#i opened my pencil case today to find this and was quite horrified

[theraccoonsinyourbackyard]

WHAT

WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF

[willow-salix]

Urghhh, boys...

Day 72 of Isolation on Tracy Island.

After yesterday’s posh day we were all feeling the need to be sloppy and just slob around the house but unfortunately Jeff had other ideas.

“You kids are not going to spend another day laying around the house in your pyjamas, I refuse to allow it. I know that the chance of us getting a call out is remote, but we have to be professional, we can’t let our standards slip...are you listening to me?”

Alan was snoring on my shoulder, Gordon was playing a game on his phone, Virgil was lounging on Scott and John hadn't even looked up from his book. None of us were dressed. The three older boys were wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms, only Alan was wearing a T-shirt with his.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jeff muttered, giving up and walking away, no doubt to call one of his buddies and complain about us. Again.

I reached out a foot and nudged Gordon who was only wearing a pair of swim shorts. “Oi, Squidward, he wants us all to get dressed.” I couldn't talk, I was one of the people still in PJ bottoms (stolen) and a vest top and I had planned on staying that way all day too.

None of them made a move to get up, in fact Virgil stretched out further, draping his legs over his brother’s.

“Come on, guys, let's not annoy him too much today." I nudged Gordon again, I wasn't picking on him specifically, he was just the only one I could reach sandwiched between John and Alan as I was, I'd have to over stretch to reach the other two.

"Stop kicking me! Fine, I'll get dressed, but I'm not making any effort with it," Gordon huffed. "In fact, I'm going to find the oldest, scruffiest things I own and I'm going to wear them all day."

"That's actually a funny idea," Scott laughed, "he'd hate that, but you'd be doing exactly what he asked."

"Wanna do it too?" he asked.

"Maybe. Virg?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I suppose we could join in," Virgil agreed slowly.

"Excellent! John, you in?" Gordon asked.

"John?" Scott called when John, as usual, tuned Gordon out quite effectively.

"Yeah?" John didn't look up. I always admire his ability to just be completely in the zone and ignore everything else.

"Are you in?" Gordon asked him.

"In where? When was I out?"

"These numpties seem to think that the best response to your dad wanting us to get dressed is to wear the oldest, grungiest things they own. They want to know if you want to play too," I explained.

"Oh," he scratched his chin as he paused to think about it. "I guess so."

"What about Alan?" Virgil asked.

I nudged him gently. "Allie?" He didn't stir.

"Alan?" I jiggled my shoulder. Didn't work.

John reached over and flicked his forehead.

"Huh? Wah?" he jerked awake, a thin string of drool stretching from my shoulder to his mouth. He scrubbed at his cheek with one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other looking so disoriented I couldn't help but smile even though I did have a soggy shoulder. John passed us kleenex from under the coffee table.

“Eww, sorry,” Alan groaned, horrified.

“It’s fine, boo,” I assured him as I wiped off my shoulder. I’d had worse and probably not for the last time. “Sorry to wake you after you had such a strenuous night killing zombies, but you need to get dressed.”

“We’re gonna wear the worst clothes we own,” Gordon told him.

“OK,” Alan agreed, not even bothering to ask why they were doing such a thing. That was one thing that always made me laugh about him, he just went along with anything without needing an explanation.

“I guess we’re going to look awful today,” I sighed, following them out the door.

I didn't have a lot to choose from since my staying at the Island had been a gradual thing and I still had my own place, so most of the clothes I had shoehorned into an already pretty full wardrobe consisted of things I’d worn while there for one reason or another, a few bits that I’d obviously packed at some point and left there and things I’d left behind because I’d stolen something of someone elses to wear to go home. There were a few things I’d picked up on shopping trips with Grandma but all my truly hideous old stuff was at home.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I complained to John who had his head buried inside his wardrobe and was digging around at the back.

“You always say that and it’s always a lie,” he answered.

“I mean it this time, this isn't just that there's nothing that I want to wear, I truly don’t have anything to wear, I only had the dress I wore last night because I wore it to Penny’s party and didn't go home. I’ve only got stuff here that I actually like, nothing hideous or old.”

“I beg to differ, that T-shirt you wear to bed is both old and hideous.”

“How dare you attack my muppets shirt, he of the disgusting dressing gown! That shirt happens to be my favorite and it’s vintage.”

He didn’t say anything in defense of his silk monstrosity, continuing to rummage for another minute before he backed out, dragging a box with him.

“What have you found?” I asked, genuinely interested. John wasn't one to keep a lot of things that were no longer useful to him, he had the same sentimental streak as the others but he was more practical with it and everyday items didn't seem to warrant the same loyalty as they did to me. I’m the type that won't throw out a broken pencil because I once wrote a shopping list with it. I’m a just in case type of person, it might be useful one day. If it's not useful straight away, John doesn't want it. Serve a purpose or get out.

“My college things,” he flipped open the lid and I got down on the floor to nose through with him. There were sweatshirts, T-shirts, sweatpants, athletic shorts, tank tops and a few T-shirts with witty slogans on them including “I was taught to think before I act, so if I smack you, rest assured I’ve thought about it and I am confident in my decision”, “I wasn't listening, so I’m going to smile and hope for the best” and “I’m not superman, but I am a communications engineer, so close enough.”

“These are absolute gold!” I laughed, dragging them out. “Why don’t you wear these?”

“They were all gifts,” he shrugged. He selected one at random ( “I may be wrong...but it’s highly unlikely”) and a pair of Harvard sweatpants and pulled them on.

“I’ve still got nothing to wear,” I groused. “Help me!”

He gave me a look that said he’d done all he could already and now I was on my own, there was just no helping some people.

“Why don’t you just ask everyone to donate one item and see what you end up with?” he suggested.

“No, that’s ridic-” I paused. “Actually not a bad idea,” I finished and started drafting a text.

***

Jeff walked into the lounge an hour later and stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes tracking from one to the other and then back again, as if he couldn't quite take it all in to start with.

