The dogs started barking before I got to the gate despite the fact they were in the backyard and it appeared that nothing was back there to get them to make all that god forsaken noise. My guess is they heard me shut the door to my El Camino and mistook me for someone that was going to play with their stinky, mangy asses. Before I untwisted the wire that holds the gate shut and keeps the mutts on the inside of the fence, Slobber and Stupid came galloping like racehorses around the dead rosebushes on the side of Mike’s doublewide.
“Slobber, Stupid! Get the fuck out of here!!” I yelled at them. But the dumb beasts don’t listen. It’s like I speak to them in Mexican or some damn thing. So I acted like I threw something to the backyard. Stupid chased after it, but Slobber just stood in the middle of the sidewalk. A ball of drool formed on the tongue hanging out the left side of his mouth and began to fall toward the ground. It extended about dick length before it could no longer support its own weight, snapped in two, and formed into a ball before making its dark spot on the concrete.
As if the ball of slobber hit the doorbell, Mike threw open the screen door and bounced onto the unstable deck attached to his mansion on wheels just in time for the door to slam against the siding. He was wearing what used to be white Fruit of the Loom briefs, a wife beater tank top, and his worn out Red Wing work boots. Looked like the same clothes he had on the last three times I stopped by. Or am I just imagining that?
“Hey fuck face, how many times do I have to tell you that the big one is named Brutus and the little one is named Rocky?” he inquired in the same irritated-as-shit tone of voice he did the last time he asked that question. The big one, Slobber or Brutus if you will, is a bull mastiff who has seen better days and the better part of two decades. The little one, Stupid or Rocky if you must, is a pain in my ass beagle.
“I’ll call them whatever the fuck you want so long as you keep ‘em from jumping on my ass as soon as I walk through this gate,” I said convincingly enough, although I can never remember their “real names” when I visit Mike. Even though that is most days. It’s just easy to call them what they are.
“I’m glad you see things my way you no good son of a bitch,” he triumphantly remarked en route to catch the filthy mutts. As soon as he had them both by the collar some five minutes later by my calculations of the movements of the sun, I finished unwinding the wire, walked through the gate, and wired it shut before going into the house and letting the screen door slam shut. After what seemed like an eternity, Mike followed me in.
“Well, what can I do ya for today, son?” Mike asked me while simultaneously scratching the his right shoulder blade with his left hand and his left ass cheek with his right.
“Well, I have $33 cash and $7 in lottery tickets,” I told him, making sure to leave out the last part of what I was going to say, because I like to bust his balls.
“That sounds like two twenties to me,” Mike shot back like I’m some kind of dingleberry wasting his precious time. Like this prick had something better to do at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning.
“I also have this coupon,” I said slyly, pulling out the contents of my pockets. “If I can find the damn thing.”
He stopped scratching.
“Coupon? What do you think this is, the fucking grocery store?”
“It’s for 10% off any purchase of $300 or more at Sears,” I informed him knowing full well that such a coupon would be honored in his living room.
The look in his eye told me he was going to stop busting my balls. It also let me know if I played my cards right I just might leave with enough to last me a couple days. Or at least until I could make it out to Junior’s. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Why don’t you just have a seat there son,” Mike cooed as he picked up a 15-piece metric socket set and a 12-volt cordless drill still in the original packaging from the couch. He moved them to a clean spot on the floor next to a professional-grade soldering gun and a 12-inch miter saw, also still in the original packaging.
With all the extra time and energy you get from using our drug of choice, hobbies, habits, and eccentricities turn into outright obsessions. People who like to drink, they drink for three days straight. I’ve seen some guys pound through four cases of beer in a matter of seventy-two hours and never blink an eye. People who like to clean have spotless houses and empty cupboards. People who always had sex on the mind before collect huge libraries of videos, magazines, and sex toys. People who like to build things, they end up like Mike here. They have a garage, shed, and house full of nothing but tools and a dozen and a half unfinished projects. I had access to Mike’s second addiction. I had Mike by the short and curlies.
Amidst the haggling, Mike’s ol’ lady Missy strutted her former stripper self in. She was wearing a pair of flower print panties that came either from the Wal-Mart in the city or the Dollar General down the way and one of Mike’s old football t-shirts.
“When are you coming back to bed honey? I’m getting lonely back here,” she said as seductively as she could muster, with an emphasis on the lonely. Guess what Missy’s thing is.
