Saturday, February 11, 2012
Palmiers and Principles
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Quit Pushing
QUIT PUSHING
Alright already, I’m up, I’m up. Christ, it stinks in here. Can somebody please get this dog out of my room. I mean really, this is where I sleep.
“Farfel has four legs too so I’m sure the horses will love having him sleep with them.”
Wrong! I hate this mutt. He pissed on my leg, shit in my hay and he barks at anything that moves. I can barely turn around in here and they have to stick precious Farfel in here too. Some palace this is. They should sleep in here and see what a palace it is.
Yeah, open the freakin’ doors and get some fresh air in here.
Race day?
Whoa, wait a minute, Saturday, Saturday is race day. Today is Sunday pal, I trot a few laps and back to the paddock for lunch with that cute filly with the long face.
Getting ready for what Derby? Derby, Schmerby, I never agreed to this. They said I race on Saturday so I don’t really have to…what, shoes again? What’s wrong with these? They feel fine.
Hey, HEY, easy with the pliers fella.
How come fucking Farfel doesn’t have to wear shoes?
Fine, alright, I’m coming. I know, I know, the saddle, I'm not an idiot..
Easy, wait a minute, WAIT A MINUTE, will you hold on for one second, I told you the third hole on the strap is the one, the fourth one is too TIGHT.
Jesus, I can’t breathe. How do you people expect me to race when I can’t breathe.
Go ahead, walk behind me, just one clean shot - taste my hoof.
Keep laughing Farfel.
Hmm, the track's a tad muddy. I think we should go back, I can't run in this. Hey, are you listening? I’ve told you a hundred times I don’t like running in the…
…hey Runamuck, they got you running in this slop too, huh. What’s the good word?
Same shit, different track.
I know, you believe this mud. This whole place is a dump, the food sucks, tiny rooms. Do they make you sleep with dogs?
Hey Runamuck, what ever happened to that fella from Kentucky?
Oh, you mean Ima Walkin’, with the brown and white face. Funny bastard.
Remember when he farted in the guy’s face at the loading gate. Almost knocked him over. Boy he was funny…ran like a cripple, but funny as hell.
They timed him with a calendar.
Buwahahaha.
I heard he retired last year. He’s pulling some wagon in New York with all the other losers.
He’s a walkin’ alright, walkin’ twelve hour days for some jackass in a top hat. And get this, he has to wear a
diaper. Poor bastard. Remember Mount Up, he was a fast sucker. Now, he did it right.
Sure, you win a bunch of races and you retire to Florida. The guy gets up at noon, roams around all day yuckin’ it up with his buddies, eats whatever the hell he wants and get this, they bring in girls three, four times a week!
Me? Another one, two more years then I’m done with this crap.
Yep, I figure another couple of wins and it’s Florida here I come.
Ah, yes, gate #6, my lucky number. Alright, who do we have today. What a bunch of losers.
Is this the best you people can do? Dog food on four legs.
Hey Runamuck, look at this beauty – blinkers? C’mon ya big baby, afraid to see me passing your ass? I’m gonna beat you like a rented mule.
What’d ya say pal? You’re gonna beat who like a what? Furlong where? Yeah, I got your furlong right here!
Yeah, yeah, meet me in the winner's circle Elmer.
Look at this one, another bag a glue in #5.
C’mon people, some competition please!
Hmm, he’s little bigger than I thought.
OK, yep, definitely bigger than I thought.
Wow, really big.
Jesus, where’d this guy come from.
Runamuck, you know this guy?
Anybody seen this guy before.
This must be a mistake.
Hey, I thought this was just for three year olds?
Well, I’d check this guy’s papers. Seriously.
Will you just wait a minute and listen. There’s no way he’s three, look at the size of him.
First you make me work on my day off and now this.
OK, that’s it, I’m done; this guy’s cheating so I’m not racing. This whole thing is bogus and I’m outta…
…alright put the whip down.
Just put it down and let’s talk about this.
Yes, yes, OK, ALRIGHT, I was just kidding, can’t you take a joke.
Yes, right, I know, I’m in #6, next to Godzilla.
Look #12 is open, let’s go in there, much more room for me to...
…why not?
Who’s being fussy?
What’s the difference, #6, #12.
If anyone’s being fussy it’s…
…alright I’m going.
