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Saturday, January 12th, 2002
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10:42 pm - A Story About A Girl
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Once upon a time in a world that seems so far away there was a little girl born in a small town in Washington. The small town, her little house, her little school & her mom and dad were her entire world. Until one day when she was in the 4th grade the unthinkable happened, her mom packed every thing she had the little girl could take, and moved somewhere far away from her dad.
The little girls life would never be the same.
This new world was strange, uncomfortable, and made her very sad. Alone, and very, very sad.
She was so sad that it made her mom very upset and one day when the little girl went to visit her dad, her mom never came back to pick her up and she stayed there.
This was a good place for the little girl for a while but then daddy started to drink a lot. He would pick her up at school and drop her off at home, leaving her alone until all hours of the next morning. Her mom was no longer in her life. This was very hard and scary for a little 6th grader, and once again she became very sad. Soon after that her dad became a very mean person, and he would yell and say nasty things to the little girl, and eventually he began to hurt her.
She was alone, and very, very sad.
Then in what seemed to be a mixed blessing, when the girl was in 9th grade her dad got a job very far away, and he didn't want to take her with him. She had no choice but to go back with her mom.
Her mom had a new man in her life. He was not a happy man. He was strict, and demanding. He resented the little girl and did everything to make her as unhappy as he was. Her mom, maybe afraid to lose love yet again, always took the man's side in everything.
One day the little girl and the man had a big fight, and he told her that she was an awful child, and that no one in her family wanted her. The little girl left and once again found herself alone, and very, very sad.
But things may not always be what they seem and to her surprise a couple weeks later her mother also left the angry man. They got a little house together and for just a little while the sad little girl was happy, but a few weeks later her mom got a new boyfriend. He started staying at their house, and soon moved in.
The new boyfriend liked to drink, and do drugs all the time so much that when the little girl's mom had to get operated on for breast cancer he spent the whole time she was in the hospital at a bar.
The little girl hated this new boyfriend for that, and he didn't like her much either. He was loud and mean to her. He would embarrass her in front of her friends, and make her feel bad all the time. Her mom was sick, and probably afraid to be alone again, so she just watched.
The little girl was alone again, and sadder then she had ever been before. She dropped out of school in the 10th grade and got her G.E.D. She started to hang around with bad people, and do bad things. She hated her life. She hated herself, and she hurt herself to stop the pain.
She was alone, and she wanted to die.
The boyfriend was mean to the little girl's mom to, but she was very sick. The little girl tried to defend the mother who never defended her, but this only made things worse. The fights were awful. Windows were broken, furniture was broken, and the police had to come many, many times.
The little girl decided she couldn't take it anymore, but this time instead of hurting herself she tried to make things better. She worked hard, and got accepted to a college in another town not to far from where her father lived.
She drove there and began to look for apartments, but even though she had worked so hard she couldn't get past the fear. The fear of being failing, and the fear of being alone again.
See by now there was a boy. A boy who lived far away, but a boy she thought she may be in love with, and said he loved her. So instead of going to college she went to the boy.
In the beginning the little girl was happy. She lived with the boy and his friend. The two guys had a little business, and were making some money, but that soon trickled down, and the little girl had to get a crappy job to support the boy she thought would be her salvation.
The boy took the little girl for granted, and expected everything of her while offering not much in return. Once again the little girl found her self alone, and very, very sad.
.......and that's all I got.
It's not a very happy story, and I can't seem to "punch it up" with any jokes. It's really not that well written, and I know the ending sucks. Hell, actually there is no ending at all, but you see the secret to this story is to forget about what it says, and think about what it doesn't say. What it doesn't spell out in so many fucking words.
Do I feel sorry for the little girl, of course I do but not so much because of what she's gone through. Sure it was bad, but other people have gone through much worse. I feel sorry for the little girl because I'm afraid she wont even understand the point of the story.
See I think the only failures in life are the mistakes we don't learn from. We all fuck up, and we all have fucked up things happen to us. Some unfortunately more than others, but life goes on.
Where this little girl sees her self as always being alone and failed, I can just as well see her as being independent, being able to think for her self. I see her as being capable of loving, even though she came from a world that knew very little love. I see her as being able to take control of situations, even though for most of her life all control was taken from her.
It's so cliche but so true, "whatever doesn't kill us only makes us stronger." The problem is it's sometimes easier to bury our heads then to accept that strength in ourselves.