It was 10:37 on a Wednesday morning, and I am quite certain by the look and smell of these two that they had been up since at least Monday. After a further bit of calculation, I decided it was just as likely that they started a 120-hour day Friday night or Saturday afternoon. At any rate, they had both been going at it for a while, and the likelihood of me leaving with a good amount of dope got better by the second. Pardon the rambling. At this point I can’t help it. Really.
Missy. That poor, dumb girl. She is exactly the kind of girl that ends up with a guy like Mike. At one point she was considered one of the best looking girls in this shithole we call a town. While that doesn’t necessarily put her on par with your Jenna Jamesons and Pamela Andersons, she was still way out of Mike’s league. Mike had a nickname in high school. It was Footer. He got it when he decided to tell the rest of us about the time he managed to put his size twelve in the 300 pound Mexican girl. That’s right. Size twelve in the 300 pound Mexican girl. We never let up. Where was I again?
Oh, yeah. Missy. Five foot seven. Long, dirty blonde hair. Green eyes. 120 pounds, at least eight of it pure tit. 32 C. Damn she had a rack. A real nice set. The kind of boobs you just want to stick your head between and . . . That’s another story for another day. Anyhow, she used to play volleyball. Showed a lot of promise on the court. Nothing too outrageous, but she had Division II scouts showing up to games her sophomore year. But that was before dope, and long before Mike. She started out smoking. Everyone starts out smoking. Then for a while she liked to put it up her nose. Said she liked the burn. Now she cuts out the middle man and mainlines. You’d never know by looking at her, but she’s five years younger than me.
Poor, dumb girl. I’m glad I’m not that bad. No needles for this guy. I’ll just stick to my glass dick, thank you very much. You can still see how good looking she used to be. Emphasis on the used to be. Those granny panties she has on are hanging off what used to be one fantastic ba-donka-donk. And tits? What tits? Those glorious mounds of fat and mammary glands have had the life sucked right out of them. By Mike’s business, not his mouth, though he might try to tell you otherwise. And when she smiles, you can count her teeth on your fingers. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll have to get dentures. But that might not be such a bad thing. She has the reputation of a girl who knows how to suck a cock. I imagine a gummer would be an experience to write the folks about.
“Mike. Goddamnit listen to me! I am going to bed. I want you there in five minutes or else I’m breaking out Homer.” Homer is a 16 inch black rubber cock. How I know this is a tale for another day.
“Now, honey, let me take care of this right quick. Go back in the bedroom and put on that movie I like. I’ll be back before the midget jumps out of the weddin’ cake.” She gave him an inappropriately long kiss before teasing his balls with her left hand and strutting down the hallway to the back bedroom.
“Well, young buck, you know I don’t like stop-and-gos, but I have some bidness to tend to,” he practically whispered as he motioned his head to the bedroom and handed me what looked like a little over a gram. You could hear the trailers from the classy piece of cinema Missy just put in.
“I understand Mike. You mind if I smoke a quick boat before I hit the road?”
“Just make it quick. You know the way out. I have a feeling I’ll be tied up for a while,” he said with a twinkle in his eye while taking the packaging off of a 30 foot length of nylon rope about as big around as my little finger.
“Mike! They’re rolling out the wedding cake!” Missy screamed before the electric toothbrush sound of Homer could be heard over the noise of the TV. Mike ran out of his Red Wings on the way to the bedroom.
I made my way to the kitchen to get at the foil, stepping over circular saws, tool boxes, and drill bits. By the time I got my foil ready, I could hear the grunts, groans, and skin on skin contact emitting from the bedroom on the opposite side of the trailer. Thank God they don’t have kids, I thought to myself as I took my first hit of that particular twenty-four hour period. I got a few big pulls off the little pile I put on the foil. When I was satisfied, I crumpled the foil into a ball and put it carefully at the bottom of the kitchen trash. As I turned around and headed for the front door, I heard one really loud skin on skin contact followed by a thud and the shaking of the trailer’s floor. I jumped out the door, slammed it shut and took off like an Olympic sprinter for the fence. I managed to get over it before Slobber and Stupid caught up to me.
As I breathlessly shut the door to my El Camino, I took another look at the house I just ran out of. I knew I didn’t want to know what happened, but I was some of that curious. Much to my bewilderment, I saw Missy standing in front of the screen door stark naked. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the blinds in the bedroom flash open. And there was Mike, giving me the stink eye over a bleeding nose. I laughed, started my car, threw on some Sevendust, and rode hard for B.J.’s.

