Gym Shorts Magazine

Powder Blue - Jim Gedda

Tue, 03 May 2011 18:31:06 -0400

Hank was my father. My teacher, my buddy, my mentor, my hero. When I bought my first Hank CD, 20 Golden Hits, I could feel myself being pulled back 50 years into the front row at the Ryman Auditorium. Hank was up there, knee-knocking and yodeling out “The Lovesick Blues,” while the honky tonk girls rushed the stage, breezing by like a cloud of honeysuckle with an aftertaste of Maker’s Mark. And when Don Helms would whine out the opening strains of “Cold, Cold Heart” on that steel guitar, Hank Williams was the undisputed king of Nashville.

But Hank wasn’t my father. We never hung out, we never traded songs, and when I was born it had already been a long 39 years, four months, and twelve days since ol’ Luke the Drifter died in the backseat of his powder blue Cadillac on New Years’ Day 1953. And yet, when I hear him drawl out over my iPod “If the good Lord’s a-willing and the creeks don’t rise, we’ll see ya again ‘fore long,” it’s an easy oversight to make. I can forget that the guy from Hootie and the Blowfish is being billed as a top country act. I can forget a few years ago there was hit country song called “Honky Tonk Badonka-Donk.” Even for three minutes I can forget those things, so I might as well be back half a century when no one could have believed such atrocities would happen.

People love to throw around the line “If you play a country song backwards you get your wife back, your dog back, your truck back, and your job back,” but things go wrong in country because things go wrong in life, and no one knew that better than Hank. He was the country-fried Shakespeare of the backwoods and the cotton fields, with a quill dipped in the tears that everyone sheds but no one likes to talk about. It’s as if he walked into every home in America and personally asked every person “What’s wrong, pal?” “What’d he do to you, darlin’?” “How’s that make you feel, son?” He knew what made them hurt, and he knows what makes Jim Gedda hurt. And chances are he’s going to know what makes people hurt 50 years from now, as long as men and women fall in and out of love.

Hank’s not for everybody, and I’m not going to claim he is. But for me, all it takes is a lonesome fiddle, a whining steel guitar, and the simple eloquence of a cowboy who, at one point, went by the name “Hiram.” I’m not from the country, I’ve never known a hard day’s work in my life, and I couldn’t ever hope to accurately describe “Jambalaya, crawfish pie, and filet gumbo.” And sure, Hank’s French was a bit off when he sang, “Tonight I’m gonna see my ma chaz ami-o.” But from the first time I put in that CD, those old songs put an arm around my shoulder and said “This one’s for you.” Just wait until the next time you feel like you just can’t face another morning. Be sure to keep an eye out for a powder blue Cadillac.

The Detective - Erik Paniccia

Mon, 02 May 2011 18:30:06 -0400

Detective Milton struck the match and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette he held between his lips. His eyes were tired, but sharp and focused nonetheless. He adjusted his hat, unbuttoned his overcoat, and crouched by the body, peering into the dead eyes of a dead man.

The blood had pooled in the mortar grooves of the brick street. It had stopped flowing and was beginning to thicken. The bricks the blood flowed between remained dry save for those immediately beneath the dead man’s head. There were no signs of injury on the side of the head that was exposed to the detective’s eyes, though more blood caked the man’s scruffy hair. It, too, was beginning to dry, but still gave off a telltale sheen in the gaslight of the streetlamps.

“Has the corpse been moved or touched in any way?” The detective spoke in a voice as weary yet sharp as his eyes.

“No sir, Detective,” said the constable who’d discovered the body a few hours earlier. “I merely checked for a pulse, being careful not to place my hands on any part of the body covered in blood.”

“Was the blood in the mortar cracks flowing when you happened upon this place?”

“If it had been, I was not aware of it. It seems thicker now than when I first saw it, Detective, but there appears to be no more of it now than before.”

“Have you searched the body for identification of any kind?”

“No sir, I thought it best to leave that to someone of your stature. I’m not much of an investigator, you see. I just walk my beat and handle the drunks, vagrants, and thieves.”

“Was there any person nearby when you discovered the corpse? Any passers-by then, or whilst you were awaiting my arrival?”