Scott was wearing an old Air Force hoodie and a pair of sweatpants so old that they were skin tight on him and only reached to just below his knees and the T-shirt he wore underneath was so faded it was almost see through.

Alan had emerged in a very short and tight Batman playsuit he apparently had when he was eight to go to a birthday party.

Gordon had donned an old shirt that said “I kiss dolphins on porpoise” with a very faded, too short and too tight shirt that looked like it might have once had waves and a surfboard on it but now I couldn't be sure, and he’d finished it off with a pair of olympic speedos. It was a look, I’d give him that.

Virgil just looked a mess, a grungy, disgusting mess, not helped by the fact that his standard look this week had been homeless lumberjack. His jeans, which I ‘think’ were once blue, had so many grease stains and paint splatters on them it was hard to tell, they were so stiffly encrusted with grot, especially on the thighs were he had a habit of wiping his hands, they looked like they could stand up on their own. His T-shirt was in a similar state as Scott’s, it had been white but had worn so thin you could see through it and it too was covered in paint splotches and had grease stain hand prints on it. What did that boy do to his damned clothes?

I looked the worst of the bunch. They had come through for me in spectacular fashion. I was wearing a T-shirt of Alan’s that had some computer game logo on it and was ripped half way up one seam, a pair of Hawaiian board shorts from Gordon, an old flannel shirt of Virgil’s (yep, it was dirty too and had little holes in it where he’d been grinding something and sparks had flown everywhere) and for some reason Scott had presented me with a very strangely patterned bandanna he’s picked up in Egypt, which was tied around my head.

“Hey, Dad, we got dressed!” Gordon called out cherrily, waving from his spot on the couch.

“Don’t bother to tell me what is going on, I don’t even want to know,” he sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. Without another word he turned around and walked straight back out again.

Poor Jeff, when he told us to be professionals he should have realised that he was asking the impossible.

[breakingisabella]

okay so a lovely anon requested this scenario based on a previous post i made and i posted my response earlier but i actually misread their ask and wrote something completely different SO here’s my make-up response. it’s super long and not great because i’m tired but i hope it’s okayyyy

bella opens the door to charlie’s house to find alice on the doorstep

she had stayed there the night before after helping charlie plan a community hike into the early hours of the morning and had just decided to crash there

“bella-… don’t drive your car to work.” alice commanded, her golden eyes wide and frantic

“what?” bella scoffs. “how else am i supposed to get there?”

“edward’s going to pick you up in a few minutes and take you there.”

“why? what’s wrong with my car?”

“i had a vision, you were in a crash on the highway. you-…”

now bella’s eyes widen and she puts her hand to her mouth. “oh my god alice, i died?” she squeaks, horrified

“yes. bella it was horrible i-… please don’t get in your car.”

“um okay. sure, alice.”

“thank you.”

“i should probably be thanking you. you definitely just saved my life. i forgot how handy that little gift of yours is.”

“sometimes it can be a blessing, it’s true.” alice smirks, pleased to have saved the day. then she turns on her heel and runs into the forest opposite charlie’s

edward picks her up a few minutes later as predicted 

“i hope alice’s vision didn’t freak you out too much.” bella says to him on the drive in to work

it might be her imagination but he seems to be driving more carefully than he used to

“surely it scared you too?”

“yeah, but i figured out a long time ago that i was destined to die, like almost every other person on the planet. it’s a curse we’re forced to bear.”

he shakes his head, “it doesn’t have to be today.”

“you can’t save me every time edward.” she mutters. “that’s why you left, remember?”

“i remember. i know that there will be a day when i can’t do anything to save you. but again, today is not that day.”

they arrive at the store and as bella’s fumbling for her door keys she asks him if he’s going to come in

“as fun as working in the store sounds, i have to keep a low profile around town in case anyone recognises me.” he smirks. “my family and i are going to hunt, but i’ll be back before you close up to drive you home again.”

“ahh my knight with shining bmw.” she chuckles sarcastically

“six o’clock?”

“perfect. see you then.”

bella sets up for the day and has just started on her accounts when jake strides in and grins at her

“hey jake, what’s up?” bella says, putting down her pencil and looking at him expectantly

“not much. can you keep an eye on my bike for me?” he nods in the direction of the parking lot

“sure, why?”

jake throws her the keys as he answers, “i’m helping out with the fourth grade school field trip and then molly’s just gonna pick me and luke up from there to go for dinner so i won’t need it till tomorrow.”

“why do i need to take the keys?”

“in case i somehow decide it’s a good idea to come and get the bike before going down for the big beach party tonight and then think i can drive home after a few-…”

“okay i get it.” bella laughs. “sure, i’ll keep them here until you’re sober enough to get it and yourself home in one piece.”

“you coming to the party?”

“i can’t, i have plans?”

jake raises his eyebrows and surveys the accounts books, “sure, this looks super exciting.” 

“these are not my plans!”
“well then bring charlie to the party too!”

“jacob, i do have other things going on in my life. i have friends. i’m hanging out with an old high school friend as it happens.”

“who?”

“you wouldn’t remember them.”

“oh so it’s a date. is that why your car isn’t here? you spend the night with your date?” he teases her

“jake!”

“whatever, i don’t care and i’m going to be late for luke’s field trip and i need to earn back some dad points with him. i’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“i’ll be here.”

“you better be. love ya.”

“love you too jake.”

she hangs the keys up on the hook as jake leaves on foot and tries to get on with the day’s tasks without thinking about edward 

it’s not easy and she spends three hours stacking the same shelf because she keeps falling into a daydream about a certain meadow

towards the end of the day, just as the sun is starting to set her phone rings

it’s jake’s eldest daughter, justine

“aunt bella?” she says in a panicked voice 

“hey, what’s wrong? justine, are you alright?”

“not really… i-… god, i need you to come and get me.”

bella’s brow immediately furrows with worry as she pulls her jacket on with one hand and holds the phone in the other, “where are you?”

