Let's Just Chew Our Way Outta Here!

by Jack Burton.

  
This is Jack Burton in the Pork Chop Express, and I'm talkin' to whoever's listenin' out there.  Well, ya see, I'm not saying that I've been everywhere and I've done everything, but I do know it's a pretty amazing planet we live on here, and a man would have to be some kind of fool to think we're alone in this universe. Say for instance, this doctor’s visit I had the other day to check on my bill of health.

I drove my rig up to the hospital, and parked the Pork Chop closest to the nearest exit.  I don’t like hospitals the same way I don’t like Egg Foo Young bus tours, so I wanted to make this visit as little big trouble as I could make it.  I entered through the emergency doors, and instantly got lost.  After twenty minutes of wandering the halls, I finally found the waiting room I was supposed to be in.  I checked in with the receptionist, and she told me to take a seat. 

After over an hour of reading an issue of Better Homes & Garden from 1978 in the waiting room, I stomped up to the broad behind the desk and said, “Look lady, you may not get enough of me, but I’ve got a haul to keep on schedule.  Time is money to a guy like me, and you may go off and rule the universe from behind your desk, but I’m either about to check into a psycho ward or the Hell of Being Cut to Pieces if I don’t see the doc in five minutes or less.”  The woman glared at me and said she was sorry, but it’d be a few more minutes.  After another thirty, a medical assistant floated through a pair of doors, and yelled, “Burton?”  I smacked the magazine down on a table, and got up and said to the other patients, “Okay.  You people sit tight, hold the fort and keep the home fires burning.  And if I’m not back by dawn…call the president.”

I like my doctor just fine because although he has a coke nail longer than my last ex-wife's, he still maintains an aura of crackerjack professionalism.  Tall guy, weird clothes.  First you see him, then you don’t.  All I know is this doctor character comes out of thin air in the middle of a goddamn office while his buddies are flying around on wires cutting everybody to shreds, and he just stands there waiting for me to take off my clothes right in front of him while there’s light coming out of his mouth.  After taking a few tests that were par for the course, my doc asked, “Why are you here, Mr. Burton?”

I propped my feet up on the doc’s table, and said, “Look I’m gonna tell you a story, and I don’t want to hear about an act of God, alright?  I visited a whorehouse last week, and met a little baby named Ashlee.  She called herself a blogger for some internet thing called Raggle Rock, which is laughable cuz’ that’s a stupid name for a blog, and here we were, standing in an eight by eight room inside a downtown brothel.  She had jade green eyes which were a plus to some folks in this part of the world.  She wasn’t terrible looking, but there definitely was something wrong with her face.  

After I settled myself into an armchair in the corner of her room, she took out a flask filled with black liquid and asked if I’d like some ‘magic potion’. “That’s not liquor,” I said.  “Black blood of the earth,” she responded.  “Do you mean oil?” I asked.  “I mean black blood of the earth,” she whispered bitchily. “You will see things no one else can see.  Do things no one else can do.  Wind, fire, all that kind of thing!”  After she said that, I had to check this potion out for myself because as Ol’ Jack always says…what the hell?  I stood up and took a giant gulp from her flask.  My brain felt instantly dizzy, and I fell back onto her bed.  Loosening up my tie, I said, “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?”  The blogger stared at my crotch and told me to relax.  I pulled it together for a second and said, “I am relaxed.  Feel pretty good.  I’m not, uh, I’m not scared at all.  I just feel kind of…feel kind of invincible.”

She raised her eyebrows twice, and then pounced on me.  The sex felt like we were flying through beams of green and pink light.  6.9 on the Richter scale!  The only thing that Jack Burton could have done to make her cum harder would be if in the middle of cunnilingus, I told her where I got my lace-up leather boots she’d been eyeing for the last hour and a half.  I think she had a thing for the glasses I was wearin’ and my hair being slicked to the side because she kept her heels on the entire time.  It’s all in the reflexes.

After the fun, I got up and put my pants on.  I started heading towards the door when the blogger prostitute said, “God, aren’t you even gonna kiss me goodbye?”  “Nope,” I said.  She looked panicked, and screamed, “Jack, wait!  I love you!”  I grimaced at her and asked, “Are you crazy….is that your problem?”  Her green eyes turned dark, and she threw the flask of black magic against the wall.  I walked over to her and grabbed her chin.  “Look sweetie, is this gonna get ugly, now?  Huh?  I hope not.  Because I thought what we were here, gender differences notwithstanding, as just a couple of old transactional friends.  Sooner or later, I rub everybody the wrong way.”  “No horseshit, Jack,” she said while nursing her toothache.  