“No sir. Quiet as a tomb, it’s been. All night.”

“Is that usual for this area at this time of evening?”

“Quite so, sir. It’s rare to see anyone about after nine o’clock, even more so after ten.”

“Is there anything else, small though it may seem, that you could tell us?”

“Not that I can think of, sir.”

“Very well. Thank you, Constable. You can return to your patrols. If I need to speak with you again, I shall leave word at the station.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

The constable left, leaving only the detective and the gray-haired coroner that stood beside him.

“Well,” began the detective, “let’s turn him over, shall we?”

The body had been on its stomach this entire time, a tweed jacket, brown trousers, and black, recently shined boots being all that was visible in that position. The detective and coroner knelt by the body, being careful so as to disturb as little of the blood as possible, and carefully reached under it to turn it on its back. The dead man’s jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a white shirt with red patterned stitching under a pair of matching red suspenders and a deep crimson bow tie. The side of the man’s face that had been lying upon the street was badly bruised, and his temple on that side had a deep gash.

“Well,” said the detective, “what do you make of this?”

The coroner studied the corpse a moment before providing the detective with his opinion. “I would say that this man had been dead less than an hour before his corpse was happened upon by the constable,” he said. “It seems clear that the wound he suffered on his face bled until the poor fellow no longer had enough blood coursing through his veins to keep him alive. Moreover, the blood on the opposite side of the man’s head indicates, to me, that he was likely knocked unconscious after the initial laceration to the face. He bled to death while unconscious in the middle of the street.”

“Then it stands to reason that the murderer may not have intended to kill this man. Had they, then they would not have done it, as you say, in the middle of the street. Likely, a dispute arose between this man and another party, which led to a physical altercation. The other party slashed the victim’s face, and then beat him upon the head, knocking him out. Fearing that he’d killed the poor man, and wishing to avoid facing the consequences of his action, he fled, the irony being that his flight was the likely cause of death, for if he had attempted to help the man, he may have saved his life.”

“That certainly seems a reasonable line of deduction, detective.”

The detective nodded and took a final drag from his cigarette before standing and dropping it in the drying pool of blood next to the dead man’s head.

“Take the corpse to the morgue and see if you are able to ascertain the man’s identity, and any more evidence that could tell us how he was killed. Be sure to send along a report to my station by Monday.”

“Monday, sir? Do you think it wise to wait that long before investigating further?”

“I think,” said the detective as he walked toward the horse-drawn-carriage taxi that had brought him to this scene, “that this man’s killer will never be found. There were no witnesses, and the man’s death appears to have been an accident. Therefore, it is very unlikely that any evidence we uncover from the corpse will lead us to his killer. And, to speak quite frankly – and, you must understand, this is not to be repeated to any other person – our resources are spread quite thin, and there are more pressing issues for us to be concerned with than an accidental murder that is quite unlikely to result in an arrest, much less a conviction.”

With that, the detective entered and closed the door of the carriage cab. The driver cracked his whip and the horses sprang to life, carrying the carriage and the detective inside to their next destination, as the coroner watched it recede into the distance, stunned beyond the ability to move by the detective’s parting words.

Relationship Status - Jim Gedda

Sat, 30 Apr 2011 14:40:00 -0400

James Charles Gedda is now friends with Megan Leigh. (November 22^nd at 5:43 PM)

James Charles Gedda thinks things are looking up. Here’s to new opportunities. (November 22^nd at 5:57 PM)

Megan Leigh is loving life right now. A new friend and an amazing necklace from my boyfriend! :) (November 23^rd at 11 AM)

James Charles Gedda should know better than to get his hopes up. Life is a lot easier with lower expectations. (November 23^rd at 11:15 AM)

Megan Leigh :( Awww what’s wrong?

James Charles Gedda Nothing, don’t worry about it. Just me being pessimistic, lol.

Megan Leigh Well you should stop, everything turns out for the best!

James Charles Gedda is having a pretty good day so far. I guess I just need to make the best of things. (November 25^th at 2:13 PM)

Megan Leigh is going to visit my man this weekend! It’s going to be heavenly! :) (November 25^th at 4:38 PM)

Cassandra Duncan Is that why you bought that 24 pack of Trojans, Missy?

