i just discovered that my new boxer briefs don't have a front opening. in the 4 years i've been wearing underwear, i've yet to have an experience like this. you can imagine how confused i was standing at the urinal with my entire hand in my pants, grasping helplessly for a hole that wasn't there. i reached and tugged until my fingers began to get dangerously close to my anus. i ended up loosening the bottom of the boxer briefs and urinating through the right leg opening.

beyond being confused, i'm a little disappointed at the discovery. after all, Hanes, a renowned underwear manufacturer, made the boxer briefs. in addition, i think they were a "newer" model, as the texture feels like a cotton & lyrca blend. the combination of fabrics serves me well as i make sharp cuts subway platforms while dodging aimless D.C. tourists. basically, Hanes fucked up. sure, i bought these boxer briefs from Target, but that shouldn't denote an inferior product. these underwear should have been in a clearance bin somewhere -- not on a hook in the store's mens department.

what else is going on?

oh.

my boss had the other new consultant and i sit in on one of his meetings yesterday. after we introduced ourselves and took a seat, my boss referred to us as "wallpaper". i bowed my head in shame, but not before i caught a glance of the clients chuckling. the other new consultant decided to "animate" himself by speaking out on a parallel between the client's new contract and one of his own. his speaking was greeted by cold stares from everyone, which caused him to uncomfortably lean back in his seat and pull his chin to his chest.

" . . . yeah," he said. "But that's just been . . . my experience."

they were right to shun him. who's ever heard of talking wallpaper?

the inebriating taste of revenge

i was getting off the train yesterday evening, heading for my car, when someone bumped my left shoulder, causing me to pivot and drop my Smartrip Card. it was my ex's father. i immediately recognized him as he glided past me -- same cartoonish eyes, same prominent beak. the tiny fucker didn't even look back to apologize, as i kneeled to pick up my card in the midst of a throng of hurrying commuters.

this was the guy who made my first dating experience a living hell. the aforementioned ex was my first girlfriend. i was 16 years old and we were experiencing the first hatchlings of pubescent love: trips to the movies, awkward driving, and tounge kisses that lasted for 34 minutes each. i was the rebellious Teen Summit posse member and she was the popular school cheerleader. on the surface, i don't think we matched up well as a couple, but we managed to stay together for a little over a year.

at the apex of our relationship, my ex invited me and some of her friends to her house to watch the Super Bowl. after halftime, i was yucking it up with the rest of the Roosevelt High School students, when i was interrupted by a voice from behind me.

"C'mere. I need to talk to ya'."

it was my ex's dad and he was drunk. his normally bulging eyes were almost completely veiled by his eyelids, and the top five buttons of his shirt were undone. i complied, putting down my nacho and leaving the table. my ex and all her friends sat confused at the table as i was summoned into an adjoining room. my ex's dad dragged his loose frame into the room, sat on the piano stool and ordered me to sit on the couch opposite him. what followed was a sloppy, meandering monologue about my seemingly poor manners and "the rules of his house". i was told that my dating habits weren't acceptable and given orders on how to better conduct myself around his daughter. i didn't get one word in, and when he was finished talking, he waved his hand in the air, dismissing me from the room. i just sat there, embarrassed.

i carried the burden of shame heavy on my shoulders for the rest of the night. i had been dropped off by my mom at the house, so i had to wait for what seemed like an eternity to get out of there. meanwhile, the bully of a dad circled the crowd a few more time before he went to his bedroom and passed out on the floor. it would be the last time i saw him for years.




i rounded the top of the subway platform and galloped down the staircase. i saw my ex's dad about five feet in front of me and locked in on his lumpy, balding head. passing one more person, i leaped from two stairs away, onto his back, and shoved him into a bus transfer machine. he let out a groan as his face went smashing into a sharp metal edge, breaking his glasses into a V-shaped, crystalline work of art. quickly, i leaped to my feet and brushed off my clothes. my ex's dad had rolled onto his back and was moaning while a woman dressed in nurse's attire rushed to his side. i broke the strong arm of a citizen cop, dodged security, and hopped the gate.

victory was mine.

i broke the heavy duty stapler in my job's copy room.

i was attempting to staple a company's consolidated financial report when the think stack of papers got stuck to the top of the apparatus. i pulled the lever twice more, but only ended up creating a jumbled metallic mass at the top left corner of the document. when i finally wrestled the papers away from the stapler, there was one half-unfastened staple hanging from the top. eerily, it looked like a set of fangs.

only one person was in the room during the incident, but he was tending to his own matters, looking towards the opposite side of the room. i have a conference call in a few minutes, which will give me ample time to hide. when my co-workers discover the mangled stapler, i'll round the corner and act, too, as if it is a new, disappointing discovery.

