Blog Sematary

We haven’t added a new blog here since August 2010 or something like that. I don’t know what year it was. (Cue Kyle Reese from Terminator demanding to know) We’ve gotten exponentially funnier since these old blog days. Probably a million times funnier, actually. They’re still a hoot, though, & too damn good (some) to delete. So peruse away.

- Joey B.
August 12, 2013

Fat Ass Tractor Boy


My girl and I took a trip to South Miami this past weekend, Homestead to be exact. It’s a place famous for the Homestead Motor Speedway and it’s where Kimbo Slice rose to internet stardom by pummeling neighborhood guys who were in no way, shape, or form trained fighters. Homestead is also soon-to-be-famous for Fat Ass Tractor Boy, an overweight Jersey Devil of sorts, what with his elusiveness and hideous appearance.

About midday on a Sunday my girlfriend and I were taking a walk along an old strip of craft stores. As I gazed at one ridiculous antique after another, I couldn’t help but get the insatiable urge to jam something up my ass, especially when I saw the selection of kimonos for sale in a converted train car with an adorable wooden owl set out front. This was located next to a small snack bar that sold homemade juice, which I would drink puddle water before I touched. Yeah, let me get an $8 cup of juice with old mangos, papayas, and a hint of Diego the Cuban clerk’s piss.

My girlfriend wanted to go inside and see whatever-the-fuck it was, so I stayed outside to have a smoke and hope a camera crew doesn’t pass by, film me, and upload it online with the tag, “Look At This Faggot”. A few drags into my cigarette and I heard what sounded like a tractor approaching. I thought, “It can’t be, I’m on the street. Not in a goddamn field”. But the sound grew louder and louder. Before I knew it the sound was on top of me, and moments later I was greeted with a sight I’ll never forget: the fattest pre-teen (I put him at 10 years old) black kid I’ve ever seen…riding a tractor. Actually, “riding” may not be the most ideal word; his impossibly slouched position evoked the feeling that he was one with the machine. Half Boy, Half Tractor. This wasn’t a nice tractor either; it was a real shitbox. He had a crony riding on the front as well. Then young Christopher Wallace, with his fat face and squinted eyes, said in his fat, garbled voice, “Ya’ll got any Doritos o’ salt and vinegah chips?”

Now, I was alone. There was no one else around. Yet his “ya’ll” implied he was speaking to more than one person. My reasoning for this is that his inability to fully open his eyes due to his fat cheeks impaired his vision. I said nothing back to him, just hurried into the store to grab the camera from my girl’s purse to snap a picture of this chocolate manatee. When I got back outside he was gone, speeding away at 5mph down the street, most likely to retreat into the woods where he takes his insulin shot.

I managed to snap 2 shots of him though. See below. I was pissed they weren’t clearer, but maybe it’s for the best. The grainy photos will only help his legend grow, much like his risk for future heart failure.

This is all I have of Fat Ass Tractor Boy. Hopefully I’ll see him again one day. Until then, Godspeed, Tractor.

The Midnight Meat Train* *Bus

A little over a year ago my sweet ‘95 Toyota Corolla was hit by an almost equally sweet ‘95 Corolla (it was made less sweet with its “Life Is Good” bumper sticker, which should be reserved for guys who surf all day, can’t pay their rent, and whose bong is the centerpiece of their otherwise shithole apartment), and subsequently totaled. Christine was dead. After this I was forced to do something I swore I never would: use public transportation.

You really don’t know what kinds of goblins ride these things until you enter their world. I mean, they’re literally goblins—-one of them threw a pumpkin-bomb at me. You’re just waiting for George Romero to pop out and yell, “Cut!”, but he never does. This isn’t a movie at all. These fucking things are real. I once listened to an 80 year old black woman with one of the worst cases of ugly I’ve ever seen talk to herself about how she rides dick. I was hoping Odyssius was gonna get on at the next stop and cut her head off.

The drivers are also an entirely different breed of animal. I feel very safe when the 400lb guy who can’t open his eyes because his cheeks are so fat is behind the wheel. This is the same manatee who pulled over at 5:30am when I was running late to work to get a bacon fat slushee at 7-11. He didn’t seem too concerned with my job or irritable bowel syndrome. Maybe if I had taken a shit right on the bus he would’ve been.

I try to distance myself from these mutants as much as possible; that’s why I slick my hair back and rock a goatee, giving me a real pompous asshole appearance. This way, people might just assume I own all the buses and I’m only riding them to check up. I hear them whisper, “Who is he?” as I skim through Forbes. On the plus side, I’m consistently one of the top 3 best looking men on the bus. Not that it gets me laid. It doesn’t.

A Moment With KB- Pt.4

This was a third-party moment passed on to me by way of T-Bone, who swore on the lives of his neighbors that it’s true.

T-BONE- It’s hard to believe we graduated 6 years ago.

KB- Yeah. Another 6 and it’ll be our 10 year reunion.

I mean…my God, right? That’s a mind even Freud wouldn’t have been able to crack; he probably would’ve just bashed him over the head with a 2×4 as a final means to induce some smarts in his pea-sized brain.