We were traveling south on Guadalupe, en route to the disc golf course when a sudden wave of panic came over me. I realized I had left my hash-pipe at home, and we would have to return to grab it. Nothing ruins a good day on the links quite like the absence of a steady supply of smokable grass. Heavily dismayed, we turned the great red beast around and sped toward the corner of 32nd and Grooms as swiftly as the wind would take us.
When we got back to my place , I discovered that my pipe had been in my bag all along.
“You imbecile! Make me turn the goddamn car around for what? For nothing!”
The trip, however, was not a total waste. I discovered I had left my vitamin C tablets along with my lemonade and the pint of rum I had planned to drink with it. One must be fully prepared for any acid-induced disc golf adventure. Besides, the extra time would ensure that things were right on top of us as we began the round. That is if we made it to the park alive. The odds of such a miraculous occurrence were shortening with each heavy, awkward breath. The trees lining Grooms were already starting to loom further overhead than they had almost an hour ago.
That before we ate the first of the liquid. The stop sign at 33rd and Speedway was no longer an octagon. One of the sides was missing, and it kept haphazardly moving about on me. My mind tried to search for a word to describe this strange new shape, but none came to mind.
“Take 29th. We can find our way to Lamar from there. I want to see those neighborhoods, drive through those trees, stare at a house or two.” For a moment, I imagined what we might look like to an innocent bystander. Someone wholly oblivious to our deviance.
“Righty-oh good sir knight. 29th to Lamar. Lamar to 24th and Pease,” my driver states to confirm.
“Yes. That is the game plan. Holy sweet Jesus on a stick! Watch out!” I scream as an armadillo the size of a red flyer runs across Speedway en route to the hookah bar.
“Jesus tap-dancing Christ! What are you screaming about?” the man to my left asked in a state of complete confusion.
“Did you not see that fucking thing? It had to weigh a hundred pounds.” He looked at me in a way that let me know he knew not of what I spoke. “That armadillo. Never mind.”
“Quit your babbling and stick your head out the window. You’re getting ashes on my seats,” the pilot advised me. At once this seems totally reasonable. I have taken a heavy dose of psychedelic drugs. I probably hallucinated the armadillo. This reminded me of the contents of my right front pocket. So I dug into the depths of my cargo shorts and retrieved my tin of Scripture mints. I opened it and carefully chose two fish shaped mints as I saw the words of Matthew 4:17. I gave them to my driver and demanded he eat them before I took two more out of the tin and pop them in my own mouth. A sense of irony coursed through my veins and brought a smile to my face. I would love have had Robert Jeffress with me when I dropped them out. The look on his face would have been worth having to listen to him.
In my window, I saw a middle class family in a front yard. Dad was drinking a beer. Mom was chasing her five-year-old son through the yard around the sprinkler. They were all laughing and having a jolly good time.
Then came the beat up Toyota Corolla. “Xanadu” was blasting from the speakers. I was hanging my head out the window, a cigarette dangling dangerously from my lips, wearing a Seven dust A-shirt. I saw them. They saw me. I stared in bewilderment at the white flowers that were blooming on their blue bathing suits. Junior started crying. Mom swept him up and looked to me, horrified. Dad dropped his beer. I smiled and waved as we pulled away from a stop sign.
Going down 29th, rod iron railings and stained glass windows danced for me, but the music was all wrong. It felt off-rhythm.
“Dead! We need Dead!” I screamed toward the driver’s seat while I franticly searched for my case of compact discs. As I found what I had been seeking, he said something like, “Well, put the motherfucker in and for the love of all that is holy stop your fucking screaming.”
“Easy killer. I was simply expressing that the Grateful Dead were of vital importance to my continued positive experience.”
“Keep up that screaming business and I will express my foot straight up your positive experience’s ass,” the savage said calmly. “Candy Man” seemed most appropriate, but “Box of Rain” came on and was immediately satisfying. The lawns surrounding us were crawling, breathing, groupings of strange small creatures. The road was starting to rise and fall in front of us. I recoiled in horror when I realized we were heading to a major intersection and an important crossroads in our journey. The right move would have us at Pease Park inside ten minutes. The wrong meant a crash-course through a residential neighborhood and eventually Mopac. It was time to see how the captain was doing.
“Let me see your eyes,” I said to the wheelman as we stopped at the light at 29th and Lamar. He turned his head to me, lowered his Oakley’s, and as soon as they reached the tip of his nose, all was told. The black holes that were his pupils had drawn his irises past the event horizon, stretched them out like spaghetti before they collapsed upon themselves into infinite gravity and the abyss.
