Gram! Don’t look at my balls!
I was drunk.
Just a few minutes before,
my drunk self took me to my
old bedroom to put on my gift.
Which was a cold water wetsuit for kayaking.
Fuckers are stretchy and real tight.
Once I had that bastard on, including the headgear,
I pranced toward the bar, where everyone was,
with their drinks and their cheer.
Gram! Don’t look at my balls!
It was snowing outside.
I remember laying in the snow, feeling nothing,
It was fucking good. To lay and feel nothing.
Eventually I came back inside.
My family accepted my balls as myself.
And Big Al wanted to have another shot.
And we did.
My brother called a month ago to ask if I’d like to be his best man. This will be the fourth time I will be the best man in a wedding. I’m not sure how this keeps happening.
My younger brother has always been my soft spot. He was my saving grace.
He asked if I would do an old-fashioned best man’s speech.
He said, “With how you are with your words I’d like to hear what you have to say. Just please include the memory when I threw the rock through your window at 3 AM because I locked my keys inside.” He was outside drunk. Alone. Happy.
While my brother was talking about the wedding I tried to stay in the moment. I’ll admit I did drift.
With everything that’s happened in the past few months, including nearly losing my wife due to an internal rupture, and internal bleeding, I drifted. I started to imagine myself at my brother’s wedding. Me going into the old systematic fold that I’ve always used when I’m around many people. No one knows. People will tell me it’s great to see me and I’ll think something along the lines of, ‘We gain too much knowledge and we die.’ I’ll shake their hand and observe how much time I think they might have left. Some people seem to have a harder time absorbing knowledge than others. They’ll ask me a direct question and I’ll answer them very quickly. And we’ll head to the bar.
Have you ever been so drunk, you found a demon in your bathroom floor? The next day, when you’re nearly sober, you look for the demon. You pace the hallway knowing there’s only one way to find that fucker again. You pour a shot and open a beer. Your headache is small, the beer will help.
From time to time I’ll mention a short story I wrote for my cousin, Adam. He was in a tough situation and the only item left for me to give was to write. And I did. I wrote from the heart. He read the story and loved it.
An excerpt, Chapter 1
His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.
No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance. Up and down his body rose and nothing came out. Yet he smelled his own vomit lingering all about him. Again, he rose up, and again he produced nothing. Beads of sweat were on his forehead and it wasn’t long before they fell onto the surface of the tub. He lurched heavily downward with a massive cough and something came up. Something vile and red landed onto the tub’s floor. Black. He saw nothing but black as he slowly faded and fainted again.
-Below are links to the amazon and Barnes&Noble website pages where you can download the short story. There’s a dog, mud, a river, and graphic situations such as the above excerpt.
Thanks for visiting. I invite you to read the reviews. Cheers.
Let me be clear. We’re a nation of pussy’s. That’s not hard to understand. I grew up thinking people around me were too afraid to be themselves, or too afraid not to be. I watched as adults pussy footed around issues like fucking their neighbor which caused a divorce and the kids were lucky enough to be lied to. Mother’s fucked colleagues and had children outside of wedlock, yet didn’t tell the family. It’s a great way to live, to be too much of a cunt to tell your family you‘re a slut. Oh wait., I shouldn’t be writing like this. The PC police tells me what to do and how to act. Then again, I never did care. Our nation is filled with pussy’s who are too afraid to speak exactly how they’d like. I’m not one of them. Fuck off. -And fathers fucked every nice ass they could and we knew because our mothers told us. You can’t hold a job when you’re drunk and fuck. Yet the same mouths that preached this were sucking off their boss because they thought it would never be known. It’s like the fucking church showing young boys how to handle the full blow erection the priest had. Oh, that bother you? Good it bothers me too. I’ve been holding off a while now. I really shouldn’t. People are boring and the worst that’ll happen is nothing. I’ve never been anything but me. Cheers.
Written by -M. Taggart
You’re Drunk. Fiction.
‘You don’t like this show because you’re drunk.’
‘It’s hard for me to watch. They talk about fucking and how they fuck and how the others fuck and how they might want to fuck all the others.’
‘No one says that. Everyone loves it and only you say that. See. You’re drunk. You sit on your drunk ass and just do that.’
‘I can’t talk to you when you’re drunk. Shut the fuck up.’
‘I may be drunk. I’m standing and I’m not yelling. I don’t want to watch your show. I won’t apologize. I think people who want to show themselves half naked to make money and then not work shouldn’t then judge everyone else.’
‘What do you know. You’re drunk. You go to hell and let me watch my show.’
Outside on the deck it was breezy and the night was brimming with life. The birds hand’t yet gone to nest and the outline of the oak trees could still be seen.
‘That’s right you fucking drunk. Go outside like a dog!’
The deck felt cool on his bare feet and he liked it. He watched a lightening bug appear and it made him smile. The noise from the TV was less now and he closed the door to make it leave all together. Another lightening bug lit and he sat down on the steps.