"Oh no! What happened?!"

strange, but true

a few years ago, i attended an office Christmas party in D.C. with a business partner of mine. neither he nor i worked for the host company, but somehow we all got in and proceeded to clean out the complimentary buffet. i was wearing a bow tie, sweater vest, and hat that night, which may have kept suspicious employees at arm's length. they probably thought i was at the party to provide entertainment or something.

after eating, my business partner, who was and probably still is far more rich than me, started ordering both of us drinks. we downed about four rounds before the liquor began to turn my legs into a fine paste. running low on suggestions, my business partner began to flirt heavily with the beautiful bartender, who urged both of us to order shot of Patron tequila. what the hell is Patron, i thought. i shrugged it off and took the shot. all i remember is the shit tasting like something that run through a tube under the hood of my car. i winced, looked at the bartender, and asked, "What the fuck was that?"

then, i saw her. a blonde who danced surprisingly well. drunk, i did a twirling, loose two-step from the end of the bar to the nearly barren dance floor. i tossed my pelvis into her flat, spongy backside and asked if she worked for the company.

"No, my brother does. I love the bow tie."

a wave of liquor hit me again and my bashful chuckle turned into a slow-motion waist bend.

"Thanbksx", i replied.

we danced for a few more songs, drawing the attention of onlookers who thought themselves too classy to crease their evening gowns and tuxedo pants. the only employees who joined us on the dance floor were handful of Asians, who formed a circle and went wild when the beat to "YMCA" dropped.

my dance partner and i sat down and chatted for a while. she smoked and had a raspy voice. i feigned interest in our conversation until her brother came over to introduce himself. he and his date were leaving the party and heading to a bar across the street and wanted to know if we wanted to join them. absolutely.

look, none of this story has been interesting so far. i really wanted to provide background for this:

so, i'm out at the new bar with my dance partner and we grab a few more drinks. by now, i can barely walk, so we grab a spot on a long seat that sits on the perimeter of the dance floor. we start making out and i'm shamelessly running my hands up the back of her dress. the music ends and she gets up, pulls my inebriated, 200 lb. frame from the seat, and starts heading for the coat check.

just then, we get separated and i look up to find a guy standing in front of me. he's of Eastern descent, possibly Indian, and about 20 lbs. heavier than me. i also remember him being very well-dressed and having perhaps the most oily hair in the place.

he looked in my red, half-open eyes and started bowing in front of me. he then took my right hand, started kissing it, and continued to bow. it took a few seconds for my thoughts to swim through the alcohol and make sense of what was going on. as he continued to bow, murmur, and kiss, i started thinking i was part of some cruel prank.

. . . but then i started to get mad at my parents. i started thinking that i wasn't actually the offspring of my mom and dad, but rather the prince of some small Eastern nation. clearly, i had been kidnapped at birth and forced to live among infidels in the United States. the strange gentleman had been sent by the nation and noticed the "sign" of my divine presence -- my sweat-glossed bald head, glistening under the bar lights.

indeed, i am royalty, and you readers should be gracious that i'm even choosing to communicate with you.

Hoodwinked

Tall Handsome Black Man near Farragut North

Reply to: mailto:pers-197484590@craigslist.org?subject=Tall%20Handsome%20Black%20Man%20near%20Farragut%20NorthDate: 2006-08-22, 4:42PM EDT

I see you in the evenings often. Your ride the train one stop to Metro Center. I don't ride the train with you long enough to strike up a conversation.

You: Tall bald black man with a thin beard. You are always dressed impeccably. You look like you work out.

Me: Slender, average height, black woman with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes.

I'm working up the nerve to approach you.

no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

197484590

I broke up w/ my car over the weekend

on saturday morning, i was on my way back from picking up my mom from Wal-Mart when my car stalled as i turned into her neighborhood. this was the fifth time in the past few months that my it had mysteriously shut off and it was becoming embarrassing. my mom, eyes full of fright, turned to me and suggested that i abandon the aging vehicle.

my car and i have been through a lot. we've shared many trips through the South, the Midwest, and the myriad streets of the D.C. Metro area. its passenger side carpet has endured many beverage spills, including a 32 oz. combination of Coke and Hawaiian Punch Fruit Juicy Red that was to complement my Popeye's meal. (man, that shit still stings) most importantly, however, my car magically guided over 20 miles of interstates following a horrible night of drinking back in January. who knew a 2001 Pontiac Sunfires came with auto-pilot?