“i’m at the beach, i was with carter but he wanted to-… do stuff and i wasn’t ready and i told him to leave me here but now i’m stuck and-…”

“where are your parents?”

“mom’s not answering her phone and i didn’t want dad to know what happened. you’re the only other person i trust with this. please, please come and get me. i really need you.”

bella reaches the door and then remembers the major obstacle between her and her eldest goddaughter, “i don’t have my car.”

“how’d you get to the store?” justine asks as though the idea of being without a car is completely unbelievable 

“i got a ride… with a friend.”

“can you call them to come get me or something? please, it’s starting to get dark and i don’t know my way back and-…”

bella glances at the hook on the wall and spots jake’s keys 

“okay, okay. don’t panic. i’ll be there.”

“thank you aunt bella, i owe you one.”

alice saw it happen

and because alice saw it, edward did too

every agonising moment

a split second decision to grab jacob’s keys

even as edward took off in a sprint back towards forks he knew he’d never make it in time to stop her

the road was too wet

she took the bend too quickly in her haste to help the girl

jacob’s daughter

the bike’s engine squealed and there was a gut-wrenching thunk and crack as her skull met the tarmac

and then bella swan was gone

just like that

charlie insisted on seeing her at the hospital but he wished he had given in when they told him it wasn’t a good idea

the blood had matted her hair and her brown eyes stared at nothing, seeing nobody

the bloom in her cheeks, her warmth, had completely evaporated

jake picked charlie up from the hospital and took him home

two men, their faces warped by age, desolately mourning the girl they had both loved more than themselves 

both blaming themselves for her death

jake tried to console charlie even as his own heart was breaking but charlie wouldn’t listen

“i’m her dad jake. i’m supposed to protect her. i’m the one that’s supposed to tell her that everything’s gonna be alright even when i don't think it will be and then it’s my responsibility to go out there and change the world in every way to make sure that things are alright for her. i’m-… except i’m not. i’m not her dad anymore jake. my daughter’s dead. i’m not a dad. you can’t be a father to a person that doesn’t exist. and what am i if i’m not bella swan’s dad? i’m nothing.”

“charlie. bella will always exist. you think something as insignificant as death could stop her from being a part of our lives? no way. she’s here and she’s looking after us, just like she always did.”

“i wish i could believe that jake. but i don’t. i’m never gonna see her again. i’m never gonna get to tell her how much i love her or how much i wish-… i wasted so much time jake. i should have followed renee when she took bella away from forks, i should have insisted that i be a part of her life from the beginning. i lost out on so much of her life.”

“it’s not your fault.”

“of course it is.”

“well it still doesn’t matter charlie. you might not have had quite as much time with her as you would have wanted, but you still go a lot of time with her. and bella is-… was… so extraordinary that even a minute with her brought the joy of a lifetime.”

“she never hurt a single person in her entire life.”

“i don’t think she’d agree with that.”

“what do you mean?”

“she always used to say that she knew she’d go to hell because she’d put you through it more than once and it seemed only fair that she have a turn too.”

“god if that girl ended up in hell then there’s no hope for god himself getting into heaven.”

“it’s gonna be okay charlie. and you’ll always be her dad. you think i’d stop being a dad if something happened to my kids? or do you think my kids would stop having a dad if something happened to me?”

“i guess not.”

“some things can’t be broken. no matter what. now come on, stop moping around. we got a store to run.”

they go to the bookstore and clean it up preparing it for business as usual the next day, as bella would have done

the register is still on

she hadn’t thought she’d be long

she was going to get justine on the back of the bike and ride her all the way back to the store, telling her not to tell jake that she had let his daughter ride without a helmet

then she would have made two mugs of hot tea and made justine tell her everything

she would have held her goddaughter while she cried and made everything feel better

after an hour or two of working hard, keeping his mind off the pain, charlie gave in and retreated to bella’s apartment above the store to be alone

jake remained downstairs trying not to think

he’d told charlie not to blame himself because he knew for a fact that bella’s death was nobody’s fault but his own

if he had only kept his keys

if he had only trusted himself to be sensible for once

then the silver bells above the door chime interrupting his thoughts

“we’re closed.” he says coldly

“i know.” edward replies.

[atsumus-left-tit]

A Drive Down Memory Lane Chapter 2: The First Encounter

A Jikook Angst/Fluff AU

One | Previous | Next 

After a car accident sends Jungkook into a deep coma, Jimin is forced to relive all of their memories as he awaits his awakening. As each day passes, Jimin grows more and more depressed as Jungkook’s chances of waking slowly start to slip away…

The sound of shoes hitting the polished tiles echoed through the deserted hallway. White washed walls being illuminated by fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant lingered in the air. Jimin’s groggy figure turned the corner through the never ending maze, being trailed by MoonRi and Yoongi. Slowly falling deeper and deeper into his pit of grief and fear. Counting the room numbers that passed him by finally making it to room 204. He reached out for the handle, pausing to take a deep breath.

"It'll be alright Jimin," MoonRi put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Yoongi and I will be right here if you need us, okay?" Jimin only nodded in response, too scared his voice may break if he were to say a word. Slowly he turned the handle to Jungkook's room revealing a pale figure laying in the bed. His eyes closed, his head shaved, what was left was covered by the bandages. His chest was slowly rising and sinking with the help of the machines adjacent to the bed.

He looks so peaceful....

Jungkook did not look as if he was in pain, he looked quite the opposite. He seemed as if he was only sleeping, in a peaceful slumber. Jimin hesitantly walked over to the bed his lover was in, tears flowing as he wrapped his arms around himself tightly. Slowly he reached out to caress his lovers’ cheek. "My baby..." he muttered almost silently. His eyes traveled down his body as if examining his injuries, his eyes landed on his lovers fingers. They were rough, he'd played guitar for as long as Jimin could remember, the beeping of the heart monitor faded as the memories flashed by.

    The park...

