GLOSSY LIFE MEETS THE MUTANT COW WAITRESS

I watched a rum commercial the night before--you know the one with the tanned, toned woman in a silver sequin-tube top twirling like a dervish through a sea of glitterball glitter-light, while a dozen silk-shirt wearing, Viggo Mortenson-looking motherfuckers ogle her. You know the commercial. It's the one where the impossibly beautiful girl refuses to dance with the impossibly beautiful men because, she points to the bar, and there's some double-chinned dude in a Hawaiian shirt there with her drink. Then the dude looks at you through the TV, smiles, and cheers with a Bacardi rum and coke. So, I don't know, I thought the commercial was bullshit, but still bought a fifth of Bacardi. My night didn't turn out like the commercial—I got blown off (not literally) by some ancient skank (defiantly not the Bacardi commercial chick), went home, blacked out, and woke two hours later--twitching, writhing, sweating, you know, hung-the fuck-over.

My head wasn’t the only thing throbbing. My truck-driving neighbors were expressing their love against our shared wall. After one particularly powerful thrust and a loud, eye-brow raising, super-Freudian interjection, the wall bounced my nightstand, sending my alarm clock aloft. Motionless, I watched as the clock reached its apex, curled downward, and shattered on the floor, where blinked 12:00.

After chugging a Taco Bell cup of water, I crawled to the couch, laid down, and chewed over some serious existential questions--you know, those what-is-life, what-is-death questions. Then I went in search of a sharp blade to slash my wrists. I only found a plastic Wendy's butter knife melted against my hotplate.

Giving up, I clicked on the TV. Ninety-nine channels and they were all infomercials. And, hey look, there was a steak knife cutting through a combat boot. Holy shit, huh? What a coincidence.

I dialed the number (1-800-TUFFCUT). Some Malaysian kid answered, and, speaking better English than me, asked for my credit card number. "What set do you want, sir?" she said, sounding cute and impoverished.

I said the Razor Deluxe Pack. "The OJ Pack."

She didn't chuckle, but I did, so then she did. And so the knives are in the mail. They'll be here in six to eight weeks.

Flipping the channel, I spied Hulk Hogan crossing his veiny forearms. His skin was the color of a "Roadwork Ahead" sign. "Hey, punk," Hulk said, pointing his florescent finger at me, "you are what you eat."

I'm an Enchilada Deluxe-o Grande smothered in 80 proof.  

"These patented Fat Finders," the Hulk said, "locate and dissolve grotesque, glutinous fat. In just three months you could go from pudgy pig to—“every one of his muscle flexed—“freaking big!" Lightening bolts zapped around the Hulk, segueing into testimonials from born-again Hulks and Hulkettes.

            "I've never been so happy," one fat fat-ass turned ass-kicker said.

            I squeezed my gut. A microscopic blurb appeared randomly at the screen's bottom, informing me Fat Finder wasn't really, actually, as-of-the-present, reviewed by the FDA. But, what do those guys know, I figured, dialed the number (1-800-BTHEHULK), and bought a three-month supply. They'll be here in six to eight weeks.

Click went the channel, and there was Bob Dole with his arm around his lovely, antiquated wife. They walked on the beach and smiled and jumped on the bed and threw pillows (come on). Down feather snowed onscreen.

I thought my ED was alcohol-related—I couldn't get wood in a forest—but the Kansas Senator said otherwise, so I bought a three-month supply of pills. Anyway, they'll be here in six to eight weeks.

Then I flipped the channel for my next life-saving purchase….

Eventually the History Channel started showing Nazis again, thus ending my spending spree. "The few, the proud, the Marines," a commercial said, as knobby, muscley badass rode a bicycle uphill in the rain, teeth-clenched. Off went the TV.  

Sunlight bled through my closed blinds, coloring my apartment puke green. Except for mumbling cars and muted neighbors' living noises, I sat in silence feeling sick and lonely.

Then someone knocked on the door.

Wrenching it open, I drenched myself in morning sun. A lanky, immaculate, blond-haired young man dressed in some weird maroon paramilitary uniform stood before me holding my keys. "Found these in your door."

I grabbed them away, threw them into my cave, and scratched my head. A Cheerio fell loose. "So." I coughed. "You selling cookies or something?"

"No, sir, I'm here from the Brotherhood of the Arcadian Knights."

"What's that, like some Dungeons and Dragons shit?"
            "No, sir. First off," he said, opening his hands in front, "let me dispel an atrocious misconception propagated by the deceitful media."