all good things come to an end, though. after parking at my mom's house, i sat in the guest bedroom window, staring out at my car. its surface was dusty and watermarked, accentuating the dents it had suffered since its purchase. i mouthed, "It's over, bitch" and the car's antenna seemingly became more erect and pointed in my direction. i fell onto the floor, frightened, gasping for air. somehow, the car knew.

i ended up spending the next six hours at the car dealership. while i was out walking the lot in search of a new vehicle, my old car was being prodded and investigated by an appraiser. it was graded poorly, as the dealership found fault with my old car's wheezing, wrinkles, and numerous wounds. i watched as the appraiser took my old car to a dark, mysterious corner of the lot with the other "forgottens". as it was passing, the car squirted the last of its windshild wiper fluid in my eyes, causing me to stumble backward and scream, "Why?!"

i ended up settling on a sleek 1995 Cutlass Supreme. sure, the mileage looked like a Red Sox box score, but the new plum-colored paint job was to die for. i signed the requisite forms and stepped out into the waiting area as my new car was being polished. after driving off the lot, however, my feelings of joy turned into deep remorse. having driven no more than two miles from the lot, i rounded a corner and heared my old car's voice loud and clear through my new one's stereo.

"JAMAL! JAMAL, you vain sonofabitch! How could you thow away all we had?!"

my right hand slipped from the steering wheel and i nealy collided with a Tahoe in the next lane. it's all in your head, i thought.

"JA-MAAALLLLLLLL! Can your new car carry that Aiwa stereo like me? What about your law books? Your shedding dog? Your drunk friiieeeeennnnds?"

i was so distracted by my old car's voice that i cruised through a red light and into the path of an oncoming car. the driver leaned on the horn, rolled down his window, and called me a Prussian faggot. i gathered myself and continued driving home. that's when it me: What had i done? in the face of adversity, i had abandoned the car i had grown to love. gone was its comforting, one vent-powered A/C system, noisy doors, and the ass groove i had been cultivating for nearly five years. i made a quick turn onto a rural road, slowed the new car to 10 mph, and began to weep openly. i began to beg my old car for forgiveness for my infidelity. in return, my old car requested a gesture to support my pleading.

ahead was a sharp bend in the road that dropped off into a rocky gorge. my face full of tears, i shut my eyes and reached for my door handle. i leaped out of the car and hit the dirt road, skinning my elbow and the side of my face upon impact. the car, as planned, continued rolling and fell to its demise.

come hell or high water, this evening, i'm going back to the dealership to get my old car.

When the Spirits Move You by Sir Vernon Claiborne

When the Spirits Move You
by Sir Vernon Claiborne


I descended from the belfry, pocketwatch in hand
T'was dusk
And my colleagues were meeting at the tavern . . .

Text message #1:

"Hey were out at garrison's on 16th drinking. wanna come?"

We shared a cafare of Lower Rendly's finest
1899, to be exact
The spirits tickled our noses and warmed our shoulders
Alvin's hair blowing in the summer breeze, he laughed a deep, throaty laugh
And we joined, in unison, in celebrating our bond . . .

Text message #2:

"Hey! where r u? if u come we'll be on the roof. look for brad"

But dear Elizabeth, always the bugger, missed the company of her bedfellow, Norman . . .

Text message #3:

"RU COMING?"

And Norman, the town slickster, was enjoying the company of Annabelle Darby . . .

Text message #4:

"jeeztodd teh least u cld do is txt me BACK"

Oh, Elizabeth . . .

Text message #5:

"UR AN ASHOLE"

When the spirits move you
You will move in motions never before seen by man
Dance strange dances never before seen by man
And tumble at the tavern's entrance

Two from your party will support you by your armpits
As your legs, once as sturdy as a faggot of sticks, will go flimsy
You will scream at innocent passersby
And curse the bottle of Rendley's
That now sits empty at your stool

When the spirits move once more
So, too, will your supper
In amounts that will cause a chamber pot to overflow
Spilling onto your fine oak floor

Cursed be thy wine!
Away from the door, mother, I'm vomiting!
Can't you see what the spirits have done to me?
Away!

When the spirits leave your sleeping quarters
The stink will open your windows
Your crimson-stained mouth will cause you great shame
Not unlike your bare ass and trousers at your ankles

i'm watching my mom's friend's daughter's guinea pig, Cookie, while they're on vacation. before me, there was an Indian family in their neighborhood watching Cookie. i went to pick him up last Thursday and found Cookie ankle deep in his own feces. they hadn't been taking care of the motherfucker, man. in fact, they seemed pretty cheerful in watching me pack my car w/ his supplies. no one really helped me open the door, either, when i was carrying the cage outside. by the time i tossed the last bag of Timothy Hay onto my back seat, the Gupta family had their noses pressed against the screen door glass, waving goodbye.

before committing to taking care of Cookie, i had forgotten that i was allergic to guinea pigs. the last time i watched him, i handled him w/o washing my hands, took out my contact lenses, and wiped his deadly fur all over my eyelids. within minutes, the top of my face looked like a box of Red Hots. last Thursday, i had a different kind of allergic reaction, as i began sneezing uncontrollably and wheezing like a mafia kingpin.

