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Tuesday, Oct 27
1:00 AM
Underage kids? I love to sell liquor and cigarettes to underage kids with a wink and a nod. “Of course you left your ID in the car but if you say you’re twenty one…” Who cares if they aren’t old enough to handle it or if it affects the impressionable learning centers of their brains and turns them into permanent addicts? The space program will just have to do without. Truck stop hookers? I’m happy to give directions to a pair of hitchhiking triple sec swilling relics of bygone Americana. Pregnant ladies? My first two customers. Seriously, my very first two ever were a pair of pregnant trailer girls. Each one bought 1.75L of cheap industrial strength vodka and a carton of cigarettes. They stunk of garbage and had something I’ve since learned to call meth mouth. But I respect them and their attempts to turn their unborn innocents into retarded raisins. They were honest and they followed through. I saw them every week for a few more months, then just one, and then they were gone. Hopefully to jail. Most of the preggers feel compelled to look to the invisible person in the upper left of their vision and confess to him that this is just for a party or someone else. If you’re a big enough girl to screw about and get knocked up then you ought to be in control enough of your life to keep the creature under control. Alcoholics? Old folks and young street kids with nothing left in the world but some change and the burning need for a single cold beer or a half pint of grain neutral spirits are some of my favorite customers. If they want to ruin their lives and the lives of those around them by dragging friends and loved ones through the slow but unavoidable process of destroying their bodies and minds or the sudden yet oh so expected auto accident which leaves them dead or vegetative for life (maybe even killing some other people), if they want to avoid their problems while making more for themselves and society, if they want to numb the pain or get back the joy, if they want to call it “self medicating,” then who am I to judge? To decide what is good and bad is to claim you are god. I pull up each morning and see a few of the worst (or maybe best?) have already parked out front and begun the sweaty beginnings of DT. The feeling I get when I roll up the gate each morning and see the cars pull up in the lot and the kids come out of the 200 dollar a month band practice room they’ve been living in is second only the rush they get when I turn the neon lights on, put out the mat and unlock the door. I try to smile and be nice to all of them. “How are you today sir? Smokes today sir? One pack or two miss? How was the show? Still haven’t found a new drummer? Not sure I know anyone looking to buy schwag right now but I’ll keep an ear to the ground for you. No sir not going to sell my car for a while. That’s good advice sir, women are expensive.” I know most of their names, jobs likes and dislikes and almost all of their purchases by heart. Heart… I put a lot of it into what I do. Although some people might read this is say I don’t have a heart. More on this story as it develops. -Cigarettes 1:15 AM
Seriously, though. I think you're not motivated so much as to see people destroyed by their own failings and bad choices, but to provide them the opportunity to fail by your own failure of moral action. These people are desperately clinging to the end of a rope lowered into a pit of hungry tigers made of delicious pineapple liquer striped with splashes of black colored by Cassis. You, sir are the emperor giving the thumbs down. -Sideburns 11:20 AM
No my friend and foil. Where there is a need there will be someone to fill it. This is the way of the natural order and the man made chaos. I may tempt these souls with talk of class and cool. The first one may be free. They may receive invitations to experience new tastes and sensations. I may speak and smile and sympathize with them as a lure into a culture of consumption. But if they be consumed then that guilt is theirs to swallow. I am the natural response to these innate desires inside of people. And like the predator designed to hunt prey I am good, in both skill and morality. Only those I can drown in 750ml are in danger and even then they have to pay me to do it. Sunday, Oct 25 2009 11:30 PM
