Arse deep in shrooms
Guess what I did all weekend? Watched paint dry. Actually it was mushrooms. These food dehydrators are the bomb! After 2 days of drying, I got some serious product going on which will be nice to put in the soup come January! I even smoked a few which proved to be a new novelty on the islands.
A damn good day's harvest. This was all found on one tree, and I left half of it there!
Chicken of the stove covered with Giant Boletes!
This poem was sent to me by an ex-girlfriend. Gotta say I enjoyed it. She said it didn't really remind her of me, but I hope I'm the one with nice ass...
EX-BOYFRIENDS NAMED MICHAEL
My mother is concerned that I haven't met a nice boy to settle down with. She keeps asking me if I met the right guy yet.
Well, Mom, there's been some nice guys who just didn't work out, some guys that have broken my heart, and there've been some ex-boyfriends named Michael.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #1 was a sheer mistake, but we make such delightful mistakes when we are young. You're supposed to learn from your mistakes but heck....
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #2. I've washed him right out of my colon. Just for once, I'd like to date a man and not his therapist.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #3 said I had communication problems, and I said "Oh go fuck yourself asshole." What I should have said was, "Honey I am trying to understand your feelings of frustration at our seemingly inept articulations of our emotions, but I do have some unresolved feelings of anger towards you, so please go fuck yourself, asshole."
But maybe there's the off chance he's right. I have never been that great at communicating.
My mother is concerned that I haven't met a nice boy to settle down with. She keeps asking me if I met the right guy yet.
Well, Mom, there's been some nice guys who just didn't work out, some guys that have broken my heart, and there've been some ex-boyfriends named Michael.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #1 was a sheer mistake, but we make such delightful mistakes when we are young. You're supposed to learn from your mistakes but heck....
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #2. I've washed him right out of my colon. Just for once, I'd like to date a man and not his therapist.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #3 said I had communication problems, and I said "Oh go fuck yourself asshole." What I should have said was, "Honey I am trying to understand your feelings of frustration at our seemingly inept articulations of our emotions, but I do have some unresolved feelings of anger towards you, so please go fuck yourself, asshole."
But maybe there's the off chance he's right. I have never been that great at communicating.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #4: I should have known better the first time we met and went back to his apartment to fuck. His idea of fuck music was Dan Fogelberg's Greatest Hits. I asked him to change the CD and he changed it to the only thing that could have been worse: Neil Diamond Live at Madison Square Garden.
Coming to America, indeed.
But I stuck with him and every fuck at his place was sheer hell. I tried telling him that his taste in music sucked and that I could seriously help him, but somehow I lacked the communication skills to do just that. But then I thought I loved him, and then I was young enough and foolish enough to believe that love can overcome Linda Ronstadt.
It cannot.
But love did not stop me from throwing his Yanni CD's behind the bookcase nor did it stop me from torching his ballads of Madison County CD on the gas stove. Oh, what a beautiful blaze it was! He swore the CD was a gift but like all ex-boyfriends named Michael he was a lying dog. Now I'm getting ahead of myself here, that's about creatively destroying ex-boyfriends' property, not about ex-boyfriends named Michael.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #5 was suffering from a severe case of yellow fever and dumped me for some little Taiwanese guy, fresh off the damn boat. Two weeks in the Yoo-Ass and the little pissant faggot manages to find his way to Cafe Hairdo, ready to be picked up by his American Dream of Homosexual Romance. I can just see him sitting there, legs crossed, working his non-threatening little Third World charm, offering to share his table and newspaper. I can just see them now: sharing haircare products, making mutual consensual decisions about dinner, movie, sex and their emotional well-beings. I can see them sitting on the sofa with the dictionary in their laps trying to figure out the difficult words in Barbara De Angelis' Making Love Work video seminar, and thinking about adopting a fox terrier named Honey. I can see them having deep, deep discussions about which one of them has a better butt:
"You do."
"You do."
"No, you do."
"Stop it! You do."
"Yours is tight and tanned."
"But yours is pert and angry."
What a pair of goddamn fucking freaks. I would just like to see them in a big car accident crashing into an oncoming truck carrying a shipment of Ginsu kitchen knives.
But hey, I'm not bitter, I'm descriptive. I'm not jaded. I just have too many ex-boyfriends named Michael.
Just once I'd like to see everything of my life with ex-boyfriends named Michael laid out on a fat barge sent off to the landfill of affection. I'll watch the barge ferry it's way through the flotsam of therapy and crabs, dishsoap & bad sex, shared shirts & worry, devotion & drugs, pissed off nights & legless drunken revelry.
I'll wave good-bye and I'll be fine.
- Justin Chin
Coming to America, indeed.
But I stuck with him and every fuck at his place was sheer hell. I tried telling him that his taste in music sucked and that I could seriously help him, but somehow I lacked the communication skills to do just that. But then I thought I loved him, and then I was young enough and foolish enough to believe that love can overcome Linda Ronstadt.
It cannot.
But love did not stop me from throwing his Yanni CD's behind the bookcase nor did it stop me from torching his ballads of Madison County CD on the gas stove. Oh, what a beautiful blaze it was! He swore the CD was a gift but like all ex-boyfriends named Michael he was a lying dog. Now I'm getting ahead of myself here, that's about creatively destroying ex-boyfriends' property, not about ex-boyfriends named Michael.
Ex-boyfriend named Michael #5 was suffering from a severe case of yellow fever and dumped me for some little Taiwanese guy, fresh off the damn boat. Two weeks in the Yoo-Ass and the little pissant faggot manages to find his way to Cafe Hairdo, ready to be picked up by his American Dream of Homosexual Romance. I can just see him sitting there, legs crossed, working his non-threatening little Third World charm, offering to share his table and newspaper. I can just see them now: sharing haircare products, making mutual consensual decisions about dinner, movie, sex and their emotional well-beings. I can see them sitting on the sofa with the dictionary in their laps trying to figure out the difficult words in Barbara De Angelis' Making Love Work video seminar, and thinking about adopting a fox terrier named Honey. I can see them having deep, deep discussions about which one of them has a better butt:
"You do."
"You do."
"No, you do."
"Stop it! You do."
"Yours is tight and tanned."
"But yours is pert and angry."
What a pair of goddamn fucking freaks. I would just like to see them in a big car accident crashing into an oncoming truck carrying a shipment of Ginsu kitchen knives.
But hey, I'm not bitter, I'm descriptive. I'm not jaded. I just have too many ex-boyfriends named Michael.
Just once I'd like to see everything of my life with ex-boyfriends named Michael laid out on a fat barge sent off to the landfill of affection. I'll watch the barge ferry it's way through the flotsam of therapy and crabs, dishsoap & bad sex, shared shirts & worry, devotion & drugs, pissed off nights & legless drunken revelry.
I'll wave good-bye and I'll be fine.
- Justin Chin
posted by McQuade at 2:12 PM
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