The trees blew in the cool spring breeze, a young Jimin sat on the hill, a paintbrush in one hand while his other held his morning tea. Fresh from college, the young artist came to the park every morning. The endless rolling hills seeming to change with each rising sun, the people come and go; but never change. The same old man walked his granddaughter to school every day, her hair always fell into two braids. The young businessman ran to work, his coffee and briefcase falling almost every time. A woman took her corgi for a walk, the same obnoxious orange leash connecting to the collar around his neck. Always the same, always comforting, he knew everyone and they knew him. He was the artist who would capture the moment. He rarely sold his paintings and he rarely kept them, he normally gave them to whomever he had captured in his oil paint. By now everyone had grown used to the artist’s ways.

     Today was no different than the rest, Jimin looked around searching for his next victim. The breeze that once blew through the trees slowly came to a stop, a beautiful melody flew through the air instead. Jimin looked to the unfamiliar source to find a young man, not much younger than he, sitting under the tree strumming a guitar. Something about the boy, the boy playing the guitar, made Jimin freeze. He was a painter, yet for the first time in his life the brush felt heavy in his hand. He sat frozen staring at the boy from a distance, as did everyone else being lured in by the magnificent melody. Time stood still. Only for a second, the man and his granddaughter were silenced, the business man no longer running, and the dogs attention was on something other than the ball. He was enchanting, like a snake charmer. Even through the hustle and bustle of this seemingly uncoordinated town, it was easy to spot the new soul, someone so obviously out of place. However, just as quickly as time froze it was resumed, just as Jimin's brush fell from his hand he quickly drew his pencil across the paper.

     Day after day Jimin found himself drawing the boy, his brown locks framed his tired, yet beautiful face. His hands played with perfection as people tossed their spare change into his case, his head bowing each time. He was so different, so new. Jimin had seen every face in this side of town at least once, but here he was, a strange man had slowly wiggled his way into the daily routine.

     One day... Three days... Seven...

     One drawing... Five drawings... Eleven...

     It had been over a week since Jimin had painted, for some odd reason he couldn't find the inspiration, all he wanted to do was draw. His folder grew with each day adding a new drawing of the young musician. It slightly upset Jimin, he was the painter in town but he no longer painted, he no longer used color. He never wished to give the boy his drawings either. There was something about the drawings, he wanted them for himself. Several weeks passed, Jimin slowly learnt the pattern; he was never there on Thursday or Sunday. Jimin guessed he was in college, or working maybe. Those days he spent drinking coffee and finishing his final products of the young musician, maybe even taking the time to sketch out the landscape.

     Jimin yearned to interact with this man but could never seem to start a conversation, what could he say? hi, I think you’re really hot and I love listening to you play. When you sing along my heart flutters. Right, of course he would say that. The two simply continued to coexist, merely passing one another by until that one day. The breeze was strong, spring was turning to summer. Jimin, distracted by thought didn't notice how the wind had picked up and swept away a handful of the drawings. His eye caught the musician himself hold one of the drawings while reaching down to pick up another, a horrified gasp left his lips as he darted to the younger man.

     "Hey!" Jimin's voice cracked as he stopped in front of the boy. That was it, time froze just as it had the first day he had played his hypnotic melody. Their eyes locked, neither able to look away, the silence was comfortable.

    "Did you draw this?" there was something to his voice, was it admiration? Maybe confusion. Jimin could barely find the words to speak, clearing his throat in an attempt to avoid another embarrassing voice crack.

“No.. I.. uhm.. Can I have that back?” Jimin really didn’t want to fess up to drawing the three pieces currently in the strangers hand. With a bit of courage Jimin began reaching out to take the drawings from his hand. However, he was met with a rather amused smirk, the hand holding onto the papers was quick to lift them into the air far from the reach of the shorter male.

“Oh? So you’ve just been staring at me these last few weeks because you’re a creep? And not because you’ve been drawing me? I think that might be even creepier...” his voice was soft, tone playful. Jimin could feel the way his pale cheeks began to grow a deep shade of red. With a huff he blew his bangs from his face.  

“Okay listen, I, no, I am not a creep I just… Can I please have my drawings back?” Jimin was running low on excuses, and being so close to the boy didn’t help either. With one last attempt Jimin leant forward to try and grab the fleeting papers.

“Ah, so they are yours…” continuing to hold them out of reach he continued with a mischievous voice, “what will you give me for them?” Jimin could only gawk at the sudden question.

“Sorry… what?” His eyes grew wide as he stared up at the tall man.

“You heard me… What are you going to give me?”

“I… well…” Jimin was at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing many times before he finally spoke again. “What do you want?” Bingo. There was that smirk again. There was zero hesitation in his reply.

“Dinner,” before Jimin could even react, he continued, “I will return these to you after you take us out for dinner… Jimin…” his brown eyes flickered toward the drawing for a moment, the signature at the bottom was a clear print of his name.

“Oh.. well I…” with a bit of a cough Jimin continued, “I suppose that is a fair deal…” he took a pause, as if silently asking for his name. However all he got in reply was a smirk and silence. The boy slowly began to retreat toward his tree, his eyes never leaving the boy. “Wait! What’s your name?” again, silence. Using the papers to cover his grown smile, the stranger simply winked at him before spinning around.

“Tonight? I’ll meet you at 8, right here. Until then, Jimin.” He tossed the artwork into his guitar case before snapping it shut. Tugging the strap over his shoulder he threw one last wink at the flustered man before walking away.

Jimin stood in shock, staring at the mans retreating back. He was about to yell one last time, yet he stopped when he felt a single raindrop touch his cheek. His gaze lifted to the grey sky above him.

    Another... Drop after drop....

    Tears rolled down onto Jungkook’s hospital gown as Jimin came back to Earth. The tears kept falling as he realized that their meeting was long gone, that his lips no longer carried a warm smile, but a cold frown with a plastic tube between them. Jimin’s heart ached as he quietly cried for his lover; his broken lover.

