Number One

This is a work of fiction. And makes no sense.

It's been a while since I put pen to paper, more in the figurative sense than the literal, considering...

I am one lucky son of a bitch. For instance, I've survived eight collisions in the eight years I've been driving, nine if you count the bump I received on my bicycle. And I was even hit by a car when I was seven, which brings it to an even ten. The really miraculous fact, though, is that I've always walked away uninjured, which is a stretch of the truth, but it will serve for now. But I'm not maimed in any way--no broken bones or permanent scars. Again, a stretch of the truth, but it's fine for this story, at least for the time being.

People say I'm an odd fellow. I take it as a compliment, especially since some dumb broad told me my transparent personality was what she liked best about me. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, speak my mind, release my emotions which is all right, because I'm a pretty level-headed fellow. Still, I'm not transparent and there's a lot I keep from people, including myself.

Zip a dee doo da, I'm more than just lucky though. It's as if the universe contorts itself to solve any problems I have. Sometimes it's damned ridiculous the things I get away with. I used to think God must love me, but I didn't say God, I said "life." Haven't decided which is more accurate. But there's definitely a rift in the time-space continuum. I had a friend in college we used to joke that the universe altered itself so that he was always right. He pulled some bull shit out of his ass but it always kept coming true, absurd as that sounds. You know, the kind of guy who will argue you about anything, whose just sitting around all day for a chance to pounce on someone's slip of logic, the kind of guy I used to be until I was outdone or started winning too much--I can't remember which.

My little brother told my mother to buy him construction paper so he could build a space warrior helmet out of it. Fucking construction paper. And when she finally got it--this was around Christmas--he had her wrap it and stick it under the tree. Man, did that kid love to open presents. Every year he seemed to be opening presents early only to rewrap and open them again. You know, several cycles of this, while we're all watching. You'd think with this sort of compulsion he'd want to do it in private or something, his beribboned act of masturbation. I can imagine him--picture this with me--wrapping his dick once or twice a week, just so he could unwrap it and squeeze one off. That would be a fucking compulsion. Especially beside his handwashing compulsion. I have never seen anyone scrub so hard. It's audible for crying out loud. (ILLICIT CONTENT EDITED, email me if you want to know)...

...Squeaky, squeaky! Which reminds me of the time Tenacious D came on when my grandmother was driving me to school. You know, the Fuck Her Gently song. I didn't know it was Jack Black singing at the time--no doubt that would have made it worse, but anyway I just sat there in awkward silence as Jack educated me--us--on how to properly hump your lady. I think a part of me just really wanted to hear that song, because, let's face it, it's pretty hilarious, at least for the first three or four listens. But another part of me was just praying that maybe she was deaf or senile or oblivious enough not to be listening, especially because this is no American grandmother. At least an American grandmother you could imagine has been exposed to this stuff before in Cialis commercials--or maybe old people sit around and watch porn all day and reminisce (I know I will)--this was an Eastern European grandmother, the kind of woman whose idea of the best fun ever has never strayed from hiking in the mountains since she was nine years old. "But then, I'm gonna fuck you hard!"

Anyway, my little brother's hands squeak when he washes them, when he scrubs them down for surgery--to what end I wonder?--or rather, dare I wax onomatopoetic--SQUELCH. He scrubs like fucking Lady Macbeth herself. You're sitting on the couch enjoying a television program and...WHAT is that sound? That SQUELCHING? A dying mudguppy? "Oh no, that's just Blanco Nino washing his hands. He's very serious about it."

What was this story about? If I don't remember, can you? Let's go back a few pages. Yes, just flip back now. Surprise! This is like one of those shitty choose your own adventure stories. If your favorite color is blue, turn to page a hundred. If you're Irish, got to a pub and piss on three legs. And everyone else can skip to the last page and read the ending, which is (obviously) "I'm lying in my grave and can't write anymore. The End." So now that we've busted that mystery, we can get on with the beginning. Which is all about how damn lucky I am and what I decide to use my powers for.

It's not gambling. First off, my sisters have better luck with cards. As for dice, I roll a lot of sixes, but I've also been told that God must hate me in the context of how die rolls work out for me. Plus, I suck at those types of gambling games (Poker, Blackjack, etc), so I've decided to steer clear or maybe cross that bridge when we get there. No, I've actually decided to--and this ruins it for you, if you're reading for the chance of a plot twist--to police the streets for accidents and strategically throw my car and body into the fray (future wreckage) in the hopes of saving someone's life. I figure that since I'm virtually u-n-b-r-e-a-k-a-b-l-e, this venture is a noble and honorable waste of my life/time. But before I begin, I have to think of a cool name for myself, and maybe a theme song I can cruise to and sign along with in my trusty mayhem mitigating mobile.

Maybe Dark Wing Duck. Completely unrelated, I know, but someone needs to resurrect my favorite superhero and it might as well be me. Dark Wing Duck is so cool I hardly remember him and was certainly never fully aware of his special powers, but he's the perfect mix of biscuits for my taste buds. Cool under pressure. Sassy under fire. And maybe even pantless, because, let's face it again, every other superhero, for some reason or another (which I will shortly get into), wears spandex. Obviously the comic book artists--erm, graphic novelists--love to draw man quadriceps muscles and man pectoralis muscles and man bulges. Mmm, candy? But Dark Wing Duck doesn't wear pants because ducks know how to tuck their shit in and don't need special gear to enhance their aerodynamicacity (obviously the noun form of aerodynamic).

I'm waiting for the day when some genius legislator discovers a way to eliminate the safety tutorials at the beginning of every flight. I'm positive neither the giving nor the receiving party enjoys it. And maybe those infrequent fliers need that expected spiel to go down. But what about us frequent fliers? With all our miles and such? Why do we have to listen to the same shit different day? Excuse me, but I'm not a moron. I know how to operate a seat belt (they come standard in automobiles), can easily read, interpret, and navigate toward an exit sign, and have no difficulty not smoking in the lavatories. God forbid anything happen, I think I'm ovine (just learned that word, it means sheeplike) enough to grab a mask that falls down to me from the ceiling, i.e. heaven. Or maybe I'd have the tenacity to reject pacification--that's obviously what they keep in the tanks, pacification gas--if the plane really was burning down, all the way down. it would depend on my mood. But my point is, when the shit hits the fan, these people are not going to remember your instructional video/dramatic performance. They're just going to fuck it all and show their true colors. Which is another reason you should pick your favorite color now. That way you won't have to deal with the stress of finding out what is when it's gushing out your eyeballs or oozing from your belly button.

Remember chimichangas back in the cafeteria? Those were the shit.

PS Don't you wish they made an out-of-breathe police? Some bad dudes in black uniforms who would come whip your ass into shape if you got tired too easily? Or they could just blow a whistle, so long as there exists such a thing that has the name "out-of-breathe police" belonging to it.

PPS I hereby coin the catchphrase and future Hot 100 hitsong, "This shit is chimichangas!"