Oh, my devoted, long have I been torn from thee!
I have but to plead with ye to forgive my misdeed. I'd thought that, since I have no real new classes and have the same effing schedule as last semester, I'd pick this one up quickly. Then I remembered what made last semester so enchanting: three languages and another Satan-worshipping writing-intensive death course. However, the bliss of a three day weekend yawns before me, and yea, it is to be replete with sleeping and effing around.
This morning, however, I was confronted with perhaps the single most challenging moment of my time here in Bloomington: should I, or should I not, snuff the obnoxious woman who is shrieking like a raped mandrill in the liqueur-reeking confines of the Bloomington #1 Downtown bus? I got the distinct impression that, had I taken my jaunty satchel’s strap and garroted her, I'd have been acquitted purely based on the witness' testimony. Well, let me preface this story with the following disclaimer:
Domonic doesn't ride the Bloomington bus, nor any other means of public transportation, with hopes (high or not) of meeting the world's most sophisticated people. Fellow students, townies, raving homeless lunatics with decomposing undercarriages - we belong to a vast network of the gravid underbelly of public service users.
So, it was 10 AM and I had to be at Turkish class by 11:15. Seeing as how I am still possessed of two brain lobes as well as my brainstem, I take note that I would have had to very literally slaughter someone to get a parking spot anywhere near campus at that hour. So, I pick up the #1 Downtown a half-block from my door. Now: even though it's 10 AM at this point, I had not yet consumed a caffeinated fructose beverage, and as those who love me know, mornings and I are like Pakistan and India. We see each other all the time, but the loathing is intense. I get on the bus and a young woman and her friend are sitting, hidden, in the back of the bus; from OUTSIDE THE BUS, with the doors closed, I could hear her whinnying like a mare in heat. The bus driver shot me a look when I presented my Indiana Card as if to say "Come up from behind me and cut my throat; shuffle must I off this mortal coil." I have to give this young woman her dues: she smelled like a semi-pastoral water-buffalo herder with damp undergarments, and her conversation was the most inane, stultifyingly awful drivel I have ever been privy to. The following is an actual transcript of her conversation. By "actual" I mean "how could it not be real? It's seared into my skull for all eternity."
Obnoxious townie ghetto wannabe: Girl, no he di'ent! You playin'?
Quieter friend: I ain't playin'! That what he said!
OTGW: No he di'ent! He a foo'! *snap, snap, snap*
QF: I can' believe you been w'ih him!
OTGW: Oh, I know you not goin' there! He say he love me! Gave me new bras and all!
QF: Well, he is yo' baby daddy.
OTGW: That not what the test say! OK?! *laughs like a braying ass*
QF: You crazy!
OTGW: No, YOU crazy!
This goes on for fifteen minutes. I was long enough for me to go to the happy place and ride three pretty unicorns while eating Brooke's buckeyes (correction: peanut-butter balls) and drinking from the "Live Wire" Mountain Dew river. The man across from me--he, in a fedora and a trenchcoat and a healthy two-week stubble goin' on--cracked his knuckles menacingly. It was then that I noticed that he had the letters "L-O-V-E" tattooed on his knuckle bridge. I was suddenly siezed with the urge to take a fistful of cash and go get "L-I-F-E" seared onto one hand and "C-O-R-N" on the other; that way, when I am in my eagerly anticipated first bar brawl I can instill fear merely by brandishing my closed fists, as they will assume that I'd gotten inked in the clink. Well, that, and I will also be grasping the neck and jagged body of a beer bottle that I'd smashed dramatically on the bar moments before. [fantasy!]
As I disembarked from the bus, it was all I could do to not impale this young woman with my mental atlatl/spear. I figured, hey, there's no need to look back at her. Yet, of course I did; I couldn't resist looking at the splendiferous ruin that was her outfit and her extension-begrafted h'ar, as well as her jungle red Lee Press-On Nails. When I did, like Lot's wife, I was turned momentarily into an immovable pillar. Why, you ask? Because she winked at me.
Last night, as I attempted fitful slumber, I came to the realization that I was feeling incomplete somehow. Something was missing from my life, and without it I'd surely fly into insanity. A clarion bolt of inspiration struck me like a brakeless Ford Festiva: I need Judeo-Christian devotional statuary, and I need some now. The keening I felt was, no doubt, due to my psychic connection to my St. Anthony de Padua travel-buddy and his need for other playmates; he and the bronze Ganesh statues have been forbidden to play with each other following an unfortunate tusking. Damn his needs!
Since I was already awake and had nothing to do, I wrested the Ouija board from the gore-covered clown who's taken up residence under the big-boy bed and set to lighting some candles. As the swampy stench of a flooded cemetery rattled through my earthly goods borne on a frigid wind, I summoned "Earl", whose wife caught him au naturale with the neighbor's wife on their anniversary.
Dom: How many times did she stab you?