“My god man! You’re twisted.“
“We only have a few more blocks. I can make it,” muttered the mouth below the glasses as if it were trying to convince itself as much as me. By the time we navigate the beast to the park we were nostrils deep in acid frenzy. “Candy Man” came on as we pulled into the parking lot, so we sat and listened and celebrated with two more Jesus mints each.
We noticed the trailer set up on the way to the first tee box, so we stopped to look at the plastic. I became immediately enthralled with an orange candy plastic disc, but I soon discover it is a putter. It would have been a poor decision to buy such a useless, yet attractive item. I found myself reaching into my left front pocket for my wallet only to discover that my unpsychedelified mind left it put away at home. I thank myself thoroughly for having such great foresight. Nothing is as dangerous as giving free reign of your pocketbook to someone in the midst of psychedelic drugs. Especially yourself. Moody noticed my move to the pocket and offered to help.
“I like the color on this one. Nice and bright. I bet this fucker glows in the dark,” I said in poorly executed effort to maintain.
“Well, not exactly. They do make glow in the dark discs. I think I have a couple in stock. . .” Goddamn son of a monkey’s ass, I got this bastard TALKING. This would surely delay our game at least a half hour and completely turn this trip sour if not immediately remedied. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my driver leaning against a tree staring down at a pile of rocks resembling white beetles.
“Hey man, let’s throw some putts before the round,” I called out, cutting off whatever Moody was trying to say to me. I walked over to grab my companion, and then plopped my bag down about ten feet from the practice basket. When I picked up my tie-died Rhyno and addressed the basket, I realized just how interesting this day could turn out. Muscle memory has always amazed me. My brain was elsewhere, but my body took control, and a few clanged chains later it was time to tee off. We were unexpectedly joined by a former member of the United States Navy: a strange shirtless fellow with a bulging gut and some kind of tribal tattoo across his shoulders. He still wore his hair high and tight, and had a face that screamed Republican. He’s a narcotics agent, I thought. Pig-fucker is going to call the authorities.
A glance from my bodyguard let me know he sensed trouble as well. We conspired to bombard the poor sap with menacing vibrations and hope for a quick departure. Our Jedi mind trick was successful, as he only stayed through the first hole, picked up his phone and said some business about needing to go pick up his wife. Relief washed over me like a tidal wave of grape Kool-Aid. Upon reaching the second hole, I could see the life-force of every living thing between me and the yellow basket some 320 feet away. The overwhelming beauty made me laugh out loud to keep from bawling. My cohort looked up from the ant-hill he had discovered and asked, “What?”
“Look ahead. Have you ever seen things quite like this?”
When his mouth dropped, I knew he saw what I did. We proceeded through the trees and finished up the hole and moved on to Three and the first throw over the creek. This is nerve-racking without the hindrance of a head full of acid. At this point, it was almost unbearable. However, my bright pink Wraith went exactly where I had planned it to: over the water. My partner did not fare so well. Upon further investigation, it was discovered that he could avoid getting wet and still retrieve the disc.
“I just need a really big stick,” he said while striding past me on a determined path toward a pile of dead limbs. He returned with a six and a half foot “stick” as big around as his arm. The look on his face as he walked by was something Nicholson would make when he was up to no good. I watched him haul this log down the embankment, biceps ripping out of his shirt and wondered for a brief moment if I might be gay. I realized I am not when I turned to see this cute little Latina girl in tight black athletic shorts and a bright pink sports bra run by. These day trips of mine have a tendency to undo evolution. Mouth agape and tongue hanging, I attempted to crack a one-liner, but a George Bluth wolf call was all I could express. My counterpart’s disc whizzed by me and landed behind the reeds. He emerged from his lie, still with that Nicholson look on his face.
“I never lost one so far,” he said triumphantly. We made it through the next two holes with a fair amount of success and relatively little adventure. Then we ran into Six. And trouble.
On the way to Six’s tee box, I knew I wanted throw my neon green Valkyrie on an anhyzer line to end up right next to the basket. When I got there, everything went horribly awry. My release angle was flat instead of slightly toward my body, and the natural low speed fade of the disc took it straight into the northbound lanes of Lamar. With panic crawling up my body like an anaconda, Mr. Nice Guy decided to be an asshole.