It was really great at the beginning. You were fun. You were sexy. My friends said "Don't do it, dude, that chick's fucking crazy," but I thought that reenacting an episode of Just the Ten of Us as foreplay was kind of fun. Hell, it was something I'd never done before, but over the three and a half weeks I've known you I've slowly realized they were right. I didn't say anything when your pet snake wrapped himself around my feet while we were having sex and all you said was "Don't worry, he just gets a bit frisky, that's all." I stayed calm and cool when we went to the retirement home to meet your "grandmother" and she started screaming when she caught sight of us. "Oh, she's just got a touch of alzheimer's," you said, but Jessica, it was really awkward when the rest of her family showed up and said they didn't recognize you either. I suppose that one was my fault, though. I should have known something was up when you said we had to sneak in through the back window, and when you didn't even say hello when you walked through the living room. You just pulled a bag out of your purse and headed straight for the medicine cabinet. I thought your sock puppet rendition of The Vagina Monologues was really great. I don't think you could have found a better use for that hole you carved in your forearm when you were eleven. I even stood by you after your cat died and you made me dress up like Daniel Midkif in Pet Semetary and bury him in the indian mounds at 2 AM. Look, Jessica, I'm a working man. When a working man gets home, he wants to crack open a beer, not dig underground passages for your "secret lab." I don't care if we could be running Honduras in five years. Where did you even learn to draft blueprints like that anyway? I thought you said your degree was in liberal arts! I'm not worried about you not calling me, because I know how you feel about objects that ring. That's another thing. I'm Catholic. How were we supposed to get married in a church when every time a bell rings you shit your pants and run in a circle ten times screaming "Mama says onomatopoeia can't hurt me!." Just please, if you have the urge to see me, don't wear your "I lost my virginity at the petting zoo" shirt. I've got too many bad memories associated with that thing. Goodbye, Jessica. -Sideburns 1:00 AM
Wednesday, Oct 21 2009 11:00 PM
It all began with a trip to a local drugstore. Cigs and I had gone there to quench my thirst and sate my hunger. I wasn't sure what to get, and asked his opinion. With only the slightest pause, he replied simply "Get some black olives. Black olives are good." While he had presented an almost unassailable argument, painstakingly formulated and eloquently stated, I felt I could improve upon it. "Ooh, do they have spanish olives? I love spanish olives," I countered. While visibly shaken by my objection, he held fast. He found and pointed out to me that which I sought, but tainted the joyous discovery with a reprisal of his previous statement. "Spanish olives are okay, but black olives are better," spewed forth he of the forked tongue. Steadfast in my resolve, I ignored his obvious attempt to poison me and bought the spanish olives. We parted ways and I returned home, hardly able on the way to keep my hands out of the jar of pure joy I had purchased for the mere pittance of 1.99 of your human earth-dollars. I sat down on the couch, opened the jar, and began to enjoy my nuggets of pure goodness pickeled in what could only be ambrosia. It was all going according to plan when calamity struck - the last olive, floating in juice, refused to come to my fingers! When I tipped the jar, it retreated to the highest point of liquid. Unable to reach my final prize, I knew drastic measures had to be taken. I took a deep breath and reminded myself of what was at stake. Thus armed, I picked up the bottle and took the seemingly impassable obstacle that was the juice into me. Surprising myself, I gagged only once; this reaction was surely my body trying to reject what it must have recognized as pure perfection in liquid form. The jar drained, I was able to claim my trophy, and claim it I did. Spanish olives, you are so much better than black olives. -Sideburns Saturday, Oct 17 2009 2:30 AM
I was sitting at a table with my friend and her boyfriend when I was approached by what many might describe as a woman, but to whom few would ascribe the terms sweet-ass bitch or fly honey. This woman had a little bit of a weight problem, but a very pretty face. I'm still somewhat in awe of her courage, but in her position I might very well be in the "nothing to lose" mode as well. She approached me directly and said "I just wanted you to know that I've been unable to keep my eyes off you all night. You're sexy as hell." It all happened very quickly, and while I had quite a few drinks in me, I was able to look her up and down subtly. Dear people, I assure you I tried as hard as I could to give this sweet, courageous, large woman the best compliment I could. I plumbed the deepest reaches of my soul for something that said "Thanks, but no thanks, but really thanks," but this was the best I could come up with. I looked her straight in the eye and said "I would have sex with you for free." -Sideburns 8:20 PM