Megan Leigh Oh you hush, roomie! At least you won’t have to listen like last weekend!

James Charles Gedda really doubts his decision-making abilities, sometimes. Ugh… (November 25^th at 4:42 PM)

Jeff Porter What’s wrong, dude? This about you-know-who?

James Charles Gedda What do you think?

Jeff Porter I keep telling you, man, just forget about it. If it were meant to happen, it would’ve happened by now.

Megan Leigh What are you guys talking about? What’s wrong, Jim?

James Charles Gedda Nothing big, Meg. You just worry about your big weekend, lol.

Megan Leigh Uh… ok, I guess. Thanks!!

Jeff Porter hates to just sit back and watch as a friend so willing sets himself up just to be hurt. (November 25^th at 8:26 PM)

James Charles Gedda is having a miserable weekend. (November 27^th at 6:42 PM)

Jeff Porter That’s cause you’re just sitting around moping, dude! Let’s go get drunk and find a party. The only solution for heartaches over a woman is booze and other women.

James Charles Gedda You’re going to make an awesome father and husband someday, Jeff.

James Charles Gedda is trying to summon up the courage to do something about this. I can’t stand it anymore. (November 28^th at 3:18 AM)

Megan Leigh had an amazing weekend! Having a bit of trouble walking normal, but that was well worth it! (November 28^th at 5:04 PM)

Josh Ryan Damn right it was, baby! I love you!

Megan Leigh I love you! Mwah!

James Charles Gedda decided against the whole “courage” idiocy. Never fucking mind. (November 28^th at 5:29 PM)

James has deleted this status.

Megan Leigh can’t believe you would do this to me! You bastard! (December 3^rd at 10:20 AM)

Megan Leigh is no longer in a relationship. (December 3^rd at 10:24 AM)

James Charles Gedda I’m sorry to hear that, Meg. Are you going to be ok? Do you want to hang out tonight and just watch a movie or something?

Megan Leigh That actually sounds great right now. :) See you then!

James Charles Gedda is in a good mood. Things are looking up! (December 4^th at11:34 AM)

If we went and printed copies of this theoretical magazine...

Thu, 28 Apr 2011 12:44:00 -0400

If we went and printed copies of this theoretical magazine today, this is what it would look like. Snazzy, yeah?

This is kind of the “beta 2” version - we’re printing 2 or 3 copies of it soon to get a feel for, feel it in the hands, play with it. We’re getting better and better with our design tools, laying out the insides, etc. It’s a fun time.

Divine Happenings Around the House - Grady D. Land

Tue, 28 Dec 2010 14:46:00 -0500

Around the house I was born into were often reminders of divinity. The warm kitchen with a cold and unforgiving ceramic floor that would undoubtedly break any glass that was dropped on it’s tiles. The attic filled with a million ties to my parents wanted pasts, as if by preserving these items they were somehow keeping those ties from ever being severed. As if. At least a hundred different varied trinkets collected over the years, whether they intended on being collected or not. They were no doubt collected and stored in the memory of my childhood. Boxed up documents bruised from rain water that was a persistent kind of leak, demanding to be soaked in by each and every page it touched. Old shoes, tons of old, worn out, or hardly worn shoes. Different sizes, but most, all except the wooden ones, were women’s size 6. My mother’s. Amongst the clutter of this tight spaced miracle I would fall upon a truth that would take me down the path I now choose to follow under. A record player. Used, obviously in need of rescue.The most desperate to be saved. I immediately felt the need for restoration, re-birthing this piece of nobility, would bring it back into the light. I remember taking the slightest precautions when handling the artifact, it was close to breaking. It was fragile, needed to be taken care. And I saw all of that. Under my wing I forged a power supply and began to listen to what I wanted to hear. Sweet unfettered vinyl.

Cold Rush - C.M. Humphries

Mon, 13 Dec 2010 16:02:07 -0500

Fierce gusts hurled shards of ice and bricks of snow all around Kyler Nampton. He pursued through small gaps in the solid white dunes on both sides of him. The town became nothing more than a set of support beams for a thick snowy floor. A whiteout too immense and violent to truly see through. Yet he pursued.

