Yes, Laszlo's initial thought was that he would smear Joey with the dogshit. That would be the simple way to end this game. Joey would bark like a crazed dog and the brothers would howl along with him; but then they would let him go and perhaps Laszlo would no longer be Joey's "girlfriend."
So, with that in mind, Laszlo extended the handful of crap towards Joey's chest.
"Rub it in his stupid face!" Erogenous yelled.
Laszlo paused but then slowly raised his hand so that it was just under Joey's nose. Now Joey was staring down cross-eyed at the smelly fist.
Erongenous was hopping up and down with excitement as Joey began to mumble. The boys pulled in closer to hear him speak.
"Uhhh....n-n-no...." began Joey, "...n-n-not hungry now..."
The boys exploded with laughter. "He thinks your gonna feed it to him, Laszlo! Make him eat it! Make him eat it!" they yelled.
Laszlo returned his eyes to Joey who met his gaze with a doleful stare. It caught Laszlo by surprise and he retracted his fist.
Joey's mouth was still quivering as if he hadn't finished his sentence; the boys became silent again in anticipation.
Joey then looked up with a pathetic face and began to meow in soft but agonizing voice.
The boys again broke out in laughter. They chanted: "Put some the shit on the kitty..." and so forth.
But Laszlo couldn't do it. He shook his head and turned back towards the door.
"What's wrong," Erogenous sneared, "you don't want to rub dogshit on your future wife?"
"No, this is stupid," Laszlo responded.
"Leave then," yelled Erogenous, who now had his hands behind his back. "We don't want any gaywads here anyway."
With that, the other boys stepped to the side and cleared a path for Laszlo to exit.
Laszlo only made one step for the door before Erogenous sprung forward and dumped the entire pale of dogshit on his head. It knocked Laszlo completely to the ground. He coughed and gagged as the boys howled and danced around him.
"Mother fucker," hissed Laszlo as he tried to wipe the shit from his eyes.
He immediately heard the phrase repeated to him by Joey, who was still tied down, but was now doubled over with laughter. "Mother fucker! Mother fucker!" shouted Joey as he pissed his pants. "Holy shit, mother fucker!"
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Random thoughts on Dick Vitale
Dick Vitale got inducted to the hoops Hall of Fame this year while several other deserving candidates got left out; most notably, Dennis Johnson. This caused many basketball purists to get upset.
Charley Rosen wrote of Vitale's induction: "The Mouth That Roared, a.k.a. The Shill That Shrilled ... his induction only proves how much the game has been sullied by hype."
Mark Kriegel wrote: "Dick Vitale wasn't a player. His coaching career — culminating with a 34-60 record for the Detroit Pistons — was a failure. And while the Hall recognizes media members with its Curt Gowdy Award (a distinction Vitale has already won), one cannot be enshrined as a mere broadcaster. So, again, how the hell did he get in? Is he insightful? Thoughtful? Provocative? Courageous? No, no, no and no. He's loud. He's a salesman."
Personally, I think Dicky V deserves to be in the hall because he's been such an incredible salesman for the college game. Seriously, who's done more to promote college basketball -- essentially an unwatchable sport until March -- than Vitale? Sure, he's kind of a clown, but his image, which is also one of passion and positivity, has become synonymous with the college game. And that's a good thing.
I actually have a funny story about Vitale. He used to own a restaurant on Siesta Key in Sarasota, Florida. I think it was called the Broken Egg or something. One time I went there with my parents and we sat at a table directly next to Vitale and his wife. He seemed extremely gracious, smiling and shaking hands with people as they occasionally came up to his table to say hi.
When people weren't coming up to him he was reading the sports page of a paper and going over the box scores of some college games. At one point I heard him say, "eleven rebounds, this kid's gonna be amazing, amazing..." to his wife, who never looked up from her magazine. And that went on for about ten minutes -- Dickey V scouring the box scores, gushing about players, and his wife ignoring him. It was hilarious, but also endearing.
So I'm glad Vitale got into the hall. He's truly passionate about the sport and its players.
Of course, the fact that Dennis Johnson didn't get elected is just awful. Really just unforgivably awful.
Charley Rosen wrote of Vitale's induction: "The Mouth That Roared, a.k.a. The Shill That Shrilled ... his induction only proves how much the game has been sullied by hype."
