Fucked-up Shit my Bosses Said

1. "I'm going to kill your sister with this." -Ben, Kay-Bee Toys
2. "We have a sale on Pop-Ices this week...Ah, Pop-Ices. Those have been a friend all the while." -Bob Carter, Wal-Mart
3. "If you're a bad stewardess, we'll have to send you off to New York." -John B, Electronics Boutique
4. "

This was supposed to be something vaguely entertaining, but I just can't make it work. The above quotes are true, but then, mid-writing, I realized that I only had like four or five, tops. Not nearly enough to make an Interesting Thing. So, in its place, I offer, uh...

I first discovered that I could write at the age of about fourteen, and honestly I still think I'm terrible at it, but apparently others disagree. Pretty much on a whim, I decided to go to an open-mike poetry reading, and taking a hance, read off a few things I'd written. Now, I've never been much for poetry, because anything serious I write usually takes the form of a narrative, and I am absolute crap at prose anyway. Even the stuff I'm told is good, I hate. Anyway. So there I was, and after reading a few things, I somehow managed to get a standing ovation, more or less eclipsing the guys who ran the thing. It was then that I realized I might be onto something. Exactly what, I had no idea, but I studied, and wrote, and got a few things published, and basically worked my skill. Such as it was. As time went on, I did a few open-mikes, not really for the exposure or what-have-you but because I really enjoyed making people react. But, as fate would have it, I had to work, and it became less of a priority. Years, in fact, passed, and finally someone who had seen me in my heyday, as it were, wanted to work with me,. He was a tall, lanky fellow qith a double bass, and we hit it off well. So, a little reading, and it was off to an open mike, a little Beat stuff in the offing, and I recited, from memory, a thing I had written called "Ted." It changes every time I tell it, and I will, when I get the wherewithal, post it here. Anyway, so I recited "Ted," and then realized that I had to do a second one.

I froze.

I seriously could not remember the other thing I had written. My brain kicked into overdrive, and apparently didn't feel like remembering anything. But they wanted a second piece, and so, thought slowly returning, I faced the full coffeehouse, cleared my throat, and launched into the only spoken-word piece I could think of that I had memorized.

Picture a dimly-lit cafe.

Picture a lanky, beanpole man playing the double-bass with a beret on.

Picture a young man with long hair and renewed confidence, confidently, with Beat Poet cadence, reciting "Detachable Penis," by King Missile.

For whatever reason, they loved it.