At midnight mass last night we celebrated a naked blue god. One without the cheesy manhood car wash rag, as if God ever cared what someone thought of his junk. Watchmen was a killer flick with bone-grinding stabs and obscenely large red puddles, yet never did it try and hide behind the artificial flavorings of its comic book-turned movie predecessors. The music is a tribute to the late sixties and early seventies, quite a contrast to the technology used to make the movie, except since the film takes place during exaggerated instances within the Nixon administration, all the songs would have come out around that time, and fuck it, it worked in an Oliver Stone type-a way. “Wow, there was so much sex in that movie?” said two girls exiting alongside me at 3am. I said, where is Chris Brown when you need him?
When I was growing up I collected comic books; never read them, just collected them. I would stop in at the local 7-Eleven and whatever one had the coolest cover I’d grab; a worthless way to become an addict, but for some reason I just never liked to read. I came into Watchmen knowing nothing about the comic’s history, characters, anything….and I walked out feeling like a dedicated fan. That’s the way this movie is, legitimately hardcore, and you wish it was longer than 2 hours and 40 minutes. Although the story-line is fast-forwarded to cover years of history and loses some plot in translation, there's so much raw edge that you respect every corner never cut. Watchmen distances itself from the pack because they’ve embraced the R-Rating; staying true to the gore and fantasy that is action comics. Mastering this hurdle and understanding that audiences have literally seen it all, is why the chance they took to be daring was so successful. It’s not all sappy-romance and happy-endings. Good guys have to die too.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
They Called Him "Chuckles"
It was the fall. Besides the scent of fake leather and the foam we'd pull from the seat cushions, we could smell the fresh cut grass through the tiny cracks of our bus windows. As always, those plastic guards on the track stopped the window just short enough to keep the stench of unwashed uniforms. Trekking down the steps, we jumped to the concrete where our cleats left mounds of hardened mud on Holy Trinity's parking lot. They looked like tiny brown islands on a sea of pavement; each pummeled by a bad meteor shower. Going through our heads as we approached the field was our usual difficulty of beating these guys. They weren't talented, they offered no specific player to keep an eye on, nor any sign of a strategy they'd use to dominate a game.....overall, they were just dirty motherfuckers.
I played soccer throughout my entire childhood; from the day I was four until my senior year in college. To this day, I have never experienced a raping like that in October 2003; I was a Junior in High School. When you think of the word "rape", you might assume we got our asses handed to us, or sucked so badly that we lost by some ridonkulous score. I really wouldn't waste your time with a shitty story about getting our asses beat.
We all know that soccer, on top of its physical requirements, includes a thick layer of acting. There's diving, throwing up your hands to create the illusion of being held, purposely tripping yourself when tangled with an opponent, etc. The easiest and most unnoticeable, yet effective strategy, is the art of "shit-talking" (common in many sports). Holy Trinity was a team with talentless players and brutal attitudes. If they broke an opponent's leg, then that was better than a goal. My job as a striker was to create open space, find a way to receive the ball from the backfield and turn it towards the goal to score. Normally, the opposite team assigns a defender to a striker to never let them free. My lucky day, they'd assigned McCauley Culkin on growth hormones, only with longer hair covering his eyes. Now that I think of it, he didn't even have eyes. This guy was Home Alone on acid with a machete, pliers and a bottle of Old Grand Dad; I remember it like yesterday.
The minute I stood still he came up behind me and whispered some shit about fucking me in the ass.
douche whisperer: "Hey buddy, what's up...I'm marking you today and I'm gonna be all up on your shit."
As usual, I'd try and keep on the move and ignore him until he feels stupid hearing his own voice.
douche whisperer: "Aww what's wrong wittle guy, you can't speak...come over here...."
A bit worried he cared nothing about the game, and more about licking my shadow, I felt a handful of my ass in his.
"Ref!!! Keep an eye on this kid, he's grabbing my fucking ass for chrissake..."
the ref: "hey! watch your mouth!"
