J noticed the aid nearby drop his jaw open and let it hang. S began to clap loudly from the front row, and soon enough the rest of the class joined in the applause. Spittle flew from Ms. Melody’s mouth as she seemed to combust verbally in an outburst of all things Teacher; she was pissed.

gurls

Big Things.

We got big dreams,

me and him

Someday big things

are bound to happen

We’ll grow big trees

As legal aliens

On some big beach

With the Mexicans

We’ll raise puppies

instead of children

Rotts and Boxers

by the millions

I’ll finish each day

still right next to him

he’ll happily inspect

the tan-lines on my skin

He drives a Tonka Truck

I teach words to the orphans

we got big plans on the brink

me and the big boss man