Wednesday, March 23, 2011

A Frenchie with a gun and no armpit hair?

March 23rd, 2011: With my friend Melissa now back in Colorado after a brief visit to see me in Lebanon - finishing it with a wonderful old school departure at the airport (I was actually able to make it past security to the gate)…I am currently waiting for my friend from a French sleeper cell to make her way here for a little road trip back to Michigan. While there, I intend to give some lethal weapons training courses at my uncles house with a sizable selection firearms, in addition to other well thought out classes to help her blend into the Midwest without being compromised and identified as a Frechie when necessary.

As for hygiene…my friend left Paris two years ago so there is no need for me to explain the importance of shaved armpits, nor do I need to explain to her that heavy use of perfume does not constitute a shower – even though this is a horrid generalization that only represents…0.00449304% of the French population…with most of those individuals being either homeless or still stuck on Lee Friedlander’s, Nude (Madonna) 1979 photo, where she supported hairy armpits and a bush that is sizably larger than the one Moses saw up in flames on Mt. Sinai the day he collected two iPads from God.

(Please note that I sadly felt that I needed to censor Lee Friedlander' photo eliminating Madonna's girl parts)

Yes, you may Karate Chop my sister

March 20th, 2011: Talking with my brand spankin’ new brother-in-law (in my sisters presence), we sat down and set up some simple boundaries on what he can and can’t do with my sister when she needs some good ole’ disciplining after I leave Lebanon, Illinois. The “cants” range from no kicking and spitting to definitely no hitting - with a closed hand - making it clear that If he even thinks about raising his tone to her, or giving her the evil eye…it will by no means be accepted, resulting in me paying him a little visit with a 5’1” Colombian, supporting a mullet, golden front tooth and aviator sunglasses.

Yes, this does seriously limit him from issuing the standard physical abusive moves that any t-topped Camaro driving, stained wife beater model can do. Looking into several different alternatives but effective disciplinary measures we came to the decision that my sister can be issued a properly delivered Karate Chop whenever the situation sees fit. I can just see him now saying, ”No officer, I didn’t punch her…I Karate Chopped her.”

(Training photo courtesy of boxing-muaythai.blogspot.com)

So…as of today, my brother-in-law is in Karate Chop training. Other than consulting my brother-in-law, I have been focusing on and achieving my goals during this side trip to the US…which is to catch up with family and friends. Whether it is me beating them at all card games or schooling them in bowling with scores that mirrors a child with no vision…or arms.

Friday, March 18, 2011

A wedding and a…hockey game

March 18th, 2011: After 2 weeks being back in the US, I discovered that not much has changed over the past 23 months but the unfortunate increase in prices of a McDonalds value meal and that my sister, Aimee has lost her last name…dropping from a whopping 10 letters to a measly 4 - if she thought that bigger is better she would have never have made such a decision.

My sister’s wedding took place at a professional hockey game – a location only truly appreciated by those individuals from Detroit (aka Hockey Town) and of course by all maple leafed flag swinging Canadians. During the ceremony I tried to prevent my tears from falling, hoping they would freeze as I tilted my head back to contain the excessive buildup within the cavities of my eyes. With my sister now married off…I am the last one in my family that is holding out. Is it pickiness, my professional “Tramp” status, or is it fear? - I would like to say it is the first two of the three.

With my sister on her honeymoon in Vegas, I have her and my new brother-in-law’s house all to myself. I have not yet capitalized on being alone with the ability to run around the house stark naked staining the couches when I take a seat.

With plenty disposable time, I have been doing what I have wanted to do for the longest time…vegetate. Yes…that is correct, vegetate. I have miraculously taken form of a giant albino-like green bean, lounging around on the floor in front of a fireplace, burning what hairs I have left on my body too resting my beans on a wonderfully comfortable couch. Renting a massive amount of non-pirated videos from Redbox I am attempting to catch up with Hollywood, feeling as if I am almost caught up with what I have been missing…which is…nothing.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

1st day in the US…and I run into a crazy bug eyed rosary carrying psycho

March 4th, 2011: 1st day in the US and I run into a crazy bug eyed rosary carrying psycho with my 15 year old nephew. I had to laugh as I sat there at the ice cream shop consuming a Superman ice cream cone hoping that this cone did not just taste good but had the ability to transform me into Superman – that is, the Superman before he took a spill on a horse made from kryptonite.

With my nephew who was facing me in the booth, the man in the booth behind him with his eyes bearing a strange resemblance of a bug who was angrily staring at me, mumbling words of profanity as he held the rosary – not sure if he was cursing at it or praying to it asking the Virgin Mary for the strength not to kill this frail looking man across from him. Scooting over so my 5’11” nephew would screen me from bug eye’s face, he would then scoot over so that he could continue to try to get me into participating in a starring match that I was uninterested in playing.