Pursue what? He couldn’t find the answer anywhere in his memory and decided to not spend as much time pondering. He needed to keep heading onward, alert.

Others were pursuing, too, the same exact prize, but Kyler couldn’t imagine where they were, for the icy whirlwinds covered their steps. He glanced back behind and noticed his own footprints immediately filling with snow cover.

He reminded himself to always, always remain alert. The element of surprise was something he would have never allowed himself to fall victim to.

He desired the prize the most. Something about the notion of winning warmed his heart. Kept him alive. Perhaps I will die from it too, he thought.

What the hell is it? If I’m pursuing it, I must have started with a damn good reason. That was how his mind worked.

He stopped in thought and motion once he heard a faint jingling—possibly chains bouncing and links clinging against each other.

Kyler jerked his head and gazed at a large figure materializing underneath the steady snowfall. Much taller, the man hovered over him. Loomed. Overshadowed Kyler’s face.

From his neck swung a large towing chain. Another resided in the palm of his left hand. He yanked on the chain and hurled it at Kyler. “I’m not giving up,” he said.

Kyler cocked his head to the side, trying to pop his neck. The slight crack turned into a knife strap underneath the overwhelming strength of the cold. He replied, “And why should you?” He kept his stare on the chained man in the snow. “Aren’t we all aiming for the same thing? Jack?”

Jack started off ahead of Kyler, ignoring his response. As he drew close, Kyler could see why Jack carried both chains. The one in his left hand ended attached to another man, someone even shorter than Kyler. Jack pulled his lifeless friend along with him and disappeared back into the weather.

Kyler remained stunned, while he followed Jack and company with his eyes. Once they vanished, he pursued. Onward.

An hour later—or what felt like an hour to him—Kyler found himself before a weather-beaten house. It stood two stories tall, a fallen house hidden by a month-long snowstorm. Blizzard felt like an understatement to Kyler.

He couldn’t recall the last time it wasn’t snowing out. It must have been when I left.

He dismissed his worries and strode toward the house, his calf muscles locked up; his quadriceps burning. He came within reach of the front door.

Stepping onto the concaving porch, he reached for the door handle and drew a deep breath. With a slight creak, the door opened only to become stuck in a snow pile that must have drifted in from the strong winds.

Squeezing between the small opening, Kyler meandered into the house and stared straight ahead at the first hallway.

Inside the home looked vacant. To the right of him was the living room, which possessed no mugs on an abandoned coffee table. No photographs remained attached to walls. A coat hanger slumped in the corner. A rodent-ripped couch lied at the center of the living room. From afar, Kyler noticed a few cracked china dishes above the sink…

… and a key.

His feet already knew what to do, and they led him along the hallway. No sooner than he entered the kitchen, Kyler heard the same clinking from earlier.

“Why are you here?” Jack roared. He ambled around the kitchen until he noticed the key by the china. Snatching it, Jack said, “Looking for th—”

Cutting himself off, Jack darted toward a splintering staircase and rushed to the basement of the house.

Kyler pursued.

He tried and tried, but his feet just couldn’t move fast enough. Kyler felt inadequate and defeated. The bastard’s gonna beat me to it.

“What the hell is it?” Kyler asked under his breath.

Down the rickety steps. Around the moldy wall. Kyler sprinted blindly, in pursuit of Jack. He needed to win the race, not Jack. I want it more.

Jack stopped.

Kyler froze, staring at him.

Hunching over, Jack ran his hand over a chest on at table at the far side of the basement. He searched for lock and forced the key into the small slot.

“No!” Kyler screamed. He dashed toward Jack and lowered his shoulders. Collarbone to ribs, Kyler pummeled his rival to the damp concrete floor.

“Get off!” Jack shouted back. He muscled his way up, and hurled Kyler a few feet in front of him.

Kyler hit the ground hard, like a cinder block smacking against a sidewalk. He could smell blood at the bridge of his nose. Starting from a small red dot, blood rippled outward and soaked his white snowcap.