No, I can't write an end to this story. No tidy little wrap up. No "happily ever after." I can only hope that maybe the little girl, or some other little girl gets something from it, and stops feeling alone, and so very, very sad.
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| Saturday, January 5th, 2002
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9:38 pm - I want to kill my kid..........Christmas Retrospective
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Every year for about a week before Christmas he drives me out of my fucking mind. My wife says, “He’s just excited about Christmas,” in her best Edith Bunker voice. She doesn’t really sound like Edith, but when she says something annoying that’s just the way I hear it.
The kid is acting like Corky the retard after a lot of espresso. He’s bouncing off the fucking walls. He’s bored. He has nothing to do. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat, and now that it’s Christmas Eve around 7:00 this morning we started the traditional “Can’t I open just one present?” whine.
This is his first year knowing the truth about Santa, which is really bothering me. Don’t get me wrong it has nothing to do with my little boy growing up. I kind of enjoy that. What bugs me is that every time he says “Santa,” he uses finger quotation marks. I fucking hate when people do that. I don’t even no why it gets to me. It’s just fucking annoying and nobody should do it. I’m thinking about duct taping his hands behind his back, but the wife would never go for that.
She’s been cooking since early this morning. She has the stove, the oven, the microwave, an outside grill, a huge smoker, as well as a myriad of blenders, and mixers all going at the same time while she yells at me and runs a vacuum cleaner. Silent fucking night! The vacuum has been running for at least 7 hours now. The house isn’t that big.
As I write this I’m literally hiding in my office, hoping they forget I’m here. As I type I see the warm glow of the Christmas lights outside as it enters into my room like a friendly spirit taking me Scrooge-like to the Christmas Eve’s of my past.
I guess as a kid my Christmas Eve was probably just as manic as my son’s. The excitement and the anticipation were almost unbearable. I would be at the house with my baby sister, and my mom. My father would go out and meet with the other men of the family where they would discuss over cheap beer and whiskey who was going to put on the Santa suit.
Eventually Santa would appear at the front door slurring his Ho-Ho-Hoes and smelling like a still. By the time I was six I could usually tell who was in the suit but never told, afraid that the knowledge would hamper my gift receiving potential.
After Santa would stumble out the door, my mother would put my sister and I to bed, where I would lie awake for what seemed like hours till I feel asleep only to be awoke in the middle of the night to hear drunks singing old songs, and playing with toys in my living room.
When I was 18-years old I got a job at a large retail store as a stock boy. The word went out that they were looking for someone to play Santa on weekends. Having a keen eye for getting out of “real work” I broke my neck to volunteer. It was one of the best experiences of my life. I had a blast. I really enjoyed the excited little kids giving me their Christmas orders, and in the three years I did the job I never had one kid piss on me. In the Santa biz that kind of like being a boxer who never had his nose broke.
Beside the traditional Christmas fun I discovered something else out about the magic of the red suit. There is absolutely nothing like the look on a woman’s face when Santa walks up to them, looks them in the eyes and says something like, “I’d love to go down on you.” Their eyes fill up with shock, surprise, horror, and a little intrigue all at the same time. I loved it.
On my last day as Santa, the two “Toy Soldiers” who assisted me were both whacked out on ludes. I was working a three-day hangover. Some little bastard bit Santa’s thumb and locked onto it like a pit bull while mom and dad giggled at how cute he was. Before the kid broke skin I smacked him. My assistants started laughing. Not a normal laugh, more of a demented serial killer laugh. They would have fired all three of us, but it was Christmas Eve so they let me finish it out the day.
As I took the suit off for what would be my last professional time, I thought back to the Christmas Eve’s of my youth and did exactly what a fine Christian gentleman of my schooling and up bringing was destined to do. I stole the suit.
I left the store hooked up with three friends, jumped in a car and started a night of drunken excess that has become all but legendary. We went to the houses of everyone we knew with kids. See the kids, put them to bed, have a few drinks, a couple shots, and move on. After a while I just started walking into random houses. Some of the people thought they knew me so it was okay. Other’s went with the joy of season and let it go, and some threatened to kick my ass, and tossed me out.
We went to every corner bar we could fine, where I drank for free, and had many drunken women flash me their breasts. I had truly found the meaning of Christmas, and loved it. I woke up the next morning in half a Santa suit, my head and hand in an open refrigerator, and two full beers in my pants.