After 22 or so months with only minor difficulties in South America, I felt that today was going to be the day that I was going to fight a crazy man that was much bigger than me with my nephew there to watch. In my mind I scanned the ice cream shop looking for other that might be able to help me after I restrained him. Seeing 3 grey hairs and a work staff that consisted of a batch of unbutchy women, I came to the conclusion that I was going to be holding on to him for a while till the police arrived.

Thankfully, he went to the restroom to perhaps toss some water in his unblinking eyes and that was when I told my nephew that we should go, not wanting to go into detail on what has been going on behind his back the entire time. Leaving the ice cream shop, we escaped any possible confrontation on my 1st day back in the United States – though it would have been funny for something dramatic to take place now, when I pushed the so called envelope this entire trip.

Home at last! Home at last! Thank God Almighty, I am home at last! – or am I…home at last?

March 4th, 2011: Home at last! Home at last! Thank God Almighty, I am home at last! – or am I…home at last? Arriving at the Detroit airport I was picked up my friend Jean who is one of my few BFF’s - who didn’t even have to earn this spot by participating in some painfully dreadful Paris Hilton-like reality show.

From the airport we made a direct run for the border…more like Taco Bell. With this being my first meal back in the United States, I clearly knew I was no longer in South America as I would continue making visits to the bottomless soda machine capitalizing on free refills as I pumped gallons of caffeine packed Diet Mountain Dew down my throat as supplied my body with its fix.

With my parents out of town, I was dropped off at my empty childhood home, bringing life back into its empty corpse. Roaming around the house that I grew up in…I was shocked to see that my parents’ décor was not that of a couple in their 60s’…it was as if their style was somehow mirroring a much younger couple. I was proud of them since typically, people their age have a massively amusing collections of dolls, bells, spoons or some other clutter collections going on to fill up there excessive free time when they are not volunteering or conversing with other seniors.

A collection of guns, shot glasses or knives in a way sounds good when you think about most senior citizens / AARP members conversations are at best, 76% about their pill regime, aches, pains or about who has recently been incarcerated in a senior home, wooden box or urn…with the other 21% being filled with who has the best children / grandchildren in typical fishing story type fashion and the remaining 3% filled with good conversation.

After picking up the carcass of the dead plant that died from starvation in my parents’ living room, I walked back and forth as a duck at some carnie wanting to be shot with a BB gun. Painfully bored after 30 minutes in the empty house, I jumped into my car and headed up and down streets trying to find family and friends houses that I could no longer remember where they lived.

After several failed attempts of going to wrong houses and asking for people who they did not know…I gave up…I quit…and decided to go, shopping. Hitting the stores, I began to restock my backpack getting items for my departure in 3.5673 months. How awful I thought…after only a few short hours in the US, I was already planning / anticipating my departure back to South America – lost…and a bit...confused.

Friday, March 11, 2011

It takes two to Tango…and steroids

March 3rd, 2011: For four days I tore through Buenos Aires. As most people know, Buenos Aires is known for its shopping, Tango, world famous meat and stunning women – which to some, stunning women is the same as world famous meat.

With plenty to do and a limited amount of time till my return back to this enormous city, my friend and I decided to do a little, a lot and a lot a lot of shopping with a side trip to a tango class and show.

Playing follow the leader with my friend Sabrina, she reminded me of the great joys of clothes shopping with a woman. It has been a while but, she let me show off my previous skills of being a professionally purse/backpack holder as she would disappear in the dressing rooms for extended periods…at times wondering if she might have escaped out the back window when I wasn’t looking.

One evening after completing a Tango class, I was issued my official certificate of completion. With my confidence being really high…too high…I thought that somewhere my future, I had a smidgen of hope to become a successful Tango dancer - giving me an opportunity to get some legitimate cheap feels without the need to serve time or explain my actions to anyone.

After folding up the certificate which was going to make it in the trash shortly following the show, the other graduates and I were then corralled into another room to see the professionals perform the Tango… crushing – more like nuking my hopes to ever be able to Tango – that is unless I believe in dropping the age limit on who I will date to 12 year olds. I say this because the men would easily toss the women dancers around with subhuman strength as they somehow did playful ball kicks between the guys’ legs without fazing them.

I don’t have any future plans dropping my age limit on who I will date to an imprisonable age, nor do I see myself spending half my life in the gym oiling my body and shooting up on steroids so that I can toss an average size woman with curves and some junk in her trunk around on the dance floor. So, I figured I will forgo learning how to tango at a high level of expertise and just continue holding up walls next to the dance floor. Better yet, I need to simply stick to my original plan and...learn to salsa.