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The Florida Writer

I’m a Floridian, born & raised.  I write about a lot of things.  My goal is to make you laugh, cry and possibly piss you off. I’m often hindered by a poor vocabulary and lack of grammar skills.  Cheers.

“Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it.  In fact, Death owns nothing.” Todd Moore

Here are my other two blogs:

www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com (a hipster/emo love story)

www.duhmerica.wordpress.com (ramblings about America)

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another hotel bar

Another hotel bar; I’m on the corner bar stool, minding my own shit, hoping no one tries to talk to me, only thing I want to say is “Yes, one more please.”

Another business man, probably mid 40’s and a little fatter than most, sat down next to me, his eyes scanned the rest of the bar, looking for some strange pussy, hoping some desperate clit will let him in.  His Brooks Brothers button up is wrinkled from sitting behind a computer for the past 8 hours and there are visible pit stains.  He should work out more, he’s too puffy for a hookup, especially given the 10 to 1 male to female ratio.  That’s the typical ratio, damn the women are “lucky.”

He ordered a Glenlivet neat.  Shit, the puffy man has bigger balls than most.  He’s really trying to impress, really trying to show the rest of the bar that his expense account is for real.

The bartender took notice, but only because the scotch means her tip should be bigger.  Her bangs and wrinkled forehead tell me that she’s either 25 or 50 and she’s probably seriously questioning her life choices.  He will talk to her about his two divorces, child support and how he’s hoping to retire to South Florida one day and buy a boat.  “Do you like boats,” he asked her.  She says she that she does, but only because she has to say that so she can make a payment on her Boost mobile cell phone the next morning before it gets shut off again.

Finally a woman walks up on the other side of the puffy guy and stands at the bar.  She’s attractive, fit and of course orders a Chardonnay.  Probably mid 30’s, breaking the glass ceiling.  Surely she can feel the eyes watching her ass in her professional business slacks.  All the eyes wondering if she’s wearing a thong.  It is 2018, so most likely she has hot underwear on.  She sips her wine like she knows everyone is eye-fucking her, she’s digging it.

Like clockwork, about three more men appear at the bar once they saw a woman, like businessmen hotel-ninjas, making their way towards that glass of Chardonnay sitting at the bar.  The poor woman is now surrounded.

This is when the true shit-show begins.  Which guy has the best chance?

They will all get awkwardly close to her in an attempt to piss on her leg and mark their territories.  They will talk about themselves in the hopes of securing invitation to her room that probably has a balcony.  They will pound their chests like gorillas in the mist and offer to buy her more wine or shots.  But it won’t work.

She will decline them all, because she didn’t get to this point in life by falling for all that manly bull shit.  She’s got her shit together.  She fucks on her terms.

When she leaves the bar, the gorillas will all joke about how they would have fucked her.  Because that’s what douche bag businessmen at hotel bars do.

I will go up to my room, jerk off and go to sleep………… because I’m fucking polite.

 

 

one summer changed my life forever

vw-cobalt-blue-1968-beetle-restored(this is a true story)

I was eight years old and my brother was four.  Every summer we visited our grandparents at their modest brick home in south, south Georgia.

My grandfather delivered mail and was the local Baptist Preacher.  He had zero education of any kind.  A great part of the Southern Baptist religion is that they don’t require their preachers to attend seminary.  If you’ve ever been to one of their services, the “no education” thing is quickly apparent.

He liked to take us fishing.  My brother and I loved fishing.  It was truly the one thing we looked forward to doing while visiting.

Grandpa had a late 60’s blue Volkswagen beetle.  Because I was older, I jumped into the front seat and my brother complained about sitting in the back.  He always complained because he thought I was spoiled.  He was right.  My parents liked me more, but that wasn’t my fault.

He still loved me though, almost to a fault.  Sadly, he always wanted to be me.  To this day, I’ve never understood that.

We pulled out of the garage and headed to the pond.  The drive was about 15 or 20 minutes from the house.  The gravel roads were bumpy and Grandpa was a slow driver.  It felt like it was taking forever and like the gears were barely shifting.

We drove through the minuscule downtown area that had only a couple gas stations, a grocery market and a farm supply store.  The rest of the trip was south Georgia rural.  We passed by a lot of broken down houses with rusted appliances and stacked garbage in the front yards.

There were trailers everywhere that looked inhabitable, yet I could see that people were living in them.  This was so different than my spoiled life back in Florida.  My house was huge and clean.  I had never really seen poverty.  I was used to my cold air conditioned house.

The radio in the beetle didn’t work so my grandpa would sing.

“When you go down in the bellum, you put your money in your shoe.  ‘Cause the people in the bellum gonna’ make a mess out of you.

When you go down in the bellum, don’t look them women in the face.  ‘Cause the women in the bellum will make you disappear without a trace.”

My brother laughed when he sang, but I just sat there confused.  I always wondered what a “bellum” was.  I always wondered what was so bad about the women there.  I always wondered why my grandpa sang this song with a smile.  He would even look over at me during the singing and it made me feel odd.