"Well........Everytime you turn your back, he's fondling me like one of his Barbies"
douche whisperer: "awww....you used to collect Barbies? how cute..."
douche teammate: "hey Chuckles, tell ur lil momma's boy, I had his motha over for dinner lass night"
"Wait a second.....Did your butt-buddy just call you Chuckles!?! What the fuck kinda name's that? Lemme guess...you have a flamingly high-pitched laugh and everytime a little boy walks by, you need to use the bathroom"
Chuckles: "I love little boys...you remind of one I played with lass night"
"Jesus, you're original.....you and your buddy with the mom-jokes"
Chuckles: "you wanna be my bitch? I'm gonna make you my..."
The ball's kicked and we're off again. Trying harder and harder to keep away from this scitzo-pediphile, he was literally flat-tiring my heels every step. As the Ref turned away, he one-upped himself and proved creative in the flagrant minds far beyond the walls of appropriate behavior. Good ol' Chuckles had scooped around and grabbed my dick (dead fucking serious).
"REF!!!!! He's fucking grabbing my dick, this is bullshit!!
the ref: (blowing his whistle) "Number 4! I told you to watch your mouth....consider this your last warning! (he holds up a Yellow card)
"This is ridiculous!!!! He's reachin around and touching my dick, I'm not lying!! You have to watch him!!"
the crowd: "Hey numba 4!! I'm kicking your fucking ass after the game...you better run like a little bitch to your bus."
(yelling in the general vicinity of the crowd with my hands raised and eyes focused on no one) "You like guys touching your dick??.............dumb question"
For some reason, none of this shook up the Ref. He didn't pay more attention and fucking Chuckles was relentless. Next, he whacked at my junk like when you rat-tail someone with a rolled up towel. My coach saw what was happening and yelled to the Ref, but still he must've just thought we were trying to deter his attention. Sprinting away, I faked to one side, turned, and threw an elbow hard into his chin. It felt amazing, but it only enraged his eyeless McCauley mask. He got even more physical. No, Im not talking penne-alla-vodka; he'd come up behind me and start lacing in short sharp knuckle punches to my back. Then he'd move side-to-side, making like he was about to run, and as his arms would go up in motion to propel away, he'd quickly smack the back of my head. I couldn't even concentrate on the game I was so lost. None of this made sense in soccer. He had pissed me off so badly that even if I got the ball I figured he'd stick his cleat up my ass, turn to the right and cheer "open sesame!" The ref would then blow the whistle and I'd get penalized for not wanting it there (no-pun on the penal). So I faked being tripped. As we were running, I made like he took out my legs and the fact that he was two inches from me, it looked damn real. The Ref finally gave him a yellow. Grabbing my sac, pinching my ass and practically checking my temperature were not worthy of a card, but me tripping myself, now that's what punished him....pathetic, but effective. In soccer, if you are the cause of another flagrant foul after you have a yellow card, it's quite common that you'll get a red card and be ejected from the game. Your team would then have to play a man down for the rest of the game, and the thought of this kept him at bay for the remaining minutes of the first half.
Around the middle of the second half I finally had the ball in a position where I could do something. I took it hard up the line and towards the corner flag. With about a foot of space before being out of bounds, I crossed the ball and bent it in towards the ten yard line (an imaginary line). One of my teammates, Nick Karastinos, trapped the ball and buried it in the back of the net. For some reason I always would fall after making a hard bending cross at top speed, and as I got off the ground elated with joy, Chuckles threw me back down. He knew it was his fault that the ball was even crossed...I had gotten away from him. As Nick and my teammates celebrated towards mid-field, no one even saw it happen. Now that we were winning, I really didn't give a shit. I wound up hard and bitch-smacked his rosy fucking cheeks with a stiff open palm, hoping it would sting forever. As I jogged away, I heard him closing in to where he kicked hard at my ankles, chopping my legs out from under me. As I fell to the ground, the crowd started screaming and my coach was going ballistic. Everyone had seen it except the Ref who was writing the number of Nick's jersey in his pad to note who scored.