"Earl": T...h...e...c...o...r...o...n...e...r...s...a...i...d...t...h...a...t...I...l...o...o...k...e...d...
l...i...k...e....1...9...0...p...o...u...n...d...s...o...f...s...h...a...v...e...d...h...a...m.
Dom: I don't blame her, though I do wonder if the carpal tunnel was worth it for her.
"Earl": G...e...t...t...o...y...o...u...r...p...o...i...n...t...a...s...s.
Dom: What's that warm, fuzzy feeling I have in my chest?
"Earl": C...o...n...g...e...a...l...e...d...b...a...c...o...n...l...a...r...d...s...i....z...z..l...i...n...g.
Dom: No, that feeling like something's moving in there? Could it be? Do I have a heart?
"Earl": M...y...v...o...t...e...i...s...o...n...p...a...r...a...s...i...t...e...s.
Dom: Might the ice have broken? Could there be... love?
"Earl": W...h...o...d...l...o...v...e...y...o...u, ....y....o...u...m...u...t...a...n...t...?
Dom: [hurls board onto floor; gaily colored gloved hand snatches it back under the bed]
OK, the cluster is getting effing hot, and the gentleman sitting next to me has apparently been siring ilk with a musk-ox. Off to Ottoman doom!
Hats off to you, Bloomington.
Dom
6 comments:
You've mentioned that fantasy before, you can fulfil it in DC come springtime. If you just want to be the hero, I'll be the asshole friend who instigates fights and you have to save. I'd put another man at risk to please my friend... because hey... what are friends for!?
GC in DC
This is Brooke, the current chef behind the Peanut Butter Balls. (Previous chef: Grandma Hensley)
Listen up, people!
I address this note not only to Dom but also to those of you who contacted him to "correct" his calling my family's works of cullinary artistry "peanut butter balls" when in fact they, in your collective opinion, should be correctly called "buckeyes".
Y'all can sit n' spin on that, bitches!
There are two (2) reasons why the peanut butter balls are NOT called buckeyes.
REASON ONE:
The recipe/construction is different. Buckeyes are not 100% dipped in chocolate; the peanut-buttery center is stabbed with a toothpick and dipped in chocolate. This leaves them looking much like an actual buckeye nut. I'll have none of that crap. I use a specialized dipping tool that allows me to cover 100% of the candy with chocolate. Also, most buckeye makers just use any old goddamn chocolate they find in the grocery store and melt it with a small bit of parrafin in order to even the consistency. Not me, bitches! I buy premium dipping chocolate and make it just a wee bit smoother with a spoonful of oil. The only place in the state I can find this chocolate is at the Gourmet Station in Lafayette, Indiana. I buy them from the nice blue-eyed Muslim lady who gave me a free Hoosier state-shaped cookie cutter once and always is happy when I ask her if she had a nice Eid. Finally, I have yet to encounter a buckeye recipe utilizing the same proportions of ingredients (or even the same ingredients) for the peanut-buttery centers.
REASON TWO:
Buckeyes are from Ohio, and the state of Ohio blows big floppy donkey dick. I am not so prejudicial as to believe that every single Ohioan sucks; on the contrary, I have met a *few* nice Ohioans. (So, if one of you is reading this, don't kill me! I like YOU!) But mostly, the state just blows. Ohio is pretty sure it's the most badass state in the midwest. Let me give you an analogy here. "Ohio" is to "badass" as "Bush" is to "rhetorical genius". Its major cities give life to the urban crotchrot of the nation. Its football obsessives make blue-collar Irish soccer rioters look like 4-H contestants. And its cops give me way too many speeding tickets. (Special note: Brooke once had a warrant out for her arrest in the state of Ohio for non-payment of a speeding ticket! Come on now, Ohio. Haven't you got anything better to do?) Most of the state has also shoved itself all up in Ohio State University. Oh excuse me... THE Ohio State University. Cause y'all need a definitive article to feel good about yourselves. You suck, your marching band sucks, and you're surrounded by a really shitty city. And the mascot? Guess what! BUCKEYES!
So, as you can see, there is no way that I can suffer my family recipe being called "buckeyes". They are Peanut Butter Balls. I hope we are all clear on this now. Thank you for your time.
[Stepping down from soapbox]
Oh my...... we went from peanut butter ball recipes (not BUCKEYES!) to why Ohio sucks (as a result of the recipe).. does anyone know if these things are laced with drugs that make peoples minds wander so?
You two haven't been drinking that special tea again have you?
Dom bring me some of Brooke's peanut-butter balls when you come to visit your Uncle. Brooke I'll send Dom back with something from DC to thank you. I mean those things have to be damn good if you defend them so well. Plus, gourmet chocolate... and a blue-eyed muslim, I mean in Turkey don't they have those blue-eye good luck charms? Don't mess with Brooke's peanut-butter balls bitches or you will be cursed for life!
What happened?
Why can't peanut butter and chocolate just get along? Why's there hafta be feudin' n' fightin'?
[tear]
I agree Drew, after all these peanut butter balls are nothing more than overglorified penut butter cups
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