Bully Magnet

Last night, as I was reflecting on the cruel neglect the Lord has shown Nicki Manaj, we got a text from Ashley* telling us to be ready by 6pm. Good god, I said to myself, it’s already late into five; if we’re doing this, whatever the fuck it is, I have to put my good boots on. That’s one of the moots of this wondrous woodland glen; you are apt to receive any manner of demands via text message without explanation, a heritage of their ancestors no doubt practiced through history. Though I do have small difficulties picturing the facial expression of Grog when he realizes with some dismay that by the time the carrier pigeon arrived, it didn’t allow him enough time to put his good mammoth furs on before company would call. I work on trying to see his frustration in my head as I thunk the back of my heel into my Toby’s, black and reliable.

If I can say one thing for Ashley, it is that he is very sturdy; an imposing mass of a man that slumps and drags his legs, not bothering with the effort needed to lift them, leaving what I believe to be evidence of Bigfoot with each thud of his shoe meeting snow. Children have used his sweet kicks as sleds since his balls dropped at four. You can imagine the embarrassment he felt, having all your friends climb you instead of the jungle gym or having to push the rollercoaster up the track instead of riding in it with the rest of his class.  Having to be Chewy from Star Wars every single year since you could stand.

It doesn’t bother him much outwardly; what he lacks in physical speed and agility he makes up for with his quick tongue and lack of giving many fucks. Which I guess develops pre-t quick when your name is synonymous with comfortable furniture but your physical appearance denotes to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  

~~This is my friend cuddly wumpkins, fluffy ambassador of plushy sunshine candy happiness. He likes bunnies, hugs, the color pink, and microwaving hamsters. (>^o^)> UffuuuuUfuuuuu~~

He showed up a few seconds after I got my other boot on. I snorted. Maybe it wasn’t the loyalty of carrier pigeons after all. He bowed as low as he could to make it through our bedroom door, and fell back with an alarming amount of trust on the edge of our bed. The room groaned.

“So where do you guys…want to go?”

King fluttered around, presumably cementing the supports back into the foundation.

“You um, did you have something in mind?”

“Not really.”

“Want to go to the bar?”

“Nah.”

“Whelp,” I said standing to my feet. “I’m out of ideas.” And I was. Normally that idea is only shot down if the bar explodes or I’m dead. I had drank fifteen beers before he arrived.

King wrapped a scarf around her neck, “Let’s go eat.”

This is a fantastic revelation according to Ashley, who musters the strength to stand up without a word and punch his pocket for keys.

For some reason I started to reflect on my life during the 45minute drive to town. Anytime I get in a car I reflect on my life. It’s my only indication that I’m not dead.

I tried to count my friends, got to three and told myself to stop lying.

Ashley reminds me of Nardo in some way. That is to say, they are nothing alike and aside from gender there is no reason I should have related them in my head at all. But I did, and it got me reminiscing on the things I’ve done to him since the day we met.

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#1: I Spartan kicked him down a flight of stairs.

“Hey. Give me the mace.”

“What?”

“Mace.”

“Uh, sure here.”

-kick-

“OH SHIKSDJFSKFKJSDGJFGLKJDGDKLSGD!!!”

(=_=) “Mace.”

We bought these really awesome Nerf weapons for bashing purposes, and I had drank my weight in whiskey. The ending of this story is me punching him in the back of the head repeating the word “mace” like the fucking Rainman.

#2: I told Facebook he was gay; nobody doubted it.

The way he found out was several phone calls from family members; half congratulating him, half asking if it was true. I found out that he found out by listening to the softness of his sob through his bedroom door. It was the second most hilarious shed of tears since I realized tapestry isn't the name of a country.

#3: I punched him thirty-seven times in the gut and told him he was a champion.

Technically, I told him that he could be famous if he could take more punches than the founder of PUNCHY, a faction of fisticuffs brawlers that doesn’t exist. I said this periodically though the night in convincing and frequent bursts until he agreed to let me punch him. I told him it would be filmed, reviewed by a board, and if he took enough punches, he would be considered Champion of PUNCHY. I stuck my fist into his gut thirty-seven times until I “missed” and socked him in the rib. It was a mercy snap. He didn’t know what was good for him.

#4: I told him to pursue a woman he didn’t know was an unshakable lesbian.