I've always been one to have a bit of congestion. Asking for paper napkins at every meal, or having my adnoids and tonsils removed because I couldn't breathe right......there couldnt have been a better time to be stuffed up. It just felt natural to suck in deep. As I gripped the grass and pushed my body up, I breathed in hard and long to the point of a gag reflex. You couldn't even imagine the collection.....I'm talking a mixed blend of good-god-almighty nastyness. And as I turned around to see his dusty mop-top and shiny fucking grin, I launched a wad.......... a solid fucking mass right onto that asshole's face.
my coach: Sub!!!!!!!! Ref!! Substitute!!
Before Chuckles could even squeegee off the muck, I had ran off the field and a new guy was in. For all the mishaps the Ref never saw, that was the most important.
As a man there's only so many degrading things you can endure, and I think I put Chuckles down a notch that day. The physical stuff seems so temporary whereas a "loog" tends to linger. Although his teammates wanted to kill me because they saw it happen, Chuckles didn't get the Ref involved. He took it. I don't know why, or what it was, he just did. For all I know the kid was so fucked up that he liked it. And as I didn't shake hands with Holy Trinity that day, for fear of losing my ability to reproduce, I got back on the bus thankful it was over. I looked up at the crack that my little window was fully open, and I closed it.
I played soccer throughout my entire childhood; from the day I was four until my senior year in college. To this day, I have never experienced a raping like that in October 2003; I was a Junior in High School. When you think of the word "rape", you might assume we got our asses handed to us, or sucked so badly that we lost by some ridonkulous score. I really wouldn't waste your time with a shitty story about getting our asses beat.
We all know that soccer, on top of its physical requirements, includes a thick layer of acting. There's diving, throwing up your hands to create the illusion of being held, purposely tripping yourself when tangled with an opponent, etc. The easiest and most unnoticeable, yet effective strategy, is the art of "shit-talking" (common in many sports). Holy Trinity was a team with talentless players and brutal attitudes. If they broke an opponent's leg, then that was better than a goal. My job as a striker was to create open space, find a way to receive the ball from the backfield and turn it towards the goal to score. Normally, the opposite team assigns a defender to a striker to never let them free. My lucky day, they'd assigned McCauley Culkin on growth hormones, only with longer hair covering his eyes. Now that I think of it, he didn't even have eyes. This guy was Home Alone on acid with a machete, pliers and a bottle of Old Grand Dad; I remember it like yesterday.
The minute I stood still he came up behind me and whispered some shit about fucking me in the ass.
douche whisperer: "Hey buddy, what's up...I'm marking you today and I'm gonna be all up on your shit."
As usual, I'd try and keep on the move and ignore him until he feels stupid hearing his own voice.
douche whisperer: "Aww what's wrong wittle guy, you can't speak...come over here...."
A bit worried he cared nothing about the game, and more about licking my shadow, I felt a handful of my ass in his.
"Ref!!! Keep an eye on this kid, he's grabbing my fucking ass for chrissake..."
the ref: "hey! watch your mouth!"
"Well........Everytime you turn your back, he's fondling me like one of his Barbies"
douche whisperer: "awww....you used to collect Barbies? how cute..."
douche teammate: "hey Chuckles, tell ur lil momma's boy, I had his motha over for dinner lass night"
"Wait a second.....Did your butt-buddy just call you Chuckles!?! What the fuck kinda name's that? Lemme guess...you have a flamingly high-pitched laugh and everytime a little boy walks by, you need to use the bathroom"
Chuckles: "I love little boys...you remind of one I played with lass night"
"Jesus, you're original.....you and your buddy with the mom-jokes"
Chuckles: "you wanna be my bitch? I'm gonna make you my..."
The ball's kicked and we're off again. Trying harder and harder to keep away from this scitzo-pediphile, he was literally flat-tiring my heels every step. As the Ref turned away, he one-upped himself and proved creative in the flagrant minds far beyond the walls of appropriate behavior. Good ol' Chuckles had scooped around and grabbed my dick (dead fucking serious).
"REF!!!!! He's fucking grabbing my dick, this is bullshit!!
the ref: (blowing his whistle) "Number 4! I told you to watch your mouth....consider this your last warning! (he holds up a Yellow card)
"This is ridiculous!!!! He's reachin around and touching my dick, I'm not lying!! You have to watch him!!"
the crowd: "Hey numba 4!! I'm kicking your fucking ass after the game...you better run like a little bitch to your bus."