Remember that retarded kid in highschool that was really into video games that everybody use2 fuck with? Like I think he thought his life was Duke Nukem 6 or something. I never really got into fucking with easy targets, I left that to the unfunny people, but there was this one time that I was walking down the hall with 2 or 3 people and I heard him coming up the hall from behind us (that motherfucker was a fast walker.) I just ignored the kid most of the time, kinda felt bad for him. As he gets right behind us I hear him say “Ahh, Terminator Boy, my arch nemesis!” Then goes on to say something about destroying Terminator Boy. Big deal, he’s in his own world, right? That’s what I thought, but as he passed us he looks over his shoulder right at me, gives me the most bad ass wave and says “Adios…Terminator Boy!” Holy shit, he was talking to me. That rocked my world

- Brian “Terminator Boy” Futrell

A Moment With KB- Pt.3

The other night KB smoked weed for the first time in a while. When KB gets high he basically sits there like a glassy-eyed goon. His reaction time, which isn’t good to begin with, slows to a crawl. I could probably punch him in the face and he wouldn’t even say “Ouch” until about forty-five seconds later as his limp carcass is lying on the ground.

Now, we were sitting in my room brainstorming some ideas about a future project. Well, I was. He came up with one idea about a masturbation scene that he just harped on over and over. He was pretty adamant about using this. He kept talking about this great shot in which “We cut to him and he’s cumming”. He repeated that a number of times.
For this story it’s integral I explain that I have a cat named Jenny. She’s small and her colors are gray and white. I also have a stereo in my room that’s blue and twice her size. And it’s a stereo, not a living, breathing animal.

Here it is:

KB- I thought your boombox was Jenny.

ME- What?

KB- I saw it out of the corner of my eye and I was like, “Let me see what Jenny’s doing”, then I looked and I was like, “Fuck, her tail is long”.

He was talking about the extension cord.

Sexual Deviant

There was a scene in the 1993 movie This Boy’s Life where Robert DeNiro, who nailed that Pittsburgh accent so well he made damn sure I would never like a living soul from that city ever again, was bangin’ Ellen Barkin, his wife in the movie, while she was on her stomach. She goes (These aren’t exact quotes. I’m not gonna rewatch the movie just to write a goddamn blog.), “Just for one night, can’t we look at each other?” And he responds, with his Primanti Brothers sandwich eating voice, “No, no…I don’t like that. I don’t like to see the other person,” (These lines are probably way off) and she says, “But we’re married now. It would be nice…” and he jams her face into the bed and goes, “This is my house and these are my rules! Now, you can get it doggystyle or you can get it on your side—those are the only choices!” And then he proceeds to feverishly thrust away.

That was one of those moments I remember as like an 8 year old kid realizing was gonna fuck me up down the road someday. That day has come. I’ve come to understand that one of the main reasons I’m such a sexual deviant is because of past moments in my life, a la DeNiro’s frantic pelvic movements for Leo’s mom. Maybe that’s the reason I don’t allow women to look at me during sex. One time when some slob was blowing me I happened to glance down and see her beady eyes staring up at me and I shouted, “Don’t look at me!” like I had been horribly disfigured and my family was visiting me in the hospital.

Could the time when my brother and I, at the ages of 9 and 10, found our father’s stash of porn and I got my first glimpse of what a grown man’s erect penis looks like be responsible for other incidents down the line? Maybe that’s the reason why one time after plowing this chick I said I was going to take a shower because I felt disgusting after being with her (I left out that part), and she asked if she could join and I said, “No, I’ll be fast. You can take one when I’m finished.” I then made myself a frozen pizza, didn’t offer her a slice, and finally said, “Maybe it’s best if you go.” When she left I threw out the towel that she used to dry herself off with.

For every action there’s a reaction. Maybe the action of being suspended from school at the age of 6 for masturbating (if you can call it that at that age) to the book “The Teacher From The Black Lagoon” (There was in illustration of the teacher in a nightgown. I am revolting.) in the back of the class is to blame for me taking part in the hiring of a prostitute to take a retarded friend’s virginity on his twenty-second birthday. We also threw her an extra fifty dollars to let us watch. I later hired her myself and made her sit on my face.
I’m in deep shit.

*This is a text Back To The Futrell sent me earlier today. I like how instead of just emailing it to me he’d rather send a 14 page text.*

Did I ever tell you about the crazy girl that lives next door to me? So the people who lived in my apartment before me got evicted (I saw them, they were so white trash that I second guessed moving in) and the landlord offered me what they left in the apartment. The first night there this girl in her mid 20’s knocked on the door and was asking me about a cd player that was left in the house. I figured it was hers and she left it with the previous tenants, so I let her in to check it out. She sat on my couch and asked me to put a tape in and tried to start conversation with me. I noticed like once every minute her leg would shake violently for like a second and I had to pretend not to see it as she talked to me. Ha. Like she asked me if her twitching bothered me and I said what twitching and she did it again and goes “that.” And I was just like “nah”. I said about me speeding in my car “if it goes 150, why not see how fast you can drive it” and she asked me to repeat it and wrote it in her diary like it was profoundly insightful.