Mark Kriegel wrote: "Dick Vitale wasn't a player. His coaching career — culminating with a 34-60 record for the Detroit Pistons — was a failure. And while the Hall recognizes media members with its Curt Gowdy Award (a distinction Vitale has already won), one cannot be enshrined as a mere broadcaster. So, again, how the hell did he get in? Is he insightful? Thoughtful? Provocative? Courageous? No, no, no and no. He's loud. He's a salesman."
Personally, I think Dicky V deserves to be in the hall because he's been such an incredible salesman for the college game. Seriously, who's done more to promote college basketball -- essentially an unwatchable sport until March -- than Vitale? Sure, he's kind of a clown, but his image, which is also one of passion and positivity, has become synonymous with the college game. And that's a good thing.
I actually have a funny story about Vitale. He used to own a restaurant on Siesta Key in Sarasota, Florida. I think it was called the Broken Egg or something. One time I went there with my parents and we sat at a table directly next to Vitale and his wife. He seemed extremely gracious, smiling and shaking hands with people as they occasionally came up to his table to say hi.
When people weren't coming up to him he was reading the sports page of a paper and going over the box scores of some college games. At one point I heard him say, "eleven rebounds, this kid's gonna be amazing, amazing..." to his wife, who never looked up from her magazine. And that went on for about ten minutes -- Dickey V scouring the box scores, gushing about players, and his wife ignoring him. It was hilarious, but also endearing.
So I'm glad Vitale got into the hall. He's truly passionate about the sport and its players.
Of course, the fact that Dennis Johnson didn't get elected is just awful. Really just unforgivably awful.
The Phoenix Also Rises # 7 (from Hart)
As Laszlo entered the shed he was immediately overwhelmed with the pungent stink of shit. He immediately assumed that Joey had emptied his bowels, a reasonable assumption given Joey’s propensity for clothed defecation and certainly understandable given the dog-boy’s current predicament. However, as he acclimated to the stink of sweat, oil and feces, Laszlo realized that the most potent source of the stink lay to his left. He turned his head and noticed a white plastic five-gallon bucket. As he looked closer Laszlo noted that the bucket was brimming with what appeared to be collected piles of dog shit in various states of decay and petrification.
“Fuckin-A right, Bitch!” screeched Laszlo’s youngest brother, BB. “Took us all fuckin’ weekend ta git all that turd! We figured since yer little doggy-boy girlfriend likes turdin’ on ‘imself so much we’d help ‘im out an jus cover ‘im in all kinda turd!”
At the thought of this, BB’s excitement boiled over and he started leaping from foot to foot. “EEEEEWWWWWEEEEEEE! TURD BOY! TURDY TURDY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT TURD DOGGY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT!” he screamed at Joey in what could only be described as the frighteningly oblivious squeal of a prepubescent sociopath.
“Cool it, fag!” screamed Erogenous. Though he was less than a year older than BB, Erogenous had the eerie calm present in those for whom the abuse of others is not a diversion, but a calling.
“So, what’s it gonna be, freak?” he asked Laszlo, “you gonna get in on this shit and show dog-boy who’s boss roun here, or you gonna jus stand there sweatin’ and lick yer little girlfriend clean after we give her a little bath?”
Laszlo looked to Joey. Joey was no longer barking with any volume, his whimpering constant but barely discernable. His ankles and wrists quivered rapidly against the thick strips of duck tape that bound him to a steel chair. His eyes conveyed hopeless fear and bewilderment.
Laszlo had a choice to make, and that choice cut to the very heart of the existential dilemma he battled every day—to act or to observe? Would his action (or lack thereof) even have an effect on what happened to this pathetic little boy? To his brothers? Most importantly, to himself?
As for Joey’s fate, Laszlo was confident that the boy was about to be tortured despite any protestations or attempts at rescue. In fact, any attempt to intercede in the act would likely only result in an intensification of the abuse. A friendly intervention on Laszlo’s part would only serve to alter Joey’s perception of the events, and Laszlo didn’t really give two fucks about what Joey thought. At least, he hadn’t…
As for the brothers, Laszlo had decided long ago that their minds were warped beyond repair. His only hope regarding them was that he might endure long enough to see society take its role and sweep them into the corrections system. It was only a matter of time.