I did the same thing for about the next ten years.
The kids getting ready for bed. I’m still thinking about the duct tape, but to tell you the truth I’m probably as excited as he is. For as much fun as I use to have it was absolutely nothing compared to being a dad at Christmas. I use to play Santa, now I am Santa.
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, December 14th, 2001
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11:30 pm - First Grade.......day 1
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Part 2
Suddenly a piercing voice from across the room broke the silence, "Sister!"
The nun didn't even flinch. "I hope I do not have to remind you of the class rules."
"Sister!" The quivering voice rang out again.
"Young man, if you wish to speak to me you will first raise your hand, and wait until I call you."
Across the room I could see a small hand above the heads of my class mates. Some of the children were snickering.
"What is your problem Mr....." again she paused to look at the book, "Reinhart."
"I gotta pee!"
The class burst into laughter.
"Excuse me Mr. Reinhart?"
"Sister, I gotta pee real bad."
"Sir, the correct way to ask is, may I please go to the lavatory."
"I aint gotta go to no laboratory. I gotta pee."
"Mr. Reinhart, you will sit down, and learn self-control. You will go when the rest of the class goes, and not before."
I don't know if it was an act of mercy, or if she was just frightened by the dance Tony Reinhart was doing in the back of the room, but she decided to let us go.
"All right class. I want two lines in the front of the room. Young ladies on the right, and gentlemen on the left. There will be no talking."
By now Tony, who was a skinny little kid, with thick coke bottle glasses, was holding his crotch, and jumping up and down. "Sister, I gotta go now!"
"Mr. Reinhart, if you do not calm down, you will return to your seat."
Reinhart quieted down, but continued to hold himself, and bob back and fourth.
"When I open this door," said the nun, "we will walk silently down the hall and wait........"
"Sister, I gotta go now!"
"Mr. Reinhart, do not try my patience," she yelled.
"At the end of the hall you will wait. I will send three students into each lavatory at a time. There will be no talking at any time."
"Do we all understand?"
"Yeeessssss Sssssssterrrrrrr."
"Eyes front. Do not disturb the other classes with your immaturity," said the sister as she walked backwards towards a statue of a pretty woman standing on snakes, that stood at the end of the long hallway. Along the hall you could see through the door-windows of the other 1st, 2nd and 3rd grade classes on that floor.
Before we got to the statue, Reinhart broke away from the group, and started to run down the hall to the boys room.
"Mr. Reinhart you will stop!"
The child stopped dead in his tracks, just outside the rest-room door.
The nun continued, "Because you can not follow simple instructions, and you have shown no self-control, you will go to the end of the line."
"But Sister," he whined.
"I said now," she bellowed while slapping him in the head with every syllable. The boy was crying as he walked past the rest of the class to the back of the line.
I felt my heart sink down to my stomach. What kind of place have my parents stuck me in? Do they realize what's going on here? Is this for my own good? Why did my father think this was funny? It was around this time I decided just to keep my mouth shut and try to blend in.
Three students came out of the boys room, and Sister sent me, Robert Murphy, and a kid named John Thompson in. I went first, walked straight up to a urinal, and started to answer natures call. That's when I heard a bang. It seemed Murphy had shoved Thompson into a big metal trash can.
Sister burst into the room, and chased the two boys out. I stuck to my plan, and just stared straight ahead. Even though I was a little embarrassed, to have the nun standing behind me.
"You too Mr. O'Neil," she yelled as she grabbed me by the hair and pulled me away from the wall. Luckily I had finished, but it was all I could do to get my zipper up before she tossed me through the door-way into the hall.
"You three just stand up against that wall," she growled.
I was scared to death, but I knew I couldn't cry. Some one else was crying though. I looked across the hall, and saw poor Tommy Reinhart balling his eyes out, behind a pair of thick, steamed up glasses. He was standing in a puddle.
Just as the last three girls went into the "lavatory," another nun came walking up the hall. She was small. thin, and very, very old.
"Children," ordered Sister Anne, "this is the Mother Superior, Sister Charles Ignastious.
"Goooooodmorrrrrning Sister Charles Igneration....."
The old relic didn't acknowledge us. "Are you having problems today Sister Anne?"
"Well, these three," reported the younger nun, pointing at us, "think the lavatory is a playground." "And this one," pointing at Tommy, "isn't potty trained yet."