Nothing gives me more joy that creating social unrest. Since they pulled all the decent trash TV, I’ve been having to get wildly inebriated and talk to myself in the mirror for effect.  

Me: We should hook Nardo up with uh…

Myself: Her.

Me: Thas’ a good idea.

Myself: Thank you.

Me: No thank you.

I sent a text to her explaining that Nardo was new to dating, and it would be super nice if she could help me out by rating his ability to flirt.

“Out of ten.”

Before she came over one day I told Nardo that he had to use all of his charms. To which he nodded solemnly and dried the sweat off his hands. He studied what I told him for hours. Absorbing his life’s worth in droves of secret female knowledge.

For the rest of the night it was an awesome mix of the worst possible pick up lines and random outbursts of the number two.

#5: I slipped him a special cookie; told him he got high off canned peaches.

Hopefully this story will go down in my friendship with Nardo as one of the best things I’ve done for personal hahas. I’m chuckling an evil chuckle as I remember this story next to Ashley and King, who have no idea why I’m laughing.

One of the major things about Nardo is that he’s bottomless. He can eat a ton of food, and sometimes, he can even eat things people shouldn’t eat. To put that in perspective, he once made mashed potatoes in a pot that had grown mold in the bottom. He ate the mashed potatoes without noticing, and puked for a mere hour when the rest of humanity would have been either dead or dying. Nothing phases this guy. And since nothing can touch him, Nardo will often pick at food he sees on cutting boards or stovetops, regardless of whether or not something is questionable. He just doesn’t have that thing that most people do that says, “Negative Ghostrider. Mouth is full.” Or  “Looks dangerous. Let’s not.”  

In this case, I brought a cookie that had tons of marijuana baked into it back from a trip. As soon as I got home, I split the thing in quarters and put an entire half on the cutting board in anticipation for him to come in looking for a snack. After a couple of hours, he raided the cabinets. He must have eaten several things that had expired, but he stopped when he saw the cookie.

“Whose is this?”

“No ones.”

“Oh.”

And he plucked the whole thing up, swallowing it whole. I had been advised when I took the cookie not to eat more than a quarter at a time, so I was beside myself with giddy, waiting for him to notice.

Minutes passed. Nothing.

He clears a bowl of cereal and talks incessantly.

Nothing.

He eats some bread, talking fast and excitedly. 

Nothing.

Just as he’s halfway through a can of peaches, he stops.

“Guys?”

“…What?” try not to look excited.

“I don’t feel right.”

“Well you ate a ton, so…” I’m going to fucking lose it.

“No. I don’t feel right.”

“How?”

“I don’t feel right. Do I look okay? I don’t feel right.”

“You look fine.”

“DO I LOOK OKAY? ARE YOU SURE? IM FUCKING FREAKING OUT.”

“Calm down. What’s the matter?” ohgodohgodohgod.

“IT FEELS LIKE I’M IN MY BED BUT I’M NOT. I’M FREAKING OUT. DUDE. SHOULD WE CALL SOMEONE? WHATS GOING ON?!”

“You’re okay. What’s the matter?”

“I’M…I JUST…I CAN’T FEEL ANYTHING. AM I OKAY?”

“The…did you eat those peaches?”

“WHAT?!”

“DID YOU EAT THOSE FUCKING PEACHES?”

“YEAH WHY?”

“THEY WERE BAD. THE PEACHES WERE BAD. OH GOD.” I’m a monster, oh my god.

“OH GOD.”

“YOU’RE…OH… oh…okay. Calm down. Let me get rid of the peaches. Go lay down.”

“I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS.”

“I’ll help you. IT’LL BE OKAY.”

I helped him to his room, explaining to him how the peaches were bad and how it was making him feel numb. He started talking about time and focus. I had to laughed into a pillow for an hour why he intermittently yelled nonsense to himself for an hour.

The next day, Nardo went through our entire food stock and threw out every single can that had expired.

It was glorious in a we-won’t-survive-a-food-shortage-now-but-that-shit-was-jokes kind of way.

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Back in the truck, Ashley and King decided on Olive Garden.

We took bets on the tranny sitting next to us, drank a bottle of wine, and tipped the server in precious uncut sapphires. Something cold. Bitter. Betting tables. Blackjack. Cash winnings, $.40 slip. I woke up nested in the depression Ashley had made when he sat on the edge of the bed. They aren’t the same in any way. But according to the hole I woke up in, they aren’t imaginary either.