Mentally Incontinent

OMG SCOTT MCDANIEL WHO LIVES AND WORKS IN DECATUR, GA FOUND THE LINK OMG

If you want Joe in your friends page (and WHO DOESN'T?!?!?!?!??!?!), add joetehpeacock (yes, teh - i didn't set it up, so don't blame me). If you want the MI feed, add mentincont.

Danke!

OMG!

"L" Just totally DISSED me for LUNCH

Now I'm t3h SAD

I'M SO MAD RIGHT NOW I'M MAKING MY LJ FRIENDS ONLY OMG EVERYONE HATES ME

Hey all,

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to have Joe goodness pouring into your friends page, just add the appropriate feed to your friends page:

Joe's journal: JoeTehPeacock
Mentally Incontinent: MentIncont

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

VERY Special thanks to LycoLoco / Bobert / Robert for setting this up!!!!!!!

I forgot completely that I had an account here.

I just might start updating it. Who knows.

For now, check the site: http://www.mentallyincontinent.com and enjoy the tasty morsels within!

Or something.

Help my team raise some dough to KICK CANCER'S ASS. Click the banner above to find out how!

The following is a snippet from a 8,180 word story. The full story is located at:
http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=266


Why don't I post the whole story? Because I don't want to piss off the people who's friends page it appears on :) So, if you like what you see here, I invite you to check the rest out at the site!

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Preface


If there is one thing I am pretty famous for among my friends, it’s getting into trouble.

No, seriously! It’s true!

However, there’s another thing I’m actually MORE famous for, and that’s getting OUT of trouble. If you ask my best friend Mike what he would consider is the most outrageous thing I have ever weaseled my way out of, he’d probably regale you with an epic tale of accidentally setting a major chain restaurant ablaze and getting away with only a slap on the wrist. I surrendered a few weekends over a period of 20 weeks to pick up garbage on the side of the road and sell used junk to people at the Goodwill retail center – and I have a sealed record, to boot. All in all, not nearly as bad as it could have been. It's not the best story, however.

My wife, Andrea, may have a different tale to tell when posed with that particular query, choosing to share with you the story of how I have managed to talk my way out of just about every speeding ticket I have been faced with over the past 4 years (27, at last count). She would probably then tell you about a specific incident that occurred late one night as I drove her home after a date. A police cruiser began following me at about 55 miles an hour in a 40 mile an hour zone with every light turned off. We both knew that I was probably going to get a ticket, as the Henry County Police are notorious for both ticket quotas and being complete dicks. So, in a bold and completely insane move, I sped up. Naturally, the policeman increased his speed as well to keep my pace. So I went faster. He went faster. We topped 70, 80, up to 90 miles an hour in this 40 mile an hour zone when, finally, he flipped on his blue-and-reds and pulled me over. Once he approached the window, I began frantically panting and thanking God that he was, indeed, a police officer.

“What’s goin’ on, son?” He asked. “What’s wrong?”

*Gasp* “Oh, thank GOD you are a cop…”

“Hold on now… What’chew mean, ‘Thank Gawd I’m a cop?”

I then “explained” to the officer – with a straight face - that I was once a victim of a drive-by shooting that occurred very much in the same manner that he had just approached me, and I just freaked out and began speeding to get away from it. I begged him to give me a ticket, because “I don’t mind paying for my crimes when I commit them, officer… I am just very, very glad that you weren’t another shooter!”

He gave me a warning and told me to “Git straight home and calm down, ya’ hear?”

Again, good stuff. But not the best.

Yeah, there are a good many stories floating around that detail the various escapades I’ve managed to get myself into and subsequently out of. There is one tale, however, I think tops them all.

And I have never shared it with anyone.

There is not a single person who knows me – aside from the other individual involved – who has ever heard or read a single word of this story, for I have never had the guts to actually tell it to anyone.

That is, until now.

I’m going to share with you one of my greatest secrets, and I’ll start by asking you a question: Have you ever completely abandoned your greater sensibilities and just let go?

Have you ever taken the whole of your common sense – every single idea and notion instilled in your being that guides and directs you in ways that keep you from completely and utterly blowing the whole thing all to hell – and just tossed them aside, choosing instead to just LIVE; to let a moment develop and exist which all at once so beautiful and clumsy and embarrassing and so, so utterly human? Is there a single instance that you can point to in your life that you can say “I don’t regret it one bit... I cherish and love the memory of it, I hold it sacred and consider it one of the finest moments of my life - and, if given the chance, there is no way in hell I will ever – EVER - do it again?”

Yeah... Um... Me either.

I jest. Without further ado: The story.





[snip]

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View the rest of this story and more like it at www.MentallyIncontinent.com!