I was getting bored so I opened the glove box.  My eyes nearly jumped out of my head when I saw it laying there.  There was a beautiful, silver revolver sitting there.  My eyes popped out of my head.  I wanted to grab it, but I was scared.

My grandpa reached over and closed the glove box while looking at me sternly.

“Why do you have a gun grandpa,” I asked.

He pointed to some men sitting on a porch of one of the dilapidated house we were passing by and  said, “See them nigger, porch monkeys up there boy?  I keep a gun because you never know when you gonna’ need it.”

Again, I was confused.  I remember seeing those black men on their porch, just sitting there minding their own business.  I was eight then and I didn’t understand color.  Even though I was spoiled and white, I didn’t have any preconceived notions about people yet.

This memory stayed with me for years and often haunted me.  It took me a long time to figure it out.

We didn’t catch any bass that day and it was hot.  It was 95 degree, 100% humidity hot.  I can still taste the sweat dripping down my forehead.

We got back to the house, grandma smiled and gave us sweet tea.  She was always smiling and always making sweet tea.

My grandpa told me to take a shower in his bathroom.  I remember the cold water felt so refreshing.  I remember the strong smell from the Irish Spring soap bar, I liked that smell then.

Grandpa came into the bathroom and opened the shower door.  I told him there was no shampoo.  He said I could just use the soap.  He said he would help me.

That was the first time my grandfather touched me.

Again, I was confused and I knew something wasn’t right.  That was the last visit I remember with my grandpa, even though we went back each summer for the next 4 years or so.

I do remember him taking me fishing again, but he took me alone without my brother.  I don’t remember ever catching any bass.   It was always hot though.  I will never forget how oppressive the heat was.

I’m glad it was me and not my brother.  He was so young and innocent, I remember not wanting his laugh to change.

One day during my senior year of high school, I was called in to the office.  My mother was there and she was crying.  She said that grandpa had died.  He had a heart attack.  We drove to South Georgia that day and stayed a few days for the funeral.

I had to take a shower in the same shower where it first happened.  I couldn’t remember how many more times it happened and I didn’t want to.  There was still Irish Spring soap, but this time I hated the smell and it made me vomit.

We went to the funeral.  I didn’t cry, not one fucking tear came out of my eyes.

He was gone and I was glad that fucker was dead.

Maybe one day I will tell my mother.  I wonder if she knew?

Douche-flute in cuff links

cufflinks“I’m a salad kind of guy,” he said as the waitress looked away in disdain.  Understandable disdain from her considering this was a sports bar, not Tavern on the fucking Green.

He wore tight designer jeans, way too expensive shoes, a royal blue blazer and diamond-studded cuff links that were protruding aggressively outward so everyone could see.   He was fit, had great skin and tight cropped hair, almost military hair.  And yes, his teeth were fucking perfect too.

He had wireless iPod ear buds, so it was nearly impossible to tell if he was speaking with someone in real life or someone from his contact list.  A contact list full of hundreds of people who aren’t his friends, but just people who somehow make him money.

He continued to engage the waitress.  “Do you have any healthier options.”  In an increasingly strained tone, she apologized and said that was the only menu they had.  I could feel her hatred growing and I understood it.  Everyone at the bar understood it.

He ordered a grilled chicken salad with balsamic dressing on the side and a Stella draft.

As if I didn’t already know, his beer order solidified the fraud.  Someone who dresses like him should never drink a Stella.  Stella is just a fancier version of Coors Light.  What a cunt.

I took a heaping bite of my greasy as hell, mushroom Swiss burger with extra mayonnaise and smiled deeply inside.  I then dipped one of my steak fries in a ketchup-mayo swirl, stuck it between my teeth and looked right at him as I wiped the crumbs from my lips.

Oh, this douche flute with cuff links would probably cut off one of his balls to eat what I’m eating.  But that would require another ten miles on the tread mill.  Sure, he’s more disciplined than me, but who really gives a fuck?  Who wants to eat a salad for every meal?

An older man sat down between us.  He looked nice enough and was ordering take out.  He asked for their strongest IPA while he waited.  Now that’s a real man.  No pussy, ass Stella for him. Continue reading “Douche-flute in cuff links”

50 Shades of Billy Emo

redroomAs Clemmy left the apartment, Jude watched her from the window in disbelief.

He could see her bare ass cheek floating down the sidewalk and suddenly wished his hand was still caressing it.

He began to seriously wonder if he had just ruined the hipfatuation.

