#he got that Jerry Seinfeld look and I just want to sit on his face | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seinfeldsimp · 2 years

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a series of orchestral events - the beginning

jerry seinfeld x reader

warning: some suggestive stuff, not the best writing but at this point idc. i’m having fun

as we go, the series will have an out-of-order timeline, but the same ‘you’ will be there. formatted like pulp fiction, in a way!

“george!”

the short man you hoped was your brother turned around. oh good, you thought, it is him! “oh my god, it’s been forever!” you practically swallowed his body in your arms, hugging him tightly.

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, his annoyed tone contrasting from the tight hug he returned.

a couple of seconds passed, and he was the first to break away. “okay, c’mon,” he said excitedly. “let’s drop off your bags, and i already told jerry we’d meet him as soon as your flight landed.”

“awe, c’mon,” you whined, “i can’t even rest for a second? that plane ride felt like an eternity.”

“oh, you’ll have two months to lay around and do whatever, you’ll live,” george said, punching you in the arm. before you could argue again, he took your bags from the ground and sped to the exit of the airport. “c’mon, i’ve been in a 30-minute parking space for almost an hour.”

“holy crap, george, that’s your sister?!”

you smirked. “i got the good genes,” you teased, “but george gets to live in the best city ever! i have to stay at home, at least until i finish school.” kicking off your shoes, you plopped yourself on the couch in the apartment. “i did not wear the right shoes for traveling. my legs are killing me.”

“yeah, who cares about you and your long legs, you spider…” george mumbled, talking to himself after a few more insults.

jerry walked around george, patting him on the back before sitting next to you. leaning back, you closed your eyes.

you didn’t really want to look at him that closely, not yet at least. the university you went to rarely ever played good entertainment—especially for being in the fine arts college—but on occasion you’d walk home after night practice and catch the johnny carson show playing late at night in the lobby of your building. a very handsome gentleman in a sport coat with jeans caught your attention immediately; more or less for the atrocious outfit, but he was actually quite funny. the bits he had in his stand-up had your face hurting from holding in your laughter. his smile, his huge eyes, you really fell head over heels. you knew nothing would come of it; he was literally a celebrity, probably untouchable.

then, he said his name. jerry seinfeld?

doesn’t george know someone named jerry seinfeld? no way would this be the same guy…but it’s the same name, i’m positive.

yeah..it’s the same guy. and i’m in his apartment. jesus christ.

seeing jerry there, and knowing george was friends with him…the very fact made your heart ache terribly, and you didn’t know what to think.

“did you fall asleep?”

your eyes opened. “no, i just got lost in my thoughts, sorry…” you turned your head, showing a slight cringe to your face. “the travel’s made me a little weary. did you say something?”

jerry had his head resting on his hand that was propped up on the back of the couch.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“i just turned 22.”

“what are you in school for?”

“music. i’m on my summer break right now, but i have one more year before i graduate.”

a scoff resounded. “music? i didn’t know that was possible. what do you play?”

“i play piano,” you said, leaning your head back and closing your eyes once again.

“can’t you just play in the department stores for experience, or something?”

you internally rolled your eyes, and before you could defend yourself, jerry kept talking. “i mean no offense, but isn’t that just a big waste of money and time?”

“i take that with full offense,” you said, scrunching your nose. jerry laughed as a sigh escaped your lips. not that you were surprised by such a reaction, especially from someone with his personality. “i love it too much not to study it. i want to be in a symphony too. have you heard of carnegie hall? do you even know what a symphony is?” you opened your eyes and looked at him, your last couple of questions dripping with sarcasm. “put any piece of music in front of me, and i can play it in seconds. i promise you.” you wiggled your fingers and smiled. “i have good fingers, if you know what i mean.”

another scoff left jerry’s lips. “well, looks like it wasn’t a total waste. we’ll have to put that to the test at some point, won’t we?”

holy shit. sleep deprived me is like drunk me, and i’m just saying shit!! at least he’s into it, i think.

i’m gonna be so embarrassed when i wake up tomorrow.

george almost spit his coke out. “don’t hit on my sister, jerry! you don’t see me hitting on your mother, do you?”

“well no, because she’s my mother—“

“and she’s my sister!” he gestured to you with both hands.

“talk about a buzzkill,” you muttered, pointing a thumb toward your brother.

“don’t even think about it, daddy long legs.”

jerry rolled his eyes and stood back up, taking his empty dish with him while you laughed lightly. this cannot actually be happening in real life. a buzz suddenly filled the room for a second, and you turned your head to see jerry speaking into an intercom next to his door.

“elaine?”

“yeah!”

“she’s gonna get a kick out of you,” jerry spoke to you. “you and george coming from the same mother and father…she’ll be stunned.”

“sometimes, i think i’m adopted,” you said.

“that’s one thing we have in common,” you heard george mutter. sitting up in your spot you turned your head toward him; he was sitting on the table behind you.

“what?”

“we both think you’re adopted.”

“verrry funny, costanza,” you replied.

the woman from the intercom arrived at jerry’s apartment, and to your surprise, you instantly felt jealous.

despite these strong feelings, you couldn’t focus on them for too long. jerry said your name and you stood up from the couch, reaching your hand out for the woman to shake.

“hi, i’m elaine,” she said, “so…you’re george’s sister?”

“yep!” you replied. “blood related and everything. somehow.”

elaine scoffed. “no way..!” she let go of your hand and pushed you back, to your surprise. “his sister?! howcome he never mentioned—“

“shut up,” george mumbled.

“no, it’s fine,” you laughed, “we’re both so busy i’m not surprised he didn’t say anything before. i’ve barely mentioned him to my friends at school.”

“oh, you go to school?” elaine asked. “what do you study?”

“she’s a pianist,” jerry said from the kitchen, faux posh tone seeping through. “one with the orchestral people.”

“hey,” she laughed, “maybe you know the maestro.”

“the maestro? has he conducted anywhere big? is he.. based here…?” your words fell on deaf ears; you saw them all start to giggle.

jerry patted your shoulder, “no no, he’s just a guy who takes his job a little too seriously.”

“his name is bob cobb, but he’s a conductor for a community orchestra here, and likes to be called ‘maestro’ at all times,” elaine said.

a cringe followed with the statement. “god, that’s so embarrassing,” you laughed. “that’d be like if i forced everyone to call me the pianist. bleh.”

as the laughter died down, you turned to george. “speaking of which, george, as much as i’ve enjoyed meeting your friends—i’d like to go to your apartment and check out the keyboard you bought.”

“ooh, we’ll have to go to george’s sometime and hear you play a song!”

elaine exclaimed. “wouldn’t that be something, our own personal concert!”

“yeah, maybe!” you replied. your sleep depravity was hitting you harder than you thought. “george, can we please go to your apartment now? are you ready to hit the road yet again?”

with an annoyed yes, you both said your goodbyes to his friends and proceeded to leave the apartment back to george’s car.

if that was one evening of chaotic conversation, what the hell was the rest of your break going to look like?

#seinfeld #jerry seinfeld x reader #seinfeld x reader #jerry seinfeld #elaine benes #george costanza #x reader fic

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lovelyamneris · 3 years

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George + Jerry, “The art of not being an idiot is extremely challenging for me.”

I've been hoarding this ask in my inbox for God knows how long I'm so sorry anon. Then I wrote like three quarters of it and posted about that and was immediately hit with writer's block. Here's my attempt at trying to write more seinfeld content for you <3

[Ao3 Link] [Full Series]

It’s early on a Saturday and Monk’s diner bustles with its usual crowd of regulars. George and Jerry are sitting across from each other in a booth by the window; George with a strawberry pastry and hot coffee and Jerry working on his third consecutive double espresso.

Sun pours in and blankets their table with warm early morning light. It’s intimate; in the way that drinking coffee every day with your oldest friend is intimate once it's a routine.

“So do you think that’s funny?” Jerry is asking, doting over a notebook of incomprehensible scribbles, “Are people allowed to laugh at that sort of thing these days or would it be considered a mood killer?”

Jerry is pretty sure that the audience wouldn’t throw tomatoes at him like he’s in a bad Shakespearian play, but stranger things have happened.

George half shrugs, “I don’t know. How would I know?”

“Well, I assumed as a fellow human being you’d have an opinion.”

“Comedy is subjective.” George says waving him off, “Just improvise or something.”

“Surprisingly harder than you think.”

The last time Jerry tried to improvise on stage the only person in the audience laughing was Elaine. And technically she was laughing more at his expense than she was at the joke. Cue the metaphorical tomato throwing. Jerry stares at his notepad and pouts. Why is it so difficult to figure out if his joke is funny or not? Kramer laughed, but perhaps that’s a bad sign.

A moment passes and when he looks back up from his notepad George is about five shades paler. Jerry recognizes the look immediately. It’s the ghostly expression of a man doomed to come face to face with the consequences of his own actions. Never a good sign for George.

“What’s wrong?” Jerry asks. Despite the courtesy of asking the question, he doesn’t seem too concerned by George’s sudden change in demeanor. He’s used to George’s sudden waves of panic. It’s like his default.

“Does that look like Lindsay to you?” George’s voice cracks.

“Psycho sadist Lindsay?” Jerry looks around the diner theatrically, “The one who thinks you got wacked by the mob? Where?”

“In our booth by the door.”

From where they’re sitting, Jerry can only see the side of her head, but it’s definitely Lindsay. She seems a lot happier than he remembers. Back when she was with George, she always had the face of someone who’s just accidently bitten into a lemon. Kramer even called her lemon face once, which was an awful moment for everyone involved.

“That’s her alright.” Jerry confirms, “What do you think she’s doing here?”

“I have absolutely no idea!” George shrinks down in the booth to hide from her, “She knows I get the diner in the breakup. It’s part of our pre-breakup agreement!”

“Ah, the pre-breakup agreement. The prenup of the dating world.” Jerry nods understandingly, “While I’d usually agree with you on that, I think faking your own death gives her a loophole.”

“I died while we were together!” George counters, whisper yelling. He looks awfully frazzled and generally insane, “She’s basically my widow. How does she think you feel having to see my widow at your favorite diner? It’s outrageous!”

Jerry considers this. Ever since the infamous incident with the fancy plates, he’s instinctively crossed to the other side of the street when he’s seen her in public. He’s not sure he’d be able to hold it together if she asked him about his best friend and said best friend’s terrible fate at the hands of the mob. Cracking a grin would probably not be an acceptable response.

And George is technically right. If he was actually dead, Jerry wouldn’t want to see Lindsay at the diner. It would undoubtedly cause a chain of events starting with him thinking about George and moping around about it (Jerry’s not sure he’s capable of moping, but he’s too afraid to find out) and ending with him being all sad and ruining his comedy routine. How are you supposed to be funny when you’re busy thinking about your dead friend?

Jerry relents, “Well, I can’t argue with that logic.”

“What do I do?” George panics, shrinking further down in the booth, “She’s going to kill me, Jerry!”

“I think you’re overreacting. So what if psycho Lindsay sees you? It’s the nineties. Is a dead man not allowed to have a strawberry pastry without persecution?”

George deflates, “You’re not taking this seriously. Lindsay is going to kill me and you’re making your little jokes about it. Great. Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, it’s not like you didn’t bring this on yourself. Even Elaine said she knew this would come back to haunt you eventually. It’s about time you face the music.”

George doesn’t think that sounds appealing at all. He’s gone his whole life avoiding the music. Why should he face it now! In fact, only people who have given up in life subject themselves to the music. If you’re still alive and breathing then it’s your God given right to avoid the music.

“How does Elaine know about the fancy plates?”

“Kramer told her.”

“How did Kramer know?!”

“I told Kramer.”

And of course. Of course, everyone in filled in and up to date on George’s suffering. He shoots Jerry a scathing look and Jerry returns it with a lopsided teasing grin.

Jerry glances down at his empty cup of espresso and frowns. The whole lemon faced Lindsay debacle has distracted him from what’s most important. Caffeine. He’s sure that the waitress is avoiding him because George is causing a scene. Or maybe Jerry is being cut off like he’s a drunk at a bar. Are they allowed to cut you off from caffeine? Is there an unspoken caffeine limit that only waitresses and baristas know about? He decides to investigate further.

Just as he's about to signal for the waitress, Jerry makes eye contact with Lindsay. Her face drops and suddenly she has that lemon faced expression about her again. Uh oh. Lindsay says something to her friend and gets up from her seat, making her way across the diner and towards them.

Jerry gives an enthusiastic wave, the type of wave that you’d give an old friend you’re seeing for the first time in a while. After all, Lindsay was always friendly to him. And she was one of George's most humor-inclined girlfriends! Maybe she'd be able to tell him if the joke was funny or not.

George stares at him in horror, “What? What’s happening?”

“Buck up, buddy, looks like she’s coming over.”

George makes a face like he’s been hit by a bus, but he defeatedly slides back up in his seat. Suddenly Lindsay is beside their booth, arms crossed.

“So, I’m guessing this is a Weekend at Bernie’s situation?” She asks. Jerry appreciates her humor. She seems pretty chill for someone who just found out that her boyfriend has risen from the dead.

“Good guess.” Jerry says conversationally, “Actually, George was getting too cramped in his coffin. He doesn’t do well in small spaces and decided to call the whole death thing off. Good idea if you ask me, the whole funeral thing is always a bit too theatric in my opinion. Like we get it. You're dead. Move on."

“Real classy.” Lindsay shoots back, but Jerry can tell that she liked the joke, “By the way George, I knew it wasn’t real when I called your parents to offer my condolences and your dad laughed at me. Anything to say about that?”

George shrugs, the gig is up as they say, “Admittedly, the art of not being an idiot is extremely challenging for me.”

Lindsay rolls her eyes, "You know what, I don't care." She heads back over to her friend and doesn't look back.

“Huh. She took that pretty well.” Jerry says when Lindsay is out of ear shot, “The way you talk about her I assumed her reaction would’ve been far more deranged.”

“Trust me,” George says seriously, “If you weren’t here she would’ve unhinged her jaw and swallowed me whole like a snake.”

“Too bad. I would’ve liked to see that.”

Finally, the waitress comes back over and Jerry orders another espresso. He considers his joke again.

“Should I ask Lindsay if she thinks the joke’s funny?” Jerry asks seriously. Lindsay is still sitting across the diner with her friend, “I need a woman’s perspective.”

George shrugs, “Jerry, I’m telling you right now, just improvise. Or do the lifeguard bit again. It’s your best.”

#seinfeld #seinfeld fanfic #prompt requests #ao3 tag

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vmheadquarters · 5 years

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We’re going to play a game of written hot potato! Dozens of your favorite authors will take turns telling this story. Each writer will craft a chapter (with no prior planning) and then “toss” the story to the next person to continue the tale. No one knows what will happen, so expect the unexpected! Follow the “vmhq presents” and “murder we wrote” tags for all the installments, or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Chapter Six of MURDER, WE WROTE is written by @carla545 a/k/a Aurora2020. And stayed tuned next week for Ch.7 from @annbslade -tag, you’re it! ———————————————————————————————————– CHAPTER SIX by @carla545 a/k/a Aurora2020

“Veronica!” Logan shouted in response to her piercing shriek. Forgetting about the sounds in the hallway, he dropped the bottles of rum in his hands and ran out onto the balcony. Everything seemed like it was moving in slow motion. Even his heart felt like it stopped beating. No, no, no...we just got back together! This can’t be happening, Logan thought, as his chest constricted and he found it hard to breathe.

Logan reached the balcony, and looking over, saw that Veronica was lying deadly still on a snowy mound. Oh my god, not again.

“Veronica! VERONICA! Wake up!” The only saving grace, he noticed, was that their rooms were on the second floor, on the side of the house with a steep, sloping hill. The drop wasn’t as high as he had originally imagined. But she wasn’t moving and hadn’t woken up.

Wallace heard his shouts and was now out on his balcony, gasping at the sight below. “Oh no…”

“Logan! Hey! HEY! Let’s go! Let’s go get her,” Wallace shouted at him. It snapped Logan out of his panicked, fugue-like state as he stared at her in disbelief, a mix of trying to process what had happened and the sheer horror of seeing Veronica lying motionless in the snow.

Together they ran down the hall banging on doors to wake people up in warning. When they got to Veronica, she was still but breathing and seemed physically unhurt.

“Veronica, hey, Veronica. Wake up, Sugarpuss, wake up,” Logan encouraged.

As he brushed the snow and hair off her face, she started to stir and moan. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, baby open your eyes. Look at me. That’s it. Yeah, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” he said as he looked at Wallace, their faces clearly showing their shared relief.

“Wh-what happened? Wh-why are we outside? I’m freezing...” Veronica groaned, her face grimacing. “Ow! My head hurts” she whined, as she started to sit up with Logan and Wallace’s help.

