Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A brief lie.

I've never mentioned this to you fine folks, but I have the ability to turn sound into a concussive form of light energy. Call it what you will: super power, mutant ability, foible that makes trips to the bathroom a roller coast ride every single fucking time--I've simply accepted it as my cross to bear.

Bear. Now that's an interesting turn of phrase. I was walking through my little town the other day, and I happened across a dumpster behind one of Athens' finer eateries (Arby's), and saw what I thought was my Dad rooting through the contents of that restaurant's detritus.

"Dad!" I said. "Get out of the dumpster!"

He ignored me.

"Dad!" I called again, hoping that I wouldn't be heard over the drive-thru call box. The last thing I wanted was the Arby's Ninjas to come vaulting from who-knows-where, fighting me and my Dad with their daggers and throwing stars, and perhaps carving us up to use as Beef n' Cheddars.

But still, I got no response. My father is well known for his love of rooting around in dumpsters.

I walked over to the big green box, and pulled what I thought was my Dad by his short, stubby tail, wishing all that while that he'd learn once and for all to put on a damn pair of pants when he's going to town. I wanted only to get his attention. Mom has lots and lots of fine foods for him to eat, few of which will give him intestinal parasites. I yanked the short stubby tail, to get him to quit rattling the foundations of our growing family by eating out of restaurant dumpsters.

I guess my skills as a storyteller fail me, because I'm guessing you've figured at this point that it wasn't my Dad digging around in the trashbin behind Arby's, and it wasn't my Dad whose tail I pulled to roust him from his revelry in a half-eaten Big Montana.

Nor was it actor Anthony Anderson, whom I've likewise stopped from scavenging through dumpsters around my town and had to fight on two separate occasions. It is a little known fact that Anthony Anderson holds the first and only Doctorate in Dumpster Diving. (I am awaiting the rubber match in our series, sir. I wait patiently at the landfill).

No, it was bear.

A bear, eating out of the dumpster behind Arby's.

A big, black, bear with sharp teeth, a bad attitude, and breath that smelled like two pieces of shit had fought to the death, and he'd eaten them both.

I've never fought a bear. The opening scenes to the third volume of Stephen King's Dark Tower series have put me ready for that sort of thing, or so I thought. I pulled my six-shooter from my side, and started to aim for his radar dish.

And I realized: this bear has no radar dish twirling on his head..

I wish there were more to tell.

No radar dish? Plan A thrown asunder, I found myself lacking a Plan B.

So, I crapped in my pants. Audibly.

I didn't mention that bit about my ability to turn sound into a concussive light blast just for shits and giggles, though this story involves both.

The sound of my crapping in my pants was loud enough to create a light blast, which managed to blast the bear into hamburger.

It did not make for good sandwiches. This, I am sorry to report.

I have no good way to close this narrative, except to apologize to the family of that bear, whom it turns out was actually Mike Ditka.

3 Comments:

Blogger gooseneck said...

Reading for the sake of reading. Loved it!

10:06 PM  
Blogger Elisson said...

I am disappointed.

Disappointed that I cannot write stories like this as well as you do.

Oh, well. At least I have something to aspire to.

10:55 PM  
Blogger Life Thru The Lens said...

Oh Carlos, not at the Arby's!
So that's the reason why the Soul Food Wagon was turned over last week? And the gas line leak at the Taco Bell? And whole motels are shut down?

11:55 PM  

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