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Archive for October, 2010

I knew something smelled funny. Riding the blue-line as I ate my sandwich, my nostrils flared with the smell of vinegar and other various spices. I looked down at my ham and swiss, as if to say, “Hey, Mr. Sandwich, I have a query.” But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I lifted the top of my bread to see if some sadistic sandwich maker had said to him self this morning “I’m gonna get the first sonofabitch who asks for Black Forest Ham instead of Honey and slip him a garlic dill.” There was nothing there but meat, cheese, and mustard.

For a moment, I smiled thinking about how happy mustard made me feel, but then I was quickly brought out of my bliss by the offensive odor wafting past me again. Starting to get desperate, I rummaged through the paper that wrapped my sandy. Cursing the god of deli meats and breads, I nearly screamed “I am here to stand in defiance of any god who would dare slip me the pickle!” Again, nothing was there, left there by god or otherwise.

My rage built, “There must be a fucking pickle around here somewhere,” I grumbled. Thinking that I was going to grab it and toss it across the rocking car, or throw it out like a bomb when the train had reached a destination and its doors opened, I started gasping for any air that didn’t have the aroma of over-fermentation. “Fuck, I think I smell cloves. What kind of pickle is this?”

Right after I said this, and as I looked up and around in a panic, I noticed a man standing next to where I was sitting with an unusual bulge in his pants. My nausea reached a new height. What kind of sick bastard rides the train with a pickle in his pants? Right when I noticed his bulge, he put one of his hands into his pocket and, moving more toward his crotch area, casually adjusted the bulge.

The train stopped and the woman who was sitting next to me got off. The man with the bulge sat down next to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, and the smell only seemed to intensify now that he was sitting right next to me. I thought that if I could just get my hand in his pocket… Fuck! What the hell was I thinking? You can’t just go up to some stranger and put your hand in his pocket. I’m not even sure you can do that to someone you know.

What choices did I have? I still had ten minutes until my stop. There was no way I was going to survive with this pervert’s protruding pickling protuberance prominently pushing proudly.

“Why don’t you just ask?” He leaned in towards me.

Apparently, he had noticed that I was staring. My legs went numb, like I had just been caught masturbating by my grandmother. No, this was worse. I looked up at him with my eyes wide. The fact that he was smiling made me even more nervous. With little hesitation, I said ” Fine”

I cleared my throat and blinked as if I was preparing to say my last words for the firing squad. Then, I just came out with it.

“Is that a pickle in your pocket?”

He smiled.

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Find those beautiful things

Where they sometimes get lost

In the things that die

They’re hard to find

But they’re there

In those lost loves

And those lost friends

Even in savage things

Dark and frightening

In war, in murder, and all things death

In struggle, in slaughter, and perish

Those beautiful things still stay

Hiding, waiting to be found

That weeping mother

That orphaned son

That smile under empty eyes

Those beautiful things are there

In the space between

 

 

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