“You shouldn’ta tried,” Jack said, throwing a fist at Kyler. Connecting with his jawbone.

Kyler rolled to the side. Dodged the second blow. Swung.

Despite the size difference, Kyler’s knucklebone wore at Jack’s jaw line too. He swaggered around.

Kyler seized the opportunity and tackled Jack, charging him toward the table with the chest. Jack’s back bent over the wood and the table toppled. Momentum tossed the chest to the floor.

Kyler hurried across the basement in fear of the prized being damaged. He pursued one last time.

Ripping open the top of the chest, Kyler glimpsed inside of the chest. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped ajar.

Hourly Rates Available - Jim Gedda

Fri, 10 Dec 2010 12:00:07 -0500

The carpet has that vomit green color that always looks dirty no matter how many times the underpaid maids feign vacuuming it. In the pressboard nightstand drawer there’s an ironic Holy Bible that hasn’t been thumbed through in five years’ worth of hourly room rentals. The springs creak and whine expectantly, like an old man getting out of his recliner. The orange glow of parking lot lights seeps through the window onto the wall, where two shadows merge like storm fronts. The woman in the hiked up skirt plays the same part she plays every night, an “Ooooh” here, a “Yeah” there, with all the life of a department store mannequin in her eyes. The man is too naïve and too lost in his own sin to critique her performance. As the bed trembles and knocks against the nightstand, a wedding ring rattles and rolls to the sickly green carpet.

His Very Own Moirae - David Nott

Thu, 09 Dec 2010 16:45:00 -0500

Eagerly, the clumsy but adept little boy clung to his childish glee. He walked through the halls of the Sisters of Destruction, only slightly aware of his surroundings. After all, he was but a boy and had no need of being circumspect.

Though it had scarce begun to approach midday, the child’s shadow was in the process of lengthening when the first of them, Lachesis, spoke to him.

“Poor child,” she murmured. “You are lost, you must be.” She continued in such a fashion, with the most nurturing of voices. “Let me care for you, I have much to give. So much to offer… you poor, poor child.”

Cautiously, but without hesitating, the boy replied. “Well, I must be honest, ma’am. I haven’t a clue where I am, or how I’ve arrived here. I just… sort of am.” He smiled sheepishly.

“Oh…” she began again with an endearing smile, “that is so rarely the case. But you… You are the epitome of innocence. Come, I shall enfold you in my embrace. There will be scant need for you you to worry in your lifetime. I have so much to give.”

The boy was no longer hesitant. His mother had taught him not to disregard such compassion. He would return it in full, he decided.

Lachesis’ size dwarfed the young one as she wrapped her long, slender arms around him. As her appendages were almost closed around him, the boy had a fleeting thought that the woman was floating.

***

Time stopped. The boy was unaware of all but one thing: the immense rapture coursing through his veins. Age and the flow of all things as he had once known them became alien. In Lachesis’ bosom, the child felt at home. He realized he WAS floating, and that it was the grandest of feelings. All manner of color flashed before his eyes in the most brilliant patterns, hunger was completely sated, and any physical pain he once could have identified disappeared entirely from his mind’s eye. Suddenly, the boy was shocked by a searing pain, and everything joyful he had just become accustomed to spiraled away. All that was left was a cold darkness.

***

The boy’s head smashed against the hard rock that was the floor of the Sisters’ hall. Every inch of him reeked with the most intense and unbearable agony, but his vision began to focus nonetheless.

“Foolish boy!” screeched the angry sister in the most uncouth manner. “Your purity disgusts me! It is true. Of the sisters, I am the giver, but you ask entirely too much! You must be destroyed!”

Any attempt by the boy to make sense of this statement was cut short by the now completely airborne wretch swooping down and halting only when her face was a scant inch away from his. She breathed putrid, moist heat in his face as her figure became as menacing as her voice. Her body shook as she cackled with malevolent delight.

“And now, you will perish,” spat the bitch.

“No,” stated the boy.

The hall was illuminated with a blinding light, and a deafening high pitched whistle blocked out any other sound.