The old nun ignored us. She seemed more fascinated with Tony's problem. "Can't hold his water, eh?" she asked staring down at the child. "I'll have the janitor bring up some of those king-size diapers from the basement. If it happens again, we'll just diaper him, and give him a bottle."
Some of the children started to laugh. The old skeleton didn't seem to here them, and Sister Anne just shot them a warning look, which quieted them immediately.
Sister Charles Ignatious then just hobbled away, staring off into space. Almost as if some ghostly voice was calling her. I think it was obvious to us, even at that age, that Mother Superior wasn't always on the same channel as the rest of the world.
When the last of the children finished in the rest room, Sister Anne turned the lines around, and lead them back to the class, leaving Tony, and the three of us in the hall.
Tony was then sent to the nurses office, where his parents were called to come get him, and the three of us were sent to the "cloak room."
The "cloak room" was a combination walk in closet, and Spanish Inquisition torture chamber. It smelled a little like the old red chest my grandmother kept in her basement. It was dark and damp, with hooks and wires, and brooms, and mops, and God knows what else.
The three of us stood there is the dark. Murphy was the only one to talk. "If you guys blame me for dis I'll get yous after school." Not another word was said.
We waited for what seemed to be an eternity, when the door connecting the cloakroom to the class room slowly opened, and the dark figure of Sister Anne stood in the doorway, surrounded by the light from the classroom.
"Which one of you gentlemen wants to be the first to prove that he loves Jesus, and tell me what was going on in there? I couldn't see her face, but in my mind she was smiling.
"Mr. Murphy, do you wish to redeem yourself in God's eyes with the truth for once, "she asked?"
"I don't know what happened Sis........."
Before he could get the words out there was a whistling sound, and a crack. I could see the silhouette of the nun, with a yard stick going across Murphy's back.
Don't insult my intelligence Mr. Murphy. How about you Mr. Thompson!?"
Thompson was already sobbing. "I wasn't doin' noffin' right, and he comes in right," pointing to Murphy, "and pushes me into the trash can right, and I wasn't even doin' nuffin'........."
Suddenly there focus was on me, and I could feel an uncomfortable heat. "Is that what you saw Mr. O'Neil.?" Once again I could feel that invisible smile.
Thoughts were running through my head a mile a minute, I didn't see anything. Murphy probably did it. She already hates him. He'll beat me up later. She's got the yard stick. Thompson's crying. Is it time to leave. I could run. I didn't see anything. Yardstick. Beating. Truth. Run. Crying. God. Jesus. Nun...................
My mind seemed to be processing information like a huge computer in a sci-fi movie, then suddenly the machine spit out the little card, and I read it out loud........"I dunno."
I don't even remember seeing her move. I just remember feeling the stinging across my legs. "Do you think I am Stupid Mr. O'Neil?"
"Yes sis......."
Crack! Once again I felt the pain across the back of my legs.
"I mean no sister. I didn't see nothin'. Honest." I could feel my voice quivering. "I was just going to the bafroom."
She didn't acknowledge me. "The three of you make me sick. Get in the class room. Sit down and shut up!"
We went back in the room, walking past the stares of the other children. Thompson was still sobbing, and I felt my eyes filling up. It took everything I had not to cry. Murphy showed no emotion at all.
"It is almost time to go home," said the sister, as she sat down behind her desk, for the first time. "Thank the good Lord we have only half-a-day today. Some of you are really trying my patience."
"Tomorrow morning when you come to school, your parents will drop you at the front gate. They are not to enter the school yard," she said in her sternest voice. "You're not babies anymore."
"When the bell rings, all the students will line up according to class. Room two will line up right next to Father O'Dare and Father Blakely," she said with a proud smile.
"You will now, without talking, line back up in twos. Remember to take the papers I gave you. You will memorize both the prayer, and the pledge for tomorrow." As she spoke, her eyes scanned the faces of the children.
"I want gentlemen on the left, and young ladies on the right. We will go into the schoolyard, and I will show you exactly where to stand when the bell rings tomorrow."
When we were sure she had finished talking, we left our desks, and after some stumbling, and shoving, stood in tow perfect lines. Sister walked down the center, and gave each of us a box of small, yellow church envelopes. She stopped when she got to Murphy.