"Those bastards."

"Y-yes. Those bastards, indeed." He stared into my soul or something. "We are not a cult."

"Come again, kid?"      

            "We, the Brotherhood of the Arcadian Knights, are not a cult."

 "Dude, hate to tell ya, but once you start saying you're not a cult, you probably are."

"But we're not," he said. 

"You got membership cards?"

"We have a loyalty card."

"You got,”—I sniffed—“like, secret rituals and shit?"

"They're, they're not rituals, pre-se."

"Someone with a funny hat tell you what to do?"

"The Grand Vizer is—"

"He a pumpkin or something?" My big toe stepped in a wad of chew. Fuckin' hick neighbors.

"We're not a cult."

"Dude, hate to diagnose it—" I smeared my toe clean on my welcome mat—"but when ya say shit like that, leads me to believe…."

The cult guy looked at his merit badges, then up at me, grinning, shit-eating-like. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

I leaned against my doorframe and crossed my arms. "Fire away, kid."

He took his time, cupped his hands bowl-like, pursed his lips, and said, "Is your life fulfilling?"

            "Whose is?" I shrugged.

            He smiled, not shit-eating-like or anything. Like happy smiling. That fuck.

            I stood behind my door. "Hey, I gotta go to church or something."

            "Life," he said, far-off and airy, "it doesn't need to be like this." His eyes were soupy.

            My eyes were soupy.

            "It could be so much better. So much easier. So much happier." That look he gave me—watery eyes, sloping eyebrows, lips parting—I wanted to ruin it.

I slammed the door in his face hoping to split his nose. Guess not; he knocked again. "Fuck off," I growled. A pamphlet crept under my door. In my gloomy, puke green apartment, it radiated hope—glossy, reflective, big bubble-lettered H-O-P-E. "The Brotherhood of Arcadian Knights," it said, in ornate royal red. I picked it off the shag and opened it. It could have been a college brochure. Everyone was young, attractive, and bright-eyed. Climbing, hiking, singing, playing baseball, painting, smiling, smiling, smiling, they were all glossy and slippery in my hands. Everyone was smiling, grinning straight white teeth. "Join Today," the pamphlet said, big, black, and bold. There was a phone number.  

Next door my neighbors had sex again.

Rubbing the glossy pamphlet, I dialed. "The Knights of Arcadia," a prerecorded angel said from my phone. I hung up, redialed, and hung up again. Reaching for the phone once more, I instead grabbed the remote and fired up my TV.

Onscreen a blond waitress with dimpled smile and perfect cantaloupe breasts delivered food to a table of smiling, ethnically indeterminate patrons, turned, and addressed the camera. "Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast comes with your choice of eggs, bacon or sausage, and Denny's delicious buttermilk pancakes." Luscious maple syrup cascaded across perfectly porous pancakes in vibrant Technicolor.

Wrapped in a giveaway corporate windbreaker, I ventured into the concrete jungle. The hike was all split slate, naked deciduous trees, thick asphalt air, and thin empty sky. After a mile of grey, the sign caught my eye: Denny's, home of the Grand Slam Breakfast. But even my Mecca's garish orange and yellow sign seemed somehow de-saturated and alone in a plot of crabgrass and plywood "Coming Soon" signs.   

Inside, I ordered the Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast. My waitress was a bra-less, sweat-stained ogre, with an unlit cigarette locked between her lips all prepped for break. She brought me a greasy plate, featuring the avant-food-art of whatever imbecile-Picasso was working grill.

"What's this, a pancake omelet?" I said to my mutant-cow waitress.

She shrugged and coughed into her elbow. A string of mucus briefly bound her lips to her blouse as she pulled away. Her cigarette fell, so she bent over to retrieve it, revealing C-pocked thighs and veiny shanks. I grimaced but gnarled it into a pity smile when she looked back at me. Her expression mirrored mine. "Need anything else, hon?"

"No, thanks. I'm good. This is more than enough." My sunny-side eggs ran like snot into my pancake sponge. I looked at my meal on the menu. It was glossy.  

On my way home, I saw a dog tear into my neighbor’s garbage bag, spilling its guts: Skol cans, empty bologna plastic, allergenic condoms, various rimes, and shiny fragments of Arcadian Brotherhood literature.

Inside, I crumpled the glossy Arcadia pamphlet and flushed it away with the second-coming of my Denny's Grand Slam Breakfast.