***

The adolescent awoke and took in his surroundings. He vaguely remembered the hall he found himself sitting in. After looking around, the young one guessed it must be around ten in the morning, judging by the shadow reflecting off of his body. Odd, he mused to himself. There is no inlet for sunlight to cast a shadow. The hall remained eerily lit and dark at the same time.

Warily, the young man stood up, glancing around. The walls of brown stone kept him on guard. He took a look forward at the illuminated hall, then attempted to strain and see into the darkness behind him. Looking back gave him a chill. The adolescent walked forward.

The sights he encountered next were not in any way pleasant. Those who had come before him lay barely animated on the floor, leaned against the walls, and when they could, stood upon two feet. They made the most disheartened noises.

Many uttered things at the young man like, “Please, grant me your hand and carry me with you,” and, “Aid me young one, for I am lost.” They would then cough and resume moaning.

Frightened to no end, the adolescent hurried by them.

“Perhaps on the way back,” he would venture. “I really must hurry at the moment.” He shuffled onward, trying to leave the images he had just witnessed behind. While he was still dwelling on them, the next sister descended unexpectedly upon him.

“Young one,” she mused in a quiet, stoic voice, “you’ve arrived.” The young one hadn’t the faintest idea who she was, and was slightly disturbed that she expected him. However, he decided to play along.

“Yes, that I have,” he managed. His courage mustn’t fail him now, he thought.

“I know of your travels, your joys, and your pains. Your past is my fable.” The floating, woman-like creature, clad in all black, seemed wistful beyond compare. “I am Atropos. Come into my embrace, and you shall no longer worry.”

The adolescent was uncertain, and he betrayed this through his expression.

“Have no fear, young one,” Atropos offered reassuringly. “I will not take much, and you will have all that you need.” The young man took a first step forward, and then a second. “That’s right, young one. Enter my fold.”

As he slipped into the sister’s arms, everything faded to black.

***

Then there was nothingness. The adolescent floated blissfully through the blackness, feeling nothing but an elated sense of ignorance. He thought that he laughed quite a bit, but heard no noise issued forth and felt no heaving of his chest. “Just as well,” he contemplated. “I believe I could stay like this for eternity. I need nothing else, and nothing else is here.”

The blackness became a red hot fire, and the young man’s body screamed with the burn. Slowly, his sight returned, and he found himself again standing in the hall. Atropos floated above him, an outraged look replacing the stoic one on her dark face.

“Freak!” she screamed, her voice crackling. “You take from me and expect there shall be nothing else!” She heaved with every word. “I am Atropos, bringer of Death! I shall do the taking!”

The adolescent felt no more physical pain than before, but he felt a sledge hammer smash into his emotions. He fell to his knees and tears bit at his eyes. The pain as unbearable; his heart ached, his muscles pulsed with the affliction, and he knew true despair.

“Oh, God…” he mumbled, now close to unconsciousness. It was almost too much to bear.

Atropos chuckled. “Your god doesn’t exist.” This sentiment was murmured back several times throughout the hall from unknown voices. At this, the boy’s hope dissolved totally, and he began to slip away for good.

As he began to fall, he offered one arm up to the heavens. “Mother!” he choked. At that moment, the young man felt an incredible surge of strength and was pulled to he feet by an invisible and benevolent force. A blinding light again filled the hall, and Atropos’ tortured scream echoed.

***

He stood upright now, still in the hall. He felt weighted now by a heavy conscience, but contained the strength of a thousand bulls. He had always been a stubborn child.

With new-found resolve he continued down the hall. The memories of all previous events remained with him this time and drove him forward. And, as he did before meeting Atropos, he encountered many fallen souls reaching out for help. To those who wished it, he offered his hand. After some time, he reached the end of the hall, which opened into a gigantic vestibule, an army of former lost souls behind him.

The large, portal-like room was surrounded by many mirrors hanging on the walls. Behind each one was visible either a furious Lachesis or an enraged Atropos smashing furiously at the glass, but trapped behind it. Clothos, the final sister, descended.

The last of the sisters was physically much larger than the previous two, and incredibly intimidating, but he stood strong.

Clothos laughed maniacally. “I see you’ve brought your pathetic followers. You’re quite the master of deception.”

“All who come with me are here of their own accord,” he replied.