“Oh yeah, sucks to be you. Have fun getting that one,“ my companion viciously taunted while doing a horrible rendition of Axl’s dance from the “Sweet Child O’ Mine” video. I crawled to the top of the hill and laid in wait for an appropriate time to cross to the median. I found a break in the flow of traffic, and made a run for it. When I reached the median, I realized it was much narrower than it appeared from the sidewalk. Before I had adequate time to process this revelation, the lights turned green and I was standing on a sixteen inch island of concrete in a sea of cars moving 35 miles per hour on either side of me. At the first sign of relief, I grabbed the disc out of the far lane and hurdled the median in a mad dash for safety. Only two cars had to screech to a stop to avoid hitting me. There were no collisions. I consider that a great success.
Rattled, we finished up the hole and scooted to Seven and the first spot to smoke a much needed bowl and slam down some lemonade rum punch.
“I almost got killed out there. Hand me that jug when you’re done with it,” I demanded of the caddy. It was somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred degrees, and we had both soaked through our clothes. The trees that lined the fairway were spinning like giant brown barber poles, and the ground was breathing. The bartender handed me the jug of lemonade and I took a few good swigs, and we continued to make our way through the course.
From the box, the trees at the front of the fairway framed the rest of the hole in a fashion that gave the appearance of a pinball machine. Rings of lights were working up the trees toward the end of the fairway. Fear of the manifestation of a giant silver ball led to a pair of mediocre drives. All-around amateur play landed bogeys for the deaf, mute, blind kid and I.
Eight was rough. I hit one of the closer trees, and he ended up overshooting his upshot into the bush behind the hole. By the grace of the Great Magnet, his disc landed in a safe zone away from the swarm of Wang Doodles whirling about behind the basket.
When we reached Nine, the headwind was bringing some big purple clouds to us. These puffs of smoke about ten thousand feet in the air were looming toward us, and it reminded me of the Nothing in The Neverending Story. By some miracle neither of us drove into the creek. I manage to pull a par out of my ass when I hit a 25 foot putt. The chains were dancing like a legion of silver belly dancers. It amazed me that my body was still able to hurl a disc that accurately from that distance.
Ten was an interesting experience. The branches of the mesquite trees were waving around, tempting us to throw low so they could slap them down. The beast with me failed to heed the warning he’d been given, and his low drive was slapped into what I was certain would be the middle of the first southbound lane of Lamar. In reality, he landed just inside the road. I never gave the trees a chance by sending my Wraith high and right. I landed in gimmie range from the short position, and in a prime spot to par. The trees were angered with this and at least three of them slapped my head with a low leafy branch on the way by. We managed to go into Eleven with pars under our belts. The clouds were really coming in. Strange vibrations filled the air. The box was mine, and with a new wave of confidence, I decided to go for it despite a nagging urge to lay up.
“This is how you park it,” I said to my student, right before I sent my Starfire well off to the right and wll away from where I intended to throw. I knew the fade took it somewhere in the middle of the woods on the other side of the river. My competitor laughed, then pulled out his putter and layed up like any intoxicated man with a lick of sense. I went ahead and let him throw across as I began my search for the disc. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw it laying next to a blue tarp. I immediately set a path for it.
It took some time to navigate through the trees on the way to the disc. I didn’t want to upset the grass-shaped worms crawling on my shoes. Who knows what they may have done to me. The possibilities were endlessly nasty, so I tried to focus on the bright yellow spot next to the bright blue spot up ahead. How convenient, I thought, that my disc would land near such a thing. It must be my lucky day.
As I approached the disc to retrieve it, I noticed the tarp waving. This was completely expected, and I went about my business. When I reached down to grab my Starfire, the tarp flew up and a loud barking shortly followed. I added three pounds to my pants when I saw an angry hyena running toward me. I then realized that it was not an animal, but a vagrant who had just had his sleep disturbed. I managed to grab the disc and my bag while sprinting and screaming, “Sorry, man! I was just grabbing my disc!”
I ran past my savior and said,” Pick it up, man. Next hole. Next. Hole. I’ll explain later.”