The doctor shifted in his chair, and asked, “Do you know where this girl is now?”  I pointed my arm to where I thought was west, and said, “Yeah, I thought I told you she’s at that brothel just above the Cantonese restaurant Dragons of the Black Pool.”  The doctor sprang from his chair and paced the office.  “This woman sounds like a special kind of woman.  She has the dragon green eyes that can make me whole again, Jack.  I must find her and marry her.”  My eyes just about rolled out of my head, and I said, “What, I’m supposed to buy this shit?  You look like you’re two thousand years-old, and you still haven't been able to find one broad to fit the bill? Come on, Doc, you must be doing something seriously wrong.  Girls with green eyes are a lot easier to find than girls with two vaginas.”

A few weeks later, I got a follow-up letter from the hospital tellin’ me everything tested negative.  I heaved a huge sigh of relief and shot a gun up into the ceiling.  Good results like that may not pan out for everybody out there, but just remember what ol' Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, and the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big ol' storm right square in the eye and he says, "Give me your best shot, pal. I can take it."

Couch Time: Dillon, You Son of a Bitch!

The ex-boyfriend is baaaaaaaack to chat with me about cars, Schwarzenegger films, and getting his face smashed in.  I'm posting this earlier than usual because I'm going out of town this weekend.

Make Like a Job, and Get Outta Here.

HEY, HEY, HEY!  Hey.  I walked out on my job on this week.  Therefore, right now, I’m stamping my leg with my notary stamp while lying on the couch.  That’s right; I’m an official legal document a dozen times over, suckers.  Day Three of unemployment is nearing its end, and the most productive tasks I’ve accomplished all day are eyeing the bottle of Evan Williams a guy that doesn’t call me anymore left at my apartment over two months ago, and biting off my coke nail while watching reruns of Judge Judy.  Yesterday, I went to a job interview with what could be the worst garlic breath on the planet.  Last night, I gave myself an enema for fun.  And it was, except that my cat kept walking up to me and sticking her nose in my face while I was on the floor following the kit instructions.

Couch Time: Full Body Pop-Down

This week on Couch Time, S. William Frederick and I discuss cooking, Showgirls and taxidermy.

Jesus.  You could probably play a drinking game based on how many times I say 'like'.  Something I definitely need to work on.

Now That I've Found You

It would be embarrassing to admit how long I've been looking for this clip from Kids in the Hall.  The one and only time I watched the corresponding episode, I was about thirteen years-old and it was close to 3am.  For a while there, I thought it was all a dream:

To be honest, I'm not into the entire skit, but watching the man-cat jump in the air made my millennium.

Blood-Stained Baskets

Almost on a daily basis, I daydream about getting into physical altercations with people.  Ever since I beat my male cousin in an arm wrestle when I was twelve years-old, I’ve always wrongfully considered myself a bit of a badass.  Maybe it’s the Dachshund Acting like a Doberman Syndrome, but in my mind I’m a lot tougher than I am in reality.  Now, I’m not saying that I actually walk around town looking for men and women to get in brawls with.  Nuh uh.  In my older age, a few things have happened that have diminished the aggressiveness I displayed during my younger, rowdier years.  One, I’m not nearly as physically active as I once was, and I’ve shrunk down to about a hundred pounds, so it’s highly unlikely I’d ever win any fight I picked.  Two, I was manhandled and beat up in a relationship several years back, so it’d be purty durned hypocritical to knockout someone after I vowed to myself NOBODY WILL EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN.  NOBODY!!!  Three, after years of being relatively irrational in my rage, reasonability and logic have finally tipped the scale against any sort of bloodlust.  Sooooo, I’m not like this anymore:

*Thanks for inspiring that clip, Mr. Abouzelof.  Somewhere, Out There, Mike, I hope you’re ruining little kids’ kickball games, and telling a guy smaller than you at a diner to “make like a tree and get out of here”.  Miss ya!