"I don't know why I even bother giving these to you. Do you think your family can come up with the weekly quarter this year?"
Murphy's eyes never left the floor. "I'll try sister, we aint got much money."
"You do not have much money Mr. Murphy," she answered. "There is no such word as aint."
"We don't got much money sister."
"Mr. Murphy," she addressed him but was obviously speaking to the entire class, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and the road to heaven is paved with sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice."
The nun stared at the boy for a second, then shook her head and turned away. "Remember Johnny, and his pretzel. There are a lot of cars and trucks out there children."
After a few more comments from the good sister about our attitudes, self control, and pagan babies, she lead us out of the building, and into the schoolyard.
When I went to the Kennedy school, we always went out into the schoolyard for recess. There were basketball nets, and painted hopscotch courses. We ran around, played games in the sun, and had a great time. The yard at St. Morta's School was very different. It was smaller than the yard where Barney the dog laid, at the rich peoples house. The priests used it for a parking lot at night. In the morning they put the five cars on the street and let the first, second, and third graders in.
There were no nets, or games, and because it was sandwiched between the church and the school, there was never any sun. The only extras it did have was pigeons, pigeon shit, Father O'Dare and Father Blakely.
These two priests founded St. Morta's back around 1863. The Irish and German immigrants that made up the parish at that time, loved the old gentlemen so much, that they honored them by encasing their bodies in a blue cement monument. The grave site stood about eight inches high, four feet across, and seven feet long.
The tomb laid to the right of the front gates, and right next to that is where room two had to line up every morning.
".....................and if I ever see any of you defacing or disrespecting the final resting place of these great men," she scowled, "my wrath will be swift and direct. Do we all understand?"
So this was the schoolyard.
The fourth to eighth grade had a totally different set-up. Every morning, they lined up on a small residential street behind the school. The parish had gotten the permits to make it a no parking street, but they could not get the 'no traffic permits'.
So basically, every morning before school, there were approximately 630 kids, between the ages of 7 and thirteen, lining up, moving when a car came down, lining up, and moving again, until they were all finally filtered into the building in an "organized fashion."
With a few final threats, the nun walked the class to the corner, where I saw my grandmother, and Missy waiting for me.
I had made it through the first day.
As I ran up to my grandmother I felt a weight had lifted from my chest. I was never so happy to be out of somewhere in my life. My parents obviously had no idea what was going on, and they would straighten this whole ordeal out, right away.
"Where's my mom?"
"She had to go to the doctors," my grandmother answered, as we walked by the snarling crossing guard.
"Why? She sick er sumptin."
"No. She is just having a check up," I could tell she was already starting to get annoyed.
"What doctor? When's she commin' home?"
"She went to the WOMEN�S DOCTOR," she growled in her angriest whisper.
That was enough for me. The dreaded WOMEN'S DOCTOR. A mystery that was only whispered in polite company, and something that little boys should never ask about. I could only imagine how horrible it must be. Almost as bad as my teacher.
I started thinking about school again, when my grandmother broke in.
"How was school?"
"I hate it. Its terrible. She hit me."
"Who hit you?"
"My creepy teacher, sister watsurname."
I had unknowingly just made a huge mistake. "You'd better watch your mouth boy. You're talking about a nun." She stopped dead in her tracks. "I'm sure if she hit you, she had a damn good reason."
"I didn't do nuttin. I was just...."
"Do you expect me to believe that the sister just hit you for no reason. I can't believe you! This is your first day and you're already in trouble. You just can't keep that smart mouth of yours shut. Wait till your mother gets home."
She stopped her tirade for a moment, and got a look that I recognized with fear. it was a look that said she was going to have to handle this herself.
My grandmother was a hard core-Rosary praying-three days a week church going-passing judgement on all around her-Roman Catholic. My father hadn't seen the inside of a church in years, and my mother was Methodist, or Baptist, or one of the other "heathen" religions. So the old lady figured she was the one to nip this in the bud.
"I'm not even going to wait for your mother. She'll probably believe your stories. I don't expect her to understand anyway, and your father is to tired after a hard days work."
With that she grabbed me by the arm with her left hand, and swung the huge coach around with her right, waking Missy up in the process.
"Where we go?" asked Missy as her head popped around the canvas hood.
"We're going right back to school so your brother can apologize to the sister," she barked.
"But gram, she'll hit me again," I pleaded.