Still in a jog, we reach the tee box for Twelve where I relayed the previous two minutes‘ happenings.
“I thought I heard barking. It was a homeless guy?” he asked in awe.
“Yeah, it was a fucking bum. With big, pointy teeth. Thought it was a wild dog at first,” I said to him as he loaded us another bowl. An experience like that deserved more pot. And more pot deserved more lemonade. The break did us well, and we managed to throw around the big tree in the middle of the fairway and end up in good position.
The mulch left over after the trees were cleared for the next three holes resembled small, cedar colored snakes, and we had to stomp all over them on the way up to our discs. We tiptoed gingerly to our discs, hoping not to anger the creatures into attacking. We got through unscathed. A couple of close-miss upshots, and we left the hole with pars.
On the way to Thirteen, two sunflower plants were dancing with each other in a way that made me wonder if this were a natural phenomenon or the work of my Scripture Mints. There were two guys sitting on the box at Thirteen who had obviously just smoked a bowl of grass and had most likely not partaken in any of the fun my friend and I had. My curiosity got the best of me.
“Excuse me, fellas. Can you tell me what these two weeds are doing?” “What?” one of them asks, confused.
“These two weeds, are they getting blown over by a breeze? Or,” I asked, making sure to be as transparent as possible. “Is it the drugs?”
“The drugs, man. The drugs,” the other one said. They both grinned and were gone in a flash.
The peak had come and gone as I was suddenly fully aware of my surroundings. The trees weren’t making me laugh so hard anymore. I was now able to focus and think in a relatively clear fashion. Emphasis on the “relatively.“ This was going to be needed for this hole. The redone number Thirteen is a beast of a hole. I consider making a five to be a feat worthy of celebration. At this point, I would have been satisfied with a seven. We were able to avoid trees on our drives which absolutely bewildered me. Neither of us landed in a good position, and we were forced to take what the course would allow. I ended up in the fairway at the base of the trees, the amateur wound up in the middle of them.
“Have fun with that,” I called, lumbering toward my disc. He got out of the woods, and I threw into even tighter woods when my Wasp went a little over stable on me.
“And you have fun with that, sir, “ the bastard poked back at me. I managed to get myself out and two putt.
Fourteen and Fifteen were surprisingly unremarkable. No barking homeless men, adventures into the middle of Lamar, or dancing sunflowers. After missing a putt on Fourteen, I went bogey-par into Sixteen. By this time, our bodies are covered in so much sweat, I am reminded of two-a-days, and I crave a blue Pop-Ice popsicle.
“After this, I’m going to introduce you to New Orleans Snow Balls. They’re the best fucking snow cones ever,” my teammate informed me.
“Awesome, I was just thinking about how good a popsicle would be after this, but a snow cone sounds delicious.”
This bit of information gave me an added boost, and I boomed my Starfire about 325 feet. Much to my amazement, the prodigy flicked a disc about thirty feet past mine.
“Damn son, that’s about the best I’ve ever thrown a disc, and you come out and just boom one like that,“ I said, proud of the boy. A wide-right midrange, followed by a two-putt lands me a bogey, while he parked it by the basket and dropped in for par.
“The box is yours, my man,” I congratulated on our way to Seventeen.
He found the hole intimidating because he prefers to throw a forearm. When I saw him grip the disc for a back hand, I thought he would do the right thing. He attempted the tunnel shot under the trees and clipped one on the right, which sent him into the forest on the left.
I took the safer route and swung my Wraith around the big tree and found myself fifty feet from the basket. I let the novice pull out into the fairway for no penalty to shorten the distance between myself and the snow cone. He got his second shot within thirty feet. We two putt, and crossed the river to Eighteen and the end of this leg of our adventure.
The sun was starting to come down, and the second wave of the day began. The stones in the fairway moved about and multiplied like armored gerbils. I sent my drive out to the left into the field. My companion sent his disc low and long and managed to land himself in front of the mandatory tree. He would have been in fantastic position had he not been forced to stand ankle-deep in grass-colored millipedes for his second shot. I simply had to avoid the arm of the tree-man standing in front of the basket. I was unsuccessful, and landed in front of the curtain of leaves hiding the basket. From this point, it took us each two shots to sink our putters. On the way to the car, he let me know he took the game, and I took his word for it, not wanting to further delay a snow cone and a cold shower.
Sweating from every pore of our bodies, we fell into the red Corolla, turned on some Spanish guitar, and took off for Airport and New Orleans Snow Balls.

