MC Skat Cat part2 or How I Learned to Love Myself.

I don't know if this is at all true, but the word "hobo toes" is a horrible knuckle tattoo. I wake in a dry haze. Damn, this weather. It is like standing in front of a hand dryer for hours. The only thing that grows here is methamphetamines. Man, these pills are strong. I know they are working because of the Barney purple light around everything. The only cure for this feeling is the hot tub. The hot tub is an awesome invention that only leads to relaxation and euphoric drunken times. And usually a boner. I could sit in this stew all day. So relaxed. My fellow comrades are enjoying the water as well. Then all hell broke loose. The screams and merriment of tanked up lesbians filled the air. Louder and more boisterous than Shriners on an out of town bender. The hot tub becomes a bug light for bi-sexual ladies. That is when it happens. My arm is swiped like a credit card through the butt cheeks of a sauced up lesbian in a hurry to dunk into the tub. That is when my Penthouse forum letter started. Dear Penthouse Letters, There I was surrounded by lesbians in a hot tub like the last steamy dumpling in a bowl of broth............Nothing happened, but those things are never real anyway. And that is when sleep got the better of me..........zzzzzz...

Mc Skat Cat part 1

It was at one time I considered myself the top of the pops. Ok, I still do. Hopped up on prescription painkillers, thanks to the gorilla that twisted me up in a full nelson. When I say gorilla, I mean gorilla. The big bastard, 275 and 6'6",was at one time ranked 5th in the heavyweight boxing ranks. How he got a hold of my dapper thin frame is another story. He twisted me up like a damn pretzel and I found myself no longer being able to look left. So I was hopped up on muscle relaxers and a mild sedative. Man, I feel awesome.. Burning through the desert night with the strangest pair of lesbian gypsies I have ever met. Both on the butch side of life (whatever floats your boat). Hiking boots and cargo pants. Earth tones and burr haircuts. No frill and lace in sight. The one talked incessantly about picnics and camping. The entire car ride. Picnics.....camping.....picnics. At least someone drove. I was in no shape. I slinked into the back seat, but the yammering continued.


What??!? I woke to find myself outside of the middle of nowhere. Holy bat-shit, what cursed place is this. It is like Carnies flock here to die slowly in the burnt orange hell. It smells like hot and Birkenstock out. Oh woww....... the pretty colors. Come back lucidity. Wake up man. Get it together. Ok, I stroll out the Pontiac in a polyester clad stooper. See sansabelt slacks have no need for a belt and they are perma-press. They always look sharp and nothing sticks to them. Wings, mustard, nothing. They come in a spectrum of colors. A horrible spectrum ranging from old man to obscene in color. I couldn't make out the sign and I really didn't give a rat's rear-end.... You know you are in for a good time when you are high fived by an 80-year old stripper after hitting the door. What is this place and ..........zzzzzzzz.... What??.... Ok, I'm back. Where was I? I think I saw sweater meat. I need bourbon, asap. ....to be continued
 
(c) Kerwin

A story, or it is 101 degrees in my mouth

A story, or it is 101 degrees in my mouth
There once was a chap, I forget his name. Maybe it was Hans or Rolf. Either way it was something very abrasive and unflattering., like white wool turtlenecks on overweight gentleman. His face had seen the years. It was fractured, tanned and blistered by the sun and wind.

Everyday at 4:30 AM his day began. The same cold cup of coffee. Half a slice of dry white toast. Flavor didn’t matter to him anymore. He was colorblind. Had been for over a decade, give or take a few. Being unable to see the color of the jam meant that the taste would be a surprise. He hated surprises. He also hated crosswords and sudoku. He just never understood the appeal. Numbers and letters were everywhere. Surrounding you like some advertising constrictor. The shit was very un-amusing even for a boring middle aged male.

He found that illustrated safety manuals were more to his liking. He enjoyed the pictures. The conclusion had been made he was opposed to the term “team lift“. He wasn’t on a team. Who would join a team that just lifts heavy items. He let his mind drift, coming up with other phrases to write on top of the white-out barely covering up the words “team lift”. He felt “laborious two man job, three if you have enough guys” was a bit less enthusiastic and truer to the sentiment of manual labor. Ok that seems ludicrous. “Really Heavy”. If you couldn’t figure out from that warning that you needed two people you are an idiot and deserve a hernia brace. He also enjoyed self help books on tape. At least someone in his day to day life would be positive.

He would finish his toast and walk to the closet full of coats and a beer sign. The beer sign reminded him of the old times. It brought back real memories. He was no longer able to keep it plugged in. Had a short in the cord and it always smelled like burning. He just left it in the closet. It was fine there. He reached in and grabbed his gray bib overalls and put them on. One leg at a time. He wasn’t a daredevil after all. To his surprise (which he deeply despised) the mustard stain had not come out in the wash. His detergent, like most things in life had lied.

Peddling his bike down the street, he notice the wind always seemed to be in his face. No matter which direction he traveled. Street sign after street sign, the journey was lacking the adventure he had read about in novels the night before. Novels and short stories of tribesman, large breasted women and bear attacks. He felt silly reading them, but loved the word adventure. He also loved the word “drab”. I t was part of his humble nature to swing back to middle when he recklessly veered off course. One building and structure after another. A gray skyline that brought no naturalists or painters to tell of its lack of life.
His work day consisted of doing things incorrectly and then blaming another department. This was actually an encouraged behavior. He took no joy in toil. He Didn’t want to seem boastful or superior to others who had a far worse situation. Some where forced to turn a dial repetitively until they heard a chime and then push a button starting the process over again. This position had no possibility of advancement. He someday dreams of being the head of the department blamed for errors.
At lunch he eats a small meal that fits into a tiny container. The meal contains mustard. The culprit he knew he would encounter again.

A full day is completed and back on the bike. Again the wind has switched to a direction that forces his progress to an almost standstill. Legs aching and no end sight.

Upon arrival he removes the stained garment putting a greater effort to remove the stain. Into the wash it goes. After completing his rituals to end the day, the alarm rings only to reveal the sad fact that he has missed a much anticipated “ Facts of Life” marathon on the retro TV station that will soon change formats and show reality programming, because vintage television didn’t have enough faux hawks and skinny jeans to sell to a youthful market.
The end
What do I know. I am sweating like a pack mule and my temp is around 101 degrees. I want to sleep. That isn't in the cards.