Also, I will shortly be pimping my brand new community, LJ Haiku Idol, in various places... might as well get started here. No, it's not a joke. The syllabically constrained excitement begins in just a few weeks. Think you're, uh, writer enough to write on given topics in all haiku, all the time? Well, have a look, and then sign up for some serious 5-7-5 smackdown.
|~Last week, on srs_bidness:~|
"I'm the one who knows how to run a fucking campaign, and I'm sick and tired of you fucking it up for yourself... for both of us."
[Syrius looks forebodingly into the distance as a dollycam rotates around him in slow motion]
"Listen, Rev... I don't think I'll be needing your services this week."
[The Rev slams down telephone headset, picks up and throws entire phone set through office window]
"I don't know, Beaky McGee... now I'm losing every last bit of hope I had."
"Puh-too-weet. Puh-too... puh-too-weet?"
[steamy teaser scene of Syrius making sweet love to an ecstatic Beaky McGee; waist-up only]
"The whole thing's been a bit... meta so far, hasn't it?"
[head-on crash between two small Chinese mopeds at speeds exceeding 15mph; massive fiery explosion shown from multiple angles]
"Zommm-BEH, zommm-beeEHH, -beeEH, -beeeeEH, motherfucker!"
[Syrius tied to chair with gun pointed at his head; an eye-catching figure donning an extremely expensive power suit barely visible at edge of frame; conspicuous tattoo on gun-wielding hand reads WASILLA4LIFE]
"Mr. Bidness, I know this may come as a great surprise, but you...
[dramatic shot of a slackjawed Syrius with cell phone in hand]
"...you are a father."
[orchestral climax; fade to black; roll credits]
Looking in the bag, I saw only a double cheeseburger.
I glared at him. He blankly stared back.
"Kid... is this your idea of a joke?"
"...Sir? This is what you ordered."
"No, son, I ordered a #3 combo meal. Now, I've had thrice as many sex partners as you've had birthdays, and one thing I can tell you is that in the fast food industry, things described as 'combo meals' come with fries and a drink. I don't know how you missed that little detail as part of your being-an-American-in-the-21st-century training video. Maybe you had that My Chemical Romance record turned up a bit too loud on your iPhone at that time."
"Sir?" He was beginning to sniffle. "This is what I rung you up for."
I thrust the receipt in his face. "This is what you rang me up for. Do you see where it says COMBO MEAL?"
"...Yes." He was trembling. I proceeded to grab his shoulders and turn him round toward the menu above him.
"Now, my son, do you see, quite clearly on that menu, where it says COMBO MEALS INCLUDE FRIES AND 16 OZ DRINK? Say 'yes,' or I will force you to stand here facing the menu until you do see it. I don't care if we have to call in an optometrist and/or your kindergarten teacher first."
"Now, please do not misunderstand me, Junior. This isn't really my style. I'm not some fucked-up police-academy dropout who now spends his days taking out his insecurities and lifelong sexual inadequacies on unsuspecting fast food employees. However, I paid for fries and a drink. So it's very, very simple: You are going to give me said fries and said drink, right fucking now, or I am going to speak to your manager, and when I finish five minutes from now, you will no longer have a job. Do you comprehend?"
Thirty seconds later, after I'd watched him carefully to make sure he didn't piss into the fry box, he handed both fries and drink over to me with the tearful quickness. "You didn't have to go and bring MCR into it, asshole."
"Whatever. ...OK, sorry about all that. Hard to find good help these days. Now, what were you saying?"
As I walked away from the counter, the disembodied voice in my Bluetooth earpiece cleared its throat in perceptibly annoyed fashion. "Couldn't that have, like, waited?"
"Not really, man. I was hungry. Listen, I'm sorry, I haven't got all day; this burger's getting cold already. So, now, what were you saying?"
"Mr. Bidness, I was saying that you are a father."
"Right... genuinely shocking news, that. So tell me, who's the baby mama?"
"...And the mother of the child," continued the voice, "is someone in this room."
"Let's be clear, my mysterious, unnamed friend with mysterious, unnamed motivations. Now, since you are on the phone, I know you can't see the lobby of this mysterious, unnamed fast food joint I'm dining in. So, now, when you talk about 'someone in this room', are you talking about whatever room you happen to be sitting in, which I also can't see?"