Tammi G and a Season in Hell: Part II

Oh god.  What was happening?  Tammi sped up, braked, and turned for what seemed like an hour before we arrived at the mall’s parking garage.  She found a spot, jerked the emergency brake up, got out of the vehicle, and slammed the door shut.  I had barely escaped the ‘Stang, but Tammi was already on my side of the car manhandling me.  She clenched my left wrist and dragged me forward to…..Jesus…..Forever 21.  We approached the entrance doors as a crone in her mid-sixties began walking out with three shopping bags.  I held the door open for her, and she squinted over at me.  I suggested she have a nice day, and this must have triggered her in some way because her squint turned into a possessed, frantic stare.  Her eyes glazed over, and she bared and gnashed her teeth.  She didn’t move her lips, but I heard a screeching voice whiz by my ear that said, “I am the slave of my baptism.  Parents, you have been my undoing and your own.  Poor innocent!—Hell has no power over pagans.”  I gulped while Tammi impatiently pushed me through the gates.  I was legitimately terrified now. 

Surveying the clientele didn’t subdue my fear any; every rabid and tacky forty-two year-old zombie on earth was crawling around the floors of this decrepit Temple of Doom.  Tammi was still wearing her swimsuit with the side cut-outs as she barreled her way through the loathsome crowd, and grabbed every fucking hideous clothing item in sight.  I wanted to kill her.  An unwanted soft voice in my head burst into song: “In low dives where we’d get drunk, he used to weep for those around us, cattle of misery.  O seasons, O castles!  What soul is without sin?”  I was beginning to feel sick now.  “Let no one come near me,” I thought with some tired resistance.  “I must smell scorched I’m sure.”  Things were already spiraling out of control for me, but Tammi still felt pretty raw about her car’s white interior, so she forced me to help hold her enormous stack of clothes while waiting in line behind three dozen Undeads or so.  I gazed across the store at one of the mannequins that was positioned like she was about to take a dump through the bootie shorts she was wearing, and felt jealous.

I felt like I was stuck halfway through a chimney by the time it was Tammi’s turn to try on her chosen apparel.  The dressing room attendant, with a name tag that said ‘Arthur’ on it, looked at her selection and said, “Oh these look cute!  How many items do you have with you….How many items?”  Tammi and I fumbled through the pile of garments in our arms, trying to make a tally.  Out of nowhere, Arthur leaned into me, pinched my bicep with his cold fingers, and expressed, “I do not like women: love must be reinvented, that’s obvious.  A secure position is all they’re capable of desiring now.  Criminals disgust like castrates; as for me, I am intact, and I don’t care.” I nudged Tammi to see if she heard any of that, but her eyes were drawn to the Shiny Objects section across the store.  She dropped every ‘item’ right in front of the attendant’s feet, and stormed over toward the accessories.  I gave Arthur a look of embarrassment and handed him my pile before ambling after Tammi.

Standing there in front of the fucking-ugly-cheap-ass-bangle bin, Tammi looked at me maliciously, and swooped every piece of jewelry into her giant shopping bag.  She started heading toward the registers, but I ran around and stopped her in her tracks.  “Listen here, you piece of shit.  The lipstick will come out of your seat if we clean it soon.  You have tortured me enough today….I have swallowed a monstrous dose of poison.—Thrice blessed be the counsel that came to me!—My entrails are on fire….Now, uh, let’s go!”  Tammi understood.  Her game was over.  She dropped the bag, and we headed out of the gates.  

I spoke not one word to my best friend the entire car ride back to my apartment.  Didn’t wave goodbye to her as I exited the car; didn’t care if she hit a fucking tree on her way out of my parking lot.   My living room was dark, just how I wanted it.  I plopped down on the couch and cracked open a beer.  I took two swigs and considered calling a mental institution because I wasn’t sure if anything I experienced that day was real.  However, I have finished, I think, the tale of my hell.  It was really hell; the old hell, the one whose doors were opened by the son of man.

Tammi G and a Season in Hell: Part I

It’s summertime!, so last week, Tammi Gymnastics and I decided to go swimming.  About ten minutes after we arrived at the public pool, we got kicked out by a fifteen year-old lifeguard.  Typically, Tammi doesn’t follow anyone’s orders except for mine on occasion, but the tan son-of-a-bitch looked serious when he threatened to call the cops for lewdness, and Tammi already had a court date coming up for a similar offense.  “Fine, mother fucker,” she said dismissively, as she slipped her wet feet back into her sky-high sling-back pumps.  I frankly was pissed off we didn’t get to swim longer, so as Tammi squished by in her heels, I grabbed her leopard-print swimsuit from behind and gave her an atomic wedgie.  She didn’t really seem to mind, so I quit being a bitch, and helped her adjust her suit back to normal. 