The yang to my yin
Has gone and done it again
Left my heart broken and bruised

Took me out swimming
And left me to drown
In tears, blood, sweat and booze

She can quote all the talking heads
She only listens to NPR
She’ll get talking religion and politics
After three martinis
At her favorite bar

She’s into transcendental meditation
The proletariat’s revolution
And Dutch chocolate ice cream
She has a big ass and a brain
Beneath a red head
This girl is my wet dream

She digs Palahniuk, Heinlein
And HST
But she sure as shit don’t dig me
Makes it rather unfortunate
That she is the yang to my yin

Standing alone in a crowded room
I can’t help but think
About what could have, should have
Will and may be

Would I be here now
Had a few choice moments
Turned out not the same?
Is this my destiny?
Am I meant to be here, now?

Or have I parted ways with
Fate at some fork in the road?

Had a different set of circumstances
Manifested itself within me
Would I be in the same place?

Should I have been one of those
Banana Republic wearing
Escalade driving
Boys spending daddy’s money
While drinking myself into oblivion
With my carbon copy frat brothers?

Or should I have been
More suitable as one of those
Asshole types infesting
Every locker room and gym
Across the nation
Those guys who get
The girls by being soulless, vain
And covered in the right colored cloth
Was that my destiny?

Am I destined to be
The spark that lights the fire
Burning toward the box of powder
That will make the explosion
To set things right?
Or am I simply deluding myself?

Or am I merely fated into being
Another slave to the grind
Some working stiff with
A job-type-job I go to
To get away from my family
With a beer fridge at home
To escape the agony of my job?

Will the next decision I make
Throw me onto a new path
To another lonely end?