“Shhh, I got you, don’t move” said Logan, as he lifted her up and began carrying her back toward the house. Logan and Wallace exchanged another silent look at the precarious situation they found themselves in. What the hell is going on here? he thought to himself.

At this point, all the noise they’d made had gotten everyone out of bed, and those with balconies were huddled outside watching them, obviously concerned. No one said a word. The only sound heard was the crunch of steps in the freshly fallen snow of the dark, silent night.

God, this is a nightmare, Carrie thought, as she watched what was happening below in disbelief, her hand covering her mouth. The one person who could actually get us out of this mess was just attacked? With the intent to kill her? Fuck. We are doomed. Once the somber trio disappeared from view, Carrie filed downstairs with the rest of the partygoers.

Logan brought Veronica into the living room and sat her on the sofa near the fire to help warm her up while still keeping a protective arm around her. He could feel her trembling despite being in the warm room. Casey handed him a blanket to wrap around her. Everyone slowly gathered downstairs, eerily quiet, watching to see if Veronica was indeed okay. Whatever animosity had been percolating all day seemed to fall by the wayside, as the sobering thought of one of their own being attacked sunk in.

“What happened? Are you okay, Veronica?” Gia carefully asked. Ok, so Veronica wasn’t her favorite person, but she didn’t want anything bad to happen to her either. And, truth be told, Veronica is our best shot out of here.

“I, I don’t know…” she mumbled as she rubbed the back of her head. “I stepped out onto the balcony to just admire the snow and the view...and then I felt someone push me over the railing and then nothing...until Logan and Wallace were calling my name hovering over me.”

“Dude, did you do this? A pre-emptive strike? Smart. Kill the Black Widow before she gets YOU,” Dick said to Logan, nodding his head looking pleased. “Glad you’re wising up, man. This chick is bad news.”

“Dick, would you just SHUT UP?!” shouted Wallace and Logan simultaneously.

“I swear, one more word out of your mouth and I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, Dick!” Logan sneered through clenched teeth. Dick retreated, miming a zipper over his mouth as he stepped back.

“Dude, where’ve you been? We haven’t seen you in hours. What the hell?” Casey whispered to Dick, pulling him away from the group huddled around the sofa.

“Excuse me, helicopter mom, I had to go to el baño and didn’t think I needed to announce it to everyone,” Dick muttered in a huff. “And then, I…kinda got lost. Nice to know I was missed.”

Rolling his eyes, Casey just shook his head.

“Uh, yeah, where were you, Logan? Weren’t you in her room with her?? What were you doing?” Luke loudly and suspiciously accused Logan. Everyone started looking around whispering, considering.

“Whoa! Come on...don’t be ridiculous...I didn’t do this! I wouldn’t hurt her! I love her! I was getting us a nightcap from the mini-bar. One minute she was talking to me and the next thing I heard was her shrieking as she went over the railing. I didn’t see anyone, but she and I were the only ones in the room,” Logan said as he looked up at everyone. “Who got to her? And how? Did anyone see or hear anything unusual?”

“You mean besides a scream as someone fell out a window?” Carrie deadpanned.

“Yeah...besides that,” Logan snapped.

At this point, Veronica was warming up and becoming more alert. She quickly surveyed the room and all the guests were indeed standing around her. Where were Norris and Jen, though? And now Dick is suddenly back?

“I’m glad you’re okay, Veronica,” said Duncan quietly. Everyone else murmured in agreement.

“One thing I do know,” Veronica said, “It was a man who pushed me. I could feel his hands lift me. They were ‘man-hands’.”

“Ha! Man-hands! Hahaha. Just like on Seinfeld! Could be a chick with man-hands, you know, just like Jerry dated,” Dick chuckled, nodding.

Everyone turned to glare at him, but he had a point...it very well could have been a woman. With man-hands.

Veronica looked to Logan and Wallace and said, “We need to go look in my room for any clues, evidence, anything that could help explain how there was someone in that room with us. They had to be hiding in there...right?” she wondered, her mind ruminating as she tried to remember details.

“Or someone was already outside on the balcony, or came onto your balcony once you were out there, crazy and Spiderman-like as that sounds,” Wallace stated, thinking out loud with a blank stare on his face.

“You two are the only ones I trust,” whispered Veronica looking at Logan and Wallace. “Can you go upstairs and check the room out?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Logan stated, his arms still holding her protectively. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“I’ll go,” Wallace said. “Casey take a walk with me, man. I don’t think any of us should be wandering around on our own.” Tall, handsome rich white dude with him probably didn’t lessen his visibility as the token black guy, aka most-likely-to-be-taken-out-next in this fiasco they found themselves in, but he pushed that thought aside. At least he knew Casey from playing basketball and trusted him.

It was getting late and everyone was looking weary. The alcohol buzz had worn off and the group was visibly shaken. Nothing about this day had been fun. Someone was here trying to do them harm. This wasn’t a joke. It was clearly the sobering thought running through everyone’s mind.

“Listen guys, you need to get some rest. Go back to your rooms, but pair up. No one should be alone. Someone needs to be watching your back at all times. Shit is getting real now. Check out your rooms, look under beds, in closets. Lock your windows and doors. Be vigilant so we can all get through the night, ALIVE. Is everyone okay with that?” Logan asked looking around at his former classmates. The thought that one of them could be the killer also weighed on his mind.

Everyone agreed and started to pair up and head upstairs, leaving Logan and Veronica on their own. Collectively, they all seemed to be on the same page, finally. Stay alive till we’re off this damn island.

“Are you okay? Tell me the truth,” Logan asked Veronica when they were alone. He still had his arms around her giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, I’m okay now. My head still hurts and I think I got the wind knocked out of me from the fall. But yeah, I’m okay. Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said, smiling shyly up at him and giving him a sweet, lingering kiss.

“Always,” he replied with a quick peck on her nose. “I was so scared that I lost you. God...I can’t believe the crap that keeps happening to us. It’s like Neptune cursed us. Have curse, will travel, bringing doom wherever we go. Ugh. I can’t wait to get off this island.” He squeezed her tighter and asked, “What are you thinking happened? Are you starting to remember anything else?”

“Actually, yes. Little things. Just before I was pushed over, I remember...like a woosh of air behind me, and then a very distinct scent or cologne, I don’t know. I knew it wasn’t you from the smell. It was so different from your scent. But everything happened so fast. I couldn’t turn around quickly enough to see anything, but I felt something or someone and smelled something. I think I screamed and then everything went black. I don’t remember anything else. It just happened so fast...” Veronica said, frowning, the wheels turning in her head as she tried to puzzle this out.

“Do you think someone could have jumped down from another balcony? Or climbed over an adjacent one to get to you? I think you were right earlier, this has something to do with me and you. And I have no idea why,” Logan said, his brows knitted, staring off, trying to figure out what this all meant.

As they sat, lost in thought, still cuddled up on the sofa near the fireplace, Veronica’s stomach growled like an actual gremlin was in there. Logan raised his eyebrows and smirked.

Veronica sheepishly shrugged and said, “Is it really such a shock that I’m hungry? You know my appetite on a good day. Now with all the detecting and dodging death attempts, my calorie burn is much higher. Hence, I’m running on empty.”

Logan chuckled at what she was saying.

“Do you think there’s any food in the kitchen? Ice cream maybe…?” she inquired with a big cheesy smile on her face.

“Let’s go look,” said Logan as he smiled and helped her up. “We need to keep you in tip-top shape, babe. You are our best chance of getting us all out of here alive. And I’m here to protect you.” Logan jokingly said this, but they both knew he was completely serious. And for once, Veronica wasn’t complaining or dissuading it; she actually liked having him look out for her, and honestly, has missed it. A warm feeling spread throughout her body, that feeling of being safe and loved, and this time she wasn’t afraid of it. Not anymore.

As they walked into the kitchen hand in hand, they didn’t notice someone quietly closing the door on the opposite end of the room. They didn’t realize it in the moment, but they were not alone. They never were. She was always watching. Always.

#veronica mars #veronica mars fanfic #vm fanfic #vmhq presents #murder we wrote #round robin

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bludstains-blog1 · 5 years

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❝ you punched me in the face , you made me walk through 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁𝘁𝘆 water , brought me to a FUCKING CRACKHOUSE ( ! ) . . . and now , i’m gonna have to kill this fucking clown . ❞

𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊 . dossier .

full name: richard james tozier.

nicknames:

primarily known as richie.

rich.

trashmouth.

bowers’ gang’s slew of derogatory nicknames.

‘chee.

age: twenty - one.

date of birth: march seventh.

place of birth: derry, maine.

nationality: american.

occupation:

college student.

bartender.

regular on the local college’s radio station.

sexual & romantic orientation: he’s gay, totally gay !

gender identity: cisgender male, using he/him pronouns.

hogwarts house: ravenclaw.

𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔 . biographical .

richard james tozier, known affectionaly as richie or trashmouth, is the only son of wentworth and maggie tozier, and for the most part they’re a relatively unassuming family. wentworth is a dentist whose attitude towards his own son’s dental care is simultaneously strict and lax, and maggie makes a life out of spoiling the fuckshit out of her boys but she loves it. there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the little family they’ve built ; established in their routines, in their practices, the toziers are nothing to write home about.

richie’s a handful, admittedly. diagnosed with adhd when he turns four, he’s hyperactive, loud, histrionic, a sarcastic little smartass before he knows what any of those things are. he keeps himself entertained with comic books, drinking in their bright colours and their intricate storylines and develops an infinite love for their careworn pages and their impossible tales. they keep him grounded, strange as it is — - when all goes to shit, as it inevitably will, he’ll thumb through an old copy of uncanny x-men and the world doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. when he gets his first pair of glasses, thick - rimmed plastic frames and lenses more like coke bottles than actual lenses, he spends two hours spiraling deep into the familiar world of his comics. when he gets tripped up the first time, when he gets called fuckface or four - eyes or worse, he swallows back the lump in his throat and legs it home for his comics. when he’s reading, he’s not so hyperactive — - he still frantically jiggles one leg, but he’s quiet, introspective — - the silence is rare but comforting.

his sense of humour is sharp as anything, practised daily on his poor mother and father. he’s developed a slew of Voices, little impressions that differ only in tone and intention, but wentworth and maggie encourage him to keep working, keep building on them. his wit gets him into trouble at school, and numerous teachers have written in reports that richie’s got a bit of a reputation for being a class clown. ( humour is a desperate attempt to grab out, to latch onto a friend because really, he’s so fucking lonely it hurts and he just wants someone to laugh at him and entertain his endless bullshit and be there. )

shouldn’t have wished so hard for friends, because they come along in the form of the losers’ club. richie moreso stumbles across them than anything — - knew bill denbrough because they lived on the same block, found him fuckin’ round in the barrens with some other kids and hey, it’s like they’d been best friends forever. there’s bill, big bill, stuttering bill, de facto leader and richie’s unspoken idol. there’s stan, preternaturally neat and it’s like he came out of the womb like that, already a coherent amalgamation of smiles in his voice and rolled eyes. there’s mike, with his killawatt smile and good intentions and comforting voice that sets ease into richie’s perpetually rattled bones. ben, whose creativity and quiet reassurance is something richie pines after desperately. beverly, the only girl, cigarette-scented voice of rhyme and reason and rationality. then there’s eddie, and richie swallows up anything he can say about eddie before the words come out.

it’s painful, realising you’re in love with your best friend. it starts early, a quick glance here and there that lingers, a breath that catches in your throat when you see him smile. you try and push the feelings down, swallow them whole before they can infect every part of you but darling, it’s never that easy. by the time summer arrives, you are in far too deep. you never really recover from your pre - adolescent tango with love, and it develops into an adolescent waltz with it, and — - you get the picture.

what’s worse is knowing that you’re not the same as the others. you don’t look at beverly like bill and ben do, and you hate yourself for it. you wish you could find joy in the sweet smile of the girl that sits in front of you in english, but you find yourself drawn to the boy who snorts behind his hand at your mistimed joke. you hate the way it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. you hate yourself, but you won’t speak that into existence / choke on the jokes that burn like acid, swallow down the insults you hurl at yourself when you think no one is watching. trash the trashmouth --- - first one to hit the trashmouth where it hurts is the trashmouth himself.

summer brings — - well, it’s been years now and richie’s still lost for words that fit what that summer really was. it starts with a few kids going missing, ending up dead and then it’s george denbrough, little georgie, one arm chewed off and yellow slicker tainted sticky red and then the whole world seems to fall apart. bill’s a madman on a mission, and richie follows — - follows when it means getting taunted by a demon clown alien thing, when it means fucking fighting said demon alien clown thing, snapping eddie’s broken arm back into some kind of place whilst bated breaths are held back in case it hears. they beat it, and richie’s still not sure how but he knows that for six months after, he can’t look at a clown without digging bitten fingernails into calloused flesh of a palm. a year later, he still jumps at too - loud noises. two years later, he starts seeing a therapist because his parents have noticed he can’t sleep in the dark anymore.

he remembers the entirety of that summer in vivid clarity. he wishes he could forget.

high school, college applications, they all become a blur. the losers spend most nights together, endless double features, piling into cars, growing up and together and apart until the first one of them leaves, and it feels like taking a fucking bullet. slowly, they all scatter to the wind, memories firm but never forgotten and richie’s planning california, hot summers and comedy shows but he ends up in castle rock, only a stone’s throw away from derry.

he studies political science, because he’s got a weird aptitude for it. he finds comfort in arguing about trotskyism and writing essays about the fall of the third reich at 4 am in the morning, buzzing on caffeine and glued to the crackle of the tiny little television he bought with the majority of the money he saved for textbooks. he barely attends lectures, and manages to ace his classes because despite everything, he’s brilliant ( and no i won’t let this point go ). despite a well - earned reputation for clownery, he’s always been a brilliant kid and he never chose to go to school, so he never bothered applying himself. he chooses college, therefore he works and it shows.

the nightmares persist well after he thinks he’s over the events of that summer. he wakes up in a cold sweat, throat sore from screaming and clutching ripped sheets, and he can’t chase the nightmares away because they’re too real, they’re out there and he can’t stand that knowledge. he can’t deal with it, so he drinks instead. there’s a few jack daniels bottles stashed under his bed, and he won’t let anyone know about those or how painfully dependent he gets on the hot burn of whiskey down the back of his throat when the nightmares are bad and he’s sticking to threadbare sheets.

and yet, despite everything, he does his best not to change --- same sense of humour, all bark and no bite, tinged with a wide grin and sleep - tousled bedhead. despite everything, he’s still the same old richie, still loudmouthed and too quick for his own good and too much fun to be around.

anyways i love richie tozier a lot thank you for coming to my ted talk

𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 . fun facts .

he currently has a radio show on the college radio station, played in the early hours of the morning. it keeps him up and keeps his nightmares away, for the most part. his Voices have been getting gradually better, and he’s been considering doing a segment on his radio show using them.

his entire room that he rents in a sharehouse is covered in film and music posters, not in frames yet bc he’s not that kind of adult yet. he fucking loves star wars, and he thinks empire strikes back is the coolest fucking thing he’s ever seen. he’s an avid pop culture junkie, swallows it all up and ingests it until he’s glowing with it all.

he works as a bartender to make ends meet, amongst other things. he hasn’t been fired for drinking bourbon from the bottle yet, so that’s good for him.

he bought his first car when he was about seventeen, and he loves the damn thing even though it’s pretty much worthy of nothing but the local trash heap.

dresses like a fucking idiot but has that ever changed

slowly he’s thinking about veering out into comedy n i support it for him. ur not jerry seinfeld but try ur best sweetie

a girl blew him a kiss in high school and he pretended like he got shot and ‘ died ’ in mike’s arms. end scene

#（ 🍒 ） : 𝔦. ╱ you filthy fucking goblin woman!

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jack-katz · 5 years

Text

closing nights and early flights

The last day of a run was always the longest, slowest, and grayest in Jack’s eyes. He knew that wonderful things were waiting for him just the next morning, on the other end of a long flight, but it didn’t make the day exciting. It was just further proof that this chapter, this show, was coming to an end. Everything he’d poured his heart and soul and blood and sweat into for months was going to end with a swift closing of the curtains.

He’d no longer be Jamie Wellerstein. He’d no longer get up every night and make an audience giggle as he sang to his Shiksa goddess or mutter disapprovingly as he unwound himself from yet another woman that wasn’t his wife. He’d never again bow to an audience with stinging tears in his eyes after he begged for his wife to accept their marriage was over. Just twenty-eight, the savior of writing.

All day, every day, for a whole week, he’d be just Jack. Unmarried, uncommitted, and unremarkable. Just twenty-eight, the savior of nothing.