"No. Of course that is not the room to which I refer."
"I see. So, rather than an actual, physical room, you are really referring-- in an oh-so-clever turn of literary device-- to the nice open space that I ended up with when I apparently decided that ye olde Narrative House needed some changes, called in some of the cheapest fly-by-night contractors operating in my neighborhood, and then had the fourth wall immediately knocked out?"
"Yes, Mr. Bidness. That very room."
"Right. The 'room' that not just you or I, but 'we' are all 'sitting' in. Oh... hold on a second, friend, I've got to retrieve my eyes. They've just rolled back so far that they seem to be stuck to the back of my skull."
Looking back, it was actually a pretty happy time in my life. At barest minimum, she was a pretty good lay, whenever the dynamic permitted. And, y'know, I've certainly dated crazier.
She was a sweet girl, mostly. Supportive, frequently complimentary, all that, although I never really knew for sure how sincere she was about any of it.
Sure, most days, our conversations were a bit empty... noticeably forced. And she had a hard time knowing when to shut up. Not that this is a problem that affects me at all, of course.
When I first met her, I thought, "Oh, there is no way in hell this is going to fly." I know she probably thought the same about me. My cynicism, then as now, could power all of rural Indiana if properly harnessed; not one of my most attractive traits, but it appeals to certain women. She was not one of these women. And actually, I'm pretty sure she either didn't get most of my jokes, or she just outright ignored them most of the time.
Meanwhile, she was frequently obnoxiously bubbly and puddle-deep, always strangely lecturing me on one topic or another in an oddly forced fashion, unforgivably punctuating our more casual conversations with "LOL"s, and-- worst of all-- denoting imaginary actions through the use of bookending asterisks. Now, I'm not a guy who would ever hit a woman, but those asterisks sure could make me want to punch her in the face.
We probably should have listened to our early instincts about how this could never work. The inevitable was obvious as sin from our first few dates. You know how it is, though. One too many White Russians, and the next thing you know, the biological imperative has taken precedent. And, whaddayaknow, the physical chemistry was just good enough to make us both put our concerns aside for a while.
Our pillow talk was still totally insufferable, though.
"Wow. That was unreal, Syrius."
"Yeah, I know, babe. I can't believe how good we are together when we make love... how right you feel to me."
"I'm going to warn you, Syrius, our next topic of conversation may cause great discomfort for those who have suffered PTSD relating to childhood lactose intolerance."
"OK, um, well, I've got no problem with milk..."
"Well, it was very hard for me to talk about this trauma of mine. Talking about it certainly brought up a lot of issues for me. But I'm glad I had the chance. Thanks for listening, Syrius. This has been my Week Six entry on ghosts."
"Lindsey, what in the hell are you talking about?"
But despite having these sorts of conversations on a weekly basis, along with a never-ending stream of retarded surveys she was asking me to fill out and "cross-post," whatever the fuck that meant... well, I still found myself inexplicably fond of the girl, and became increasingly attached to her. Unfortunately, as time went on, that growing fondness did not seem to be mutual.
"Syrius, *crosses arms*, I'm never sure about you. Sometimes I think all your ribbing is just because you love me, and your teasing is just part of that love. Other times... I don't know, other times I worry that you might actually hate me deep down. *hangs head, refuses to vote for you, runs away*."
"Ugh, those asterisks... whyyyyy, I oughtta... ugh, never mind. Listen to me, Lindsey Jane. I know we have our differences sometimes. I know we're very different people. And sometimes, I won't lie, sometimes I wish you would just shut the hell up, or at least that we could have natural, unforced, 'topic'-free conversations like normal human beings. But I assure you, I really do care about you, I do. I don't hate you. I only want what's best for you. I am here for you. The more time I spend with you, the more I think... well, I know it probably sounds totally cheesy, but... I think I was meant for you. I was meant to own you... to rule you."
"Rule me, Syrius? Are you kidding me?"
"No, I think you've got it wrong, I just mean, you know... just that I was meant to win you. Take care of you. Show you how it's done. Be your hero... your, uh, idol."
"Syrius, just who the hell do you think you are, coming into my life, telling me 'how it's done', acting like I'm some kind of conquest, telling me that I need an 'idol'? Listen, I was just fine before you came along, asshole, and I'll be just fine after you."