    One day down...

Chapter 3: Date Night Shenanigans 

[surelypovichjr]

Surely Gets a Brazilian, Part 2: Waxing Poetic On My Big Olympics Scoop

Part 1 of my Brazilian adventure can be found here.

Part 2

A plane touches down at Galeão International Airport. Amongst its passengers a writer, a great writer, a man, naturally. But this man is not just any writer—no— this man is a sportswriter, sent south undercover of night on a mission of remarkable import—to bravely type up an Internet article about athletic events played by young people.  

Of course, the man had been an athlete in his salad days; a backup point guard at Charles W. Woodward High in Rockville, Maryland. No slouch on the hardcourt, the boy averaged nearly several points per game—he set the team record for highest three point shot percentage in a season, with a damn perfect 100% accuracy on one attempt, in the final thirty seconds of a junior year thrashing of Whitman High—a school record that stands to this day. (Editor’s Note: Charles Woodward High School closed in 1987. Today, the building operates as Tilden Middle School.)

That being said, it was clear that the boy simply wasn’t cut from the same athletic cloth as his contemporaries, like DeMatha’s Adrian Dantley or even his teammate and one-time bar mitzvah partner, Chip Rosenbaum; a slew of physical detractments inherited from the boy’s German ancestors had taken its toll on his portly frame.

Dantley’s DeMatha squad. Guess who they lost to that one time? Yers Surely!

Chip would often poke fun at his friend’s grotesquely wide Silesian ankles and thin birdlike arms, which were viewed as a sign of attractiveness amongst the aristocracy of the 19th century Holy Roman Empire. In fact, the boy was thrown out of the Adas Israel Hebrew School when he joked that no one in his family had lifted a weight since his great-great-great-great grandfather helped build the pyramids at Giza. Despite its bald-faced ludicrousness, the veracity of this statement has yet to be overturned. 

Even though Chip would ceaselessly lampoon him, the two remained good friends for a time, even if they did constantly compete, and argue, oh how they argued! Constantly! Most of the times it was about mundane shit but other times, it got heated—like the time the two debated for six hours about which joint made the best matzoh ball soup in the Washington area. Chip was a Hofberg’s guy while his friend couldn’t get enough of the Silver Diner’s delicious piping hot broth—Chip couldn’t understand how one’s mouth could take such punishment. To settle the matter, the two spent all day playing hooky from school, driving all throughout the Washington area, avoiding truancy officers and tasting soups. Their disagreement remained...the friendship was never the same after that.

A 1950s menu from Hofberg’s Kosher Delicatessen. JHSGW Collections, gift of Ann Hofberg Richards.

Still, despite his horrifying asthma, the boy possessed a certain intelligence that more than made up for his Transylvanian feet and congenital gout. The writer had always played basketball with a mental grip that sometimes escaped the Chip Rosenbaums of the world, and as the years wore on and the modicum of athletic prowess that he thinly grasped bid adieu to his flabby fat fuck body, the man found that he retained the capacity to understand the idiosyncracies of the game, to comment on that which he could no longer do, to criticize those that could still perform, to yell and bemoan the way in which Adrian Dantley couldn’t hit a free throw to save his whore mother’s life.

Knock knock?

Who’s there?

It’s me, sportswriting, and I’m here to tell you that you are a natural fit for this profession.

The man was pudgy now but actually still very attractive in a weird I wanna fuck that old guy kinda way. Oh, If only he could be twenty in his sixty-seven years old brain! Why, the great writer would show these world class Olympic athletes a thing or two, no question, Carl. He'd probably fuck their girlfriends too...like he did Chip Rosenbaum’s steady behind the Bethesda Hot Shoppes after the Danny Gatton show in ‘78...but of course he could still totally make women orgasm a lot, a no-brainer given his legendary girth. His dick works very well, I'm told. But that is a whole host of other great stories the well-endowed man, who is actually me, will one day tell, obviously some names will have to be changed— legal reasons—ongoing cold cases—but that's neither here nor there.

The Hot Shoppes where I made it with this hot redhead who went by the name of Sherri Epstein after a Danny Gatton show back in ‘78. Ask for the Mighty Mo—fantastic burger—also the nickname for my crank.

Deplaning onto the tarmac, the veteran reporter finds himself smack dab in the middle of Brazil, sent to Rio over two years before any other sportswriter. Six hundred days. Six hundred days for one lone wolf to mush out ahead of the pack, to befriend the slighted, to lift up the downtrodden, and maybe, lend a helping hand. Sledding through the airport, the man stops to buy a sandwich, an exotic one he's never tasted before. The talented writer takes a long slow bite of the sandwich, which has some kind of sauce whose flavor he cannot place, unfamiliar and unArbys-like on his undiscerning sportswriter palate. Discarding the unsatisfying meal, he goes outside, where a dog, a husky mix of some sort, saunters up to greet him. The man looks with some curiosity at the puppy, who is slow and confused in returning his gaze. With a gentle shrug the dog takes a whiz all over the man’s polyester slacks...six hundred days left to go...so much for a leg up, I guess.

In line at the taxi stand, the writer suck into my nostrils some of Brazil’s finest air. Immediately I find myself wholly reviled by the fetid stench that has taken root in my deepest olfactory senses.

“Smells like corruption,” says the man, wretching on a second lungful.

Sherri Epstein. 

Waiting for me outside is a prepubescent punker holding a can of my favorite ginger ale.

“We meet again,” says a tall boy with strawberry hair.

“Yeah, uh, who are you?” 

“I’m Trevor, your photographer...I bailed you out after the thing with your child support and your altercation with the North Bethesda Police Department.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. You have to understand, I get bailed out of jail quite a bit for altercations with the North Bethesda Police Department.”

“Really?”

“Obviously not, what the hell is wrong with you? I’m a model fuckin’ citizen,” I say, swigging the ginger ale.

“Soo, you do remember me then?”

“Honestly. No.”