When he got to the theater, Eloise was buzzing and the director was grumbling. Eloise had a job lined up starting the next week, the director definitely didn’t. Worse, Eloise’s next gig was as a director. Jack steered clear and drank tea in his changing room, chair facing away from the mirror as he flipped mindlessly through magazines and newspaper and scrolled through social media. It took several warning knocks and calls at his door for him to finally leave in time for the show.

Eloise’s scene was first, and for a split second before Jack was to go on, he was suddenly terrified he’d forgotten all the words to every song. Every line was out of his head, there was nothing but blank space between his ears. What was worse - to forget lines on opening night or closing night? Was closing night only significant to the actors and crew? Did it even matter that much to everyone else, like it mattered to him? Were they not all amputating a limb they felt they’d just finished painfully growing out?

The music started, he was on stage nearly a moment too late -

“I’m breaking my mother’s heart!”

It all came back as quickly as it’d gone from his mind, and the rollicking number that had more movement than any other scene in the play was off. Pillows and blankets flew through the air, furniture was nothing more than a point to jump and leap off of, and Eloise took every bit of inspiration from a rag doll as she was surprised with every turn, twirl, and dip she was directed through.

The scenes changed so rapidly there was barely time for Jack to dash off to quick change and get back before Eloise was out singing again. It was a breathtaking, heart-pounding ten seconds as he did all he could to prepare to be kicked back out into the public.

Normally, with the way the lights adjusted and where he had to run stage left, he might catch sight of the few people sitting in the front row right before the often covered set of stairs that led up to the stage. Normally, they were no more than a blur of colors and flashes off jewelry. Normally.

But there’d never quite been all that much that was normal about Natasha, not to Jack.

He saw her ankle tattoo as he dipped backstage, and he knew immediately that it was her, but he couldn’t waste a single second thinking about her. The show must go on, and he had a betrayed wife who was seven seconds away from a slew of compliments turned accusations. All he could do, as Eloise sang and as Natasha sat there, was listen. Never once was he supposed to look near stage left, and never once did he. The tattoo was enough to send him on the verge of spiraling on his final night in Jamie’s shoes. If he saw her face he’d be a torn up version of himself at the bottom of the spiral, a heap on the stage.

Stage right this time, to change into a sport coat that’s not so bougie looking. Deep breath, and -

“Did I just hear an alarm start ringing, did I hear sirens go flying past...”

All smiles and bright eyes, and nothing shy of it until he was back in the fancy suit jacket and milling about with other woman at a party he was in attendance with his wife. He was far enough back on the stage that there was no chance of seeing Natasha, not until it was time to come back out with the air of the world’s greatest festive story-teller.

“Schmuel would work ‘til half past ten at his tailor shop in Klimovich...”

The scene was always the hottest, physically. He was wearing a heavy winter sweater along with a hat and a scarf to use as props throughout the piece. Thankfully, the choreography called for it all to be removed multiple times throughout, but it never stopped the sweat from forming at Jack’s hairline and cupid’s bow. There was always someone waiting with a few tissues so he could quickly blot away the sweat before tearing off the excess clothes.

The upbeat tune that played from around the curtain didn’t quite beat within his chest the way his own songs had. Jamie’s time for dancing and joking around was done, which meant so was Jack’s. There were serious times ahead for Jamie. A hand in marriage to ask for, a heart in marriage to break.

“No that one’s Jerry Seinfeld, that one’s John Lennon there...”

A quick tie change and then the music was a faster tempo yet again, but there was no more time for bright eyes. Just wandering eyes. Restrained wandering eyes. It did cross Jack’s mind to let his own eyes wander back to the tattoo, but not tonight. Not on closing night.

“Everyone tells you that the minute you get married, every other woman in the world suddenly finds you attractive...”

Exit stage left, right when Natasha was adjusting how she sat. The lighting was dim, but not so dim he couldn’t see the tattoo again and then her hands as they smoothed out her dress. Jack hadn’t rushed off-stage but he was out of breath. He couldn’t really catch his breath again until several lines into the next song.

“There are people, and they are publishing my book, and there’s a party that they are throwing...”

Jack tore the tie off the second he was out of sight, tore the button-up shirt off to reveal the t-shirt that’d been hiding underneath all along. He wanted to tear that off, too, tear everything off. Get it together. It was Cathy’s turn to be happy and bubbly and uptempo. He just had to go along for the ride, until he was driven right off stage again and pulled on a pajama top. What a rich prick character Jamie was, having special flannel tops just to sleep in.

“Hey kid, good morning, you look like an angel...”

It was too vital of a song for Jack to allow himself one glance near Natasha. He could feel himself starting to unravel, bit by bit, just behind his ribs. As his heart ribboned into his stomach, his brain suddenly felt like a busy telephone connection board. Everything was blinking, everything was on fire, everything was shredding, and he hadn’t even seen her face yet.

“Perfectly balanced, and then I start making, the conscious, deliberate mistakes...”

Last time he saw her face she’d been dressed up like a ladybug, they’d been broken up for two years, she was with someone else, and he got blackout drunk. What had she been up to since then?

“All that I ask for is one little corner, one private room at the back of my heart, tell her I found one, she sends out battalions to claim it and blow it apart; I grip, and she grips, and faster we’re sliding, sliding and spilling and what can I do?”

It wasn’t a song to sing almost on autopilot, but he’d done it and barely realized until nearly the end. Exit stage left. He didn’t try to not glance up, and he didn’t even try to make it subtle. It was closing night, who cared?

He saw her face, saw her smile, and was suddenly so numb all over he barely noticed the poking and prodding of people changing out his shirt. There was the cue to get back onstage, a cue maybe he should’ve missed, but something more instinctual took over. It was closing night, and he cared.

Jamie Wellerstein still had more to say before the curtain could go down.

“All I could do was love you, and let you go...

No matter how I tried, all I could do was love you, God, I loved you so...

So we could fight, or we cold wait, or I could go...”

The world was suddenly small, made up of no more than a little, darkened cylinder as Jack exchanged his last lines with Eloise for the foreseeable future.

“Good-bye, Cathy...

Gooooooooood-byyyyyyyeeeeee!”

There seemed to be no air in the increasingly small cylinder as Jamie Wellerstein and Jack Katz parted ways.

“Good-bye...”

The dreariness and sluggishness of the day before was instantly gone. It was suddenly all moving too fast, too loud, too bright. Everyone was hugging and kissing, making plans for a final afterparty Jack wasn’t even sure he could make. An early flight had never deterred him before, but he was using it as an excuse instead of explaining why the final night felt infinitely more draining than it should’ve. It wasn’t until he was cleaning out his changing room that he had a few moments of peace, and it was of course Eloise who interrupted it by throwing some flowers at him and demanding to know why she’d heard he wouldn’t be at the party.

“Early flight,” he explained as briefly as possible and tossed his phone into his backpack. He didn’t even want to listen to music on the way home.

“Bullshit,” Eloise snapped instantly, but she was grinning ear to ear. “You just want to go hang out with your giiiirlfriend. I went out to grab a snack before the show and saw her walking in. First of all, I’m pissed you didn’t tell me you were back together. Second-”

“I’m not seeing anyone and I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Jack let out a tired sigh before swinging his backpack over his shoulders. “Can I please leave?”

Eloise narrowed her eyes and looked entirely unconvinced of anything, but she still stepped aside. As Jack walked by, he caught a whiff of vodka and assumed people started drinking instantly after the performance ended. He was tired and for once glad he hadn’t taken part in any drinking or else he might’ve fallen asleep on the train home. Some more people tried to encourage him to go to the party before he found his way out of the building, but he just kept giving his same excuse and returning any words or praise or gratitude from the cast and crew.

It might’ve been easier and quicker to take an Uber, but Jack wanted a little bit of time in fresh air, or as fresh as a city’s air ever was. He was nearly at the station when he saw the ankle tattoo again, sticking out as she crossed one leg over the other and leaned against a building while another woman she was with smoked outside a pub. Jack vaguely remembered the woman from a couple parties with Natasha’s old university friends. The friend was dressed head to toe in designer clothes, clearly the kind of person who wouldn’t think twice about buying front row tickets.

There were a few options before him and Jack wasn’t sure what to follow: cross the street, walk by and say nothing, or walk by and say a quick hello? The fourth option occurred, wherein Natasha’s friend spotted Jack walking and immediately drew Natasha’s attention to him. When she turned to look at him, Jack immediately felt numb again and forced himself to take a few deep breaths as he got closer so he might appear to be breathing normally once he was closer. The first two things he noticed were a new scar on the back of her wrist and that she was still wearing the same perfume.

“Hey...” he muttered, sounding more awkward now than he ever had when he was twelve and trying to talk to girls. He didn’t look directly at Natasha, instead nodding toward the other woman. “You two were at the show, right? Enjoy it?”

“Yes, just the two of us, it was lovely,” the woman said matter-of-factly before putting out her cigarette. “I’m heading inside to get some drinks. Leave you two to catch up.”

Jack went to speak but he had absolutely nothing to say, and he was forced after a few seconds to finally look at Natasha. She was still leaning against the building but had shifted her stance so she was squarely facing Jack.

“So...the show was just lovely?” It was the only thing he could manage to say that wouldn’t send him into a panic attack after the words came out. Do you still think of me?, was a bit heavy-handed.

Natasha cracked a small smile and nodded. “It was great. She just prefers, uh...flashier musicals. It really was great.” She pushed off the building and started speaking a little faster. “I’m not just saying that. I actually had no idea you were in it. She was supposed to go with her sister, but things fell through and she asked me and I didn’t even look it up or anything. It was just a coincidence.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to think that I’d be talented enough for someone to want to see a show after finding out I’m in it.”

“That’s not what I-”

“I know, I know.” He couldn’t help himself from smiling a little as he watched the unease and anxiety that had just blossomed up quickly dissipate from Natasha’s face. “How’ve you been?”

“Um...busy. But not as busy. We were able to hire a couple more people to help out with administrative and operations and stuff, so that’s really helped the workload. Still, you know, busy. How about you?”

She was twisting her hands together as she spoke and Jack felt his fingers twitch slightly, wanting to reach out to and pull her hands apart to hold them in his. “Uh, well, it was closing night so I’m all done with that. Starting in like a week and a half on filming for an HBO thing. Uncovered, that’s what it’s called. And I’m flying out to Peru tomorrow for a trip.”

Natasha squinted slightly as she nodded and smiled a little. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, so super casual and not busy at all, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Jack hooked his thumbs around his backpack, smile growing just a little bit bigger as he watched her hands relax and fall to her sides. He gestured in the direction he’d been coming from. “Pretty early flight, so I have to get going...”

“Oh, of course!” She started making sweeping motions with her hands as if to hurry him off. “I’m sorry we kept you. Enjoy your trip! Bring a water bottle and sunscreen!”

Jack nodded and started off, cheeks flushed and warm though the rest of his body felt like it was covered in goose bumps. The savage internal unraveling before had turned into something gentler, a light, tickling trickle from his heart to his belly. When he got to the corner he paused, suddenly entirely uncertain if he’d packed any sunscreen at all or had a clean water bottle for the trip. It wasn’t like he had time when he got home to go through everything he’d packed in a rush that morning or do a bunch of dishes.

He lifted his toes and twisted to and fro on his heels a few times before slapping his toes back down and turning suddenly. He took long strides to get back to the pub quickly without breaking into a run, and got there just in time to find Natasha and her friend just inside the doorway. He swung it open to find two startled pairs of eyes staring at him.

“Do you want to come?” Jack asked, a bit more out of breath than he should’ve been from a brisk walk. Could it possibly be nerves? Without a doubt.

“To the train?” Natasha inquired, clearly puzzled and still frozen in a position with her drink half to her mouth.

“No. To Peru.”

#th:self #self-para #para #th:eloise #th:natasha #closing nights and early flights

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pleaseburnthisblogafterreading · 7 years

Text

EPIC RAP BATTLES OF VILLAINOUS

(this is literally the worst thing i’ve ever written, but it’s so funny and heck, i love @infiniteslug / @brokevillainous that I could NOT pass up writing another story for them. So... yeah. Introducing the story, Epic Rap Battles of Villainous. Enjoy, my VIBs)

Broke Hat was quite upset at what Demencia had made him do.

Of course, he wasn’t surprised by the fact that Demencia had run away in the middle of the night to go and join one of… ugh, Party Hat’s raves. She was exactly the kind of demographic that they would invite: a young, attractive woman just looking for some fun. Ew, even the thought of those words disgusted him, and a dark grimace fell over his face. He would’ve loved to end the party with a little surprise, but this stupid inhibitor that Flug insisted he wear at all times kept him from fulfilling his dreams of stopping the parties once and for all. And besides, Flug would most likely frown upon it, anyway. Stupid mortal, and his stupid morality and ethics.

“One person. At least,” he had asked, even though he shouldn’t have been pleading with someone as insignificant as… Well, not insignificant anymore, he supposed. It was right in the name, significant other. However, he was still the superior, still the dominant, still Black Hat!

“No. I already told you once, and I won’t tell you again. You cannot murder anyone tonight,” Flug had said, grabbing a windbreaker that he had bought from the local Goodwill with some of the extra tips he had received. It was even in the style of a bomber jacket, which to be honest, Flug thought was amazing. Anything having to do with airplanes and flight was always a plus side, and it even had little patches on it. Demencia had made fun of him for loving it so much, but he couldn’t care less. It was a small comfort in this unforgiving world, and he wasn’t going to give it up just because some people didn’t appreciate it as much as he did. However, what he could care less about, though shouldn’t, was still staring at him with a grimace, Broke Hat’s version of puppy dog eyes. Flug sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Look, we have to keep a low profile,” he continued, grabbing an extra paper bag and some goggles to conceal his identity from the rest of the world. Broke Hat scoffed at that, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow, jutting out a hip. “And you’re going to keep a low profile with a paper bag on your head and goggles? Ha, don’t make me laugh.” he said, pulling off a rather sassy pose for an eldritch abomination that took over the world twice and only gave it back because he was bored.

Flug opened his mouth to argue, before hesitating. He was a scientist. He had not one, not two, but four Ph.D.s, and he couldn’t even come up with a clever retort to his monster boyfriend? Unacceptable. He shut his mouth, though, and just motioned for him to follow. Broke Hat growled at that, narrowing his eyes as he reluctantly followed his boyfriend out of the apartment. “Why do I have to come, anyway,” he asked, annoyance clear in his voice. “Why can’t I just stay at home? We did get that lovely gift of Dreamworks movies, and I would hate to see them go to waste.”

Flug had to take a deep breath to not lose his mind at that. He had worked an eight hour shift that day, only getting one, count that ONE fifteen minute break, spending the rest of that time on his feet getting harassed by upset customers, only to find that Broke Hat had just allowed Demencia to run off and join what may well be a circus because he was too busy watching the fucking Bee Movie?! Not even with little notice, she explicitly said she was going “out,” whilst forcing a huge sum of cash into her purse, and Broke had just let her leave?!

“It was engrossing, and disgusting and pitiful, and whoever this Seinfeld human is should be ashamed,” he had said when explaining what had happened before Flug had gotten home, holding up the box the movie came in, before a slow realization washed over his face. “Bee… Movie… Oh my Satan it’s because they’re bees, isn’t it?”

Flug face palmed.

It wasn’t even a full copy, it was a bootleg someone had recorded while they were in the theaters! Why someone in their right mind would still have a bootleg copy of The Bee Movie ten years later was a mystery to him, and one that he was not willing to solve. Ever. He wondered if the rest of the movies they had received were also bootlegs, but he wasn’t willing to figure that out, either. They had a mission to accomplish, and whether they wanted to or not, it was getting done.

“Because you lost her, and she’s your friend,” Flug said, opening the door to let the other out. Broke Hat followed, grumbling something under his breath. “Friend is a strong term,” he muttered like the petulant child he was, stomping out of the apartment in a huff before kicking at a can that lay in the middle of the hallway. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice the noise, even though it was twelve in the morning, but if Broke kept this behavior up, they’d definitely get an eviction notice sooner, rather than later. “And I did not lose her. I simply misplaced her,” he continued, waving his hand dismissively as if he hadn’t lost a human being with fucking lizard powers.

Luckily, since they lived in the middle of a bustling city, it wasn’t too hard to find transportation at this time of night. However, that did not stop Broke Hat from grumbling the entire way to the bus stop about how he had bigger fish to fry, more irons in the fire, and just really, really didn’t want to go to Party Hat’s house. “Well, I don’t want to go either, but look where we are. We’ve lost our only other means of income, plus my entire tip jar, and if I have to take a day off or something, it’s not going to be good for any of us. Maybe if someone hadn’t been so busy, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

That shut Broke up.

The rest of the trip was made in relative silence. Flug was just sitting there, hands in his pocket with his head down and trying not to fume, but failing miserably, while Broke Hat just looked out the window, wondering how something so awful, so heinous, could be made by a human being. He would need to find more information on this crime against the universe when he got home, but for now, his analysis of the film would have to do.

