#FinishThatThought 47 : One Hosed Up Soundtrack

Sometimes it seems like whoever’s arranging the soundtrack to my life is watching the wrong thing. Like today. This morning, the alarm went off, I got up like always, and staggered downstairs. I turned on the morning news, and started feeding the cats, as I mumbled under my breath, “Don’t fall over. Don’t fall over. Wobble, but don’t fall down.”

And the news was playing that stupid song about being happy. You know, “Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof. Because I’m happy.” Yeah. That one. I turned the friggin’ TV off.

Then there was my drive to work, in rush hour, along with zillions of perfect strangers. We sat there watching the police direct traffic as the fire trucks drowned the big Dodge Caravan that was burning itself to dust. And we all hopped on our phones, and called work to explain we were late because of it.

And the radio station was playing that James Gang song, “Cruising down the highway in my fine machine, lead pipes really singing, the engine sounds real mean.” I growled, and turned the damn thing off.

I went to the gym, and did my workout. I was sweating so much my t-shirt stuck to me. I thought my arms were going to fall off. They’d reached that point where they shake from exhaustion.

And the radio at the gym sang out, “Ooh, that’s why I’m easy. I’m easy like sunday morning.” All I could do was shake my head.

When I got home, I plunked my Taco Bell Burrito Supreme and giant Mountain Dew Baja Blast on the table, and turned on the news, to be greeted by another story describing how fast food makes you fat, clogs your arteries, and kills you.

It was one of those days. And that night I went to bed, and couldn’t sleep until the Brad Paisley concert ended at 11:00. The drums and bass guitars kept vibrating the painting on the wall above the bed.

Yeah. My life and it’s soundtrack are totally wrong for each other. I really should talk to whoever’s in charge of life, and let them know how screwed up the soundtrack is.

365 Words

I wrote this for Week 47 of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB 23 : Drunken Sailor

Oh, my achin’ head. I knew I shouldn’t have had that entire bottle of Wild I with Ginseng by myself. But after my girl dumped me, and I got fired for calling the boss a fuckin’ bastard, well, I had to do something stupid.

Waking up on a bench in Central Park at three in the morning with two police officers standing by me, one shining this billion candlepower flashlight into my eyes, wasn’t how I wanted to wake up. Especially from the dream I’d been havin’.

Damn,what a dream! I snuck into the boss’s office and pulled his keys out of his desk. He thought they were safely locked in the top right drawer. Didn’t know I could open that drawer with a paperclip. Idiot. So, I stole his Bentley.

I drove the Bentley to my girl’s apartment. I broke in, tied her up, stripped her, and said, “One last fling before I go, sweetheart!” And I did everything she’d never let me do. And I left her tied up, naked, on the floor, with the apartment door wide open.

Hell, I’d stolen a $200,000 Bentley. I was already going to jail. I figured, “Might as well go out with a bang!”

It was a grand dream, dude. I’m tellin’ ya. And it beat the hell out of the day I’d had.

I woke up that morning, to get ready for work, curled to my right, where she was supposed to be, to wrap my arms around her. But that morning, she wasn’t there. She’d left a note on the bed.

“I’m outta here, you selfish bastard!”

I sat there wondering what the fuck I’d done, then got ready for work. I went out for breakfast. ‘Cause don’t ask me how to scramble an egg. Last time I tried that, I set the range on fire. She’d been pissed about that too. “You can’t even boil water, you worthless son-of-a-bitch.” She always fixed breakfast. Made sure I had something to eat. So, with her gone, I had to go eat fast food.

Work had been hell. It always was. Answering the phone 5,000 times. “No mam. I can’t tell you how to setup your firewall on your WEB site. You have to contact our software team, and pay them to do that for you.” “Well, sir. Your e-mail server got hacked, ‘cause you set the password to 123456. That’s life. If you want us to secure it for you, we can, but that’s $75.”

WEB site tech support. Don’t ever do that for a livin’. Geeze, that’s a sucky job.

After the 856th phone call the boss came in, “For the past month, you haven’t been meeting your quota for 50 calls a day. If this keeps up, we’ll have to terminate you.”

I told him the truth. “Hey, I’m answering more phone calls than you can, you fuckin’ bastard.”

Bam! Fired. Just like that.

I went home and posted the Spaceballs video on all the WEB sites I knew about that had passwords like “password”, and “123456”. The one that says, “What kind of a password is that? That sounds like something an idiot puts on his luggage!”

Then, I decided I’d get ripped on the worst wine I could find, and sleep on a park bench in Central Park. Wound up with that bottle of Wild I. Got toasted. Whistled at every girl that walked by. “I’d like me some of that,” and “You lucky bastard!” I said those a lot. The sun went down, and I threw up in the lake. Wild I don’t taste so good coming back.

So, I finished the bottle. Hell, I didn’t have to go to work the next morning, why not?

When the cops woke me, they hauled my ass to jail. “You get one phone call.” I called my ex girl.

“I’m not coming to get you out. You can just sit there to you rot, asshole.” Yep. That was my one phone call.


I do wonder, though, when the headache that Wild I gave me will finally go away.

685 Words

My entry, in all its unedited glory, for week 23 of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other entries in the challenge.