"You should have thought about that before you decided to act up in school," she said with a sarcastic grin.
Before I knew it we were walking past the graves, up the steps, and through the two wooden doors. My grandmother didn't drag the coach up the steps. She left it, and carried Missy under her arm, while still dragging me along.
I gave one last valiant effort. "I think she probably went home or sumptin......."
She didn't answer.
I tried again. "I think maybe she said she had to go to the women's doctor right after school."
The old woman stopped dead. She glared at me with eyes that seemed to grow to three times their normal size. "Your talking about a nun you little heathen bastard," she growled as she drug me up the last two steps. .
She left go of my arm only long enough to pull the giant door open, then slapped me in the back of the head to knock me inside. We stood just inside the doorway, and I watched silently as she looked back and forth, like she was getting ready to cross a busy street.
"What room are you in?" she demanded.
"I dunno. I don't amember."
"You better remember. If I have to I'll check every room in this....." She was cut off by a voice from across the hall.
"Did we forget something, Mr. O'Neil?"
My grandmother and I both turned towards the voice. She was standing in the doorway of room two, almost as if she had just appeared there.
The old lady moved towards the nun, dragging me with one hand, and carrying my sister with the other. Missy was remarkably silent, and looked almost as frightened as I was.
My grandmother began to speak while still moving. "Sister, I'm Jimmy's grandmother, Mrs. Francis O'Neil. I understand there was a problem today."
"Well Mrs. O'Neil, it seems James forgot he is now in Catholic School, and not in some public kindergarten. Not only was he horsing around in the boy's lavatory, but when I confronted him about it, he lied to my face."
The two spoke as if Missy and I weren't even there.
"I told his parents not to send him to that Kennedy School. Lord only knows what he may have picked up there." She looked down at me, and shook her head. "Do you have something to say to the sister?"
I was ready for this and came back quick. "I dunno," I whispered.
"You better apologize boy!" She slapped me in the back of the head again. I could tell she was really mad now.
"I'm sorry sister," I squeaked out, trying to hold back the tears.
The nun looked down at me. "Don't apologize with words. You only prove yourself to me, and to the Lord through your actions." She continued to speak without ever taking her eyes off of me. "The boy is lucky to have a caring grandmother like you Mrs. O'Neil. Have a pleasant day," and with that she turned and walked away.
My grandmother, speaking to the nun's back, thanked her, apologized herself a few times, and finally we left.
On the way to her house, she refused to acknowledge my existence. All I heard were the neighborhood sounds, and Missy singing to her doll. As usual, when she was mad, the old lady wasn't speaking to anyone.
That was her favorite thing to do. She had relatives, brothers, and sister, that she hadn't spoken to in thirty years. She probably didn't remember what they had done, but in her mind they were a great example for the rest of the family.
Nobody messed with my grandmother.
When I was young I thought that the old lady knew God personally. Like she had his private phone number or something. She knew what was right, and what was wrong. She knew who was a good Catholic, and who was a disgusting sinner.
She especially knew who the sinners were, and if you told her otherwise, you were on the list.......................the silent treatment.
We walked for about five blocks without a word, until we got to my grandmother's street.
"This is where you're going to wind up." She pointed to the corner candy store. There were five or six long haired teenagers, hanging outside, smoking cigarettes.
"Look at them," she continued, "a bunch of long haired weirdoes. I'm sure their parents are very proud. Is that what you wanna be."
I didn't have a chance to answer. "I don't know what this neighborhood is coming to. Next thing you know the damn coloreds and the Porty Rickans 'll be living next door." She was whispering, but then her voice got louder. "I'm not prejudice mind you. I'm sure some of them are good people, but its the bad ones that'll follow them that you gotta worry about"
She was on a role. I don't think she even noticed she was talking to a six-year-old, who had just been beaten by Charles Bronson in a black dress, and a two-year-old, who was sitting in a coach trying to put her toe in her ear.
"I remember when this neighborhood was filled with good Catholic people. Irish and German people who worked hard, went to church, and took care of their families. Now look at it."
She paused for a moment, only because a neighbor was passing by.
"Afternoon Mrs. O'Neil," said a tall, well dressed man.
"Good afternoon to you Mr. Applebaum," she smiled back as he passed.
Then she went back into her monologue without missing a beat. "Now look at it. First it was the Italians, with their damn Mafia. Then the pollocks, and now the goddamn Jews," she pointed back towards the tall man.