“Flug.”

“What is it?”

“Have you… Have you ever seen the movie? The movie I showed you?”

Flug let out a sigh, putting an arm over his face as he leaned back even further. He did not need this in his life right now. “Yes, Broke. I’ve seen the Bee Movie starring Jerry Seinfeld, made in 2007. Why do you ask?” He glanced at Broke Hat.

“Why? Why is it so awful,” the other, his other, asked, narrowed eye laced with confusion. “How could humans think it was such a good idea to make a bee and a human fall in love? Isn’t that bestiality?”

“Beestiality,” Flug muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he tried to avoid the conversation, before realizing what he had said.

Broke Hat seemed to have caught the pun before Flug could take it back, and stared at him as if he had just said, or even thought, of a verse from the Holy Bible. “What did you just say,” Broke Hat asked, eye as wide as a saucer. “Can you repeat that?”

“It was nothing, and this conversation is over.”

“Flug-” “OVER!”

They sat in a bit more silence after that, until the sound of blaring music could be heard, and the two men groaned, slumping back in their seats. Electronic dance music? And, for Broke Hat anyway, the smell of sweat and glow sticks? It could only mean one thing: Their stop was coming soon. And sure enough, on the sidewalk, over the top of the hill, lights could be seen flashing into the sky, as the music got louder and louder, coming to a crescendo when they finally reached the top.

There sat the weirdest looking house Flug had ever seen, and that was really saying something, considering his previous workplace had been a giant top hat with six floors, over sixty different rooms that shifted from location to location at random intervals, and an airplane crashed into the side of it. Sure, that last part may have been his fault, but it was still strange that nobody thought to clean it up. Broke Hat was usually a stickler for making sure everything was perfect, especially anything that was associated with him, so it was a wonder that it was still there, even to this day.

That didn’t matter right now, though. What mattered was getting Flug’s entire tip jar back, even if it meant travelling to the pits of Hell itself to do so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The first thing Flug noticed was that Jesus Christ, the music was loud. And not just loud like a rock concert, loud to the point that it was near deafening. And they were only outside! How anyone could survive being in there twenty four seven was a mystery to the both of them. This was probably why that DJ Glug guy only spoke in sign language most of the time. Flug wondered if they had ever actually heard him say anything, but couldn’t think of a time where that had actually happened.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME,” Broke Hat shouted over the music, Flug shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts. Broke Hat took this as a no.

“Goddammit, Flug! How are we going to get back our idiot if you won’t even pay attention?! I will repeat myself one more time, and only one, so you better be paying attention or else!” Flug knew he didn’t mean the insult, or the threat, but still nodded and went along with it. It was Broke Hat’s only way of showing much emotion around other people, his only solace in life, and Flug wasn’t going to try to take it away from him. It would be like taking a security blanket from a baby. A large, demonic, aggressive baby.

“We go in, right? I start going after people, while you… You do whatever. I couldn’t care less, really.” Broke Hat made a dismissive hand motion.

“We’re not doing that,” Flug said, head in his hands as the music pierced his eardrums. He really wished he had salvaged the noise cancelling headphones he had kept in the lab during long days where Demencia would do nothing but play her guitar, and Black Hat was nowhere to be seen. Those days were long gone, sure, but the thought of having those cushiony pillows for your ears was one that he didn’t want to pass up. Back to the topic at hand, though. He thought for a second, placing a hand on his chin, before coming up with an idea that just might work. “How about we both sneak in, find Demencia, and sneak back out before anyone can notice us.”

Broke Hat pondered the plan for a few seconds, rubbing his temples before letting out a reluctant sigh. “Fine. But I’m not following this plan because I want to. Only because it seems smart enough,” he said with a grimace, crossing his arms and pouting. Flug rolled his eyes with a soft smile, before wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close.

“I know you’re worried about Demencia.”

“I’m not.”

“And I know how much you want her back.”

“I really don’t.”

“But we’re going to get her, and it won’t be that much of a hassle,” Flug finished, giving Broke Hat a quick peck on the cheek. This caused Broke to stand up and stomp towards the upside down top hat that acted as the main base of operations for Party Hat.

The thing that hit them hardest when they entered the building, for Flug, was the sound. He couldn’t even hear his own thoughts in here, let alone anything that the other man was saying. Luckily for him, Broke Hat wasn’t actually speaking. He was much too focused on the smell of the place: it reeked of half drunk glow sticks, sugar, vodka, and sweat, and the combination of the smells just made him want to puke up all of his internal organs, necessary or otherwise.

He forced himself to refrain, though. Knowing Party Hat, if he caught even the slightest whiff of either of them, it would not be good for anybody. Especially not Broke. He didn’t want to deal with that child he was forced to call his brother. He just needed to get Demencia, make sure all of the money was accounted for, and skedaddle befor-

A raised hand signalled for the music to cease, and the duo froze, all eyes on the both of them as a spotlight shone down on them, before a voice, effeminate and rather sassy sounding, rang through the crowd. “Why, what a pleasant, but unexpected surprise~!”

Dammit!

Broke Hat let a growl escape his lips, while Flug just stood stock still, arms firmly at his side and hands balled into fists. They just needed to grab Demencia, and get out. Maybe it would be easy! All they had to do was ask for Demencia back, and then they left, and never came back. Of course, Demencia would be grounded as soon as they got back, but he wasn’t going to let her go out after all the shit she was putting them through.

A dark gray skinned being slowly floated down from the ceiling, laying on his stomach upon a red silk padded bed held up by nothing, propelled by nothing, purple suit glowing under the blacklight of the house along with the neon green ribbon that decorated his hat. Seriously, did they have any other sort of lighting? And besides, Flug had a strong feeling that being surrounded by blacklight all the time was probably bad for you in so many ways, but he wasn’t thinking about that right now. Science and the like could wait. Right now, what they needed was diplomacy, and to keep Broke Hat from trying to murder everyone in a fifty foot radius.

The demon known as Party Hat soon flipped onto his back, so he could jump off the bed and float gracefully to the ground at the other end of the room, surprisingly stable for someone who was wearing platform heels, before taking the microphone from the hands of DJ Glug with a flourish. “I see we have two VIB’s tonight! Can we all give them a round of applause?”

“VIB’s,” Flug asked before he could stop himself, immediately regretting his decision when a bunch of giant screens descended from the ceiling, displaying white impact font on a background of pictures of their faces, some horribly photoshopped so they were in the same room and smiling at the same time, and each word separated by an explosion or some other stupid special effect.

VERY IMPORTANT BITCHES

That addition of the screens was met with applause and whooping from all of the visitors in attendance, much to the chagrin of Broke Hat and company, Flug looking in horrified embarrassment at said screens while Broke Hat just glared at his cousin, who was of course cackling whilst he float on his back. “Look, you have my idiot, and I would very much appreciate if you would give her back,” Broke Hat snarled, before Flug could stop him. However, Flug did manage to calm him slightly by taking his hand into his own, the effect being mutual for both parties.

“What he means to say,” Flug said, voice cracking before he cleared his throat. At least someone was trying to keep some form of peace between the two cousins, Broke Hat glaring at Party Hat, while Party Hat and DJ Glug just looked amused. “What we mean, is that we believe that one of our friends-”

“I believe the term is acquaintance, Flug,” Broke rasped, but squeezed the other’s hand.

Flug sighed, deciding to relent on this one occasion. “Our acquaintance may have run off to be here, and we really need to get her back. She has something that belongs to me… us. Belongs to us.”

“Oh,” Party Hat questioned, seeming to ponder over the question a little bit before realization dawned on him. “Oh! I think you mean my daughter!” He tittered at that, watching with a strange gleeful look as the jaws of the others fell almost to the ground.

Broke Hat composed himself first. “No, we mean our idiot, and if you would kindly show us where she is, we will be on our way,” he corrected, about to begin walking when all of a sudden, Party Hat appeared in front of him, causing Broke to bump into his chest. Silence, and then, “You know you’re only taller with those ridiculous heels on, right?”

“And you’re only taller with that ridiculous top hat, bae-est cousin! Now come on! Unwind. Chill a little! Have some fun,” he said, much like an announcer would. Everyone cheered once more, Broke Hat growling at the nickname until Flug held up a hand to silence the crowd of onlookers. It seemed that people were getting annoyed at this point, that these two people had come in, uninvited (though wasn’t that how most people came to be in this pit of damnation?), and caused the music to stop. Plus, they were just plain rude!

“Look, we just need our fri-” Broke Hat’s glare stopped him from completing that word, and he instead went for something a bit more… relaxed. “Our acquaintance, Demencia. Do you happen to know where she is?”

“Demencia? Hmm… Demencia, Demencia, Demencia,” Party Hat said, tapping his chin in feigned confusion before he ‘recognized’ the name. “Oh yeah! So you do mean my daughter!”

“D-DAUGHTER,” Flug shouted, yanking his hand from Broke’s to place both on either side of his head.

“Yup! Gluggy and I, well, we have been wanting to become parents for a while,” he said as if he hadn’t effectively kidnapped a young girl with fucking lizard superpowers. Glug gave a happy beep at that from behind his mask, his mouth (?) curved into an ever present grin. “And, gee, We couldn’t resist! She just looks so happy! Look at her go,” he continued, another floating spotlight focusing on a girl with a dark pink mohawk, a green lizard hood, dancing before she spotted them, and waved.

“Demencia,” Flug called out, ready to go grab her and just run out of the house. That was, until that security guard, Vaccinia or something, moved to stop him from going after her. “Hey! Get out of my way!”

“Sorry, but this area is reserved for friends of the family only,” she said, holding a hand to block his way.

“Come on,” Party Hat tutted, steepling his fingers together, a smile spreading across his face that traveled to his eyes, even behind those ridiculous glasses. “Demencia isn’t just a friend of the family, she’s a part of it now! You really ought to learn the difference.”

“Sorry sir,” she said, a frown on her face before she began pushing the much weaker man back towards the center, much to his anger.

“Aww, just look at her, Glug,” Party Hat mused, floating over to Glug’s also floating DJ booth and putting an arm around him. “Isn’t she so beautiful? Our little bud is blooming into a wonderful poppy flower!”

“You…” Flug pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s only been four hours.”

“But Flug, but doesn’t it feel like so much longer,” he retorted, Glug giving a content ‘bewoop’ noise from right behind him.

“No, it doesn’t. It’s only been four hours.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Party Hat grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring from behind some very… unique glasses. That seemed to be agreed upon by the rest of the party goers, who were starting to get a bit antsy: these random nobodies decide that they just want to come in and stop the whole party? For what? Just some

“Boo,” shouted Demencia, followed by more and more people who joined in on calling out the two mystery men, some even going so far as to throw red solo cups at them, along with tissues and glow sticks.

“C-come on! She stole my tip jar,” Flug shouted, and stomped his foot. Now he was fuming. He had to get up at seven in the morning tomorrow to work another eight hour shift, and he was not in the mood for this stuff right now. He just needed to get Demencia and go, and this asshole was making it so much harder than it neede to be! “Look, just give her back!”

“Not unless you give me something in return~”

“What do you even want?! You’re a rich asshole that already has more than what you need,” Broke Hat snarled, pushing Flug behind him in order to keep him from losing it. Flug could get a little nervous in situations like this. Surrounded by people, bright lights, loud sounds… Sensory overload, he had heard Flug refer to it as, after some sort of human meltdown. They needed to leave soon. However, if they got kicked out now, then they lost, and Broke Hat may have been down on his luck, but one thing he would never be was a loser.

“Oh, I dunno,” Party Hat mused, lolling lazily through the air and checking his nails as if they had just been manicured. Knowing him, they probably had. “Why don’t we ask…”

The screens from before began flashing different words, still in impact font but this time with a poorly made stock photo of a party popper, still with the white background and watermark whilst it flipped back and forth, as the crowd began cheering once more in excitement, chanting the next few words slowly. “The Party!”

“Popper!” “Prophet!”

Airhorns provided by DJ Glug were blared through the loud speakers, causing Flug to jump out of his skin, much to the enjoyment of everyone. Party Hat didn’t seem to notice, as he was too busy having fun. “Oh my gosh, you all know me so well,” Party Hat squealed, clapping his hands twice before pulling out a normal looking party popper, if not a bit cheap. “You know how all this works, but just for those who may be new! The object of the game is that we have to do whatever the PPP says! If someone refuses, it’s an automatic forfeit! Winner takes all!”

Before Flug and Broke Hat could talk it over, Broke Hat decided that enough was enough, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “We accept,” he said, hand starting to glow a dark red. “WHAT,” Flug shouted, watching as Party Hat took the other’s hand with little hesitation, his own hand glowing a deep purple. They should’ve at least talked it out! Maybe made a plan, but no! Of course not! Because he didn’t matter, because nothing mattered to either of the two demons!

“Flug, I’ve got this,” Broke Hat said, trying to calm the other down. “It’ll be fine. Have I ever steered you wrong?” “Yes!”

“Oh… Well, this time will be different,” Broke said, turning back to his cousin. “If I win, I get Demencia.”

“And if I win, I get… Hmm. You don’t really have much, do you,” Party Hat asked rhetorically, thinking for a few seconds and scouring his mind. “What is your favorite thing that you own right now?”

“Definitely not you,” Broke retorted, sticking his tongue out.

“Ouch. Harsh,” Party Hat muttered, putting a hand to where his heart would be, if he were human. “I get to keep Demencia, of course, but how about Mr Paper Bag over there,” he asked, pointing at Flug.

Flug froze, eyes wide in alarm and fists clenched at his side. Oh God, he couldn’t survive this night any longer.

Broke Hat seemed to sense the feelings that the other had, glaring at Party Hat and taking Flug’s hand. “He is not for sale. End of discussion.”

“Oh, pff. Fine,” he grumbled, pouting. “Not like I needed him, anyway. I’ve got a Glug with a nice hole, anyway!”

Glug winked at Flug, then flicked his tongue at Broke Hat. Flug grimaced, as did his other, before he stepped forward and did something really, really stupid. “I’ll do it!”

Broke looked at Flug with wide eyes, immediately signalling for him to shut the fuck up. Party Hat just smirked at him, though, eyebrow raised. “Oh? You’ll what?”

Flug had fucked up, oh God, he’d fucked up. But he couldn’t back out now. “I’ll stay here.” Broke Hat face palmed. What an idiot. An adorable, lovable idiot. There was nothing he could do now. Party Hat looked more than amused at this turn of event, holding his head in his hands. “Ooh, looks like we’ve got a volunteer! I hope you enjoy parties, Fluggy boy~” Party winked at Flug, who held his arm in his hand. Glug just wiggled his eyebrows at Flug, who was feeling more and more uncomfortable at the moment. What had he done?

“Just pop the PPP already, nerds,” Demencia shouted from her VVIB area, earning shouts of agreement from the crowd. Did they really have nothing better to do with their time? He supposed not, as Party Hat silenced the crowd once more.

“Fine, fine. So impatient,” Party Hat muttered, waving his hand. “I’ll do it, but only because I love you all! Ready? One… Two… THREE!”

The Party Popper Prophet was popped, the noise a bit louder than Flug would’ve liked. If Broke Hat lost this, he was so fucking screwed. God, how was he going to live here? How did this even work?! He could barely live in an apartment with two other people and a bear, how was he going to live in a mansion that was partying twenty four seven?

“The PPP says…” The confetti from the popper spelled something out in the air. “Epic Rap Battle!”

Oh God, they were so screwed.

“Ooh hoo hoo,” Party Hat chuckled, floating there with a smirk. “Looks like I’m the champion of default! Unless you still wanna go through with this? I won’t complain, but you can’t whine once I beat you!”

“Oooooooh!”

“Y-yeah, well… You’ve obviously never seen Broke Hat rap before,” Flug retorted, causing an uproar, before turning to Broke. “You have rapped before, right?”

“Pfft, of course I have…”

Flug glared.

“Ugh. Do you really want to live here,” Broke asked, crossing his arms.

“What? No!”

“That’s what I fucking thought. Do you know how to beatbox?”

Flug winced. “What the…? I don’t!”

“What the fuck, why not?!”

“Because I never thought I’d need it in order to save my own hide!”

“Alright, alright, I get it, this was a stupid plan and I blame you.”

“Blame m-”

“FLUG THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO BE POINTING FINGERS,” Broke yelled, stomping his foot, before pondering their options. “Now, we need a plan… Go sabotage him.”

“I… Actually, that’s not that bad of a plan…”

“I know right? It’s almost like you’re not the only genius in the household, Mr I Have Four Ph.Ds and Got Into University on a Scholarship. Now go, find a weak point.”