(a client just called and interrupted me.)

i don't know where i was going w/ this entry, but these days, where are any of us going? my dog walks to the end of the hall a few times a day to the room where Cookie's staying. Cookie squeals and kicks his bedding all over the floor; Brooklyn barks to let him know he's just a visitor.

meanwhile, i'm standing at the ironing board in my underwear, taking it all in. the blonde bitch and the fat snack, separated by a rickety gate, clashing over territory that neither can call its own.

my toe is hurting this morning

it's throbbing, baby. this, my right big toe, is the same one i injured when i was 12-years old. i got medical attention after the accident, but, like most people, i hastily followed the doctor's care instructions. then, the following year, i injured the big toe on my left foot. i didn't get any medical attention for that. in fact, my mom noticed me in pain and instructed me to simply ice and elevate it.

both toe injuries were the result of freak accidents. although i was very active in my adolescent years, i can't attribute my ongoing ailment to anything cool like rounding third base during a crucial baseball game, or leaping to make a game-saving blocked shot during a basketball championship. no, my injury, while involving sports, came about in a much more embarrassing way.

my mom and i had just moved to a new neighborhood and, naturally, i didn't know any kids there. i had started entertaining myself by doing stuff like tossing a football as far as i could and trying to punt it over trees. then, one day, i discovered a misshapen tree stump. its top wasn't flat, but rather split-leveled, as though someone took an axe to it and gave up after one stroke. this stump became my football tee, as i decided to try kicking field goals between the "uprights" of two conveniently placed trees not too far ahead.

i started kicking.

boom! the first one was good.

POW! the second was good.

BOOOM! the third fucking soared perfectly through the trees.

wow, i thought. i bet none of these new neighborhood kids ever thought of something so brilliant. placing the ball back on the tee, i noticed two more parallel trees much further in the distance. while partially obscured by lots of leaves, i thought i'd be able to aim well enough to boot the football through those "uprights", too.

to prepare for this longer kick, i paced back an additional 12 steps or so, bowed my head, and began to breathe deeply. i bolted toward the stump, Charlie Brown style, and shifted my eyes to the distant trees. to this day, i don't know why i thought that would be a good idea. was i trying to become one with my target? did i think i'd be magically guided to the pigskin?

(POPO)ZOW!

i missed the entire football and stuck my right big toe on part of the stump. a surge of pain ran like electricity piece-by-piece though my body, attacking my calf, thigh, abs, neck, and face. i collapsed on the grass in pain, clutching my foot, which i believed was trying to burst through my shoe. as i rocked back and forth, i could see kids in cars riding down a nearby street staring at me. some even laughed.

when i gathered enough strenth to stand, i hopped on my left foot, football in hand, all the way back to my house. i made it to a couch in our basement before collapsing again and yelling for my mom.

so, yeah, it's that toe that's bothering me today. it's really stiff and hurts when i try to take it along its natural path of motion. i wish i could say something cool like how it flares up when i'm within 50 feet of the stump. that's not true, though. neighborhood groundskeepers uprooted it years ago. i should have stopped the process and asked to keep it.

the Iranian woman who wouldn't stop calling me

i'd never write about her. she seems interesting, though. so interesting that i think i may have met her one night. i was drinking, definitely, and she was probably dancing to some Pussycat Dolls song. i noticed her jet black hair and excessive lip gloss from the other side of the dancefloor, as i shot her two score glances that seemed to say, "I want you."

no, i'd rather write about what i believe to be a pebble in my right shoe. i first discovered it yesterday afternoon while walking from my office to the subway station. the sensation it caused wasn't painful - it was more annoying than anything. but i *did* start walking funny as i crossed K St. by the time i passed though a nearby office building and International Square, i had developed an embarrassing hobble. to make matters worse, i didn't get a seat on the train, which means i had to deal w/ the tiny menace all the way to Northern VA.

exiting the train, there were no nearby benches, and the flow of rush hour traffic was too heavy for me to bend over on the platform to remove my shoe. i ended up hobbling all the way down Crystal Drive to my old Gov't gig, two large binders in tow, and beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

and every one of my old buddies was glad to see me, but i wonder if they noticed the hobble caused by the pebble. they'd all be saying, "Jamal looks great, but what's with that walk? Does his new job provide medical benefits?"

and i'd be oblivious.