Pow! Bitches!
Schemes. We've all got them-- the maniacal plans in our brains that buzz and shake and shoot little lightning bolts out until they are finally either expressed in bad behavior or destroyed by reason.
Kyle has his space elevator.
Chris has his Scandinavian Samurai Camp.
I've got my BBQOnEverythingAndIMeanEverythingRestaurant.
The Captain is no different. Like most of us, he has schemes falling out his ass. Typically, these schemes are the harmless sort, involving the foundation of charities or selling ATV accessories out of the back of a truck or buying a hotel or an apartment building or starting a pug-dog kitsch factory or buying Big John's Steak and Onion franchises. These are the schemes typically inspired by good will, boredom, or the desire for dolla dolla bills.
Then there are the sorts of schemes that are inspired by what I sometimes refer to the Chutes And Ladders part of my father's mind-- the portion where the child-like lunatic resides. The Chutes and Ladders, invariably, come up with the more diabolical schemes.
Sailing (motoring?) the Trophy Cup south through Chicago to, and ultimately all the way down, the Mississippi to N'awlins with our diabetic dog was one such idea (planned suicide). Alligator wrestling was another. Or, wait no, that was my idea. Anyway, The Captain's latest scheme is to take up boxing. Rather, The Captain's latest scheme is for me to take up boxing with him... so that, y'know, he can destroy me --mind, body, and soul-- without anyone taking too much notice. Currently, however, people ARE taking notice, because the way he expresses his newfound pugilistic interests is to strike me without warning.
A couple things to keep in mind at this point:
The Captain has little regard for the pain of others.
The Captain takes passing interest in his own pain.
That being said, he does, thankfully, pull his punches. That being said, his punches still feel like getting punched by a man much larger than myself who has won more collegiate weightlifting competitions than myself and who has been clobbered over the head by equally blunt people more times than myself.
Given my situation (comparatively youthful and arrogant), you might see how this behavior could quickly lead to what we might describe as a, well, Cycle of Violence... The man appears out of nowhere (as a ninja might, or a vampire) and punches me square in the spine, causing me to wheel around bury the bony spurs of my knuckles in his shoulder with as much force as I've ever hit anyone for anything. The contest continues from there until one of us retreats. If an objectionably fierce blow is landed by either party, one should expect reprisals in the future... possibly while in the process of making toast or pouring milk on one's cereal... Perhaps while licking a stamp. The Captain understands quite well the reciprocal spirit of his attacks. I think he might actually be disappointed if I did much else other than put up my Dukes of York and hit him until he retreated.
The physical results of all this nonsense boil down to perhaps some temporarily tender shoulders for The Captain and some bruised forearms for myself (from blocking and deflecting his slow-ass punches), along with bruises wherever he managed to sneak one in.
The mental and behavioral results of this bullshit are slightly more difficult to cope with, in that I am now always on the lookout for an unannounced fist flying into my shoulder-blade or the trace of a grin or glimmer that might indicate that right after he gets done peeling that banana he's gonna get straight to the business of kicking my ass.
I suppose it's as likely as anything that this whole mess is him speaking through clenched knuckles to finally get the fuck out of his house already, but I am just going to go ahead and blame the Chutes and Ladders.
In any case, as always... send drugs... good ones... for both of us.
Kyle has his space elevator.
Chris has his Scandinavian Samurai Camp.
I've got my BBQOnEverythingAndIMeanEverythingRestaurant.
The Captain is no different. Like most of us, he has schemes falling out his ass. Typically, these schemes are the harmless sort, involving the foundation of charities or selling ATV accessories out of the back of a truck or buying a hotel or an apartment building or starting a pug-dog kitsch factory or buying Big John's Steak and Onion franchises. These are the schemes typically inspired by good will, boredom, or the desire for dolla dolla bills.
Then there are the sorts of schemes that are inspired by what I sometimes refer to the Chutes And Ladders part of my father's mind-- the portion where the child-like lunatic resides. The Chutes and Ladders, invariably, come up with the more diabolical schemes.
Sailing (motoring?) the Trophy Cup south through Chicago to, and ultimately all the way down, the Mississippi to N'awlins with our diabetic dog was one such idea (planned suicide). Alligator wrestling was another. Or, wait no, that was my idea. Anyway, The Captain's latest scheme is to take up boxing. Rather, The Captain's latest scheme is for me to take up boxing with him... so that, y'know, he can destroy me --mind, body, and soul-- without anyone taking too much notice. Currently, however, people ARE taking notice, because the way he expresses his newfound pugilistic interests is to strike me without warning.
A couple things to keep in mind at this point:
The Captain has little regard for the pain of others.
The Captain takes passing interest in his own pain.
That being said, he does, thankfully, pull his punches. That being said, his punches still feel like getting punched by a man much larger than myself who has won more collegiate weightlifting competitions than myself and who has been clobbered over the head by equally blunt people more times than myself.
Given my situation (comparatively youthful and arrogant), you might see how this behavior could quickly lead to what we might describe as a, well, Cycle of Violence... The man appears out of nowhere (as a ninja might, or a vampire) and punches me square in the spine, causing me to wheel around bury the bony spurs of my knuckles in his shoulder with as much force as I've ever hit anyone for anything. The contest continues from there until one of us retreats. If an objectionably fierce blow is landed by either party, one should expect reprisals in the future... possibly while in the process of making toast or pouring milk on one's cereal... Perhaps while licking a stamp. The Captain understands quite well the reciprocal spirit of his attacks. I think he might actually be disappointed if I did much else other than put up my Dukes of York and hit him until he retreated.
The physical results of all this nonsense boil down to perhaps some temporarily tender shoulders for The Captain and some bruised forearms for myself (from blocking and deflecting his slow-ass punches), along with bruises wherever he managed to sneak one in.
The mental and behavioral results of this bullshit are slightly more difficult to cope with, in that I am now always on the lookout for an unannounced fist flying into my shoulder-blade or the trace of a grin or glimmer that might indicate that right after he gets done peeling that banana he's gonna get straight to the business of kicking my ass.
I suppose it's as likely as anything that this whole mess is him speaking through clenched knuckles to finally get the fuck out of his house already, but I am just going to go ahead and blame the Chutes and Ladders.
In any case, as always... send drugs... good ones... for both of us.
posted by reno mac @ 2:15 AM
1 comments