(yelling in the general vicinity of the crowd with my hands raised and eyes focused on no one) "You like guys touching your dick??.............dumb question"
For some reason, none of this shook up the Ref. He didn't pay more attention and fucking Chuckles was relentless. Next, he whacked at my junk like when you rat-tail someone with a rolled up towel. My coach saw what was happening and yelled to the Ref, but still he must've just thought we were trying to deter his attention. Sprinting away, I faked to one side, turned, and threw an elbow hard into his chin. It felt amazing, but it only enraged his eyeless McCauley mask. He got even more physical. No, Im not talking penne-alla-vodka; he'd come up behind me and start lacing in short sharp knuckle punches to my back. Then he'd move side-to-side, making like he was about to run, and as his arms would go up in motion to propel away, he'd quickly smack the back of my head. I couldn't even concentrate on the game I was so lost. None of this made sense in soccer. He had pissed me off so badly that even if I got the ball I figured he'd stick his cleat up my ass, turn to the right and cheer "open sesame!" The ref would then blow the whistle and I'd get penalized for not wanting it there (no-pun on the penal). So I faked being tripped. As we were running, I made like he took out my legs and the fact that he was two inches from me, it looked damn real. The Ref finally gave him a yellow. Grabbing my sac, pinching my ass and practically checking my temperature were not worthy of a card, but me tripping myself, now that's what punished him....pathetic, but effective. In soccer, if you are the cause of another flagrant foul after you have a yellow card, it's quite common that you'll get a red card and be ejected from the game. Your team would then have to play a man down for the rest of the game, and the thought of this kept him at bay for the remaining minutes of the first half.
Around the middle of the second half I finally had the ball in a position where I could do something. I took it hard up the line and towards the corner flag. With about a foot of space before being out of bounds, I crossed the ball and bent it in towards the ten yard line (an imaginary line). One of my teammates, Nick Karastinos, trapped the ball and buried it in the back of the net. For some reason I always would fall after making a hard bending cross at top speed, and as I got off the ground elated with joy, Chuckles threw me back down. He knew it was his fault that the ball was even crossed...I had gotten away from him. As Nick and my teammates celebrated towards mid-field, no one even saw it happen. Now that we were winning, I really didn't give a shit. I wound up hard and bitch-smacked his rosy fucking cheeks with a stiff open palm, hoping it would sting forever. As I jogged away, I heard him closing in to where he kicked hard at my ankles, chopping my legs out from under me. As I fell to the ground, the crowd started screaming and my coach was going ballistic. Everyone had seen it except the Ref who was writing the number of Nick's jersey in his pad to note who scored.
I've always been one to have a bit of congestion. Asking for paper napkins at every meal, or having my adnoids and tonsils removed because I couldn't breathe right......there couldnt have been a better time to be stuffed up. It just felt natural to suck in deep. As I gripped the grass and pushed my body up, I breathed in hard and long to the point of a gag reflex. You couldn't even imagine the collection.....I'm talking a mixed blend of good-god-almighty nastyness. And as I turned around to see his dusty mop-top and shiny fucking grin, I launched a wad.......... a solid fucking mass right onto that asshole's face.
my coach: Sub!!!!!!!! Ref!! Substitute!!
Before Chuckles could even squeegee off the muck, I had ran off the field and a new guy was in. For all the mishaps the Ref never saw, that was the most important.
As a man there's only so many degrading things you can endure, and I think I put Chuckles down a notch that day. The physical stuff seems so temporary whereas a "loog" tends to linger. Although his teammates wanted to kill me because they saw it happen, Chuckles didn't get the Ref involved. He took it. I don't know why, or what it was, he just did. For all I know the kid was so fucked up that he liked it. And as I didn't shake hands with Holy Trinity that day, for fear of losing my ability to reproduce, I got back on the bus thankful it was over. I looked up at the crack that my little window was fully open, and I closed it.
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