You may view the original post, along with all of the comments and updated info, at this link:

http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=235



Yep. On Saturday, July 26, Mentally Incontinent is participating in the Blogathon! MI Isn't really a blog, but it's a cool idea. Check it out:

The Blogathon is a marathon for charity. Bloggers will blog and people will donate and charaties will benefit!!! The rule is to post to your blog every 30 minutes for 24 hours. People pledge an amount per hour that you blog. At the end, for every hour I "blog", people donate the amount they pledged (i.e. you pledge $1.00 an hour and someone blogs for 18 hours, you donate 18 bucks! Donations are also accepted on a "Flat Rate" basis, i.e. you can donate 2 bucks flat out if you want) and the money goes to a charity of the blogger's choice.

Since I don't blog (and hope I never will), I have decided to do something a little different.

It's crazy for someone to post a novel AS THEY WRITE IT to a website for all to see. It's even CRAZIER for someone to try to write a whole novel in 24 hours. But to put the two together? That takes Joe The Peacock.


To be clear: I will write a full novel in 24 hours, posting it as it is written to this site every 30 minutes.


I am donating the money I raise to the CBLDF, a legal defense fund for artists and writers who have had their 1st Amendment right to free speech violated. I hope to raise a good bit of dough, and since I'm kinda doing this on short notice, I am hoping you guys can kick it up and really chip in. You can pledge by the hour OR a flat rate (come on, 2 bucks! It's worth it!), and it's 100% tax deductable!!! It's a really GREAT cause, and besides - watching some nutjob post chunks of a novel every 30 minutes for 24 hours has to be worth SOMETHING, right??


I should mention that if every member of this site donated two dollars each, we would raise over $3,000 for the CBLDF! (of course if one member donated that much and no one else did, we'd have the same amount! Eerie the way that works, huh?)

Blogathon just announced that they will be accepting donations up to 24 hours after the event - meaning you have until 9 AM EST Monday morning to donate! Isn't that grand!!!


Click here to sponsor me!!!!


Remember: this Saturday, July 26, the world will see the construction of the first ever 24 hour novel. BE HERE, and see it develop!!!


And now, I've got someone else doing it! Michal Wallace, the man who runs

The following is a snippet from a 3,980 word story. The full story is located at:
http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=172

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[snip]

I yelled for help for almost 10 minutes before finally getting the attention of a young couple making their way to their car in the back of the parking lot.

“HEY! Hey, can you guys help me? PLEASE?!?”

”Uhh… well, um…” the male replied. Quite prolific, this one.

”Umm… What are you doing up there??” he yelled, standing at a safe distance. I can’t say that I blame him for keeping some space between us – the type of person one would normally find suspended on a 12 foot fence ensnared in barbed wire and bleeding profusely probably do not have the very best of intentions. In this situation, however, the only intention I had was to get the fuck down.

“I’m trapped. I’m uhh… I’m hurt pretty bad. I really need help… Can you go get someone? Please?”

“Uhh… Yeah, um…”

He just stood there stammering in complete disbelief at the scene he had stumbled upon. Here was a nice, upstanding young man taking his best girl out for a nice meal out at Chili’s. He probably figured a few hours of entertaining her dull conversational desires and a nice meal would get him at least a hummer that evening, possibly even laid. I am certain that the last thing he expected – or wanted – to see right then was me caught on the fence begging for help. Wide-eyed and completely in shock, he just stood there, utterly useless. The girl he had by his side finally chimed in - “What… what are you doing up there?”

”It’s a long story. Please… I’m bleeding badly here.” I just did NOT feel like going through the entire story with them, and seeing as how my white oxford shirt and kakhi pants had both become a wet crimson due to my plasma leaking out of various parts of my body, surely any rational human being would cease asking questions and run – right away – to get some assistance. These guys, however, needed some coaching.

”Can you just go get the manager or somebody? Please?”

Nothing. No response from the wonder dummies at all. The immediacy of the situation began to become more and more apparent as the barbs from the wire dug deeper and deeper into my thigh and calf.

This was one hell of a predicament I had gotten myself into.





[snip]

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View the rest of this story and more like it at www.MentallyIncontinent.com!

The following is a snippet from a 1,420 word story. The full story is located at:
http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=168

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[snip]

“Let’s go play with THESE!” exclaimed Randall, clutching a brand new package of lawn darts my brother had just purchased a few days previous.

Fear coursed through my body. ”NO! He will KILL us if we use his stuff!”

”Oh, come on, he won’t know. Besides, what can he do?”

I shuddered. I knew EXACTLY what he could do. Most children, when they think of their older brother, think of noogies or Indian head burns or wedgies. I thought of being hog-tied with an extension cord and tossed into the dark void of the basement or being duct taped to my bed and spray-painted yellow. I still have a scar on my left index finger from where Ben decided to practice the trick Bishop performed with a commando knife and a shipmate’s extended palm in “Aliens”.

“We’d better not. Seriously. He will beat us senseless!”

I hadn’t known Randall long. I met him a few days after moving to the sleepy backwoods town of Toccoa, GA, so I had known him for perhaps a month or so at that point, however one thing that struck me immediately was his utter lack of concern for consequence. This kid would get from one place to another by holding on to the backs of cars while on his skateboard. He regularly shoplifted the smaller transformers and sold them to the kids at the school for pennies on the dollar. In him was a complete lack of both logic and accountability – he did absolutely anything he got the urge to do.