Flug rushed off, Broke turning back to Party, who raised a brow in confusion. “Please don’t tell me you’re trying to cheat, Brooke.”

“It’s Broke. And even then, nobody’s allowed to call me that. Especially not the likes of you,” he retorted, throwing his hoodie to the side and cracking his knuckles. “Let’s just get this over with, so I can return home and finish that unholy abomination of a feature length film.”

That seemed to perk Party Hat’s interest somewhat. “Oh? Which film?”

“The one with that Seinfeld human as a bee. How anyone could actually consider that a good idea is beyond me,” Broke grumbled, crossing his arms as he stood there.

“Oh, I know which one you’re talking about! Yeah, that was really bad, even for my tastes.” “JUST GET ON WITH IT ALREADY,” Demencia shouted from her booth, Broke Hat glaring at her.

“You’re not helping!”

“I dare to disagree, Bro-key. She has been keeping this party going for a long while! Can’t wait to see what she can do over a long period of time.” He winked at her, blowing her a kiss which she caught and put to her cheek. “That’s my girl!”

Glug stepped down from the floating DJ booth with help from Party Hat, microphone in hand as he cracked his neck and cleared his throat. “Glug will beat box for the both of us, since apparently, you haven’t trained yours to do so.”

“It was never important to us,” Broke Hat sighed, as Glug finally made his way down, standing right behind Party Hat. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Glug began beat boxing, Party nodding along to try and get a feel for the beat before starting his verse.

“Whoo, okay, time to welcome me to the show, you know, that I’m better in innumerable ways, bro, and if you ever tried, you’d find yourself tongue tied, there’s nothing you can do to stop me! So why don’t you just give up and flee with your homies, before you end up pee-ing yourself, in fear of the ways that I’ll kick you in your shelf!”

“Ooooooooh!”

“Whoot, go Party Hat,” Demencia called from the booth, earning her another glare from Broke Hat. “That doesn’t even make any sense,” he complained. “And you!” He pointed to Demencia. “Stay out of it!”

“Pfft, whatever. You’re not my dad!”

“I very well may be, with the way I put up with your shit all the time! And I’m not even that good at coming up with rhymes, but you know I can’t even think of a single dime, you haven’t spent upon whisky or wine! With your screaming and shouting, it’s driving me crazy, one more word and everything goes hazy! I can’t believe the crap you put us through, you ungrateful little bitch boo fucking hoo!”

Dead silence, even from Demencia and Glug, who must’ve stopped beat boxing a long while ago. Then, someone started clapping. And another. Then, more people, until finally, the whole crowd was in an uproar, as Party Hat looked on in disbelief, before motioning towards Glug. “Cut the lights! Now,” he said through grit teeth, making a slicing motion over his neck. Before Glug could even get through the crowd and back to the stage where all of the controls sat, though, the power went out, red and blue lights flashing underneath the crevice of the door, and the blaring of sirens that sent Party Hat into a panicked frenzy. “WE’VE BEEN CAUGHT EVERY MAN FOR THEMSELVES,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, grabbing Glug and Vaccinia into his arms and making a break for the backyard, whilst everyone else screamed in fear.

“I don’t wanna go to jail!”

“I just thought this would be fun! I didn’t know about the drugs!”

“Wait, there were drugs and I didn’t know about them?!”

Everything was in chaos, and Broke Hat was about to book it as well, after grabbing Demencia of course. That was, until he saw Flug strolling casually through the room, making his way towards the duo as he… whistled? What the fuck was going on?!

“FLUG WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE YOU STUPID ASSHOLE WHY ARE YOU SO NONCHALANT ABOUT THI-”

“Sir! Sir, get it together,” he said, grabbing the other’s hand before he could leave with Demencia over his shoulder. “Have you noticed anything… strange?”

Broke raised an eyebrow at that, before realizing something important: nobody had come through the door. Nobody had tried to raid the house, or even talk to them. The only thing alerting anyone to the presence of cops was the sirens and the lights. No human beings in sight. At that moment, Broke smiled wide, wider than either of them had seen in awhile. “Flug, you may be an idiot most of the time, but that was one of your best moves yet. Although it really wasn’t necessary in the long term, I suppose…”

“Yeah, Broke Hat killed it,” Demencia piped in, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You should’ve seen it! He was yelling at me, and it sort of rhymed I suppose, but dude it was amazing! He’s no Deltron but he is… I don’t know. Something?”

She shrugged, a smirk on her face and tongue sticking out, before she started to skip out of the manor. Broke Hat began following behind, since with this stupid inhibitor, he couldn’t see much in the darkness, and Flug following dead last, clinging to Broke. He would need a bath and everything once he got out of this Hell hole. He wondered if Demencia would let him borrow one of her Lush products that she insisted on buying twice a month, even if they barely had the money to afford it.

“Speaking of which,” he muttered to himself before looking at Demencia with a frown. “You’re grounded.”

47 notes · View notes

yourbolderswedish · 7 years

Text

The ‘Golden Boy’ of bras

My favorite bra, aka Golden Boy, so named after a classic bit on ‘Seinfeld,’ fell victim to time yesterday.

Boundary-less confession: I need to go bra shopping.

Telling myself this is like saying: ‘Go rent a scissor lift and, maybe, some drywall stilts and buy 90 gallons of paint and start refreshing the front room like you’ve pledged to do for the past nine years.’

Or, better yet: ‘Go to the basement and start sorting through the 20 years of accumulated wealth we have banished there. Maybe pack up that Encyclopedia Britannica set Aunt Fay left you. Maybe box up the decades of REM and U2 CDs now scattered across the floor. Maybe disassemble that deathtrap treadmill with the slipping belt … I don’t know. Clean up the basement!’

Nothing about any of these chores speaks to me. Well, the scissor lift and drywall stilts really intrigue me but not enough to risk another compound fracture.

Back to my point: I need to buy some new bras.

Yesterday, the Golden Boy of bras fell victim to time. He didn’t make it.

My trusty black Under Armour running bra with the zipper front, aka Golden Boy, fell apart after going through the washing machine.

I called this bra Golden Boy after a pretty classic bit on ‘Seinfeld.’ (Note: If you know me and The Weed, you know we basically speak in TV show dialogues and movie quotes. It’s what keeps us happy and will ensure we win a couples-only game show some day.)

Golden Boy was Jerry’s favorite T-shirt. Seinfeld famously talked about Golden Boy with Elaine while she sat on his couch.

Seinfeld said: ‘See this T-shirt? Six years I’ve had this T-shirt. It’s my best one. I call him ‘Golden Boy.’ Golden Boy’s always the first shirt I wear out of the laundry.

‘Here … Touch Golden Boy,’ Jerry says offering the shirt to Elaine.

Elaine responds: ‘No thanks.’ (She’s talking on Jerry’s phone.)

‘But see. Look at the collar. It’s fraying,’ Jerry continues. ‘Golden Boy is slowly dying. Each wash brings him one step closer. That’s what makes the T-shirt such a tragic figure.’

Elaine chimes in: ‘Why don’t you just let Golden Boy soak in the sink with some Woolite?’

Jerry responds: ‘No! The reason he’s the Iron Man is because he goes out there and he plays every game. Wash. Rinse. Spin. Rinse. Spin. You take that away from him, you break his spirit!’

(Again, a note: I have included a photo from the Seinfeld bit with this blog because after I did an online search for Under Armour black zipper-front bras, I found a bunch of photos of skinny, athletic women smiling and wearing my Golden Boy. I don’t feel good about myself right now.)

Sure, the T-shirt is a tragic figure. Certainly, my Golden Boy bra was a tragic figure. That bra was with me for far too long because there is nothing more tragic than me, a woman twice diagnosed with breast cancer, going to a store and trying to buy a bra.

Fortunately, buying athletic bras is pretty easy. I usually go to a sporting goods store; grab at least 10 bras I think might accommodate my ridiculous chest; lock myself in a dressing room; take off my shirt; meticulously scan the room for any hidden cameras; lose my current bra; try on one or two new bras; sob a bit; and, finally, settle on one that holds my reconstructed breast mounds in place like those dinner rolls in the pressurized canister that explodes when you peel off the label.

This I can do. I don’t need a pep talk for this bra-purchasing trip.

It’s the trip to Nordstrom where I buy grown-up people bras that unsettles me.

I have done this once since going through treatment for breast cancer. That time, I bought six bras — spending about $700 so I wouldn’t have to return to the ‘unmentionables department’ again for a few years.

Sadly, I need to return to Nordstrom. I am nearing the end of my grown-up people bra treasury.

I shop there because Nordstrom offers a special fitting, breast prosthesis program for women who have gone through breast cancer.

The program pledges: ‘Our certified prosthesis fitters are specially trained to fit women for all intimate apparel following a mastectomy, lumpectomy or other reconstructive breast surgery.’

Learn more about the program here: http://shop.nordstrom.com/c/breast-prosthesis-program

My first trip to Nordstrom after having a lumpectomy, double mastectomy and reconstruction was something straight from a TV show comedy.

I should have pounded three gin and tonics before I went. However, I told myself I needed to be a decent human being and just buy some ‘good goddamned’ underwear. My inner monologue is riddled with creative swears.

When I got to the store, there was a nice sales lady standing at a counter, folding the largest granny underpants I have ever seen.

I said to myself: ‘That has to be some sort of sign. Abort! Abort! Abort!’

Too late, the sales lady saw me, smiled and asked: ‘May I help you?’

I responded in the hushed tones of an undercover agent behind enemy lines: ‘I need a bra fitting. I have gone through breast cancer treatments.’

At which point, the sales lady dropped the gigantic ass covers and ran around the counter and hugged me so tightly I almost cried. Not cool.

She introduced herself. She shook my hand. She told me she, too, had gone through breast cancer.

Ugh. This was going to be weird. I could feel the weird hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention.

The sales lady ushered me into a nearby dressing room. Of course, she took me into the largest handicapped dressing room I have ever been in. I wanted to do some laps, maybe some speedwork.

Instead, she told me to take a seat while she grabbed a clipboard, tape measure and a chair for herself.

When the sales lady returned and sat down, she made some small talk about the Nordstrom program. She asked if I had insurance that would help pay for the bras. I did not. ‘Sonuva bitch … Damn it!’

Then, the sales lady asked if she could measure my chest. I said yes.

I knew this part was coming but it still wasn’t easy for me to peel out of everything above the waist and have this woman wrap a paper tape measure around my chest. To have breast cancer, one must become comfortable with a few things: 1. There is a lot (A LOT) of naked time. 2. You must learn to accept cold hands on your warm bits.

I’m still working on these two points. I’m not fully compliant yet.

So, as the sales lady measured my chest, I stared at the floor. I sang ‘Hava Nagila’ to myself. I noticed the carpet in the Nordstrom dressing room is kind of shabby. Then, I looked at the sales lady making notes about my chest.

She said: ‘Your left breast is larger than the right. That’s common. I wonder if you might need a prosthesis for your right cup, to balance everything.’

The sales lady continued: ‘I didn’t have reconstruction. So, I don’t have to deal with this stuff myself. See …’ as she lifted her shirt above her head like a toddler playing peekaboo.

I politely gaped at the women’s bare, flat, scarred chest and said: ‘Oh. Yeah. Well. Hmmm …’ All the while thinking: ‘It’s getting a little too soft core in the Nordstrom dressing room!’

With my utter dumbfoundedness before her, the sales lady dropped her shirt, fashionably arranged herself and left the room to find several different bras in my size.

When she returned, the department manager was with her. She introduced herself. Kept her eyes focused on mine even though I was sitting there without a shirt and my nippleless breasts were waving in her face, seeking her immediate attention.

The manager said: ‘You look great. What a nice reconstruction job. Congratulations on completing treatment.’

I smiled. Nodded. Thanked her and tried to move the process along before she decided she also needed me to see her bare chest up close and personal.

Eventually, I decided on an underwire bra that came in several colors and had a nice lacy design that covered my scars.

The sales lady showed me a prosthesis. Asked if I wanted to try it in the right cup. It was a small, flesh-colored, table-top coaster that looked like a raw chicken breast. I did not want to touch it let alone slide it into the bra cup against my skin.

I declined but took a photo of the prosthesis and texted it to The Weed. He was about as impressed with it as me. He responded: ‘Weird.’

With that, I asked for three white bras and three black bras in the lacy, underwire style. The sales lady grabbed them all, ushered me to the register, wrapped the bras in tissue paper and proudly swiped my credit card. We were nearing the end … Thank Christ!

As the sales lady came around from behind the register counter, she handed me the bag of bras — the most expensive bag of anything I have ever carried — and again hugged me.

This time, she was more delicate. I suspect she knew to hug me more gently this time because she had just seen Boobzilla and his slightly smaller friend, the treacherous, cancerous right boob, Cancer Joe.

She saw how my reconstructed chest is much different from hers. How if not properly restrained it will defy all manners of gravity.

She seemed to truly understand how difficult this was for me.

As I walked away, I stopped in the store’s management office. I completed a nice customer review about the sales lady’s service and the fitting program.

Then, I left the mall and headed straight to the liquor store. It was time for those gin and tonics.

#breastcancer breastcancerawareness GoldenBoy

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ramajmedia · 5 years

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Seinfeld: The 10 Worst Things Elaine Ever Did, Ranked

One of the ways that Seinfeld revolutionized the sitcom was letting its female lead – Julia Louis-Dreyfus’ unmarried, cigar-chomping feminist Elaine Benes – get in on the cast’s wacky antics.

Until Seinfeld came along, women in sitcoms were relegated to roles like the nagging wife or the buzzkill receptionist. Of course, there were exceptions, from Lucille Ball to Mary Tyler Moore, but these women had to give themselves strong roles – no one was giving them to them. Instead of standing at the side and rolling her eyes at what the guys were doing, Elaine was there alongside them. Here are The 10 Worst Things Elaine Ever Did, Ranked.

RELATED: Seinfeld: 9 Best Elaine Benes Quotes

10 Putting the Soup Nazi out of business

All throughout “The Soup Nazi,” the characters will do whatever it takes not to bother the titular soup maker – Jerry even breaks up with his girlfriend when she gets banned from the soup restaurant – but Elaine drums on the counter and tells the Soup Nazi he looks like Al Pacino. She gets herself banned and then, when she comes across his recipes in an old armoire, she uses them to put him out of business.

The Soup Nazi might have been strict, he might have stricken fear into all of his customers, and he might have been a terrible salesperson, but at the end of the day, he was just a small business owner and those soups were his whole livelihood. Just because he hurt Elaine’s feelings, she destroyed his business.

9 Using an ink pen that made Mr. Pitt look like Hitler

Mr. Pitt had already told Elaine not to use an ink pen while she was working for him and she’d completely ignored him and continued using one when it exploded all over her desk. As he tried to clean it up, he accidentally smudged a little bit of black ink on his upper lip and – paired with his beige-colored riding gear – it made him look an awful lot like Adolf Hitler.

And then she didn’t even tell him! She knew what he looked like and she let him walk out the door and go straight to an important business meeting with that black smudge on his upper lip.

8 Breaking up with Tony because a rock-climbing accident disfigured his face

Seinfeld fans remember Elaine’s one-time boyfriend Tony as the guy that Jerry called a “mimbo” (a “male bimbo”). George was obsessed with him and they went rock-climbing together. While George was trying to get Tony one of the sandwiches he made, he forgot to tie his rope up and Tony ended up falling a great height, head-first, onto a rock.

This accident got Elaine to admit that she didn’t want to date someone that she deemed unattractive, and with Tony’s face getting disfigured by his rock-climbing incident, she had to confess that she no longer found Tony attractive and didn’t want to be with him anymore. She immediately started working on a breakup strategy.

7 Making a priest think he was going to die

David Puddy was Elaine’s on-and-off boyfriend for several seasons of Seinfeld, but the twist with this couple was that, unlike other on-and-off sitcom couples like Ross and Rachel or Leonard and Penny, we didn’t want them to end up together. At one point, Puddy disgusted Elaine by painting his face like the Devil to show off his fandom at a New Jersey Devils game.

RELATED: Seinfeld: 10 Times We Were All Elaine

Then, he yelled at a priest and petrified the poor guy. Later, Elaine visited the priest to see how he was doing, but because she was dressed a little like the Virgin Mary, it only terrified the priest even more.

6 Eating a piece of wedding cake worth $29,000

In the episode “The Frogger,” while George was busy trying to preserve his high score on an arcade game, Elaine was in trouble at work for eating a piece of wedding cake she found in J. Peterman’s office. Since the cake was from King Edward VIII’s wedding to Wallis Simpson, it was worth $29,000.

The wedding threw the British Empire into a tailspin due to a British monarch wanting to marry an American socialite who’d already been married and divorced before. And pretty much all that remained of this historical event from 1936 was a piece of cake and Elaine ate it.