“Honey, I need you to drive so I can reapply my makeup,” Tammi directed when we approached her car.  I was midway through putting on my potato sack dress over my bikini, so Tammi didn’t notice the massive smile that spread across my face.  “No problem,” I squawked as she handed me the keys.  “Let’s go to my apartment and mix some drinks.”  I took a moment to size up Tammi’s car.  It was an ’88 blue Mustang convertible with white stripes, white leather interior and a tape deck.  This muscle car only had 44,000 miles on it, and was in mint condition since it had been garage-kept most of its life.  It’s the type of fine machinery that requires lines of coke on the dashboard at all times while parked, and two Dobermans sitting stoically in the back seat wearing diamond-studded collars and sunglasses for good measure (just kidding about the diamonds, gross).  I raised my eyebrows with lust while I pet the cobalt hood encasing the pristine V-8 engine…..fuck, this car was so choice.  After I stopped drooling and both of us were in the car, I put in a Mariah Carey cassette and sped out of the parking lot.

On the freeway, I worked into my routine of weaving in and out of traffic.  I was gaining good rhythm when all of a sudden I got a strange feeling that someone was following us.  After inspecting the rearview mirror, I reckoned the highway patrol wasn’t anywhere nearby, but I sped up anyway.  Tammi finished smearing on her eyeliner – which looked sort of crooked – and glanced over at me and smiled.  She didn’t seem to think anything was wrong or off, so I calmed down a little and started singing along to the tape:  “Well, I guess I’m tryin’ to beeee nonchalant about it.  Goin’ to extreeemes to prove I’m fine without ‘cha.  But in reality IIIIIII’m slowly losin’ my miiiiiind…”  God bless Mariah.  God bless Mariah while speeding recklessly.  I was nearing the exit, and Tammi decided I didn’t need to pay as much attention to driving as I was, so she tapped me on the shoulder to show me her applying-lipstick-with-the-cleavage trick.  Nice.  Already been done on a certain 80s-movie-I-won’t-name-because-if-you-don’t-know-the-reference-you-had-a-suppressed-childhood-and-I-feel-bad-now twenty some-odd years ago, but nice.

While I started letting down the gas towards the freeway exit, something abruptly whispered into my ear:  “Make the city eat its dust.  Oxidize the waterspouts.  Fill boudoirs with the burning powder of rubies…The air of Hell will tolerate no hymns!”  I slammed my foot on the brake, and Tammi’s lipstick tube popped out of her swimsuit and landed in between her legs onto the white leather seat.  “What tha fuck d’ya think you’re do-win’!?” Tammi screamed.  She ordered me to pull over and get in the passenger side.  This woman next to me was livid.  I fucked with her car, and now I was going to pay.  Instead of Bourbon-and-Cokes at my place, she informed me we would be going to........THE MALL....................to be continued...................

 

Special Edition Couch Time: My XBF Drops by to Chat

Gull, You'll Be a Wormen Soon

Women scare the ever-living daylights out of me.  Boo!  I’m scared.  Not as scared as I am of the seven consecutive words “I want you to be my wife”, but fuck, put me in a gurney because I’m ready to die rather than journey through the depths of my soul trying to understand the females.  Aside from the datum that I truly am attracted to women (but too frightened to eat pussy, so that’s where my lesbianism ends), I can’t get past the rawness that I feel when confronted with the fact that women can be your best, best, bestest friends for years, but come next summer, BOOOOOOOOM, you’re Dead to Them because for whatever reason, you fucked up and said they didn’t look good in orange.  Dead, dead, dead.  These days, about 95% of my friends are guys, and about 65% of those guys are only hanging out with me because they think I’ll fuck them.  However, no matter what hidden motives the men in my life may have, amigas, I’m more enticed to hanging out with people that don’t hold grudges like it’s going out of style, don’t vejazzle-dazzle their crotch areas, and are generally way more consistent friends.