This is a game I have played before. If bars were more like arcades then standing in front of one for long enough would let you catch a glimpse of my initials sandwiched between such other high score greats as “ASS” and “BUT” and “POO.” Unlike Master Mutton Chops up there I am a seeker and large targets are the easiest to hit… But no my friends I did not poke a porker, or pork a plumper or pump a pudgy. There are other ways to hunt than sniffing the air for perfume, listening for the girl telling bad jokes too loudly and checking to make sure she’s over done it on makeup. I had the edge because I already knew this girl. After I critiqued her outfit to the standards of the Rive Gauche, which as far as I’m concerned was the last time fashion took a step forward (she passed). She said “Nice vest.” I stood up and said “It’s a waistcoat,” then turned around to leave. (Always pay cash at the bar so you can do dramatic shit like this.) You can learn a little bit more about me by knowing this. At that point I was not playing the pick up game, I was not playing hard to get. I was genuinely offended. She might as well have told Watson and Crick that they had a nice science fair project. And you’d already know everything these is to learn about this girl if you could explain why as I was backing out of my parking spot she texted me “You had better be waiting for me out there.” So is it true you should always be yourself? -Cigarettes Friday, Oct 16 2009 9:00 PM
In light of that I was thinking about things I’d actually want the world to know and the first, and with any luck not the last, thing to spring to mind was that I want the world to know how perfect my hair is. Allow me to explain. My hair grows really fast so within a month I can pretty radically change my style. But it grows evenly and predictably, so if I get a haircut it doesn’t turn to shag in a few weeks. My hair is soft. Shampoo commercials love to throw around words like “silky” and “smooth” and that really just cheapens it to the point where I can’t get my message across using those words. So let me put it this way: in 20 years when you can design your own baby out of other peoples DNA I will be selling the trait for my hair and your child can enjoy the benefits of my genetic pinnacle for the low price of one gold brick. It’s worth noting however that my hair is both silky and smooth as well as being satiny, flowing, soft and is possessed of a lustrous sheen of a similar intensity to silver. My hair does not have split ends. This is because I know how to take care of it, I know to let it air dry, and I know how to brush it from the bottom up. My hair is straight with only a slight flip as it grows towards my shoulders. Don’t take this to mean that my hair lays flat and lacks character, by changing the drying times with a ceiling fan and products I can get it to do that but my hair has what they call body, I still like to call it lift like they did in the 80s. My hair makes Mexican men question their sexuality. In spite of my manly yet graceful gate and solid cigarette machine build Mexican men have whistled and “holla’d” at me on multiple occasions only to discover my gender and their shame moments later. My hair has prevented me being involved with several attractive girls. Okay so this one might seem like a downer but this isn’t about how I’m perfect- it’s about my hair. You see I have been told point blank “I can’t be with a guy who has better hair than I do.” My hair has perfect natural highlights. Granted my hair is brown but the range of shades and tones in it is really astounding. The sheen from my hair can and will lens flare a camera in the right conditions. Modern technology is not up to the task of replicating my hair visually. My hair has been used in a philosophy class as a visual for the platonic ideal of beauty. That’s right my hair has taken men and women out of the cave of ignorance and shadow into the light of understanding and knowledge. I can’t in all good conscience show you what my hair looks like. I’d like to save that for a time when the world needs a true hero and real hope to believe in. -Cigarettes 11:00 PM
Although I would be hard pressed to put the phrase "detailed description of one's hair" and the word "healthy" into a sentence together, I'm sure there is a point at which a detailed description of your hair becomes decidedly unhealthy. You sir, have journeyed into this dark realm. Though your... piece outwardly speaks of flowing locks and brilliant sheen, the darker subtext screams of the festering mind beneath the scalp you're one step away from claiming the Gods themselves made immortal by dipping into the river Styx.