He snatched up the lawn darts and bolted down the stairs from my brother’s room before I even had a chance to stop him. To tell the truth, I was actually glad he did. While I feared the repercussions of absconding with my brother’s possessions, I secretly wanted to play with these lawn darts as much as Randall did. I mean, come on… what 8 year old boy wouldn’t want to play with gigantic sharp things??

I carefully shut Ben’s door behind me in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that I had trespassed into his domain, then made my way down the stairs and into the back yard to join Randall in the merriment of chucking gigantic darts into trees and – if we were lucky – a small furry mammal or two.

We broke open the box and took 2 each. We completely ignored the fact that this ‘game’ came with a gigantic plastic target that was to be laid out and used to gain points. What fun is it to hit targets you are SUPPOSED to hit??

We immediately adopted roles as our childhood heroes, Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow. In our little fantasy, they had both left their respective teams to form “Ninja Guys, Inc.”, a freelance group-for-hire much akin to the A-Team – only we were ninjas.

Every tree in the yard was impaled by these implements of destruction at least twice. We slinked around the house as if we walked on air, silent assassins who slew every enemy we could reach with our elite weaponry. Once we had silenced every evil-doer we could before it was just plain boring to stab sapling oaks and crate myrtles, we began taking aim at just about anything that was in our field of vision. Flower pots, passers-by on bicycles, cats, dogs – anything. Not actually being ninjas, we had absolutely horrible aim and hit exactly nothing we aimed at. This, too, became tedious after a while.

It was Randall’s idea to start gauging the height that we could each achieve – exactly the same excuse I gave my mother after what transpired.

Randall and I took turns lobbing the lawn darts straight up into the air, watching them fly upwards as far as our childish arms could toss them before arcing and plummeting to the earth, burying themselves in the soft sod that had just been laid out. He had just set the record when my turn came, and I was determined to out-throw him.

I grabbed my dart underhand and bent at the knees. With the style and grace of a seasoned power lifter, I exploded upward while flinging the dart, which achieved a height previously unrecorded by modern instruments. It drove up and up and up – finally pausing in mid-air just long enough to change direction and begin its descent. We both stood there watching this winged javelin swoop directly downward.

Not wanting to get hit, I stepped to the side and watched as Randall – who wasn’t nearly that clever – proceeded to unintentionally catch the dart via his left trapezium and shoulder.

I was in shock. Before me was a skinny shirtless kid with a gigantic lawn dart sticking out of his neck. Randall looked over at the dart then looked back at me. Calmly, he said “Wow. It doesn’t really hurt.”

Then he fell over.




[snip]

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View the rest of this story and more like it at www.MentallyIncontinent.com!

The following is a snippet from a 3,220 word story. The full story is located at:
http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=166

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[snip]

We loved playing with the Sarlaac Pit – it was our favorite scenario. Since we weren’t really allowed to play outside due to the condition of our neighborhood, we had to do it indoors. However, there was only one vent in the house large enough to really do it right and that was in my sister’s old room. Normally, we weren’t allowed in that room because of all the bums and vagrants that would come up to the back of the house and rattle the burglar bars, but my mother relented that day after our constant prattling. After all, I had just gotten the skiff for Christmas and it would be a shame if there were no pit to use it with.

Her concerns were a little deeper than just random dreck and ghetto trash rattling some bars on the back window. After all, we had lived with that for years. Her main issue was we were extremely clumsy kids. It was a sure bet that, given time, the few toys she had worked so hard to buy us would end up down the chute and lost forever. In an effort to curb this, she kept us in check by telling us that if we ever dropped a toy into the duct, it would catch the house on fire and everything would burn.

We lived in terror that this would happen and tried every way we could think of to keep it from being a possibility. Everything from a pillow case to my mother’s panty hose that came in the little egg-shaped container was draped across the opening to impede the free-fall of any toy we sacrificed to the almighty Sarlaac. The problem was, everything we tried intruded upon the overall ‘look and feel’ of the vent duct as a pit. Everything except for the yellow netting found wrapped around whole turkeys. It was perfect: big, thin, and the color of sand. Luckily for us, my mother had just purchased a turkey a few days previous. We counted on this net to catch any of the wayward figures that we sacrificed to the hungry Pit.

Well, the netting – stringy and mostly melted from having been strung across the vent for the past few hours while the heat was on – didn’t really do its job. Jenny made Lucky march to the edge of the plank, say his last words, and then plunge to his demise. Unfortunately, once she let go of him, Lucky the Care Bear proved to be too much of a load and went tumbling haphazardly past the protective netting and down the chute.

Every clang and bump that echoed up from the vent rang doubly loud in our stomachs. We knew those sounds heralded an impending inferno. Jenny was petrified – she was the one who dropped lucky into the pit, so technically it was going to be her fault when our home was incinerated.