They say actions speak louder than words
Ant that look in your eye is
Screaming at me
While the hands on my face
Whisper innocently in my ear

I keep thinking about that
Biz Markey song as my
Hands caress that silky smooth skin
Soon those luscious lips turn
“Just a Friend” to “Say Goodbye”
And I think to myself
“Just for tonight”

Sweat drips, pulses pound
For a moment I forget where I am
And get lost in the candlelight

The only sounds spoken
Are pants and moans
And the rhythm of
“More Human Than Human”
Pounds in my skull
And drives this thing forward

Then you roll over and fall asleep
And I whisper the only three words
I can’t mutter while you are awake

So just maybe in another life
I would have been your lover
On a different day, I might just be a friend
But as soon as last night became this morning
I knew that I am just another man

I am just another man
And I’m trying my damndest
To be better than the man before
But I know that look
And you know this feeling
Something’s going on that can’t be ignored

It started with a sip and a drink
At the bar
Down the street from
Where I used to work
Two strangers met eyes
With the same thing in mind
So the across the room ritual began

Just another Thursday night feeling lonely
By myself in a crowded bar
One of those nights
Everybody’s looking for somebody
So we don’t have to be lonely
Alone anymore

Short conversation shortly
Led to relocation
The rest, as they say
Is in the books

I am just another man
Believe me I didn’t have that planned
But believe me I sure didn’t mind

The best thing that never
Happened for her
So good I could just
Fade away
Too much and too soon
So now that she’s ready
There is no turning back

Climb another mountain
Six inches at a time
Fake another smile and
Orgasmic bliss
Just smile and pretend
She really can feel him
She really can feel anything

So well
Oh well

She fake it better
Than most bring it real

The best thing that never
Happened for her
So good I could just
Fade away
Too much and too soon
So now that she’s ready
There is no turning back

Just save yourself
From her black hole heat
Save yourself
From her evil eyes
You don’t know it
But you’re already gone
You don’t know
But she can’t
Be saved

Twenty three years
And I still hold
This teddy bear every night
But it’s not what I clung to
As a child
To escape my fear of the dark
Or those screams and sobs
Coming from the other room

Days turned into weeks
Turned into months
I’ve been left here
To work things out
On my own
For my own damn good
But I still find
Some comfort in
Sleeping next to just
This tiny part of you
It still brings a smile to my face

8:16 a.m. just doesn’t mean
The same things that it used to
I smile and I turn
Just to find this teddy bear

Who knew stuffed animals
Could come with instruction manuals
So hard to abide
Sometimes I wish I could
Talk myself into
Throwing it in a fire
Or leaving it on your doorstep
With a letter saying exactly
How I feel

8:16 a.m. just doesn’t mean
The same things that it used to
I smile and I turn
Just to find this teddy bear
I know my heart still beats without you
But I’m afraid
That my drummer forgot the beat
That I used to lead my life to
Sometimes maybe just means maybe
And never means always
But sometimes that just isn’t good enough

8:16 a.m. just doesn’t mean
The same things that it used to
I smile and I turn
Just to find this teddy bear

I’ve been putting myself back together
Using masking tape and super glue
Trying to make sure all the pieces fit
The way they did before you

But I didn’t come with an
Instruction manual
So I can’t be certain
I put everything where it belongs

You can’t destroy what is
Already broken
You can’t turn me back around
You can’t destroy me
I’m already broken
But I’m picking myself
Off the ground

Tattered and stained
From industrial adhesive
I can’t remember where that belongs

I think it goes somewhere between
My lungs and my liver
But there are so many pieces
Is that really the shape of my heart?

Now I’m feeling
Withered, shattered, and grey
And I have are these
Thoughts and they plague me
But still they remain
Unlike someone I used to know

I’ve been putting my pieces
Back together
Using masking tape and super glue
I’m trying to make sure things end up the same
As they were before I met you

Wish I came with an instruction manual
To be certain this is where this piece belongs
But the pieces are getting so small
Can’t remember where it goes
I think this is where it belongs

Is this really the shape of my heart?
Is this really the shape of my heart?

She holds the world in her left hand
And in her right, she holds mine
And I feel so privileged
Until she decides
She wants to let go

The world, it spins around
And wobbles it’s way
Around the sun
As it orbit’s a super massive
Black hole
In the center of the galaxy

But sometimes it just
Feels like everything’s standing still
And I’m flying through
Space at damn near the speed of light
To the center of the galaxy
And that super massive black hole
That will collapse me to
Next to nothing

Because she decided to let go