Well the tape she put in was Fiona Apple (did she really save it from 97?) and she asked if I minded if she sang, and proceeded to try to sing “I’ve been a bad bad girl” in a “sultry” voice. It wasn’t turning me on. Ha. Anyway, the conversation was fuckin ridiculous. She told me about her psychologist, about asking guys to marry her, asked me to borrow my hoody cus she thought she’d look like Ashley Olson who in her mind was her soulmate. She wanted to borrow a dmx cd and I was like “nah I don’t have cds here yet” and she goes “no, I saw them in a box on the back seat of ur car.” So I got rid of her by giving her a movie and telling her to go watch it.

So the next day I was talking on the phone to my girlfriend at the time telling her the story of my neighbor and I heard this rustling and tapping on my door. I opened the door and the girl next door was down on all 4’s trying to slide a piece of paper under my door. She looked up at me and I just shut the door back on her, BUT SHE KEPT PUSHING THE FUCKIN PAPER UNDER MY DOOR. Like she didn’t get the hint. So I check out the paper she slid under and it was a nude self-portrait drawn in pencil with writing in red marker. Most of the writing was Spanish or some shit, but one of the sentences was “in that moment I wasn’t afraid.” Yeah, I never talked to her again.

-Back To The Futrell

I Used To Love Her (The Mall)

I can remember as a little kid hearing that we’d be taking a trip to the mall that upcoming weekend and thinking that it was just the shit. I’d look forward to it all week. I’d think about going to Footlocker to get some new sneakers, some new CD’s and VHS movies at Best Buy (DVD? What the fuck is that? I prefer a big ass tape that I have to blow into when it skips. Like that scene in Under Siege when Erika Eleniak pops out of the giant cake and shows her tits, because I’ve paused it and masturbated so many times to it), some Taco Bell or Arby’s from the food court, because we didn’t have them near my stomping grounds in New Jersey, and lots of other small, yet enjoyable things. I never fathomed it would all change one day…starting with the blacks. Ha, just kidding. Although they do make shopping much less enjoyable, with their large groups and inability to move or walk faster than any speed other than what can only be described as a “slower than fuck shuffle”. But anyway.

We had two malls near us in South Jersey. The first, and preferred, was the Hamilton Mall, which was pretty nice and a good distraction from the shithole strip club and trailer park a hundred yards away. The second was the Shore Mall. God help you if you had to go there. The only reasons for going were Boscov’s and Auntie Anne’s, and even still…I mean, fuck, I don’t need a pretzel that bad. It was just a long hallway with a bunch of shitty stores attached, and not even chain stores, stores with names like “Larry’s Toys” that carried toys from cartoons that went off-air several years earlier, and clothing stores where you could buy name brand clothes with defects that weren’t good enough to make it to JC Penney.

But the point is that didn’t matter. I still loved it. It was fun. Even if I was scared to go to the bathroom at the Shore Mall for fear of a) Getting my jacket stolen, or b) Raped. I really enjoyed it. But now? I look at going to the mall the same way I view going to work: I can’t stand it, but I have to go for something (Work: Money, Mall: Holiday/Birthday presents), and Christ do I hate everyone there.

And for me, women and children mean nothing anymore. It used to be that I gave them a pass, but not these days. Not only am I not moving for the husband, but if his little 6 year old son who’s too busy fucking around doesn’t feel the need to get out of my way, then sorry kid, eat floor. The trick is to keep moving. By the time the parents realize what happened I’ve already ducked into Spencer’s Gifts among the rest of the freaks.

The mall really sucks dick. The only time it’s not too bad is when I go with my girl, because now I finally have a reason to be in the women’s department of Macy’s, as opposed to before when I was just trolling for prey. Now when I show a strange woman lingerie and say, “Excuse me, do you like this? I was thinking of getting it for my girlfriend” it’s not a lie.

There was this one time when I was 16 that I realized you don’t have to know anything about normal life to manage a Marshall’s clothing store. I had been working there for about 9 months in the stockroom, which was pretty much where I stayed by myself in the dark putting lamps together and other things even more uninteresting than that.

One day I came in and there were a bunch of yellow lines painted on the floor, which I instantly understood were going to be designated walkways. It’s common sense. So I went about my business opening boxes and stacking various things in their appropriate sections. About mid-day as I was returning from my break my boss said he was going to explain something to me in the stockroom, so we proceeded to the back of the store. He began explaining the lines on the ground:

BOSS- “So, these lines were painted on the ground to show where we’re not allowed to obstruct. It’s an OSHA thing, so just remember not to put anything in the yellow area, ok?”

ME- “Ok.”

BOSS- “It’s like the yellow brick road in The Wizard Of Oz, heh…you step on it and you’re deadmeat.”

ME- (30 seconds of silence) “Which version of The Wizard Of Oz was that?”

-Back To The Futrell