“Joe!” she exclaimed, pulling my attention away from the dark and foreboding hole to the vast unknown and onto her horrified expression. “What are we going to do?? The house may catch fire!”

The way I saw it, there was only one thing we could do.

”You can fit in there. I say you go get it!”

”NO WAY! I can’t go get it! I’ll fall in and get stuck!”

”Don’t worry, I’ll hold you! You HAVE to go get it, you put it there. If you don’t, our house will burn down!”

”But YOU made me do it! I didn’t want to kill Lucky and you said that he displeased the Hutt family! It’s YOUR fault!”

”Is NOT!”

”Is SO!”

This wacky cross-examination continued on for a few minutes until finally, in a flash of brilliance, I devised a plan.

“Ok, I know! You can tie the sheets around your waist. I’ll hold them while you go get the bear.”

”Why don’t YOU go get it?!?”

”Because I can’t fit, dummy! Besides, YOU put it there!”

After a few more minutes of general bickering, Jenny finally relented and agreed to fish around the vent for the wayward Care Bear.

We pulled the sheets off of her bed and fashioned a makeshift harness by tying the sheet around her waist – it was SUPER secure, because I used a double knot. She slowly poked her head into the vent, noting that she couldn’t see anything at all.

”How am I supposed to find him if I can’t even see him??”

”Hmm… let me think...”

Another grand idea materialzed: “I know!”

And with that, I left the room and headed to the kitchen. My mother was seated at the breakfast table, reading “Passions of Lust” or some other such nonsense. Very casually, I tried to make light and un-foreboding conversation.

“Hey mama.”

”Hey sweetheart.”

“Whatcha doin?”

”Just reading a little, honey. What do you need?”

Located in the random tool drawer beside the sink were an Eveready flashlight and some duct tape. Should I make a play to obtain these items, it would have completely blown the gig.

”Umm, I just need a few… batteries! Yeah, My X-wing is low on power.”

”Ok,” She said, never removing her eyes from her harlequin novel, “You know where they are.”

”Thanks, mama!”

I pulled out the drawer and reached in, the entire time watching my mother like a hawk. I pulled out the flashlight and tucked it into my shorts, then grabbed the duct tape and put it under my shirt.

”Ok, got ‘em! Later mom!”

”Ok, honey, have fun…”

I returned to our little fiasco, gear in hand. “We can use these.”

”Umm… I understand the flashlight, but why the tape?”

”To tape it to your head, dummy! You might drop it down the vent if you hold it.”

She thought about it a second, then said ”Yeah, I guess that makes sense…”

She was 5 and I am her older brother. A lot of things made sense to her that probably shouldn't have.

I proceeded to place the flashlight flat against the top of her skull, pointing outward so that it shone wherever she turned her head. I then looped what must have been 100 yards of duct tape around the flashlight and her skull to base of her jaw and back up. By the time I was done, she was clad in a gigantic silver helmet with a huge hump at the crest of her head where the flashlight rested.

”Ok, it’s on there. Are you ready?”

”Yeah, I’m ready.”

She poked her head back into the vent, noting that she still couldn’t see anything.

“It’s still dark! You forgot to turn it on, you dork!”

I hoisted her back up and proceeded to unwrap the tape to get to the switch. It took almost 10 minutes to get to the base layer of the quacky adhesive strip, at which point I began peeling it off of her skin and hair.

It wasn’t pretty.

Jenny muffled as best she could her howls of pain while I tried to separate the tape from her head. Finally giving up, it was determined that there was no way this tape was coming out of her hair.

”Oh, NO! Look what you did to me!!!”

”ME? It was your idea!”

”NO IT WASN’T! How is this my fault?? You are the one who came up with this! You taped the flashlight to my head, superdork!”

”Well, you let me, you moron!! So there!! Besides, we can just cut it out.”

Sheer panic crossed her face.

”NO! Please don’t cut my hair!”

”What else can we do? It’s not going to come out.”

She pondered for a moment. She went over to the mirror and took a look: a gigantic silver and brown wad bobbed back and forth atop her head. She looked like the worst rendition of medusa I had ever seen.

She finally realized that I was right. I ran into my mother’s bedroom and grabbed her Fiskars, then proceeded to lop the disgusting lump off of my sister’s head – 100 yards of duct tape and her once-beautiful waist length hair.

“There, that’s the last of it.”

”Ok, so what now?”

”We turn it on and re-tape it!”

”No, I don’t wanna do that again…”

”Jen, you have to get that bear out of the vent or it’s FWOOOSH!” I said, raising my hands and twiddling my fingers much the way a Baptist minister does when he is describing Hell.

Her eyes nearly fell out of her skull at the thought, and quickly she grabbed the flashlight, turned it on, and held it in place on top of her head. I wrapped the rest of the roll of tape around the light and her head and once again, she was down peeking in the vent to try and spot Lucky.

“OK, I think I see him! But I can’t reach him.”

”Put both arms in, I’ll hold you tight!”