5 Coughing all over Peggy’s stuff

This was a great response to slut-shaming. Elaine’s co-worker Peggy – who she worked with when she wrote fanciful narratives for the J. Peterman catalog – refused to go in the bathroom after her, because she’d seen a number of Elaine’s male acquaintances come in and out of the office and she thought she was dirty.

So, Elaine responded by going into Peggy’s office and coughing on her doorknob, rubbing her stapler all over her armpit, and sitting on her keyboard. Peggy, of course, was horrified by this – it was a classic example of Elaine getting some pitch-perfect revenge against one of her many enemies.

4 Getting Babu deported

We don’t see Jerry on the road a lot in Seinfeld, because a comedian sitting in a hotel room isn’t as interesting as when he gets involved in cockfighting rings and bootlegging operations with his wacky neighbor. However, there were some hints that he often spent time on the road, like when Elaine was collecting his mail.

One of the envelopes contained Jerry’s Pakistani friend Babu’s visa application, but since Elaine didn’t notice this, Babu missed the deadline and got deported. Once again, Elaine’s negligence led to the destruction of somebody’s life. It was something of a pattern in Seinfeld.

3 Buying Jujyfruits on the way to see her boyfriend in the hospital

This is a classic Seinfeld moment, but it was also pretty awful. Elaine was supposed to be meeting a guy at the movie theater, but the usher informed her that he’d been in a car accident and had to be rushed to hospital.

Instead of rushing off to the hospital to make sure he was okay, she stopped off at the concessions stand to buy a box of Jujyfruits. When she eventually got to the hospital with a mouthful of Jujyfruits, the guy realized what she’d done and decided to break up with her right there. It’s fair to say he made the right decision.

2 Kidnapping a dog

To be fair to Elaine, she didn’t do this alone. She enlisted the help of Kramer and Newman and they did most of the dirty work – Newman grabbed the dog and Kramer abandoned it at a random house upstate. However, it was all based on Elaine’s idea.

RELATED: 10 Things That Only Real Seinfeld Fans Would Own

The dog was keeping her up at night with its barking, so her response was to put together a team to kidnap it (or would that be dognap?) and take it far away from the city. Since the dog got a piece of Kramer’s shirt from Rudy’s, they all ended up getting arrested.

1 Thinking about murdering the phone guy

In the episode “The Maid,” when Elaine was having her phones replaced because Kramer’s fax machine made her old ones whir and beep constantly, she considered murdering the phone guy. He was working on the phone lines and she was standing behind him, idly playing with a candlestick. In a voiceover narration, we heard Elaine thinking to herself, “I wonder if anyone knows he’s here. If he just disappeared...would anybody notice?”

All she needed was a few moments with her own thoughts to start contemplating committing a murder. At the end of the scene, she tells him, “You know, I could’ve killed you, and no one would’ve known.”

NEXT: Seinfeld: The 10 Worst Things Jerry Ever Did, Ranked

source https://screenrant.com/seinfeld-elaine-worst-things/

#screenrant

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stevenrogers5-blog · 7 years

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Last Five Steven (Part 1)

Summary: It’s based off of the musical ‘The Last Five Years’. Steve proposes to you. You guys get married. But is married life what he wanted. Or is it what he thought would be better for you. In this fanfiction, you will travel throughout past that leads up to the wedding. But you will also be met with the present times as their marriage progresses.

Word Count: 718

Warnings: nothing other than some fluff!

A/N: I hope you guys like it! Just keep in mind it is only more or less the intro to it all! It is a massive roller coaster of the future and past. If you have ever seen the musical ‘The Last Five years’, that’s how it actually is. But i put my own twist on it.

You walk hand in hand with your boyfriend, Steve, through central park on a beautiful fall day. You guys were just trying to escape the stuffy tower as the team were getting mission sick. So Steve suggested that you guys went and got some fresh air. And that is how you guys got to the park. As you guys kept a slow and relaxing pace, you started pointing all the statues that you passed by.

“No, that’s Jerry Seinfeld, you goof! Oh look, John Lennon’s over there!” Steve exclaims, smiling and pointing over at the legend standing there, carved out into a perfect metal statue.

“Where is the San Remo then?” You ask, giggling at his excitement.

“It is up a few blocks. Have you ever been inside of the museum? We should so go and see the dinosaurs!” Steve says, slowing down to a stop. You look at him with a confused look as he stepped in front of you.

“Steven..?”

“Y/N, Will you please share your life with me for the next ten minutes? And within the next ten minutes, we can handle that! We could watch the birds fly above, watch the waves on the pond, watch the children run around chasing the leaves flying by. Or we could sit and wait and watch the time tick by. And once the time runs out, i will ask for another ten. And if you in turn agree to accepting the next ten minutes, till the morning comes. And then just holding you will completely compel me to ask you for more. There are so many lives i want to share with you and i will never be complete till you say i do.” Steve says, tears slowly creeping into his eyes, as he gets down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes! Of course Steve!” you exclaim as he slips the ring onto your finger. He stands up and wipes away that tears that have found their way down your cheek. The bystanders who witnessed the proposal all clap as Steve hugs you tightly. You guys pull away, share a passionate kiss, then thank everyone before you continue on your way. “But Steve you must know something, I am not always on time. I am hundred percent going to be late to things. So please do not expect me to always be there when needed. But please wait because i will make it eventually. Not that i’m proud of the fact but i other than being on time, i can do for you.”

“I understand that baby. You were late for our first date, but i am so happy i waited for you.” Steve says as he smiles down at you. You slow down once again to a stop and look at him with a serious but loving face.

“Honestly Steve, i don’t understand why people run away from love. I don’t understand how plans for the future fall through. I do not know how anyone survives this life without someone as amazing as you!” Steve smiles at you.” I could protect and preserve, or i could say no and goodbye. But why Steve, why me?” You say, looking at him.

He smiles warmly and presses his lips to yours softly. He then wraps his arms around you in the warmest bear hug you have ever experienced.

“Because my gut told me that, even though she is late, she’s going to be the best thing to wait for. And you were, i have been in love ever since you walked into that coffee shop. Then i fell more in love on our first date. And now many years and late dates later, i finally get to prove my love to you.” Steve says as he looks down at the ring that he bought.

“Oh Steven! I want to be your wife, in every form of life we can live! I want to bear your children. I even want to die knowing that i lived a long, loving, and fulfilling life with you. Knowing that i can be in your arms every morning. Forever, that’s what i can do” You say, intertwining your fingers with his as you guys continued your walk once again, heading back to the tower to tell everyone the amazing news.

#steve rogers #chris evans #steve x reader #au!steve rogers #marvel #marvel fanfiction #last five years #musicals #steve rodgers x reader

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yashuved · 7 years

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How To Make Your Dragon

First thing’s first: Dear United States of America, how the hell are you still tolerating Nazis in your country? The world defeated Nazism over 70 years ago, and you played a big part in that. The birthplace of Nazism is more intolerant to it than you. Everyone in the world knows it, condemns it and vehemently opposes it. Everyone but you, it seems.

The World hopes that for your own sake, you use your sense, just the common one in this case will be good for a start.

On to happier things…

Last weekend I watched one of the greatest comedians in the world perform live. Jerry Seinfeld graced our shores with a one night only stand-up act and me and the wife were lucky enough to be a part of it.

He has been doing stand-up shows for 40 years now and he is still the best. He doesn’t do sex. He doesn’t do race. He doesn’t do accents. He doesn’t do impressions. He doesn’t do politics (he didn’t mention Donald Trump at all!).

90 minutes of non-stop gut wrenching laughter was all about observational humour. Much like his sitcom Seinfeld, which aired 20 years ago, the stand-up act is much about nothing. It just looks at people’s lives, as it goes by each day. The writing is so tight, the performance is so nuanced that you can almost see how much work must’ve gone behind it. He knows how to time the punch lines, he knows exactly when to pause, when to raise and lower his pitch. He knows how to draw the audience in and then take them on a journey.

There is so much class about everything that goes on about the show. Right from the moment you enter the arena. You walk in and there’s Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York blasting on the sound system. You hear that and you know, you’re in for something special. The set decor is simple, yet elegant. Everyone, from the announcer, to the opening act, to Seinfeld himself are dressed in very stylish suits - jacket, tie et al.

Best of all, there is no fanfare before Jerry’s entrance. No DJ spinning some gangsta shit or some band announcing his entrance. Hell, even the announcer doesn’t do anything at that moment. The lights go out and Jerry just walks on to the stage.

It was a dream, I never thought would come true. If I could, I would do it all over again. And if you ever get a chance, Do. Not. Miss. It!

Now, on to this week’s GOT. There are spoilers from S7, E6. If you haven’t watched it, you know what to do…

The penultimate episode came with big expectations. This series has been so huge - so many characters, places, houses, lineages, story lines, relations, alliances, enmities and deaths. So many deaths, and bringing-back-from-the-deads.

Now it is nearing towards an end. We know it, the writers know it and they need to do bring it all together in pure GOT style, in GRRM style.

But I am not sure what is their approach for this though. Are they bringing it as the fans want it? or as they want it, as George RR Martin would want it? GRRM is involved in it, no doubt. But the plot seems to distance itself from GRRM’s style.

My gripe is not with the writing per se. It is with the plotting of the episode, the narrative style and structure. GOT has taken TV to a new level and in doing so, continuously built and delivered on new expectations. And this is working against them a little bit at this point.

Here are some of my observations/questions/WTFs…My 2 Cents

- Tyrion started off well on his attempt to get Dany to cool down on the people burning part. He was starting to get through to Dany when out of the blue, he started talking about succession! WTF man? She’s right - first get me on the throne and then we can talk about who will succeed me! Plus, what about my ships that Euron Grejoy stole/burnt? What about my important allies that are captured/dead/presumed dead? It was an awkward dialogue between the two with no logical conclusion in sight. The only thing it showed was that tensions between Tyrion and Dany increased further, which was evident when Dany left for North against Tyrion’s advice.

- Speaking of North, what’s up with Arya and Sansa? Haven’t they lost enough to be fighting now? Sure, sister jealousy and whatnot but they cannot make it this easy for Littlefinger. Arya, for all her new wisdom should’ve sensed that. They argue about the moment when Ned was beheaded. Both were there. For her to insinuate that Sansa was there, and not affected by it all is a bad jab at the viewers! Yes, a lot of this is setup for the finale and the next season but come on guys, please set it up a bit better. They teased the audience with the unsheathed Valyrian dagger and then did nothing with it! And where was Three Eyed Raven 2.0? Ya, we know he doesn’t care about any of this now but he can clear the air out. He can now see what happened. So see, clear the air.

- Moving further up North, North of the Wall, the first 10 min or so felt like The Fellowship of The Rings. Unknown companions on a quest to save the world from evil. But it was weird to see that at this stage of the series they were trying to build rapport between the characters.

- There was a nice tongue-in-cheek moment between Jon and Beric (Dondarrion). Beric tells Jon he doesn’t look like his father at all. Kinda true for the show. However, in the books, Jon Snow was more Stark looking than any of his half-siblings. However, we the viewers know that Jon is Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son so from that POV, yes, he doesn’t look like his father at all!! Would Beric know something or was that an unintentional coincidence?

- How convenient was it for a small party of un-dead to be wandering separate from the main group? Just what they wanted, right. And how easy was it for them to capture an un-dead. But we all knew it was not going to end there. That confrontation between the living and the dead was so very one sided. There was no way out of it. But we have Gendry, the character who returned after four seasons to get a quick exit yet again! We also have a frozen lake. It’s not that frozen - BTW; we can buy you some time until the message reaches Dany. You just hold tight and don’t do anything stupid. Enter, The Hound, throwing rocks in a lake like a bored kid on a family picnic. The rest was an unconvincing fight sequence. But then what to do until the dragons show up? How silly would it look that the dragons show up and the two groups are just sitting quietly :D

- Why did Dany take all three of them up North? Drogon has already shown his power. Plus, it was not an attack. It was a rescue mission. Yes, I know it was necessary for a major, probably the biggest plot twist of the series. But that too came too easily. Are we to believe that the Night King has a spear more powerful than the scorpion and an arm more powerful than the scorpion? Lets say the former has magic involved. But the force with which the spear pierces Viserion was unreal. This means in battle, the dragons are essentially useless against the Night King!

- Waddup, Uncle Benjen! Where did you come up from, yo? That was the most convenient placement for a Jon getaway. He just came there, out of nowhere to get Jon to escape and then he just gets himself killed! I guess the actor was just bored and the writers didn’t know what more to do with him.

- There is an undead Dragon now. How strong is the Night King’s army now? Think about it - GRRM’s original title - A Song of Ice and Fire seems to refer more and more to a final showdown between dragons - two (until now) spitting fire and the one spitting snow! Obviously, the Night King will ride it into the battle. Does this mean they now have the weapon to bring the Wall down? Hell, as such they don’t need to bring it down anymore, they can just fly over!

Look, I am still excited and committed to the show. I even got a HBO subscription. The fans are very invested with the characters and want to know how it all ends. Jon and Dany obviously have a thing for each other. Even though I noticed that she withdrew her hand three times when Jon held it, I also saw the look on her face when Jon asked them to leave him in the North.

We have picked our sides and we have spirited debates around the lunch room, with the Non-GOTs looking at us with blank looks! But as per my last post, we want entertainment. Game of Thrones delivers entertainment at a certain standard. While it is known for its violence and sex, it is admired for its characters, the plots and the politics. We want to see a final showdown. But we want to see it done with finesse and with justified motivations for actions as per the characters. They have kept Tyrion, Varys and Littlefinger in the background for most of this season. Remember when they ruled the plot-lines in the earlier seasons. It was so much fun to watch!

Since S4, E2 - The Lion and the Rose, GRRM has not written a single episode. He is currently busy writing the books (apparently), which are already way behind schedule. But that would mean an even more reduced input from him in the writing process of the episodes.

Maybe there is a need for bit of an impetus from the man himself - a bit of course correction, if you will.

Maybe he needs to…

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veganearlybird · 4 years

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Entrepreneur. Maverick. Genius. [The Diaries of Harold Gordon]

(October 5)

With nearly 22 years now in past have decided to buy moleskine (paper iPad) from online store (free shipping included. good deal). Have always thought of myself as a creative type the likes of Jerry Seinfeld or Tyler Perry, it is good that now I have capability to write down thoughts and dreams and tech-startup ideas here. I was told that when you have an object out of sight, you’re out of your mind, so this moleskine should be good reminder to write down thoughts so they don’t fly away like airplane and I can make successful iPad app. As matter of fact, I do indeed have one or three billion-dollar ideas up my sleeves that will now write in moleskine. First Billion-Dollar Idea: new app game like Angry Birds except birds are mice. Working title: “Where’s the dang cheese?” If you are a snooper and reading my idea journal thinking to steal cheese idea from me, nice try, but I have patent pending, am not scared to sue in court of law.

The other Billion-dollar app idea tells when your pants zipper is down, it’s easy and simple, why wasn’t it made earlier (it’s a common problem I’m sure Steve Jobs wanted to fix too)? All the gizmos to make app work already invented by other people, am simply making new use for them, probably will make one billion (or at least one million dollars). App is called pantsApp (thought of name in bathtub). So how it works is you buy my sensor tag and attach it to zipper handle on pants. It talks to your iPhone or android phone (not literally, idiot. It’s via Bluetooth) and sets off alarm when pants are down – that’s it! (You can customize alarm, but by default it is set to the voice of a dad yelling at you and telling you you aren’t good enough and why didn’t you go to college and when are you going to move out and why do I never see you bring any girls around are you gay or something).

All you simple minds with no moleskine probably had my pantsApp idea at some point in your lives too but didn’t have a dang place to write down. In six months, will be on sailing boat in San Francisco bay with Strawberry Daquiri (on work day, mind you) counting my suitcases of venture-capital money. On same day, your sorry ass will be pounding on computer, not even knowing your doldrums of normal work life, you won’t know how pathetic/sad it is that you DO NOT have Daiquiri (on work day, mind you). Do not mean to insult, creatives like myself and Tyler Perry don’t have time to be polite or follow sheep rules like you. Can’t hear you on other side of money mountain (my pile of venture-capital money) ;) With new life ahead, all on my mind is new lifestyle. With venture money, will go to expensive streetwear stores in LA and buy hundred dollar shirts. Adding rolex is necessary for completing lifestyle.

When I die in future, this journal exists to show creativity for generations to come, captures soul of genius mind in leather moleskine. Hope that people are sad when I die, like Steve Jobs or Phillip Seymour Hoffman, hope that I am alive for necessary recognition, don’t want to only be famous when dead. “Bring me roses so I can smell them.”

<3, Harold Gordon. I’ll write again soon, don’t worry about it.