“Okay, well, if you wanna just follow me,” he says opening the passenger door to his rental car. “Bill sent me your flight itinerary and told me to scoop you up so we can get started. Only got a couple years til this whole Olympics thing starts, hehe.”

The writer has been married enough times to know that this will be a terrible match. Best for us to just go our separate ways now. Call the service, explain yer still under the warranty, and they'll send the gal back to one of the countries with a -stan suffix, no questions asked. That's the ticket.

“I don't need you or your fancy camera,” he tells his lame photographer.

“This is an iPhone,” he says.

“And this middle finger is an I-hate-you. Make like an omelette and flip, ‘fore I get mad.”

“No one’s gonna tie me down,” says the writer, as Trevor gets back into his car and drives away. Bill’s heard the stories. The man thinks he can babysit a Povich. The penis wheels on that guy, muses the man, shaking my head.

With the chaperone gone, Surely Povich Jr. is ready to plunge taint deep into my Rio adventure.

My first stop is the library, natch, where Yers Surely spends upwards of an hour doin hardcore research on everything blue, yellow, and green the colors that are on the Brazilian flag, I soon find out. There's also a River whose naming rights have been purchased by one of the world's largest online book stores—might this be the connection I need to root out the corporate corruptions? Time will tell. 599 more days to get to the bottom of it.

The librarian’s name is Isabel, a meek and pretty girl in that traditional sort of way. Isabel seems like a very simple girl, shy, but helpful, unconfidently pursing her lips even though she says that she’s been working here for a few years now. I nod and look into Isabel’s hazel eyes, which are obscured by a pair of bifocals, reading glasses, necessary for perusing the many books that are held in this library. Isabel laughs in a way that I like but cannot put my finger on, lilting with a femininity that I myself do not possess. Her hair is the color of a box of blonde hair coloring, blond and yellow, cropped into a nest at the top of her head with a pencil. She also had great cans.

“Call me Izzy,” she says, pointing me towards several key books on South American corruption.

“Most of these are in Portuguese,” I say, drawing a frowny face on one of the covers.

“You will have to compensate the library for the damage to the book jacket,” says Izzy.

Content with my progress, I decide that it’s time to knock on back to my Airbnb to smoke a ferocious doob.

“Hasta la an hour or so,” I tell my librarian friend.

Home is a five story walk up near the Copacabana. My grand nephew, Mike Kemp had found the place on the World Wide Web. the proprietor Jorge couldn't be a nicer guy. The minute I checked in he was offering me all the good stuff, killer Amazonian Broccoli, Yayo de Janeiro, and also some kinda hallucinogen made from a poison dart frog--I could already tell that Jorge was really a top landlord, even if he was a talking dolphin now, which I thought was a very strange choice to make on his part.

Stoned on frog dust, I check email to find a missive from long-time ladyfriend Sun Xi, or rather, her lawyer, one Warren M. Wagglestein:

Dear Surely,

As you are well aware, you have been deficient in your payment of child care and support for Ms. Xi and her child, Ping Povich. You are in arrears for back payments in the amounts of $4,674.89, pretty much all payments since you received the results of your blood test.

Mr. Povich, I understand that you are a sportswriter in an ever-dwindling media landscape of diminishing returns for your quality reporting on great men of sport. Nonetheless, it is our legal obligation to inform you that all wages earned within the United States or for U.S. based employers will result in the immediate garnishment of your wages for purposes of covering these back payments.

In essence, I strongly advise you not to return to the North Bethesda area. Sun Xi and I are very happy together-- we are engaged to be married at the Pooks Hill Marriott this spring. Moreover, your son, Ping, has begun studies at Brandeis University. He no longer wishes to be a sportswriter like his father. You can imagine that his mother and I are merrily elated at his wise decision to become an athlete.Young Ping is quite the swimmer these days. Very impressive.

Stay in Brazil, Surely!

Warren

What a mockery Ping has made of the Povich name! A fucking athlete. Truly a disgrace.

The Grosvenor Market, which I am no longer banned from frequenting. Stone’s throw from both my duplex and the Pooks Hill Marriott. I threw a stone at it one time after my Milano’s were all melted. I got banned cuz of that.

Putting down Warren’s letter, I can't help but think to myself what Dad would do in a situation such as this one. I remember the time he recounted the occasion of his big story on Ty Cobb. Of course, Dad hated that racist Cobb but not as much as he loved the way that openly proud member of the Ku Klux Klan ran those bases.

“It’s always important to remain objective,” Dad said. “The story is bigger than how much I hate Ty Cobb for being racially insensitive and beating minorities within inches of their lives. It’s about the baseball and how he ran those bases dammit. That's the story that needs to be told. Not the assaults on minorities. Leave that fluff for the tabloids. You're a sportswriter, son. That's a sacred thing.”

Dad was right about this responsibility...Which is why I decided to stick it out around Brazil to see what happened with the Olympic Games. Besides, My prospects for earning pay stateside were pretty much scuttled. As such, I did what I knew dad would to pay for Ping’s tuition. Not pay for it at all and Wait for the little fucker to age out of being a dependent...textbook Povich move. It was just like Dad’s many different families and my 10 half-brothers who came to contest his will back in 1998. Now that's what I call a family reunion!

“Surely, yer a chip off the old block,” Dad would say, if he were still alive and not floating above me in an ethereal amphibian induced hallucination.

“Thanks, Dad,” I'd reply.

I just remembered that one of my half-brothers is named Caleb...wonder how he's doing.

Still tripping my crank off, I get a yellow taxi cab back to the library, as there’s a hardcore skin joint next door, whose books boobs I wanna check out.

The City of Goddess is a gold medal strip club nary a stone’s throw away from the Biblioteca Nacional; it’s also very close to one of the modern world's most horrifying slums, which in Portuguese-speak are exotically referred to as horrifying favelas.