”I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

”FWOOOOSH!”

”Ok, Ok! I’ll do it!!” and with that, she came back up, put her hands in front of her like she was praying and dove head-first into the vent. I held her ankles in an effort to keep her from slipping forever into the abyss.



[snip]

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View the rest of this story and more like it at www.MentallyIncontinent.com!

The following is a snippet from a 3,680 word story. The full story is located at:
http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=162

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[snip]

I called Rebekah to arrange a time to meet to drive up to the camp. “Oh, my friend Amy is going to drive me, isn’t that, like, great??? It will save me SO much money on gas. But we can meet up once you get there on the bus! So, like, I’ll see ya, buhbyeeeee!”

Humph. OH well, her friend Amy could have her for the ride up. I had the entire summer to spend with her.

The bus for Camp Shady Woods left at 4:00 AM. I was exhausted, having stayed up until 2 that morning packing my stuff. I tried to get a little sleep on the bus - it was impossible. For the entire 14-and-a-half hour ride into Virginia, I dreamed of lazy summer evenings spent braiding wildflowers into Rebekah’s springy locks and reading her the lame poetry that I had penned in-between rest stops on our little bus ride to the camp. We would make up cute little nicknames for one another – She would be ‘Bekah-boo’ and I would be ‘Sparky’ – and we would accidentally find one another alone in the woods during our many hikes with the kids, stealing kisses and sharing knowing grins from one another all summer long. Perhaps I would pick up playing the guitar from one of the other counselors there and would serenade her in the evenings with spongy ballads about stars and streams.

The bus pulled into the camp around 7:00 PM, and we all filed out of the bus and into line for our camp assignments. I looked around for Rebekah – she was in the Lower Camp line. I rushed up to her and greeted her with a huge smile.

”Oh, HI! It is, like, SO good to see you!” She introduced me to Amy, who used twice as many ‘like’-s as Rebekah and drug her ‘so’-s out twice as long. We made general banter as the line progressed, and when we finally got up to the table, I followed Rebekah’s lead and signed up for “Pioneer 1” – the tent-and-bag camp. This would require us to find a camping buddy and share a tent – I knew exactly who mine was going to be. We smiled at one another, and just as I was imagining what her hair was going to look like with small purple violets in it, I heard someone beckoning for “That large fellah over there! You! Yes YOU!”

Her name was Madge. She was a blue-haired woman in her late 50’s and she apparently ran another camp on site. She spoke as if her breakfast every day for the past 40 years consisted of a cigarette and a Diet Pepsi – and smelled that way as well.

“You, young fellah… We really need you for one of our other camps – Camp Sparrowwood. One of the male counselors just backed out and we need someone capable of lifting and moving things fairly well… you look like you can handle it! The kids of Sparrowwood have ‘special needs’ and really need your help… Whadda ya’ say?”

I looked at Rebekah. She returned a look that let me know under no uncertain terms that the whole goal of volunteering here was to, like, help other people. I knew that if I refused, absolutely any favor I had won by volunteering here would fly right out of the window. So, I did what any horny 20 year old in my position would do – I buckled.

“Oh, you have just MADE my day!” Mabel exclaimed. The words sounded like they were drug across gravel as they made their way out of her cancer-ridden throat. At that moment, I wanted to teach her a few other uses for crochet needles and wood-burning irons. However, I knew that that probably wouldn’t win any points with the lovely Rebekah, who was now gripping my waist like I was about to be sucked away by a tornado.

”You are, like, the greatest guy! I am so glad I met you! Ok, see ya! Buh-byeeee!”

I followed Madge to her very weathered cabin to get my name tag and directions to the campsite. “I would hike up there with ya, but these old hips are liable to break just walking up that first hill!”

Bitch.

I made the two-and-a-half mile uphill trot over to the main Sparrowwood building with my backpack on my back and my duffel in tow, swapped between my left and right hands whenever one would seize up from holding it too long. Just as I arrived at the building, I saw Madge drive up in her beat up Plymouth Duster. I just stared at her as she exited the vehicle, coughing and hocking up phlegm all the while. “Oh, honey,” she said raspily, “I would have given you a ride, but you need to know how to get back to the other camp in case of an emergency.”

”Wouldn’t we just take your car in the event of an emergency?”

”Hmm.. I guess we would. Still, you needed to know. Besides, you’re young! You need the exercise! HA!”

I ground my teeth in an attempt to keep from lobbing my 50-lb duffle bag at her head. ‘This will make me a better person… This will make me a better person…’

I made my way to the front entrance to Sparrowwood and opened the main doors. I was greeted with the most vicious shriek I had ever heard in my life as a young girl with Down’s Syndrome raced past me holding one end of a roll of toilet paper and a female counselor trotted along after her, collecting the white stream of cottony softness as it was led out of the main doors and through the driveway.

“Could you help me, PLEASE?” came a cry from the frantic counselor.

I dropped my bag and ran behind the young girl, beckoning her to stop. “Natalie!” I heard from behind me.

