This will be my last journal entry for this winter, a season which dies in three days. I have projects to finish and life intrudes…
I have only a few hours of relative calm at the Yeti Lair, before the big bear comes crashing through the door after work, or the less big bears ask to stick fight, box, play chess of dungeons and dragons. I am a creature of interest to the bemused youths, the older one looking over my shoulder—now dropping a fork on the hardwood floor—while passing, asking about the article and microwaving the left over Shepherd pie he saved last night.
“A day in the life of a hobo?” he said. “I heard there was going to be a hobo war here soon.”
I keep the house clean where I go. The far side of the front room is a trash heap of soda cans and candy wrappers mixed with video game controls, where the cats den as well. The back bathroom is a hideous crapper, the toilet rarely flushed, the room never ever cleaned. The mid sections, are tolerable for me to breath the air while I write.
Felix, the 14-year-old is watching video game tutorials and wondering if school suspensions should come with a free Xbox upgrade.
Well, last night, when Yeti Waters crashed through the door with the ingredients for scratch made shepherds pie in his apish arms, a six pack of Coors light and a bottle of Old Grand Dad, I knew my day had just begun. Declaring that a country music song had set him into an epiphany and moved him to invite his first decent girlfriend over for diner, I gave off writing to finish the pot of coffee while he got drunk and began cooking.
Disaster loomed on the horizon. I do not clean his room, a smelly ape pit full of cat hair, blankets I washed in 2020 and guitars littering the small bit of space not taken up by the mattress on the floor. I am sure that he feels confident in inviting this doll over since I clean the house daily. But I do not clean her destination, the bed room.
Halfway through various chaotic preparations for dinner as he discusses Herodotus, Goad and Eckert with me, he realizes that he has to pick up the younger big bear from school. I tell the older boy bear that I will write my second article of the day outside and then return to play chess.
That article done, the second in this three part journal, I returned inside and cleaned up The Mess thus Far, half of the cooked and blended potatoes being on counter, sink, stove top and stuck inside of a bowl and blender. Yeti Waters notes that he has not made enough potatoes. I failed to point out, as a dutiful guest, that half of those he made were smeared around various surfaces not designed for eating off of.
As he begins more potatoes and drinks whiskey, having dropped off the third bear at a girlfriends house with instructions to, “Fuck that fresh bitch good,” he returned on the phone with various coworkers, fellow truck drivers, who he was arguing with in loud tones about any possible subject of contention under the sun.
Felix and I are now playing a tough game of chess, that will take an hour. On the phone with the girl, a woman ten years his junior, educated, very pretty and generous, who is moving into the neighborhood to be closer to her burly paramour, Yeti Waters sounds obviously drunk.
“No, baby, I’m not drunk. You know I stopped drinking.”
Felix looks at me, “Any chance she buys it?”
“No, buddy. But if we can keep things smooth enough that he sucks up to her instead of going full negro, then we might be able to save the internet.” [1]
“You know, James, she’s like normal, really has her act together.”
“Believe me, I like having internet. I’ll do what I can and tomorrow, while I’m getting your brother from school, your dad will have time to to the make up dance of the sober supplicant.”
“What are you talking about, James?”
“Well, alcohol increases Time preference, makes us more like the Aborigine that can’t hold off eating that first candy bar so he gets the second candy bar, and then goes and beats up the Asian kid for his extra candy bar that he earned through internal discipline.”
Felix nodded in understanding, “You know, james, you sound like an evil robot.”
“That is because I am an Evil Robot.”
Felix nodded and grinned, “Who would have thought that I could learn more from chronic alcoholism in progress then from going to Tranny Junior High?”
Notes
-1. Obviously slinging prodigious lengths of love, the Yeti, who cannot afford internet, has landed an up scale girl who pays for his internet. I quite like her and declared her value at 7.5 Groes, meaning that I would be willing to butcher 7.5 men of African descent in order to possess her for a night, according to the basic Conan Comic book valuation system.
To be continued…
Fuckin 😆
man, I am drunk and high same time. I was trying maybe more than 4-5 days to write you. I hope you dont publish it at comments and try fix it. I saw you book fighting edge. I understand physical fighting for in hard stiuations but not mental fights.I am addicted weed and I can't fight or train. I have found bravery for writing you with whiskey and weed. I have hadd conditions for life and I can't stand it with normal brain. I poison myself with weed. I was at good condition, I had low fat rate high condition, I wasn't best fighter but I was though. I am just addicted now an I don2t have fighting mindset. What do you recommend for this stiuations with hard life. I know these are for only losers but I need a help. I wrote them with closed eyes by half and I wasnt brave enought for writing you in past days. Have a good day and I hope I will read good things. I have innocent persons valuable for me and I can't help them with these addictions. I may fight more than 5 guys but I can't win fight with myself.