I have seen the face of insanity itself, and atop it sits a mane of perfect hair. -Sideburns 11:30 PM
-Cigarettes
Wednesday, Oct 14 2009
Iraq says 85,000 violently killed - As opposed to peacefully killed? Gorilla and wheelchair lost, now found - Koko is an inspiration to invalid primates everywhere! O'Reilly: Russia, Europe insult America - See previous article O'Reilly: Russia, Europe are assholes 7,500 Tax Dodgers Ask IRS for Amnesty - When a Tax Dodger asks for forgiveness, don't they become a Tax Repenter? Germany Displays 1,250 Nazi Gnomes - All in this month's issue of "Racially Better Homes and Gardens" -Sideburns Thursday, Oct 8 2009
It would appear that an environmental lab at Columbia University has set up a system by which absolute nutjobs can text animals in the Bronx and East River, using (what else?) a series of tubes. Attached to buoys, the tubes light up when people send text messages through the system and get generated text messages depending on the number of animal hits on the buoy and water quality. Crazy cat ladies of New York rejoice! Finally, a system with which you can pretend your cat is sending text messages to his sea lion friends in a disgusting river and then continue your parasite-induced insanity by pretending he understands or even reacts when your phone lights up with a computer-generated response." And for you guys out there itching to check up on how happy the fucking fish are, go nuts! Just don't let your girlfriend see your "Talking to Beavers" app on your iPhone. -Sideburns Wednesday, Oct 7 2009
-Sideburns Monday, Oct 5 2009 2:00 PM
The diagnosis of "Internet addiction" -signs of which can be using the internet for game playing or other purposes so much that it interferes with daily life or decision making ability- is being considered for the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. So these kids are having their daily lives interfered with by video games and the internet, huh? What sort of "daily lives" are we talking about here? 6 hours of school and taking out the garbage? Since when have kids not done everything in their power to avoid going to school or doing their chores? Suddenly, when they'd rather play video games than clean up their rooms they need a 12 step program? The deal is this: video games and the internet are fun as shit and the daily lives of teenagers -especially nerdy, awkward ones- are mostly not fun as shit. If you can't shirk responsibility and kill some space aliens or look at dirty pictures when you're a kid without being diagnosed a mental leper, then what's the point of being a kid? -Sideburns 10:00 PM
It’s not counter intuitive; the internet is perfect for kids whose attention shifts to something else every five minutes. In fact it’s full of screaming banner ads and hyperlinks that TRY to get you to shift your attention every five minutes. The DSM, currently in its fourth edition, is kind of like the bible. Which is to say that it’s involved in a lot of court proceedings and it’s not updated very often. When it is they tend to be pretty conservative about it. You can rest your head knowing that even if it does make it in the DSM then the actual diagnosis is still made by someone with a PHD who will more and more be a member of our generation and was very likely a nerd too. Decision making ability? Kids don’t have any. That’s why big people make them do stuff all the time so that when the kid gets larger and can’t be physically forced to do stuff he/she will make choices beneficial to society and self. That is the point of being a kid. The internet is new and new things are beloved by new people and feared by old people. Old people die, new things become old things and people forget they was ever a time they were new. Maybe in the fantastic world of the future you’ll be able to count on your internet buddies the same way you could count on the relationships you forge IRL. But for right now the internet is a great place to get advice on how to kill yourself, free porn and be called a faggot for no reason with nothing to do about it. Not really the best place for socially stunted kids to be sneaking onto at 2 AM after their parents are in bed. -Cigarettes |
It was doomed from the start. I looked at her from across the bar; she smiled that coy smile of the girl who knows how the night will end up, but thinks you don't. It kept on this way for a good hour, the two of us trading looks. I'd shoot her a gentle smile or an "it wasn't me" look, my eyes up and to the right, my lips in an "o." She'd strike back with a cocked eyebrow or an accusatory "I know what you did and you're going to pay" look. Finally, the time had come. I closed out my tab and gathered up my courage. I knew what I had to do. I walked slowly up to her and stopped about six inches away. I put one hand on the bar and leaned in just close enough to her face, my cheek to hers, so that my stubble didn't so much scratch her skin as caress it. I put my other hand on the small of her back, and felt chills go up my spine as I felt the slight tensing, then relaxing of her muscles that said the same was happening to her, and that she loved it. Holding back the tears, I told her all I could - the truth. "I'll love you forever, but this is all you'll ever hear me say." I walked towards the door, and weak as I am I looked back. "Even if it's the screaming cries as I plung the knife into your flesh over and over, I'll hear that voice again," her eyes told me. Crazy chicks get me so hot. |
(C) 2009 Sideburns and Cigarettes
I make a living, and a decent one at that, shilling booze and cigarettes. I don’t care who I sell them too either. Because I love it when people face the consequences of their choices.
What I like about you, Cigs, is that you give me the opportunities I need to uses certain words or phrases that would otherwise be meaningless or inappropriate. The phrase I have invented for you today is "immoral obligation," which is what I believe you feel towards your clientele. I think you feel and immoral obligation to do wrong by them.