”What??”

”Natalie. Her name is Natalie.”

I chased after Natalie, begging her to stop so I could take her back indoors. All I could hear in return were giggles and the word “NO!” shouted only as an exited little girl can shout it.

This went on for about 2 minutes, until I got a brilliant idea.

”Natalie, do you like OREOS?”

Natalie froze in her tracks and turned around.

”Yah, I like Oreos! They are yummy!”

”Well, if you will follow me inside, I will give you an Oreo! How does that sound?”

She trotted right up to me and grinned. “Ok, Mister! Let’s go get my cookies!”

I followed Natalie inside, stopping to pick up my bags. I saw the female counselor from earlier standing there, smiling.


[snip]

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View the rest of this story and more like it at www.MentallyIncontinent.com!

The following is a snippet from a 3,680 word story. The full story is located at:
http://www.mentallyincontinent.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=157

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[snip]

While practically everyone in my class was pretty good at it, there was one guy who excelled at making my life an absolute goddamn nightmare. His name was Tim White, and he had hounded me the day he first laid eyes on me - and every single day for the three and a half years that had transpired since. This kid was a complete and total prick. He was about 5 feet tall and wore a blonde hi-top fade that made him about 5-foot-8. He weighed all of 100 lbs soaking wet, wore all the latest styles of clothing and was a hit with all the hip chicks of the school. He literally looked like Vanilla Ice, decked out in Z. Cavaricci parachute pants and denim jackets with shoulder pads - only he wasn’t nearly as cool.

That year, he was in 5 of my 6 classes. This fucker was everywhere I was – English, Chemistry, Math – everywhere except the art room. I think culture repelled bastards of this type. While he and his cronies were learning skills in Auto Shop that would serve them VERY well in their future careers at the local gas stations and lube shops (where they still work, I might add), the freaks and geeks were hiding from them in the Art room or science labs.

He would torment me both audibly and silently during each and every class we shared. If he wasn’t making fat jokes, he was pelting me with wadded-up notebook paper or drawing on my jacket with permanent marker or squirting chlorine-filled syringes at my clothing, ruining them. He hounded me in Home Ec so much that one day that the teacher accidentally slipped and called me “Pugsley Adams”.

While these small kindnesses and courtesies were oh-so pleasant and fun, they became downright festive during Gym class. Walking up the 200-yard stairway from the school to the gym every day was a feat of pure determination on my part. Keeping my feet under me while he and his pals stepped on the back of my shoes or kicked my foot just as I was taking a step taught me balance like no football or wrestling drill ever could. Running did no good, as it merely added speed to my eventual face plant on the concrete.

Now, I know you are wondering why it was that I took so much crap from these little jerks. Sometimes, I look back and wonder why myself. Everyone knows how it is in school, though. The pecking order is something you just can’t get around. Once you are marked as a target, that’s pretty much what you are until somehow fate dictates otherwise.

In my case, fate decided that my time to change things was on a mild spring day near the end of my Junior High School career.

We were in Gym class playing yet another rousing game of soccer. The sun was shining and the dew had all but dried from of the freshly mowed grass of the soccer field. We were near the end of our 40 minute game when Tim decided he would show me what a slide tackle was.

Now, anyone who has ever played soccer or swung on the monkey bars knows that there is no pain that a person can experience more excruciating than being whacked in the shins. It doesn’t just hurt - It is one step shy of being eaten alive by army ants in terms of pure sucktitude. He kicked his feet out in front of him and plunged into my legs, slamming both of his cleats into my shins.

It was un-fun.

Several minutes of blinding lights flashing in my head and intense screaming ensued. I grit my teeth and rubbed my shin bones, trying to get rid of the ouchies as best I could. Coach Hartley, the football coach, was refereeing and red-carded Tim, ejecting him from the game. His team lost the game due to the fact that they had just lost their best player - and somehow it was my fault. The misanthropic bastard decided he would take out his frustrations on me after class.

“You made us lose the game! I’m going to beat your ass, Pugsley!”

“Come on… Leave me alone, Tim. You’re the one who tackled me. You did it to yourself.”

“Whatever! I’m going to pound your fat ass into the concrete! You better say your prayers, sucker!”

Now I was a sucker who should say my prayers. I think he stole all of his best lines from the villains on “The A-Team”.

The other kids all murmured, excited about the prospect of a fight. I dreaded it, due to the fact that I knew I had no choice but to just stand there and let Tim beat on me.

My mother, the kind and sweet woman that she is, told me long ago that I was never to hit anyone for any reason. “Always turn the other cheek, Joey”. She quoted the bible, explaining that we should accept transgressions against us not seven times, but 7 times 70. I sucked at math, but I understood the intent of her statement – should I ever partake in fisticuffs, she would be utterly disappointed. The impending doom of the upcoming fight didn’t really make me particularly gleeful.