Laszlo’s own fate was much cloudier. Would his actions today have repercussions beyond the moment? Would allying himself with his brothers release him from their subjugation, or would it make him more vulnerable to their machinations? But again, that spoke to the effects of today’s acts on his brothers. What would happen to him—gentle Laszlo, wise Laszlo? Would the torment of a weaker human harden him? Would it free him from a sometimes overwhelming feeling of bondage and debt to his fellows? Would it show him that he could seek his destiny with pure and complete self-interest? Perhaps. Or, would it steal his purity? Would flinging shit at a harmless and helpless retard lead him to an existence where his only source of validation came in the dominance of others? Would he lose his self-sufficiency, his ability to self-gratify? Would the calm and confidence of his thoughts and his journal be replaced by a maelstrom of guilt and uncertainty? Further, what would be the consequences of making a stand against this violence and humiliation? Would there be any at all!? He would soon find out.
These questions ran rapidly through his head, and as he struggled to answer them, Joey made his decision. As he did so, he blinked three times rapidly, but his face did not change. Stone faced but with quivering hand, Joey bent to his left, reached, and grabbed a fistful of moist, steaming turd.
“Fuckin-A right, Bitch!” screeched Laszlo’s youngest brother, BB. “Took us all fuckin’ weekend ta git all that turd! We figured since yer little doggy-boy girlfriend likes turdin’ on ‘imself so much we’d help ‘im out an jus cover ‘im in all kinda turd!”
At the thought of this, BB’s excitement boiled over and he started leaping from foot to foot. “EEEEEWWWWWEEEEEEE! TURD BOY! TURDY TURDY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT TURD DOGGY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT!” he screamed at Joey in what could only be described as the frighteningly oblivious squeal of a prepubescent sociopath.
“Cool it, fag!” screamed Erogenous. Though he was less than a year older than BB, Erogenous had the eerie calm present in those for whom the abuse of others is not a diversion, but a calling.
“So, what’s it gonna be, freak?” he asked Laszlo, “you gonna get in on this shit and show dog-boy who’s boss roun here, or you gonna jus stand there sweatin’ and lick yer little girlfriend clean after we give her a little bath?”
Laszlo looked to Joey. Joey was no longer barking with any volume, his whimpering constant but barely discernable. His ankles and wrists quivered rapidly against the thick strips of duck tape that bound him to a steel chair. His eyes conveyed hopeless fear and bewilderment.
Laszlo had a choice to make, and that choice cut to the very heart of the existential dilemma he battled every day—to act or to observe? Would his action (or lack thereof) even have an effect on what happened to this pathetic little boy? To his brothers? Most importantly, to himself?
As for Joey’s fate, Laszlo was confident that the boy was about to be tortured despite any protestations or attempts at rescue. In fact, any attempt to intercede in the act would likely only result in an intensification of the abuse. A friendly intervention on Laszlo’s part would only serve to alter Joey’s perception of the events, and Laszlo didn’t really give two fucks about what Joey thought. At least, he hadn’t…
As for the brothers, Laszlo had decided long ago that their minds were warped beyond repair. His only hope regarding them was that he might endure long enough to see society take its role and sweep them into the corrections system. It was only a matter of time.
Laszlo’s own fate was much cloudier. Would his actions today have repercussions beyond the moment? Would allying himself with his brothers release him from their subjugation, or would it make him more vulnerable to their machinations? But again, that spoke to the effects of today’s acts on his brothers. What would happen to him—gentle Laszlo, wise Laszlo? Would the torment of a weaker human harden him? Would it free him from a sometimes overwhelming feeling of bondage and debt to his fellows? Would it show him that he could seek his destiny with pure and complete self-interest? Perhaps. Or, would it steal his purity? Would flinging shit at a harmless and helpless retard lead him to an existence where his only source of validation came in the dominance of others? Would he lose his self-sufficiency, his ability to self-gratify? Would the calm and confidence of his thoughts and his journal be replaced by a maelstrom of guilt and uncertainty? Further, what would be the consequences of making a stand against this violence and humiliation? Would there be any at all!? He would soon find out.
These questions ran rapidly through his head, and as he struggled to answer them, Joey made his decision. As he did so, he blinked three times rapidly, but his face did not change. Stone faced but with quivering hand, Joey bent to his left, reached, and grabbed a fistful of moist, steaming turd.
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