041605

"Fuck it to the moon, Chris, Fuck it to the moon," I said as he
loaded the tenth bowl of the day. The sun was sinking into Klamath Lake
like a mellow volcano, painting the sky with transient red. We were on
a broad road, surrounded by brushy, thorny desert terrain that you can
buy for $60,000 an acre. A few doctors were building mansions on this
very road and I was slightly concerned one of these delusional
creatures might drive by in a Land Rover and call the cops on that cell
phone as small as his penis. I gasped when Chris handed me the freshly
loaded bowl. On top of a modified Budweiser 20 ounce can was a literal
handful of chronic California bud liberally sprinkled with
hasish.
Before I knew it, I was dodging aqua-marine lightning bolts as my
white Taurus bucked, snorted and cavorted onto the highway on the way
to Taco Time. Inside, I got us two Cokes, a veggie burrito, and a
deluxe beef burrito for Chris. The veggie burrito was excellent, as
they usually are, but Chris had to eat more barbarically than usual to
get his poorly constructed meal down his throat.
Back in the Taurus, we rolled the windows down and let Jay-Z's "Black
Album" wash over the little corporate neighborhood. I insisted on going
through the drive thru of a coffee house and getting a ROC with three
shots. For three bucks, this drink is 20 oz. with steamed milk, up to
five shots of espresso and vanilla, caramel and raspberry syrup. The
girl at the drive thru is a beautiful blonde with a voluptous but not
chubby body; subconsciously, I've been thinking about her for days. I
know her dad; I need horses.
So, tommorow, I'm going to conduct a raid on a local tech support
corporation that's hired me. I figure if I just show up for work and
don't be a total slacker, I can hold the job. They had me hang out with
one of their veterans, a guy with shaggy hair and beaten up Nikes, a
tech support drop out embarassed to admit that he enjoys guiding
rednecks and housewives through the ordeals of satellite
television.
Me, I hate businessmen, cubicle dwellers and satellite television. If
I had the brawn for it, I'd like to get work at one of the numerous
potato farms in the area. Before his career as a highschool English
teacher, my dad was a cowboy in Texas.
So why am I spending my valuable money getting Chris an espresso
drink? The bottom line is that he knows I'm helping lesbian couples get
pregnant and he shares a neighborhood with my parents, who don't know
and wouldn't approve.
Anyway, as Scarface said, "I need to get organized."