I took as much time as I could dressing back in before Coach Hartley blew the “last call” whistle in the locker room, clearing all of the laggards out. He saw me slowly making my way to the door and stopped me, allowing the other 2 guys who were still in the room to leave. Alone, he decided it was time to have a man-to-man talk with me.

“Joe, Is Tim going to fight you after class?”

I knew that squealing on Tim would merely prolong the inevitable, and would probably just make whatever beating I was going to take worse.

”Naw, he’s just trying to scare me, Coach. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

”Ok, let me rephrase that then – Joe, Tim is going to fight you after class.”

My eyes met the ground. “Yeah, probably.”

”Look, son, you need to stand up for yourself. You are twice his size! There isn’t a kid in this school who is bigger than you! Why do you let him get away with this shit?”

”I dunno.”

”You dunno? Come on, Joe. You know he can’t beat you in a fight. I see you in practice every day hitting the other boys! You’re a horse! Why don’t you show him who’s boss and put an end to this shit?”

Coach didn’t really let the fact that I was 13 impair his predilection toward swear words.

”It’ll just make it worse, Coach. If I hit him, he and his friends won’t ever leave me alone!”

He paused and surveyed the situation. Before him stood a scared kid who didn’t yet realize much about the way the world works. I think he knew where I was at during that point in my life, because what he said to me then sounded like it came from experience.

“Listen to me – when he approaches you out there, don’t run. Stand up to him. Yank his shirt over his head and just start hitting and don’t stop until you hear the sounds go wet and mushy, got it? Trust me – everyone who sees or hears about it won’t ever bother you again. Just stand your ground, son. People aren’t stupid, they don’t ever want to fight something that fights back.”

I looked up and into his eyes. He didn’t look away or smile, he just stared at me with a face so cold and stern it was scary.

“You have to do this. You can’t keep running.”

In my mind, I knew he was right. The trouble is, the rest of my body wasn’t so convinced and offered it’s rebuttal in an upheaval of the contents of my stomach. I blew chunks all over Coach Hartley, soaking his flexi-fit coach shorts and MacGregor tennis shoes in the bacon and eggs my mother insisted I eat that morning.

I was scared that he would be pissed, but he just pat me on the shoulder and said “Good. At least you got that out and over with. The rest should be a piece of cake.”

Just then, the shrill clanging of the bells started up, signaling that it was time for me to face fate.

”Go on, get going.”


[snip]

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[snip]

Truly, we were shocked, as it is not every day that one is party to a group of chanting cows picketing the Outback.

The entire restaurant, completely silenced, focused in on these 4 very very very sad individuals. They all ceased their chanting and looked around a bit. Once they were confident that they had the full attention of the crowd, one of the cows (the leader, I presume) spoke:


“Greetings! You people should be ashamed of yourselves! Your dinner was once a living, breathing organism! How can you dine on the flesh of your fellow mammal this way?!?”

I’m not quite sure what they expected to come from that question, but no one answered. This angered the already peeved cow further.

“This is utterly despicable! It is gross that you would eat animals this way! We should live in harmony with the other life forms on this planet! Meat is Murder!”


Again the cows began chanting this phrase. The entire restaurant, ocercome the initial shock of the talking cows, collectively murmured and generally scoffed at the statements that poor misguided girl made (well, it sounded like a girl… It had an udder. Who knows... The fact that this was even happening was enough to baffle me, I really didn’t need another conundrum plopped into my lap).

All of my friends were looking at me, expecting me to make something happen. I answered their silent question with a deafening “WHAT!?!” followed by a softer, yet stern “Why are you all looking at me? What am I supposed to do?”

Mike answered “I don’t know… It’s talking cows! I just expected you to do something.”

”Well, I don’t know what to do. I mean, it’s talking cows, man! Clearly, this situation is unstable enough as it is without me injecting myself directly into it.”

Apparently, fate disagreed. My loud exclamation of a query was sufficient to draw the attention of the bovine conspirators over to us. I looked over at my right shoulder to find a felt-covered teat resting on my collarbone.

The lead cow spoke: “Sir! Surely you must have something to say! How do you defend your actions??”

How does one answer this question???

Yeah, I don’t know either!

”I don’t really know that I can defend my actions… I wasn’t aware that I was going to be called upon to do so this evening. Perhaps if you let me know ahead of time that you and your friends plan to dress as cows and invade the restaurant I will be dining at, I can be better prepared.”

She looked up and back at her cow friends, swinging the gigantic foam cow-head back and forth.

”Ahh, a smart-alec! Guys, we have a comedian here! Well, mister funny animal murderer, we have no need for your sarcasm!”

I just plain didn’t know how to react to this situation, so I just said what I was thinking.

”Well, maybe not, but you have a severe need for psychiatric evaluation.”

This was probably the wrong answer.

[snip]

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[snip]

Suddenly, some sort of high energy House music played across an antiquated and close to blown PA system cranked to 11. Two extremely excited and definitely over-caffeinated people bounded out of the stage house and into view. They were hopping and clapping, shouting “Yeah! Let’s go! Yeah!”, pumping their fists in the air and cheering for the fish as if they were about to play the Steelers for the AFC Championship.