- - -

(October 7)

Have been thinking more of legacy I will leave on world after thinking about competitors to my genius on the planet. Am wondering if I am not being as ambitious as I can be, given that my (genius) brain is the biggest there is. After much thought, I have decided only living rival (maybe dead and alive) is Elon Musk. He is from South Africa if you don’t know who he is – no black face though, I am surprised from pictures. Musk bought expensive car, one million dollars before his twenty ninth birthday. So he is successful, I admit, I will not lie. (I am only twenty one though, so I have time to catch up don’t worry). Musk’s expensive car is called McClaren F1, looks like space ship, only sixty two ever made. One day I will buy faster car, Ferrari Enzo, and call Musk to challenge to drag race some place in the open desert. There, we will see for sure who real man is. We will see who more genius. Who more smart. Who is true master of the business of making money (the type of business I’m in). “I’m no businessman...I’m a business, man...” – Jay Z (hip-hop rapper; has black face unlike Musk)

<3, Harold Gordon

- - -

(October 7 again. It’s night time now though)

Exciting news, I am taking tour of Google headquarters next weekend with one of dad’s friends (Jerry Winslow Lincoln, the guy with three names) and I think it should segway into a productive business meeting for me. I do not know which business idea to focus on when I pitch my idea. Maybe my dreams will give me entirely new idea. One new idea I was thinking of was to build spaceships that bring people to Mars but I found out my rival Elon Musk is already doing that with his own spaceship company. So I think I should go to Saturn (ring planet) instead to steal thunder. Who would give two shits about Musk’s space-rocket if he was only able to get to Mars and I was on ring planet? (No One!) I see New York Times front page headline already: “Hey readers remember when Musk went to dusty ol’ Mars (red planet)? Me neither, who cares, because the genius Harold Gordon inventor went to Saturn and Saturn is five times further away if you didn’t already know.”

If you’re reading you’re probably thinking wow, what makes you always want to one-up everything – even so-called geniuses like Elon – and all I can say is that it’s who I am. Always have been maverick. In Kindergarten my teacher would tell me to sit down in chair but I would say “you don’t understand me, fuck you and your cages.” I got a lot of respect for being salmon- boy in school (going against current, if you don’t understand) and a lot of friends. My friends are in college now like a bunch of dumbasses though. (Lame) I’m sorry for them. They didn’t know who they wanted to be so they had to go away. They need someone else to tell them who they are, like they have amnesia or something. It’s sad. It’s just like when old people with money only wear suits because they don’t have any style (they don’t even know what style is!). They think suits will make them look impressive because that’s what was in a dumb magazine advertisement with some stupid hunk like Leo DiCaprio.

“Fuck you Leo! (Titanic wasn’t even good) Be yourself! Break the rules! Salmon Boys forever” – Harold Gordon (feel free to quote me if you’re reading)

<3, Harold Gordon. Will write again soon.

- - -

(October 12)

Did not write for few days. I’m sorry. I had my tour of Google headquarters in Mountain View with Jerry Winslow Lincoln this morning. I think it went OK. Was kicked out for “harassing” Larry Page but before that was able to put blueprints for Saturn Rocket ship on desk of his secretary and also included my business plans for pantsApp. If he helps me great but I don’t think I need him or care about him any more. Had a revelation during tour when watching Googlers (employees with nerd glasses and no sense of style) that including other people in my plans will probably slow me down in end. Will have to go at it alone but hey the road to other

side of money mountain is really narrow. Other people will just be jealous of me and try to claim my ideas as their own like Winklevoss twins from Social Network movie about Facebook. It good movie.

Am getting tired. Has been inspiring day though. Meeting Larry made me realize how he isn’t so special. Am inspired more than ever to create money businesses and write poems and draw and design and create new universes. It feels like responsibility to world. The sheep don’t deserve me, but they’ll be glad I helped them out when they’re eating Easter Brunch on ring planet.

<3, Harold Gordon

space ship flying in the night

pants are up, always, feeling alright who could deserve this life? i might were it not for harold, life would be strife

[plz write about me when i am dead]

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lauriecgarcia · 6 years

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The Low Down On Breakfast Cereal

Wendyl Nissen’s book Supermarket Companion, how to bring home good food, is a wealth of knowledge for those looking to avoid foods laden with dangerous chemicals, there’s a comprehensive list of food colourings and additives so you can shop smarter and be more aware of what’s in processed supermarket food.

This entertaining and enlightening exert looks at breakfast foods, in particular, Nestlé Milo Oats and Kellogg’s Froot Loops (no fruit there!) and the importance of eating a nutritious breakfast that is not laden with sugar and additives.

Make sure you check out Wendyl’s findings at the end of the chapter.

Just for starters!

“Look at what?” I say, as we both gaze at the bags of shopping.Can I look at that, Grandma?” says our four-year-old grand-daughter, Lila, as I’m putting the shopping in the back of the Prius. We have just made our way around the supermarket and Lila has been a great help.

“That one there,” she says pointing at a brightly coloured box.

“Oh, that’s not for you,” I say reaching in and covering the offending piece of garish marketing with a bag of potatoes.

“Why not?” she says, disappointed.

“That’s for Grandma’s work.” I reply and hastily strap her into her car seat. “When Grandma has done her work on it, maybe you can have one next time you visit.”

Most visits to the supermarket require that I look for products that I can review in my column. This box was for some brightly coloured biscuits called Oki Doki Disco Bits. They looked frightening in terms of artificial colours and so I threw them in the trolley. Lila never said a word when I took them off the shelf, nor to my knowledge even noticed they were in the trolley. But when it comes to kid marketing Lila is a perfect target. She has an innate ability to seek and find any brightly coloured foods within a 10-meter radius.

I’m not sure what she thinks Grandma does when she “works” on these foods but she knows that they generally live on a shelf in my office, lined up and waiting for my magnifying glass to hover critically over their ingredients panel.

I know Lila knows this because it’s her first stop at every visit, once we have all been all been greeted with a cuddle, she’s patted our dog, Shirl, and gone out to check that her white hen, who she has named “Mummy”, is still around.

I had an extremely colourful and enticing box of Kellogg’s Fruit Loops sitting in my office when Lila came to visit recently. She regards my office as our “second” kitchen because on any occasion she might find all sorts of wonderful foods lined up on my shelf ready to be analysed for the column. I was in the “first” kitchen, when she appeared clutching the box of Froot Loops with a look of wonderment on her face.

“Grandma, can I please have these in a bowl with some milk?”

Something about the packaging had managed to (tell her that a) she desperately needed to eat these and b) it was a food you had in a bowl with milk.

“Why do you want them?” I asked.

“They look nice,” was all she said.

I gently pried them off her with promises of other treats and hid them in the pantry.

When I went back to get them to write about, I found that my 26-year-old son, Daniel, had succumbed to the same marketing message, but didn’t need to ask first, and ate them.

I am always astonished at the power of packaging and its ability to transfix a small child or her uncle. Lila lives in a household where her parents are very aware of food additives and eat a very healthy, real-food diet. (Not because I pressured them –they are just intelligent consumers, honestly.)

So Lila’s exposure to junk food and the bright packaging is minimal and she would have had no conditioning to tell her that inside these packets are sweet tasting, moreish foods. She just wouldn’t know. Yet something about the design of the boxes sets off a reaction in her brain which gives her the drive to search for it in bags of shopping or reach up onto a shelf and carry it all the way down the hall to me in the kitchen.

It is no secret that kids as young as Lila are directly targeted by advertising, not just on TV but also techniques such as free gifts, competitions, games and puzzles, website games and movie promotions.

And that marketing is why breakfast becomes a minefield for well meaning parents to negotiate.

Next time you are at the supermarket, wander down the breakfast aisle and take note of the packaging. It all looks fantastic. Aside from the relentless use of every bright colour in the rainbow, you will see three elements competing for your attention: chocolate, punchy bright berries and fruit and fibre.

In my house over the years, we have been through most of the cereal crazes as each of our five children has begged to be allowed a new brand and their busy working mum (former) bought them.

Have you ever noticed Jerry Seinfeld’s cereal shelf in the kitchen on Seinfeld? Next time you watch the show have a look. One internet source sets the number at nine, mostly cornflakes and shredded wheat. His cereal shelf looks exactly how ours looked for years, as every child claimed a new brand as theirs.

While you’re in the breakfast cereal aisle, see if you can find one box which lists the sugar content per 100g at less than 15g, which is what we should aim for when buying our kids cereal.

Consumer magazine conducted a survey of our breakfast cereals in 2008 and found that seven products had more than 40 per cent sugar – over three teaspoons in a 30g serve. I’ve listed them at the end of the chapter for you, in case they’re sitting on your Seinfeld cereal shelf. One of them is the aforementioned Kellogg’s Froot Loops which I prevented Lila from eating.

My focus when first studying this cereal was primarily on the three artificial colours used in it (see my findings below) but then I worked out that, if Lila had been allowed her Froot Loops with milk, she would have consumed 4.3 teaspoons of sugar in her bowl.

I can guarantee you will not find a box of cereal in the supermarket with low sugar until you come to Weet-Bix. Plain old Weet-Bix is the star of the cereal aisle, at just 2.8g per 100g. Admittedly, a lot of people add sugar, but at least you can control that and most kids enjoy eating them.

Lila eats two “bix” for breakfast every morning and won’t be swayed from them even when her grandpa is offering to make her sausages and eggs.

My mother, Elis, however, can’t stand them. Something to do with trying to avoid eating them when she was a child by sneezing into them, thinking her patents would deem that a reasonable enough excuse not to have to eat them. But no. She had to eat every last bit and has never touched them since.

As a guide, when you are out shopping, if sugar appears in the ingredients list directly under the name of the cereal, such as rice, corn or wheat, that means that the second biggest ingredient in there is sugar, and you should put it straight back on the shelf.

The other thing you need to think about is salt levels (fewer than 400mg sodium per 100g of cereal) and fibre.

We all know that we don’t get enough fibre in our diets. It’s good for bowel health and digestion and the things that give you fibre – fresh fruit, veges and wholegrains – tend to be really nutritious and good for you. Unfortunately, I’ve noticed a trend for food manufacturers to add what I call “faux fibre” to their processed foods, using vegetable gums and inulin, which is a substance that occurs naturally in root vegetables, particularly chicory. Other additions include polydextrose, which is created out of dextrose (glucose), sorbitol, a low-calorie carbohydrate, and citric acid to add to processed foods, usually to provide fibre. It is called a functional fibre because no one knows if it has the same health benefits as fibre found in real foods.

A good guide for children’s fibre requirements is 5g to 15g per 100g, so look out for that on the label, and if you see inulin or vegetable gum in the ingredients panel, reject it in favour of something which uses wholegrains and fruit to provide fibre.

Another problem with most breakfast cereals is the fact that they are extruded. This means perfectly good wholegrains are ground up, made into a slurry with liquid, heated to high temperatures, then pressurised through small holes to create shapes such as rings, flakes or puffs. You have to wonder just how much nutrition gets killed off in the process with those high heats and pressures.

OFTEN WHEN I’M out and about, people like to talk about the food column and what it has taught them.

“Thank goodness Krispies are okay,” said my aunt. “They’re my favourite biscuit.”

“I haven’t touched a raspberry jam slice since the day I read your column,” said a woman I met at a knitting bee.

And, of course, many people have suggestions for foods I should look at. By far the most disturbing conversation along these lines with a woman I was doing some work with.

“I have this friend who basically throws those cartons of Up&Go at her kids from dawn until dusk,” she said. “That’s all they eat. For breakfast they sit there in the car sucking on them on their way to school, they have another one with their lunch and sometimes dinner too. I’ve tried to tell her they need some real food but she believes they are good for them. Are they?”

Then I got the emails about UP&Go: “My kids have one every day and I’m wondering how healthy they are,” said one mother.

“I really don’t like this product because it has so much sugar and it’s like this giving your child a milkshake for breakfast,” said another.

I was well acquainted with Up&Go. My son Daniel has never been a great breakfast eater, and so for a while he took one of these with him but in the end he didn’t even eat those, claiming the texture was weird.

Up&Go, for those who are not familiar with it, is a drink which is endorsed by the All Blacks in its advertising campaign and claims on the box to have “the protein, energy and dietary fibre of 2 Weet-Bix and milk”.

It is reasonable that parents like myself would read that and presume that in the little box we are handing over to our kids is simply two Weet-Bix and some milk all mashed up. And presumably it would have the same nutritional benefits.

Wrong.

The label should also state that it has 11.7g more sugar and 13 more ingredients than a simple bowl of Weet-Bix and milk. By the time I’d finished writing the column I was quite angry with Sanitarium for the misconception and wrote: “Is it really that hard to get a kid to sit down at the kitchen table and eat solid food these days? Are we raising a nation of astronauts in training who need to develop a taste for liquid food?”

I think if you’ve got a kid who needs something quick to eat in the car you can throw them a banana. And if you’ve got a kid who only likes to drink their meals, whip up a smoothie, put it in a bottle and let them drink that. On the Sanitarium website they even recommend that you throw a Weet-Bix into the smoothies.

I also took a look at Nestlé Milo Oats, mainly because Pearl had picked them up in the super-market and loved them. I’m a big fan of oats, as not only are they a good source of fibre but they also do wonderful soothing things to your digestive system.

Nestlé have a range of breakfast cereals marketed under the Milo name and some are better than others. Milo Oats is a better one.

I found that they weren’t too high in sugar and were a good source of fibre. I saw them as a great food to get kids interested in porridge for breakfast. I also found a study which showed that children who had oats for breakfast had better spatial memory (which means being able to remember geographical details like the interior of your house), better short-term memory and better listening attention than children who ate ready-to-eat cereal or no breakfast at all. Pearl was very relieved.

PUTTING THE CHOICE of cereal for your kids aside, there is a bigger problem emerging on the horizon for families, and that’s the kid who just won’t eat breakfast. This is cause for concern because every study you read emphasises the importance of breakfast for kids to kickstart their brains and give them the energy to see them through a day of learning school.

One University of Sydney study, conveniently commissioned by Kellogg’s, looked at the type of breakfast eaten by 800 New South Wales children aged eight to 16, across 19 different schools. The students who ate breakfast before their tests performed better, and those who ate the most nutritious breakfasts, such as cereal and milk, or eggs on toast, got the highest scores. They also scored higher on literacy and numeracy tests than their classmates who ate only toast.

It is easy to see why many parents faced with a non breakfast-child will be less fussy about the food they consume, reasoning that at least they’re eating something. We let two of our children, Daniel and his step-sister Alex, go to school on a diet of Pop-Tarts (basically jam-filled pastries you heat up in the toaster) for months because we were just so glad they were eating something.

In the end we settled on toasted sandwiches, smoothies and, if all else failed, a banana. I have yet to meet a child who doesn’t like the taste and as a food they have a lot going for them. They have lots of carbohydrates for energy, are low in fat, and are potassium-rich, which is great for muscles. They also have some protein and iron.

Instead of throwing an Up&Go at your child on the way to school, swap it for a banana a carton of milk, which will give protein, calcium, zinc, vitamins A and B, and iodine.

I’m very much a toast and a cup of tea girl at breakfast, and it gives me enough energy, even with a gym work out to see me through to lunch. Which is when I go outside to raid the chicken coop and find some delicious, bright yellow-yolked eggs.

MY FINDINGS

Nestlé Milo Oats

I see this as a great transition product to get children who may be used to the a diet of high sugar processed breakfast cereal used to the taste and texture of oats which are a very healthy option for the reasons above. By the time they’ve gone through a packet of these, they might just like a bowl of real porridge with some fresh banana and honey mixed in which is less sweet option than this product and better for them. It also means that your child sets off on a cold winter’s morning with a warm breakfast in their stomach, which is a nice old-fashioned thing to do, and the effect of the oats on their memory and listening skills might be good too.

Summary:

Three teaspoons of sugar in every serving if made with milk, but with water only one and half teaspoons.

20g of oats in every serve which is a great option for good nutrition, and oats have proven benefits for your child’s memory and listening skills.

A great transition food to get your child interested in eating porridge on a winter’s morning.

**Nestle still use palm oil so be sure to read your labels**

Kellogg’s Froot Loops

There is just something irresistible to children about food which comes in fun colours and Froot Loops certainly fulfils that expectation. It even has the sell line “a fun fuel for adventurous kids.”

There is no doubting your kids will love this cereal and hoover it down. But why not teach your children that real food doesn’t come in six fun, mostly artificial colours? Most children are quite happy to eat Weet-Bix which by comparison has only 0.8g of sugar per serve or 6.8g per serve with milk. It also uses wholegrains and has more fibre. Top it with some fresh fruit, like strawberries and peaches, and you have a great breakfast with plenty of natural colour.

And perhaps follow a rule for eating by the author of Food Rules, Michael Pollan, who says “Don’t eat breakfast cereals that change the colour of the milk.’’