“I am sure,” came her response. “What you have done with my sisters proves your benevolence to me,” she scoffed. “But I am much stronger than they and will not fall. I am ready for your worst, demon. I control your threads and stand ready for your assault.”

To this, he smiled confidently, but sincerely. “I come not to destroy you. I will love you as you are.”

She faded away, and he found himself comfortably lying in bed, warm in his lover’s embrace. She may never know of his trials and tribulations, but he knows now, he is capable.

Adventures in a Midwest Purgatory, Part 1 - Michael Oellig

Thu, 09 Dec 2010 15:00:00 -0500

“Anything in the car I need to know about?”

One has to be delicate when informing an officer of the law that you’re carrying almost a quarter ounce of shrooms. Comedic timing and tone are both essential. Or, if you’re feeling like your social skills aren’t up to par, omitting that fact entirely is also an appealing option. What you might also choose to omit is the fact that you’re .BAC is .29, which is enough alcohol to put a 7th grader in a long, drawn-out coma. Fortunately for you, the police officer doesn’t suspect that anyone would be twelve Steel Reserves in at 2 P.M. on a Tuesday afternoon. Feel free to speculate about my priority list at this stage in my life. Spoiler alert: skewed.

“Anything in -your- car that -I- need to know about?” Which is something that no clear-minded human being with a functioning sense of self preservation would ever say to a police officer in a situation like this. However, the social realm of my brain operates on a sort of ‘response roulette’ system and what can I say? I’m a slave to it. Well, let’s just cross our fingers and hope like hell that T.J. Hooker here’s got a sense of humor.

“See, what you just did was write me an invitation to search your vehicle,” he said. “I really appreciate it.” Um, I’ll write you an invitation to eat me, bitch. Check that attitude at the door.

Dick. No sense of humor whatsoever. Well, we’ve got a couple of options here.

1. I distract the cop with a witty, slightly racist anecdote. While he’s reflecting on the lingering prejudices in our society, I pull out my Colt Single Action Peacemaker .45 and shoot him in the neck, reminding him where true authority lies. On the streets and down the barrel, son. I’ll then scream something spontaneous, inflammatory, and also incredibly cliche, which will be decided in the heat of the moment. Telling me where my heart is. The heat of the moment. Showed in your eyes. From there, I’ll speed off down the road, throwing some major bird action out the driver’s side window while ACDC’s ‘Highway To Hell’ blares in the background.

2. The alcohol coarsing through my veins will introduce itself to the officer in the form of a waterfall of vomit, which is sure to be infused with blood. This will be mistaken as a possession-related incident, and the cop will take off in fear, being a devout Catholic. He’ll say three Hail Mary’s and refrain from beating his wife for one night, so long as dinner’s on the table in time.

3. I will comply with the officer’s orders, getting out of my vehicle and obediently seating myself in the back of his cruiser while the cop finds out I’m homeless man drunk and then finds a Schedule I drug stored in an empty Sun Chips back in the passenger fucking seat. Wow, what’s wrong with me. Seriously? That’s not even remotely concealed. I may as well have hung them from my rearview mirror like fuzzy dice.

Well, since everyone knows vomit is gross and I’m built too frail and womanly for the big house, I’m left with only one option. Pop the fuzz and ride off into the sunset true High Noon style to assume a new identity and strive to use this experience as the basis for a complete change in lifestyle. Starring Viggo Mortensen.

“Right away, sir,” I responded, calmly leaving my vehicle and allowing myself to be escorted to the back seat of the cruiser, the flashing lights etching into my brain and guaranteeing themselves a starring role as the last thing I see before I fall asleep for the next four years. The officer slams the door, leaning forward and pointing at me. His full, handlebar mustache mocks my inability to grow anything other than pubic-like patches of facial hair.

“Better hope I don’t find anything. That’s all I’m gonna say,” he said ominously, apparently choosing the ‘be as big of a dick as possible’ approach to this particular traffic stop. I pay taxes to put beer on this cop’s table, and this is the sort of attitude I’ve got to deal with? Unbelievable. Next thing you know, he’s gonna try saying it’s not legal for me to piss out the passenger’s side window of a moving vehicle. While I’m driving it.