He picked up his phone to send her an apology text when he noticed a Yelp notification that nearly sent him into hysterics:

Yelp- Randall’s Review by EmoLover 24:

Dude, just went to Randall’s for Emo-Hip-Centric Night and seriously had my mind blown. Billy Emo did a “50 Shades of Billy Emo” show that was ridonkulous. He shaved the side of his head and has a bitchin new vampire-dragon tattoo that crawls from his head down his neck like magic. Then he plays this sexy-ass music and if you pay $3, you get to go into the red room of pain. He handcuffs you to a chair while he gives you a lap dance. OMG, my panties melted. He even gave me his phone number and told me to text him:)  Billy Emo is the freakin’ baddest ass thing to hit Randall’s ever. I WILL BE THERE EVERY WEEK

Jude threw his phone to the floor and sunk into his beanbag chair. He pulled out his journal and started penning a new apology poem for Clemmy.  With his world at Randall’s melting before his eyes, he has to find a way to keep his love.

“I have to make this right. I don’t think I can live without my patchouli muse.”

(Related Posts: The Massage.……Jude Meets with Cindy (the tatttoo)……the Aftermath, jude shaves his beard)

a hipster goes to a sports bar

bww(Originally posted on my blog: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com)

After reading the email from Clemmy, Jude was confused, distraught and embarrassed.

Dear Clemmy,

Thanks for being honest with me. I understand, but I don’t understand, I mean I think I understand.

Anyway, I’m going to put my phone up for a while and go somewhere where no one knows my name…..you know, the opposite of the show Cheers.

Peace out,

Jude

He decided to drink his confusion away, but wanted to go somewhere different, somewhere where he could sit at the corner of a bar and fade into his glass. He walked a few blocks and ended up at Buffalo Wild Wings sports bar.

He walked in with his head down and sat at the last open bar stool at the far corner of the bar. There were televisions everywhere, each showing a different type of sport.

Jude ordered a PBR tall boy and started guzzling while the television above him played a girls college softball game. He stared at the game with a dazed look and was somewhat turned on by the girls playing, but was worried that they looked a little too much like men. He continued to guzzle.

The bartender walked up to him and placed a Jager shot in front of him.

“Easy man, I didn’t order that. I’m not trying to get that drunk,” Jude said.

“The two guys at the end of the bar over there sent you that shot,” the bartender said pointing in their direction. Continue reading “a hipster goes to a sports bar”

Ode to Mountain Dew (my personal addiction)

mountain_dew_by_oceandeep76According to Wikipedia, in 1940 two Tennessee beverage bottlers named Barney and Ally Hartman invented the formula for Mountain Dew. 

Below is my tribute to those two fine men:

I walked into the 7-11 and quickly made my way to the back of the store where the drink coolers are located.  Immediately, I could see it staring back at me.

The 12-ounce, green canned goddess looking into my eyes.

It was screaming, “touch me, open me, drink me down you dirty boy.  I won’t quench your thirst, but I taste so good, so slippery and so sugary.  Everyone is drinking me, just take me, take me now.”

I couldn’t resist, I grabbed it and jumped to the cashier and butted in front of an old lady with blue hair and a walker.  I couldn’t wait.

Beads of sweat began trickling down my forehead towards my nose.  The cashier looked at me like I was a crack or meth head looking for my next hit.  Well, she wasn’t that far off.

Much like meth addiction, if I continue my assault on these green canned goddesses, my teeth are sure to start dropping out of my mouth indiscriminately.

She scanned the bar-code,  “that will be $1.06 please,” she said as she annoyingly chewed her gum and twirled her  poorly bleached blond hair.

I reached deep into my pocket and pulled out a wide array of change and dumped it on the counter.  I couldn’t count it quick enough. Continue reading “Ode to Mountain Dew (my personal addiction)”

General Tso who are you???

General-Tsos-Chicken-4-680x453Wikepedia describes you as a general who lived in Xiangyin during the 1800’s, yet the dish named after you was never eaten there, nor anywhere else near your city.

What gives General? Who are you General? The world wants to know. The “chef’s special” wants to know. The mall food court wants to know who you are.

I would be pissed if I were you, General. Did you not realize that your legacy has been immortalized into bits of deep, fried unidentifiable meat products? Some say chicken. Some say beef. Some say cat or dog. How does that feel General? Being named after odd meats dipped in mono-sodium glutamate filled batter isn’t exactly a royal homecoming. No awards for you General.

What horrible things were you responsible for General? Were you the village idiot? Did you cruise your village playgrounds wearing a creepy overcoat, exposing yourself to all the little generals playing cops and robbers? Or were you the victim of ill timed nepotism?

I know, you wanted to be an artist, pianist or a deejay, but for Buddha’s sake, you had to follow in the long line of male General Tso’s before you. You couldn’t break the family history without being shunned or disgraced. They would whisper that you were “light” on your feet if you spun records or took piano lessons. I get it, I do.

Most people though will admit that they are never really sure exactly what they are eating when they order General Tso’s chicken.

“It just tastes good,” said Sally from Wisconsin.

Bill from Idaho said he loves the crunchy edges of the deep, fried meat and doesn’t really care what’s in the middle. “As long as I can dip it in mayonnaise or Ranch dressing, I’m happy,” he said. Continue reading “General Tso who are you???”