Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Posts Where I Offend People’ Category

I’ve been working my ass off. Seriously. The area that used to be my ass is now a concave valley. If you dropped some change on my ass it would look like this:

Hell, at this rate I may be able to quit the day job. Of course I couldn’t sit down or everyone in the room would think they were in Vegas. I’m a walking jackpot- and between you and me, I always pay out. Just don’t drop a silver dollar. It would get wedged in there like a manhole cover. Fitting.

So, that’s just a graphic tangent of an answer to the million dollar question of where I’ve been. A question so pressing that almost none of you asked it, and by almost I mean exactly.

It’s nice to be loved.

Then there’s the Lego Star Wars on our Wii. The oldest is addicted. The first thing he asks for in the morning is Lego Star Wars. After school the first words out of his mouth are about Lego Star Wars. He’s a junkie and he’s pulling me in.

It started innocently enough. I would just play to help him on certain levels, which is to say I didn’t know what the hell I was doing but he thought I did. The kid looks up to me, what can I say?

Now he says things like, “I love my family. And the Wii. The Wii and my family are very important.” I’m just glad we’re in the mix.

He’s hardcore. I have to dress him in long-sleeved shirts to cover the tracks, or I would if video games left tracks. As it is I put him in long-sleeved shirts because it’s fucking cold outside.

He’s also sweet. He just talked himself into a round of Wii long after he should have been in bed. He said he needed to unwind, so I let a 5-year-old stay up until eleven o’clock to fight the Clone Wars. I’m not even pretending to be embarrassed.

Thing Two was… somewhere. The force isn’t as strong in him so he has found other pursuits, like playing with actual Legos and walking around the house singing. He knows the lyrics to two songs, American Pie and something by Weezer, which is to say he knows one song with some very interesting chord changes.

Sometimes he watches us play and sometimes he stands in front of me crying over frivolous matters like hunger. The kid eats non-stop every waking moment. Don’t feed him for half an hour and Sally Struthers is on my lawn with 26¢ and a bag of flour. It adds up.

You may be asking yourself, how did I get here what exactly is this post about? You may be looking out the window at your sundial and wondering if you really just spent 8 minutes reading this post (12 if you stutter), and the answer is yes. Yes, you did.

Thanks for your concern, it’s noted and appreciated, even if it’s completely fabricated. The fact is I’m fine. The family is fine. I’m just freaking busy, and it won’t be over until the fat Ewok sings- or does that dance thing where they poke the spear in your face.

Scares the coins right out of you.

I’m not a religious man. Far from it, really. For instance, I was going to do a little bit about the commandments and I actually typed “God’s Top Ten” in the search box. Letterman loves that.

Still, I can get behind the commandments, except for the part about coveting my neighbors wife. I’m big on the coveting. I also enjoy being coveted, but apparently it’s okay to covet thy neighbor’s husband. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

We took the boys to McDonald’s tonight because they love it and there is a recession going on. The place was standing room only. Literally. I actually ate standing up. It turns out there was some sort of Christian fundraiser being held.

Old pious women tried to sell us apple pies at the door. We passed. I’ll take my chances on the afterlife without a McDonald’s pastry stuck to my ribs, thank you.

The kids were all well-dressed and surprisingly ill-mannered. My kids crammed into their table for two and ate silently in sin. Or what passes for it nowadays.

I kept thinking back to a night in high school. A group of us went to the local skating rink for some wholesome teenage fun. I hoped it was foreplay. It wasn’t.

That place, too, was packed. We put on our skates and commented on the fact that none of us recognized the very loud, and apparently popular, music that was playing. We were halfway around the rink before everyone, everyone but us, threw their hands up in the air and started chanting.

I didn’t even finish the lap. I just cut straight across the rink and went to the heathen window for my refund.

I felt like a caveman at a Geico party.

I think it was Milton, or perhaps Cake, that said, “sheep go to Heaven, goats go to Hell.” And I can’t help but wonder if I had lived just that.

Someday, when all is said and done and you find yourself standing in a long line outside the Pearly Gates, don’t be surprised to see some Golden Arches in the distance.

However, if you are one to skirt old ladies hawking pie, or you turn your skates in before the Hokey Pokey- if you want things your way, you’re getting flame-broiled, and that’s a whopper.

I wonder what Jack in the Box is bringing to the table.

Monday morning. Hello, no coffee beans. Hello, flat tire. There you are, apparently unrepairable water leak. How you doing, things the dogs tore up? Hey, there you go, trash truck 4 hours early- without my trash. Sink full of dishes, how the hell are you? Have you met couch covered in 4 loads of laundry? Great.

Oh, playroom covered in toys and snack smears, you’re up early. Pile of work that I ignored all weekend, have you put on weight?

Monday morning. You’re a son of a bitch.

It was implied, by someone I consider a friend, that I am not real, nor do I, and I quote, “know any real people.” This because I believe “folksy” is not a quality one should consider positive in the potential leader of the free world. I don’t know if that’s more of an insult to me or to everyone I’ve ever met.

I feel pretty real. I’m surrounded by Monday morning, drinking 6 shots of espresso with a little bit of milk and trying to make ends meet. There is an old dog at my feet that is so full of gas my eyes are watering. That’s real. Isn’t it?

If I want folksy I’ll go to the Cracker Barrel, but not really, because fried food will kill you. Is the greeter at Wal-Mart any more real than the Barista at Starbucks just because they’re more likely to say y’all and use some cliche about Mondays? I don’t need cheap shoes, censorship or shotgun shells, but I am out of coffee beans. That’s real. Isn’t it?

If I teach my boys to enjoy hiking instead of hunting or reading instead of racing, does that make them any less American?

There are things I disagree with, but I would never suggest they aren’t real. In fact, they are more real than I am comfortable with. Come tomorrow Monday will be but a memory, but my fears will be as real as ever.

I will face them as they come, and I will start with the dishes.

I am fits of rage and passion. I spread my wings in a constant gathering- a gander and his goslings. The world is a dark and scary place and my instinct is to protect.

I push them out of nests built far from their ground, and the fear in my heart does a waltz with the pride. One, two. The boys soar and pride gets spun. One, two, three. The boys fall and fear gets dipped. The world is a never-ending ball and their dance cards are full.

There is safety in the box step and lessons in the mosh pit. Mine is to instruct. Mine is to encourage. I play the songs they need to hear.

I talked the boys through speeches tonight. They didn’t care about them, despite my insistence that one day they’d be proud to share this lifetime with those that dare change the beat. I dared them to hang the DJ.

We played games and did puzzles on the living room floor and our soundtrack was one of progress and hope. Therein lies my passion.

Yet, others have views that differ from mine. They crave a future that doesn’t hold promise, but doubt and debt. They place importance on things that shouldn’t matter. Things that shouldn’t even exist. People talking without speaking. People hearing without listening. People writing songs that voices never share. They dance with who brought them and there is no rhythm to their madness.

I take it personally, because it is. It’s an attack on the only thing that does matter- the children. My children. It is an attack on the future.

I gave the boys a bath and put them in bed. I played the song that I needed and turned my attentions to the kitchen, dirty dishes and full bottles of beer.

And the vision that was planted in my brain still remained, it spun and it dipped and it made me lose my count. I stood over a sink filled with hot, soapy water and savored a sip. The sounds were of silence, and a better man may have cried.