Indeed, many of the sex workers employed by the City of Goddess hail from these highly impoverished locales, where the money they earn stripping for members of the Brazilian Parliament and International Olympics Committee, are passed down to their families and those neighbors in need.

“Mr. Povich, is that you?” asks a stripper, in nuthin’ but a 100 years of solitude themed g-string.

“Hey Isabel!” I exclaim, recognizing my helpful librarian.

I watch as Izzy sashays her way down the catwalk, admiring her provocative bikini bottom that features the tired hand of an aged farmhand white knuckling a banana. Is it suggestive of a boner, perhaps, but also, the plight of unfair labor practices in the Americas.

Frog I tripped balls on.

“So Surely, did you find someone to translate the book on Rio’s corrupt political class that I placed on your workstation, earlier today?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance. Unless...”

“Meet me in the champagne room,” she replies.

“Sounds good Izzy. Are we gonna talk sex stuff. Maybe negotiate a price for services?”

“We can talk about that...or we can talk about...other stuff,” she says, grinding on my slacks, finally dry from all the dog urine that had accumulated earlier in the day. “For instance, in Rio, the poor and marginalized are never too far away from those places where millions of dollars in public money are being spent to build a volleyball stadium.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You're a reporter aren't you?

“One of the best!”

“Doing an exposé on corruption before the Olympic Games?

“I believe so!”

“So write that down.”

“That’s a good idea, Izzy. Say do you know where the guy with all the skirt steak went? He was just here a minute ago and, well, I guess maybe he’ll be in the VIP area.”

Sure enough, he is in the VIP area, where I bear witness to a schmorgasbord of greased palms. All around me are good looking men, the bourgeois upper-class of Rio mixed with the seedy underbelly of the city’s criminal classes, blended together in pursuit of big tits and the best all you can eat buffet this side of the equator.

“Be careful who you talk to, Surely. These are some heavy hitters,” says Izzy, cozying up to a table of men to pour them a bottle of expensive vodka. One of the men in the party seems to know my librarian friend better than the rest, and after a moment of whispering in her ear, he seems receptive to an introduction.

“Mr. Povich, Isabel has told me so much about you,” says a man, dressed dapper in pants that aren’t soaked in urine.

“Do I know you?”

“It’s been years Surely, but indeed we do.

My mind is clouded from jet lag and the psychotropic poison of brazil’s most endangered frog, but still somewhere in my deepest recesses I slowly look past the man’s impeccable tan. That smile. The chai necklace...

“I knew it was you...I recognized those East German ankles from across the club. It’s me, Chip Rosenbaum!”

“Holy shit!” I say, recognizing my old friend. “Chip, what the hell are ya doin’ here?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Well...you look great,” I tell him, “and I just gotta say, I'm truly sorry about that thing years back.”

“With Sherri Epstein?”

“Nah, with the soup. Though, I gotta be honest...I still maintain that Silver Diner had the best matzoh ball soup in the entire area at the time.”

“Surely, they never made matzoh ball soup at the Silver Diner...only chicken noodle.”

“Nah, I think you’re mistaken there. They made a wonderful broth. Way better than that shit they served Hofberg’s...not sure why you liked it but hey, that’s your journey, I guess.”

“Surely, that was never what I was mad abou...I...anyway, it’s water under the bridge...or rather, premature ejaculation with Sherri Epstein behind the Hot Shoppes, right?”

“Oh, I don't think that's what happened. I think I made it with her in the family Volvo and that we orgasmed together to completion a whole bunch, no? Anyway, let's let bygones be bygones, eh Chip?”

“Whatever you say, Surely,” says Chip, giving me a clap on the back. “Rest assured, as sure as you jizzed your slacks with Sherri Epstein behind the Hot Shoppes, I forgive you...and I also have your story. But first, a business proposition.”

Imagine this but in bikini form. You get the picture.

I wet my beak with a conga line of coke Chip had procured seemingly out of nowhere. Chip went on to ask me to go into business with him instead of penning a potentially inflammatory story about Rio’s underbelly of vice and crime. I had to admit, like the patented scoop shot that beat Springbrook High at the buzzer back in December ‘76, Chip Rosenbaum had just made one of his classic great points.“It’s a boring story,” I admitted. 

At this, Chip seemed very happy. He showed his joy by handing me several 50 real bank notes with an endangered jaguar printed on the back. I gladly took the money and spent it four and a half seconds later, foisting it affectionately into the garmented string of a nearby sex worker. I don’t think it was a bribe.

“So, Chippy-boy. What’s this big business proposition you got in mind?” “Tell me Surely, what do you know about...American Respectable Burger Yeasayers?”

“You mean...Arbyyyyy’s?...?”

[exquisitelyeco]

Having a Ramble.....or just rambling....Literally and figuratively speaking.....

If you have noticed, which I am sure you have not, I ramble. I don’t mean ramble, I mean ramble….

As in take turns unexpectedly. Or you might think I do ramble, as in ramble on…..in which case piss off and read something else…….

So. As I said. I ramble. And you know what, it comes together remarkable well! My trains of thought may well stop at many different destinations, but they Flowwwwww.

And, as you have seen, God tells me little truths. Gems hidden in my spirit, that get dug out as I ramble on ( not ramble on as in ramble on, but ramble on as in rambling, you understand. If you think I AM rambling, you know what to do….)

So, anyway. Rambling……it fits. Simple.

Except today I don’t seem to have a ramble. Probably because I am proud and have fallen from rambling grace…..

I got scratched. Have you noticed, pride comes before a fall? Well, I fell into rambles. I mean bra, MLB…..brambles. That was spell prediction back then. I thought I’d leave it and see what happened….. that’s when the rambling normally starts to make sense, even to me, but I only just saw it because, as you know, I was rambling.

I mean saw the gem of truth, not that I was rambling now, but rambling then….

It’s like seeing a penny on the floor. There you are, walking along, and you see it. Do you pick it up? Will people think you are desperate? Will they look? Will THEY try to grab the penny? Is it shiny? Do you actually open your purse and put it in, or leave it in your pocket, where it stays for ever…..