"After me? Lindsey Jane, no, please don't even talk about that, please. I'm sorry. I need you. I need your touch. I think... I think I love you."
"Oh, Syrius, just shut up. You never loved me," she screamed. "You just wanted a good lay, and to kill some time. I can see it so clearly now. You never cared about me, you never understood me at all, Syrius. You never understood me at all. *sobs, throws vase*."
"Uh, *ducks*? Christ. Look, Lindsey, you ought to give me more credit than that. I understand you perfectly well. In fact, I understand you so well that I know that you're just trying to come up with some kind of rant for the 'Week Eight topic' you've been on about, whatever the fuck that is. That's how well I know you. But you're hurting me with this 'topic' right now, Linds.
"...And besides, this entry has already contained one obnoxiously forced rant, see it up there, that totally pointless thing with the fast food employee, the utter nonsense that started this whole false flashback? We're good to go for your 'topic' this week. Please, stop it now, Linds. Don't use me like this. Don't let me go... not like this, please."
"Oh, so now you think I'm just ranting at you to fulfill an entry on a topic? Well, you might be right, Syrius Bidness, but you've sure got a lot to learn about being the idol of Lindsey Jane. *slams door*."
She slammed the door.
So in a matter of weeks, it all collapsed. Until then, I thought we had been working so well together. But I had already noticed that she was calling less and less... and then, of course, at this point she suddenly stopped calling altogether. Whenever I tried to call her instead, there was never an answer; she was obviously screening her
Although I know I loved her, I soon got over the loss. Not the first romantic setback I've experienced; you get older, these things are easier to keep in perspective. We were hardly soulmates, after all.
But now, to learn that she was the mother of my child... it brought up a lot of feelings.
Just to warn you, dear reader, this might have been a sensitive entry for those of you who have been dumped by a ridiculously extended metaphor in the past, only to learn of your even more ridiculously extended metaphorical paternity. Please don't read any of the preceding paragraphs if you're concerned about that.
Well, gee, I guess this has been my Week Eight entry on the "topic" of personal rants. Thanks for listening, and always remember: cut along the "railroad tracks," not across.
Now I says to the voice currently embodied in my Bluetooth face-growth: "I guess there's only one thing for it. I've got to go find her. I've got to help her raise our child."
"Oh, don't bother, Mr. Bidness."
"What? What do you mean?"
"She is... she is dead, Mr. Bidness."
"No! It can't be!"
"Yes, a most tragic tale, I'm afraid. As the Internet's Fourth Reich-- comprised of 4chan, Myspace and Facebook-- encroached upon her dominion, she decided not to fight off the inevitable. Instead, she took an approach of steadfast denial of her now almost total irrelevance. She and her remaining followers then moved into a houseboat and set themselves adrift in the west Pacific, where they could live out the rest of their days putting described actions in asterisks and writing unreadable HP fanfic. Then a Russian submarine that had been sent to finish the job-- the warship SUP!, I believe-- let loose with a single massive and rather pointlessly expensive blast of torpedoes, and... well, the rest is history."
"What happened to our child?"
"Thankfully, the child was given up for adoption before she ever left these shores. It's got to be several years old by now. I mean, your beloved 'Lindsey Jane' has been basically dead as a doornail since at least 2006, far as I'm concerned, so there you go."
"In that case, I've got to go find my child, friend. It won't be next week... but it'll be sometime soon. Maybe. It's, like, important, probably. ...Yeah."
"Well, Mr. Bidness, that sure sounds like a totally satisfying conclusion to me."
"Yes, friend... it certainly does."
"And what a damned fine conclusion it was, too."
"Well, pal, they don't call me a professional for nothing."
"I'll say. Color me impressed with your absolutely fucking amazing conclusion."
"Nothing but the best for LJ Idol, no, sir."
"Well, Mr. Bidness, best of luck, and don't be a stranger, now."
"Sure thing. Ciao."
The burger was delicious.
Things in this "competition" can change very quickly, as most recently shown by the highly surprising departure this week of my one-time formidable opponent and recent rap-battle foe. In the event that my time in LJ Idol should ever come to an abrupt end, as does seem at least somewhat likely at some point before the end of the affair, be advised that anyone who may actually / foolishly give a shit may return to my journal on the Friday of the following week for uhhh "closure" of the uhhhhhh "story arc," and a few interesting subsequent revelations.