Summary:

Contains 38 per cent sugar.

Has three artificial colours which are banned in other countries.

Uses natural flavourings.

Wendyl Nissen

Photos by Fischer Twins Etienne Girardet rawpixel Peter Lewicki

The post The Low Down On Breakfast Cereal appeared first on Wendyls Green Goddess.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8302119 https://www.wendyls.co.nz/low-breakfast-cereal/ from The Top Cleaner https://thetopcleaner.tumblr.com/post/180272183077

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radioleary-blog · 6 years

Text

Donald Trump vs. Herbert Hoover vs. Back to The Future Part III

Okay, he’s the worst ever. President Trump is the worst President we’ve ever had, in my lifetime at least. To find a President that could even compete with Trump for the title of worst President ever, you’d have to get in a time-traveling Delorean and go back about a century. But I wouldn’t recommend you do that, some say that time-traveling in a car powered by a flux capacitor can possibly lead to Parkinson’s disease, especially if you do it for three movies. But the evidence for that is...shaky. Hey, why did those ‘Back To The Future’ films successively get so much worse? Couldn’t producer Robert Zemeckis just get in the Delorean and go forward in time to read the godawful reviews? If only Biff Tannen had stolen a movie guide instead of a sports almanac, he could have saved Universal Studios the 40 million dollars it spent making ‘Back To The Future Part III’. Wow, what a disaster! You know, I recently saw an ad for some network TV show where a team of intrepid multi-culti adventurers go back in time to save the Hindenburg from exploding, but I think ‘Back To The Future III’ may have been the bigger disaster. Yes, the Hindenburg was terrible, sure, but it all happened pretty quick. Whereas ‘Back To The Future III’ has a running time of two hours! Two hours of watching Teen Wolf and the stoner from Taxi yuk it up in the old West. “Oh, the inanity!”

You probably don’t even remember the movie. That's understandable, it’s a normal human response to block out cinematic traumas like that. To access those repressed bad-movie memories you’d need years of psychotherapy and hypnotic regression. Or basic cable. First of all, who would take a time machine and go back to the Old West? Nobody in their right mind, that’s who. Not even Dr. Who. It was about as bad a place and time as there was. All you could get in the Old West was syphilis or a gunshot wound. The Old West was even worse than Kanye West, he’d probably only give you one of those things.

If you could time travel to the far off future, why would you go back and watch a prospector fall down an abandoned mineshaft? You can watch Leonardo da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa, or you could go watch two drunk cowboys shoot each other for cheating at cards. Actually, that still happens quite often. No time travel necessary, just a bus ticket to Reno.

That’s why I don’t get this Westworld. That’s the place you want to re-create and populate with robots? I could think of dozens of better robot theme parks. Here’s one, how about Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion circa 1974? Hanging out with James Caan, a metric ton of cocaine, and every aspiring centerfold on the west coast sounds like a lot more fun than sitting in the middle of a train robbery shoot-out. Where am I, Chicago? But that’s just me, I guess. Want another great robot idea? How about a robot theme park of the cast of Seinfeld. That would be awesome! I would so go, we’d all go! And they’d all be there, not just Jerry, George, Kramer, and Elaine, but everybody. Mr. Pitt. Tim Watley. Jackie Chiles, Lloyd Braun, Kenny Bania, and of course, Uncle Leo. The bubble boy and Izzy Mandelbaum. “Mandelbaum! Mandelbaum!” Let me know when they build it and I will date the robot Sue Ellen Mischke, the bra-less woman who caused a car accident. She may not be real, but they’re spectacular! Serenity now!

But I digress.

As I was saying, no one would time travel to the Old West.

If somebody actually had a time machine, the conversation would go something like this: “Hey, I have this time machine, and it’s all gassed up with bananas peels and deadly radiation or whatever the hell it runs on, where do you think we should go?”

“We can go anywhere in time? How about we check out a Jimi Hendrix concert! Let’s go see Jimi’s legendary set at Woodstock! Or the Fillmore East, 1970, that’s maybe his best concert ever! C’mon! Hendrix!! Either that or maybe we go back in time and check out Jesus! I’d be cool with that, too, either Jesus or Jimi Hendrix! Which one do you want to go see?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’m worthy to be in the presence of God. So let’s go see Jesus.”

The amazing things you could see with a time machine would blow your mind. You could go see the Great Pyramids of Giza when they were brand new, and still under warrantee. Back when they still had that new Pyramid smell. The Pyramids don’t smell so good today, now the place really Sphynx. That joke never gets old, right? Don’t Tut-Tut me. It’s like they say, mo’ mummy mo’ problems.

You could go back and see who built Stonehenge...the Druids? The Picts? Or was Stonehenge a natural formation, like the face on Mars, and Mount Rushmore.

You could go back in time to see the dinosaurs just before the comet hit, and watch them climb into their dinosaur space-ships and fly off to populate other worlds. The dinosaurs that stayed behind were either wiped out or forced to live underground, until they were discovered by Marshall, Will, and Holly on Saturday mornings in the Land of The Lost.

The spacefaring dinosaurs, over millions of years, eventually became the Gorn, a very tough race of outer-space reptilians. But they got their lizard asses kicked in about 40 minutes by Captain James Tiberius Kirk, and single-handedly. You can say what you want about William Shatner being a complete diva and an asshole to work with, but the man kicked ass and saved the galaxy about a hundred times, and he did it all without a raccoon. As far as I’m concerned, Captain Kirk earned the right to cut scenes from the other cast members just to pad his own lines. Live long and fuck ‘em.

But I digress. I really, really digressed.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, this damn Back to The Future III, it’s kind of haunting me, how bad this movie is. It’s a shame the time-travelers from that TV show couldn’t go back in time and save the time-traveler’s movie franchise. And what is it with time-travel being so popular on television all of a sudden? When did that happen? On TV right now, there is the time-travel show I was talking about, NBC’s Travelers. Also, Fox has Making History, Hulu has 11.22.63, The CW has Legends of Tomorrow, Syfy has 12 Monkeys, and Comedy Central has Time Traveling Bong. And I already mentioned BBC’s Dr. Who. That’s a whole lot of time travel goin’ on! There’s no way there’s enough time in the day for a person to watch all these time-travel shows, you’d actually need to use a time machine to see them all. Or a DVR, I guess.

But I digress. Stop me before I digress again. I think this blog is about politics.

Oh yeah, Donald Trump is the worst President ever.

To find another President as bad as Trump, you’d have to go back at least as far Hoover. Herbert Hoover, that is, not J. Edgar Hoover. It’s easy to confuse the two of them, the Hoovers. But where Herbert Hoover liked to address the public, J. Edgar liked to wear a dress in public. And where Herbert Hoover’s dam looked good, J. Edgar looked damn good. But much like the Hoover vacuum cleaner of that era, both of these guys completely sucked.

Was Herbert Hoover worse than Trump? Let’s compare the two men:

Herbert Hoover was orphaned at an early age. He worked hard to found his own business and became a multi-millionaire. Donald Trump? He was born with a silver spoon up his ass and inherited his multi-millionaire dad’s real estate business. He then went on to bankrupt casinos, screw over independent contractors, and force people to humiliate themselves for jobs on national TV. Oh, and he’s good at firing beauty pageant winners if they gain a few pounds, then ridiculing them in the press. Hmm. it’s close, but I think I gotta give round 1 to Hoover.

Herbert Hoover was Stanford-educated, he was an engineer. But Trump must be smarter, after all, he had his own Trump University! And if it was a phony university like the fake news says, tell me how come all those students went on to earn millions of dollars? Oh, that’s right, it was a 25 million dollar class-action lawsuit settlement he paid out to avoid having his orange ass dragged into court. Round 2, Hoover.

Herbert Hoover built Hoover Dam, one of the greatest structural engineering feats in human history. But then again, Donald Trump built a huge pyramid scheme. So, I’d call this round a draw.

Before Herbert Hoover was President, he was in charge of enormous, complex relief operations in Europe during and after World War I. He served two Presidents as Secretary of Commerce, under both Warren G. Harding and Calvin Coolidge. Before Donald Trump was President? He was in charge of enormous, complex challenges like making Lou Ferrigno and LaToya Jackson make bagels and peddle them on the streets of Manhattan. Trump’s biggest executive decisions were made sitting in a boardroom with Dee Snider, Meatloaf, Joan Rivers, Sinbad, and Dennis Rodman. Who, sadly enough, would make far better cabinet secretaries than the ones he actually chose. Seriously, who do you think has more experience dealing with North Korean ‘weebles-wobble-but-they-don’t-fall-down’ dictator Kim Jong Un: Rex Tillerson or Dennis Rodman? Think about that one. Here’s a hint: it’s the guy with 11,954 rebounds. Dennis Rodman is the only person Trump knows who has actually sat down with ‘Lil Kim’ Jong Un, and he fired him. Now I don’t think I would trust the Worm to handle the North Korea situation by himself, but if he had Jordan, Pippen, and the rest of the 1995 Chicago Bulls with him, we’d have an NBA franchise in Pyongyang by now. And war would have to wait at least through the playoffs. Round 4, Herbert Hoover.

I think we can stop right there. It’s a K.O. at the O.K. corral. Move over, Herbert Hoover, there’s a new worst President in town.

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kearamclaughlin-blog1 · 6 years

Text

Him

Him He did not make me who I am. He treated me like someone I was not all my life. I became particularly aware of the wrongs in the way He treated me the summer I was eleven. We always went to His lake house when we saw him. It was small but cozy and always really warm. We were laying on His new couch and watching a show about mermaids. When we weren’t talking, I usually liked being at his house. As usual He blew raspberries on my sister and I and He touched my back saying,

“Shwook! That’s where I cut your tail off when you were born a monkey.” I didn’t think much of it because He had been doing it since I was a little kid. I hadn’t seen Him in a month because we had been up at our little red cottages in northern Michigan. He hadn’t touched me in a month so coming back to it was a little strange. Sometimes it felt like He didn’t understand that I had grown up. As I was reflecting on this, I felt a shiver run down my spine and an uncomfortable dark feeling overwhelmed me, so I suggested we go out on the lake, just to do something, anything else.

Out on the lake in the paddle-boat was like any other time. As usual He and my sister were paddling and I was sitting in the back. I was looking at the little cracks in the white fiberglass armrest when all of a sudden the boat stopped. I stood up to see what was happening and He pushed me. All I heard was laughter, His laughter, as I went in. I hit the cold water and the darkness closed in all around me. His laughter became muffled and I focused on getting to

the surface. Luckily I was a good swimmer. I brought my head to the surface and I immediately knew something was off. There I saw it, the boat 50 meters away. I heard Him call,

“Swim to the boat and you can get back on.” So I swam. Freestyle, backstroke, butterfly. As I glided through the smooth water, I imagined it like one of my swim meets. Hit the brick, get out and get the shiny ribbon. I swam for what felt like 20 minutes. When I finally looked up, the boat was further. He was further. I didn’t understand. I thought I was swimming too slow and the boat just drifted. So, I swam harder, and harder. When I surfaced again the boat was even further. So I kept swimming, and swimming and swimming. I surfaced a fourth, a fifth a sixth time. Each time the boat was further. The next time I went under I kept my eyes above the water. I saw Him paddling. I swam and he paddled. I would never catch the boat. I had been swimming for 30 minutes and was most of the way across the lake. I was tired. I was done. I stopped.

He turned and yelled, “What are you doing? Swim to the boat!”

I yelled back, “No!” This is when He got mad. As a child it really scared me when He got mad.

“Keara, if you don’t swim to this boat I’ll leave you here.” I knew he would. Because He had. My sister was just watching the ducks dive for fish closer to the shore, trying to not watch or participate in what was happening with me. She never liked to do anything that would upset Him. Out of fear of him leaving me in the lake and just pure frustration that someone would bully me like this, I put my head down in the water and swam my heart out. I swam harder than I ever had before. There was no way in hell that I was going to let Him win again. When my finger touched the cold metal pontoon of the boat, I felt like Michael

Phelps when he won a gold medal. I had finally beat Him. I would never let Him beat me again. But He did... about three weeks later.

My sister and I were at His house again, to spend the night. We had a normal summer day. We went to the soccer fields and I practiced my shots. It was sunny and warm as I watched my ball soared into the back corner of the net. He was taking photos of the birds and flowers and helping my sister take some as well. When we got to His house exhausted from a day spent outside we flopped on the couch and watched Ice Age. He tickled me and when I fought back he pinned me. He used to tell me it would make me tougher. I couldn't move a muscle. My hands were wrapped behind my back and He was sitting on me. I couldn’t breathe, it felt like someone was squeezing my lungs and I started to cry. He told me to stop faking, to toughen up and that I could get out of it. I couldn’t. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. I knew that if I just went limp, He would let me go. And He did, about five minutes later. I went in the bathroom, splashed some water on my face and came back out. We ate the usual dinner of pescatarian Alfredo and Oreos in silence. We watched Home Alone and went to bed. We always watched a lot of T.V. at his house. There wasn't much to talk about that wouldn't escalate into Him yelling.

That is when things started to make me uncomfortable. As I was drifting off to sleep, I felt His hands touching me. I shifted so He couldn't reach me. The peace only lasted a minute until I felt His hands again. All I wanted in that moment was to be anywhere else. I just wanted it to stop. I rolled over and curled up so He couldn’t reach me. In that moment He got mad and I was afraid again. I felt like a speck, too small to defend myself. I had no idea what was going to happen. All He did was say, “Oh, well I guess you don’t like me touching you.”

It was like He was trying to make me feel bad. In a way, I did. I felt like I had done something wrong. Are fathers supposed to touch their daughters like that? Was I wrong? It didn’t feel right to me but then what did I know, I was only eleven. That night those questions kept going through my mind, as I was kept awake by the scratchy sheets and bad feeling in my stomach. The only thing getting me through the night was that I was going home to my mom tomorrow.

When we woke up the next morning I felt numb. I didn't say anything while He made us toaster strudels for breakfast. I didn't eat. I barely blinked. There was nothing going through my head at all. I was frozen. In the car ride home he kept trying to talk to us. I just a stared out the window in frigid silence.

When I walked through the door my mom asked me how my night was. I sat down on the couch and just kept repeating, “It was weird, it was just weird.”

She asked me questions until I broke down and told her what happened, the raspberries, the monkey, the boat and finally the touching. It was her reaction that stuck with me. Her immediate words were, “That is not normal behavior Keara, that is so wrong. So beyond wrong. I am going to make sure that this NEVER happens again.”

It was at this moment that all the other wrong things He had done hit me at a million miles per hour. I had flashbacks to Him hiding in IKEA and me trying to find Him, Him knocking my ice-cream out of my hand, Him forcing me to dive into pools to fetch His keys time and time again, Him tearing me down with his words to bring Himself up, Him trying to make me tougher, Him making me cry while he laughed, Him trying to make me something that I’m not, Him trying to change me, just Him. I sat down on my kitchen floor and cried and cried and

cried. It was this summer day when I was eleven that I vowed to myself that I wouldn't let Him change me anymore. I wouldn't let Him hurt me anymore. I would be myself and never let what He did to me affect the rest of my life. And I haven’t.

I am a survivor of eleven years of belittlement. But now I have developed an indifference to these events. As I have written about my memories, I have felt like I was watching a movie. There were no feelings running through me. I don’t live each day in fear or remembrance of what happened. As Elie Wiesel once said, “The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference.” I don’t love Him nor do I hate Him for what He did to me, I am indifferent towards Him and these events. I refuse to let these events rule me. I refuse to be controlled by anything. I have survived and now each day I work to never be trapped or controlled again.

People frequently ask me about my Him and I usually tell them the same thing. That we don't really see him, but it is okay. People don't understand that I have grown up with 5 Dads. My uncles and my Grandpa. They have all been like a Dad to me in different ways. My Uncle Frank teaches me about law every time I see him. He only reinforces my dream of being a lawyer. My Uncle Kevin is always giving me brilliant books to read and talking about literature with me. My Grandpa tells me stories about the world and my family and reassures me of myself. My Uncle John has shown me what makes a good athlete. He has taught me so much about athletes and running. My Uncle Dennis is always there for me and got me interested in Seinfeld when he saw me one Sunday dinner and said, "Hello Newman" and instructed me to say "Hello Jerry." This is now something we say to each other almost every time we see each other. The most important thing about all of them, is that every time I see them they ask me how I am. I don't think He ever did. They care about me and show that every time I see them with both their

words and actions. And this is a beautiful thing about having 5 Dads. They have all filled in the void that He left. And, I am happy. I have Dads who support me and love me and I am fortunate to have that, because if I didn't have them, I don't know where I would be.

#dad #life #real #writer #sad #writing #narrative #summer #family #trigger

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