Well, I get the pennies. People must think, ‘She’s blind with a guide dog, HOW does she see the pennies?’ My dog is a metal detector…..

But. Do you know you can have penny prophecies? Seriously! I have and my Son no 2 has. He had a dream that down our road was a £10 note. The next day he walk down the road, and he found the ten pound note…..

I found a five pound note on the floor, no this one was not prophecy, it was just a five pound note……No, I am not rambling, this will join up, if you follow the ramble….I see a gem of truth, I AM actually rambling…..BUT, do you expect to find a fiver and then another one in a few days? I was meandering along, not rambling, when I felt to look down, just behind me, and THERE was a fiver! There were two girls behind me. In the few seconds that followed my thoughts were…’ Will they see it? Will they get it before me? Will it get embarrassing? Will they think, she has a guide dog, how?? Will I get embarrassed reaching down for it? See how quick my mind works? Anyway, I got that fiver. I thought God must be blessing me….

There is a dilemma, do you hand a fiver in? Or a tenner, or twenty? Depends where you found it. Recently a lady found a ten pound note in a shop and pocketed it. She got arrested for theft. Cos it was in a shop. I think they thought she knew it had been dropped too. I bet that sucked. I was in Tesco once, and the person in front of me dropped a heap of money. It crossed my mind, to take it. But I didn’t. Don’t judge, it would cross yours too. And if not, still don’t judge, I didn’t take it! Anyway, they turned round and saw it…..

Anybody can have thoughts…..And before you judge mine, think about the dirty little secret thoughts of things YOU’VE had, and wouldn’t want to confess. Cos if you judge me, karma states it will be your little secrets that get shouted from the roof tops…..

But if you find a fiver or tenner out on the road, and there is no one there, what do you do? Frankly it is up to you. If it was more than ten, I would most probably hand it in. But ’ twould be a mind and heart tearing dilemma, If it was under, possibly not. And not a fiver. Before you moan, where does it stop? You’d have me give the bloody penny in too!

Think like that and I’ll batter you will all the pennies on the pavements in the UK. You will not moan or judge again. You won’t do anything again! Saying that, there must be so many, I wouldn’t be able to lift them, so you’d be let off…..

Then there’s the sofa! What little treasures can be found down there? Money, money, money, as Abba would say, also sweet wrappers, tissue, pens, pencils etc. One could open a shop called Sofastore!!

And thinking of sofa store, have you been in the pound shop lately? It’s not a bloody pound! It’s two, three, five, etc. So they technically are no longer a pound shop! I am going to sue. It’s a false economy! I am being ripped off. It’s a POUND shop!!!!!!!! Not a two pound shop!! I bet you could take them to court for that. Emotional damage cos it’s not a pound!

I want the 99p shop! I wonder if you could open a 50p shop……

Haven’t 50 pence become stupid looking? Have you noticed, our money becoming more and more like Monopoly money? They’ll make it plastic soon….

It used to feel like real money. Heavy and large. You felt that you HAD money. Why change it? All that cost for a smaller thinner shape! If they could leave shillings and florins in circulation as 5p and 10p for years on end, why change it?

Stupid five p! It’s a embarrassment! You can’t even get them out of your purse! I call it a p cos it’s not worth being called a pence! Anybody coming to the UK would be horrified! What’s THAT! Call that money? I’ve seen a better representative in a child’s play box! Thank God there are no slots, oh there are, coffee machines.

Where your heart stops for a minute cos you think it will reject your 5p. In the old days you’d have no such worry. It was so big and heavy, it plonked right in! You FELT you had your money’s worth! All money has got smaller, lighter and worth less.

Remember 1p shrimps? Remember at the corner shop you could get two sweets at half a p each? Ok, I agree half a p is not a p. Literally not a p and figuratively not a p. Saying p reminds me of the film The Mask, where he says “ Figuratively sPeaking…” see, even the p was loud……I’m rambling….But I do seem to be saying that a lot, literally and figuratively…literally literally and figuratively, if you get my meaning….I digress, which is a form of rambling…..Ahhhhh! I’m taking the p….literally and figuratively……..Noooooo! Not again….So, as I said….It was a nice p for a child, but an embarrassing thing for a shop keeper. I mean how blasted stingy is the shop keeper who added the half p? Arkwright me thinks……so when it was got rid of, what did shop keepers do? Up or down? I bet, like Mr. Banks said in Mary Poppins, “The pound is going up, up, up! Or this this case the p……

Mary Poppins would make a money tree, so there! So nowadays, the frogo chocolate, that was about 5p is nearly 50p!! It’s the size of a tiny thing! I say that cos I can’t think how to describe the size….literally and figuratively speaking….Have you noticed, I seem to repeat that, literally and figuratively…….I’ll stop now…literally…..

So with poundshops that are no longer being pounds, five ps that are so small they may as well be done away with, and tiny chocolate bars causing mice to have mortgages, the economy is doing well.

What was that? Mice having mortgages? What am I on about? Well it’s not going to bankrupt us is it? It’s bloody 50p! But I was making a point……so stop judging and let me make it……minions!

I bet minions can’t afford frogo bars. I should have left the spell prediction. It called them forgo bars……

So. That’s it. My ramble wasn’t quite a ramble. It was a bit ra,Bly, yup spell prediction again. But it fits doesn’t it? It was not quite a ramble…….I meant to say rambly, just in case you are wondering what I was on about…..

Actually rambly is not a word. But it just came to me! See my genius! A new word for the oxford dictionary! And I won’t even charge a p!!

Now THAT was rambling! And you know what, when I started this I thought I’d fallen from rambling grace! Ha Ha! Not so! Literally and figuratively speaking……or is it literally…I mean I haven’t actually fallen into rambles, I mean brambles, I’ve just rambled…..and actually it IS literally……rambling….AND literally rambled! I could ramble on, not as in ramble on, but ramble on…oh no….