Quit pushing.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Head Lights
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
A Place That's Always Safe and Warm
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Big Bang
Friday, December 17, 2010
Mother's Holiday Warmth
Those high-priced bartenders in their red vests and white shirts who your caterers recommended to serve at your last party may know a thing or two, but for entertaining on a smaller scale—for parties of seven people, four, or even just one—a few simple steps to the perfect cocktail are all you’ll ever need. Take, for example, this drink I’m drinking right now. Where the hell did I put it? I just set it down five minutes ago. I had it when I was watching the news, I know that. Now what in hell could I have done with it? O.K.—I found it, thank heavens. I must have set it here on the stairs when I went to throw away the mail. Anyway, as I was saying, making this particular drink, which happens to be a vodka gimlet, is simplicity itself, once you know how. Plus, it’s so delicious! The tangy tartness of the lime juice combined with the antiseptic astringency of the icy-cold vodka—wonderful.
Now, normally in this column the Cursing Mommy does not endorse any company, product, or institution, but just this once I’m going to make an exception, because, what the hell—I use Rose’s Lime Juice. It’s perfect for gimlets, so I always keep a few extra bottles in reserve in case I run out, as in fact I did just a few minutes ago when I mixed the drink I’m finishing now. The backup bottles, which are down here on the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet—don’t tell me they’re not here. Please don’t fucking tell me the Rose’s Lime Juice is not fucking here. If Larry took my last spare bottle to use in his fucking Sno-Kone machine, by Christ, I swear I’ll—oh, thank God. Here it is, back behind the Kahlúa and the walnut liqueur. Whew. That was a close one.
Anyway, you take your Rose’s Lime Juice, you take your favorite gimlet glass (which, for me, is the one I was just using), and—fuck. I have lost my drink again. Somebody please tell me I have not lost my stupid goddam fucking drink again! O.K., it has to be close by, because I had it right before I was hunting around on all fours in front of the liquor cabinet. Wait a minute—can this be it? Here on the counter behind the flour cannister? I don’t think this is it. I’ll just take a sip and—Phewww!! Gahhh! Disgusting! This must be the drink I couldn’t find night before last. Fucking ants in it. Drowned ants. Good Christ, what was I thinking?
O.K., we have established that that was definitely not the glass I was looking for. In situations like this, the Cursing Mommy recommends that you take three deep breaths, concentrate inwardly on some attractive and relaxing vacation scene, and scream “Fuck!” at the top of your lungs. There—I feel better. Don’t you? Usually at about this time of the evening I must begin making dinner. Larry and the kids will be home soon. Fortunately, however, tonight is Make Your Own Goddam Dinner Night, a recently instituted family ritual I shared with you in last week’s column. So basically I don’t have to worry about that. Instead, what I’m going to do is just close my eyes, wait until I regain a sense of calm, and when I open them again my missing gimlet glass is going to be right in front of me.
Oh, fucking hell. Could I possibly have left it down in the basement? Of course not—that’s ridiculous. I haven’t even been down in the basement, not since I vowed I wouldn’t touch another piece of laundry today even if it meant the clothes already in the washer mildewed and rotted away. Regular followers of this column know that at about this point every week the Cursing Mommy flips out due to one problem or another and begins cursing a lot, throwing things, and giving people the finger. Somehow, however, I don’t think it’s quite appropriate to go to those extremes over a problem as minor as a misplaced cocktail glass. Instead, I will begin a systematic search, accompanying myself meanwhile with a sort of general, all-around cursing out of various deserving individuals and things.
For starters, God damn to hell my father’s fucking girlfriend, who expects me to do all the food and the cleanup at his seventy-fifth birthday party, and then she’ll take all the credit for herself, such a fucking jerk. Fuck the township, also, for changing fucking Bulky Waste Day from Monday to Friday and now I have to haul all that shit that I carried down this morning back up from the curb or they’re going to give us a ticket, the fucking bureaucratic red-tape, petty, time-server assholes. And, just in passing, fuck the fucking Bush Administration—I know they’re not in power anymore, but fuck them anyway, because they’re such a bunch of fucks. And on the subject of stupid fucks, fuck the—
FUUUUUUUCK! OW! JESUS CHRIST! FUCKING SHIT! I STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE! OW OW OW! JESUS! FUCKING LARRY LEFT THAT FUCKING BOX OF ADAPTERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING DINING-ROOM FLOOR, THE FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT STUPID FUCKING BOX DOING THERE! I TOLD HIM TO PUT THOSE FUCKING ADAPTERS AWAY! FUCK! OW! FUCK!
(Pause.)
People say that when you misplace an object in your home, instead of tearing the place apart looking for it, you should just be patient, and the object you are looking for will eventually turn up. And now we see the accuracy of this saying, because as I sit here on the dining-room floor cursing and massaging my goddam stubbed toe, I notice that over there on the floor, just behind the door to the kitchen, is the stupid fucking cocktail glass I was looking for. And, thanks be to merciful God, there is still a fair amount of drink remaining in it, so I’ll down it now. What a fucking terrible day this has been.