First off, I think it needs acknowledged how big of a bitch I am. The Malcolm X style alteration between my violent fantasy approach to this situation and the submissive real-life one was just absurd. I think I’ll chalk it up to the fact that I don’t actually have a weapon in my glove compartment, unless you consider an E.T. Atari cartridge or an inhaler physically threatening. If the former’s the case, go to New Mexico with a shovel and dig up the millions of unsold copies of E.T. for Atari from the landfill they were condemned to. Seriously. You could build a nuclear weapon. This single cartridge and the inhaler, however, represented a complete lack of the appropriate munitions level. The lack of sufficient weaponry was all that kept the bloodbath at bay. You like that? That’s a clear case of repressing a negative memory with a delusion to preserve dignity and self-respect. That takes most people years. I did it in twenty seconds.

I took myself to pleasant memories of childhood and care-free, innocent youth (until the discovery of masturbation and Olde English malt liquor) while the officer approached my car, hand delicately moving toward his piece as if he expected a half-crazed, drugged and bound Republican tied up in the trunk to leap out at him and try to gnaw his face off on pure instinctual drive. Well, maybe you should have pulled me over last week Tom Selleck, because I had a dream I pumped Glenn Beck full of sodium pentathol and threw him in my trunk, committed to a wild-eyed mission to force a confession of his closet homosexuality. And I convinced myself it really happened. A day late and a dollar short, prick. Not actually, I guess. Since it was imaginary. My dreams are ridiculously realistic, though. Like this one I had, where I controlled an army of the robot guards from THX-1138 and sent them to destroy every copy of “Dude, Where’s My Car?” in existence. I woke up, envisioning a world with one less film in which Sean William Scott makes out with another dude, only to be sorely disappointed soon thereafter. Fuck, where was I?

Oh, yes. I’m about to go to prison. How could I have forgotten? I really, really fucking hope that prison isn’t realistically depicted in ‘Oz’. Son of a bitch. Oh well, nothing to do but play Dig Dug on my phone and think of how to explain to my parents why I look so positive in my mug shot on the front page of tomorrow’s paper until the hammer drops.

Twenty minutes later, while I was trying to weigh the benefit/loss ratio of supergluing my ass to the wall once they threw me behind bars, the officer sauntered back to the cruiser, a disappointed look on his face. Lucky thing he showed up when he did, I almost had his car hot wired. Probably. Fuck you, were you sitting there ? No, I don’t think you were. So you save your judgment. Considering the fact that I wasn’t already in cuffs, with a mouth full of pepper spray and a nightstick up my ass on the pavement, I waited silently, bracing myself for the impending news.

“Back on the road, smartass. You’re lucky we don’t do things like we used to.” With that terrifying allusion to a free nation formerly teetering on the edge of a police state, he returned to the captain’s pod.

I mused on the situation that had just taken place as I walked back to my car. How the shit could he have possibly overlooked that infraction? And he searched my goddamn car for what, like twenty minutes? Read back, I think I put it there somewhere. If you looked at the Sun Chips bag, you could literally see the mushrooms in the widely-open, gaping maw. Not to mention the fact that my breath smells like David Hasselhoff’s dressing room. I was literally trying to hand that cop an ‘Officer Of The Month’ plaque for the most lucrative highway bust in the last quarter. That’s just shoddy police work and a complete ineptitude on the job, right there. Sure, I dodge an awkward phone call to my mom from jail, but I get to go to sleep every night knowing that if someone broke into my house, I’d have just as strong of a chance surviving if I tried to arm my sea monkeys with tiny dildos that I would have if I’d phoned the local police. Beautiful. As if the world wasn’t already a scary enough place, what with terror babies being born all over the country and Nickelback still recording albums.

I threw the car into drive and headed off into the sunset anyway, minus the violent conflict resolution. I lifted my hand up waist-level and shot the most self-esteem annihilating middle finger to the officer in recorded history (protected of course by multiple solid objects blocking his line of sight).

“Don’t you pull me over, bitch. I’ll stomp your nuts.”

Game, set, and match. Me: 1, Civil Decency: 0.