They introduced themselves over the PA system:

”HI! I’m KELLI!” (she didn’t have to tell us she spelled it with an “I”. It was VERY apparent.)

“AND I’m Peter!”

“And we are The Super Dolphin Squad!”

(Together) “Get ready for some fun!”

At least, that’s what I assumed they said. They could have been welcoming me to White Castle, asking if I wanted fries with my meal. It was extremely difficult to tell. The PA sounded like it was stolen out of a church reception hall in 1974.

”I’d like to introduce you guys to Coco and (I’m not making this up) Tuna, our dolphin friends!”

They named their dolphin “Tuna”. That’s just messed up.

The next 20 minutes were full of dolphins jumping, dolphins dancing on their tails, dolphins balancing things on their nose… Dolphins doing what dolphins do every time you see dolphins. We were clapping and such, but it wasn’t all that intriguing - especially since we could hear people on the Splashwater Falls right behind us, zipping down a 300ft ramp into a pool of water. Disgusting water, yes… but for most of us, it would have served as our weekly bath. No matter what was in that water, it was certain that getting covered with it was far more fun than watching this dolphin show.

The trainer folks made their way out of the pool and grabbed the microphone for the PA.

“Ok, now we need some volunteers. Who would like to come down here and have Coco and Tuna do some tricks for us?”

Naturally, every single kid shot both of their hands high into the sky, begging for the chance to be the center of attention for a few minutes. This event was certain to buy at least 2 days worth of status upgrades around the school.

The trainers scanned the pack of overeager children. The woman extended her hand and pointed with her finger. EXTREMELY dramatically, she waved her hand back and forth while asking “Who am I going to pick… Hmmm….” until the extended digit finally rested on Tomika Owens. In a flash, Tamika was at the front of the stage, welcoming her opportunity to make Coco do a flip.

The guy, Peter, was doing the exact same thing with his hand, waving it around with wide eyes and his mouth gaping open in an excited toothy grin. “Who am I going to pick… hmmm… how about… YOU!”

Everyone in the audience followed the direction of the finger, turning their heads to face… ME???

I couldn’t believe it. He picked ME!

I hadn’t been picked for ANYTHING in my entire life! Every magician, sports semi-hero and clown that had ever come to our school always passed me over when it was time for volunteers. Even that horrid woman on Romper Room left me out when she saw who she saw through the TV screen (COME ON.. my name is JOE. How hard was that to say? It’s the second most common name on the planet. In her so-called ‘Magic Mirror’, she would see Robert, she would see Kelly, she would even see Balthazar - but never Joe. Stupid bitch…).

I was SO excited that I had finally been picked for something, I think a little pee came out.

[snip]

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This story is atypical, in that it is short, sweet and to the point - Mainly because I got caught up by the change in Daylight Savings Time, a concept I don't currently and never will fully understand. The entire day today I have been running around trying to explain to people that I forgot to set my clock ahead an hour.

Most people understood, relating that they almost forgot themselves or were awakened by spouses or family members who helped remind them. It didn't really work too well with my mom, however, who accused me of purposely missing out on her "Trademark Meatloaf Lunch".

Like I would purposely miss out on something as... yummy... as meatloaf, right? (shudder)

So, since I don't have much time, I think I will give you guys a little etiquette lesson. This one is especially for the workout folks out there.

All of you non-gymgoers, feel free to quit reading now and go look at some great fake news.

Ok, gym people, listen up:

If you, at some point, become so satisfied with the results of your hard work and dedication in the gym that you feel it necessary to wear a wife-beater top or a shirt with the sleeves cut off, and you somehow develop a rather severe case of body acne which has found its way to your shoulders, biceps and triceps, please please OH GOD PLEASE do NOT squeeze and pop the goddamn whiteheads while in the gym.

This is especially applicable when spotting someone (ME) on the bench press.

If, somehow, you have come to the point in your fractured psyche that you just cannot resist the urge to squeeze your arm pimples while hovering over me while I have several hundred pounds suspended over my chest, for CHRISSAKE, aim AWAY from my face.

Now, in the rare (but BELIEVE me, possible) case that you are wearing the sleeveless t-shirt with the acne problem on your arms and you are hovering above me while I am lowering and raising a big iron bar with several hundred pounds of iron on each side and you have tried and tried to resist the incessant chanting from your zit-covered appendages - but the tiny little voices from the blemishes have permeated your senses, seizing control of your brain and forcing you to squeeze while aiming at my face - for the love of all that is holy, when that putrid goo lands on my cheek and I drop the weight on myself and gag, don't just stand there and ask "Hey, are you alright? Dude, I am sorry about that..."

Instead, you might try LIFTING THE GODDAMN BAR OFF OF ME SO THAT I MIGHT GET YOUR FILTHY INFECTION OFF OF MY NOSE AND CHIN (and a bit on my neck).

It's merely a suggestion.

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