"I aint got nothin' against the Jews, mind you, but you know how they are," she nodded at me knowingly. "they buy all the homes up, and who do they rent them to? The coloreds and the Porty Rickans. its a damn shame."
Her timing was perfect. With her last sentence we were at her front steps. There were three of them that lead up to the front door. They were the three whitest marble steps I had ever seen.
Every morning during the nice weather, the old ladies on the block would go out, and scrub their steps with Comet cleanser, and a big wooden brush. It was more a social event, then a domestic practice, but it was the neighborhood's crude information super highway.
My grandmother took Missy out of the coach, and stood her on the bottom step. An old ladies head popped out of a screen door about eight houses down. My grandmother saw it and immediately, almost instinctively, started down the street towards it.
"You kids go in with your grandfather, and don't bother him. I'll be right back." She walked away without looking at us.
I opened the door and let Missy run in. I followed. The house was much smaller then mine. There were two recliners in the living room, both strategically aimed at the television. One was his. One was hers. There was also a sofa in the rear of the room, but that was just for "company."
They weren't the type that did a lot of entertaining, and that's the way the house was set up. Just for the two of them. Two lamps in the living room, two hooks for coats in the cellar way, and two chairs at the kitchen table
When we went in, my grandfather was sitting in "his chair," reading his newspaper, with the television on. Missy ran right up, and jumped on his lap.
My grandfather was a big man. To me he was something out of a movie, like John Wayne, or Victor McGloclin. He seemed bigger then life. He was an ex-boxer, with a grade school education, and a body that could probably still go a few rounds.
He told us he was a huckster, but grandmom always said he was a "b.s. artist." Two or three days a week he would go to upstate Pennsylvania, and sell meat, and vegetables to house wives. I thought it was great. He always had money, and he didn't have to work all the time like my dad.
In retrospect, I still see him as bigger then life, but he was more. He was a great man with a very simple, and pure wisdom. He saw everything, but said very little, and when he did speak, you knew it was something to hear.
All this aside, I think my fondest memory of my grandfather was how uncomfortable this giant of a man looked with that little girl on his lap.
"Poppy! Poppy! Poppy!" She yelled.
"What do you want monkey face," he laughed?
"You know da colorin' books and the porky reekins is movin in next door! Its a damn shame."
He had a really hard time understanding her, and before she had finished the sentence he had his face buried back in the paper. "That's nice punkin. Why don't you go out, and get a soda?"
"Okay poppy," and she ran into the kitchen
He went back to reading his paper, and while turning to the next page he noticed me sulking in the recliner across from him.
"What's the matter with you, Rocky?" He always called me Rocky.
At first I thought this was my chance. Poppy would understand. He would get me out of that place. Wait till he hears how mean they've been to me. He'll probably go over there, and beat somebody up himself.
Then I remembered what happened when I ran to my grandmother for help. I thought about it a minute, and whispered my answer.
"Nothin'"
The End for you. I still live with it
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12:08 pm - First Grade.......day 1
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........for my mom with loving memories
PART 1
I remember it well. That much fear, and that much panic is something that sticks with you for a life time.
It was early September of 1968. The Vietnam war was at its peak. Anti-war demonstrations were going on all over the place. Young people were becoming more socially, and politically aware. It was a time of peace, and love, and flower children, and the Beatles, and Dylan, and drugs, and free-sex. Hendrix, Joplin, and Morrison were still alive, and Woodstock was still just a town in New York.
None of these things really mattered much to me. I was six years old.
I woke early, before my mother even came into my room. It was a rainy September morning. A gray, Philadelphia fall morning. I could hear the raindrops dancing on the aluminum awnings next door, and a train whistle blowing in the distance.
The sounds, the cool, damp breeze blowing through the screen window, and the smell of the rain was almost hypnotic. Even now the memories of these rainy days can still put me at ease.
Suddenly my solitude was ended, when my mother burst into the room in her usual rush. "Let's go boy. Get out of bead" with that she through on the blinding overhead light, tossed some clothes on the bed.
"Come on, you don't want to be late for school!"
I'm sure its just the way I want to remember it, but as soon as she screamed the word "school," there was a tremendous clap of thunder that hurled me out of bed, and turned my blood cold.
My mother harassed me out of bed, greased down my curly hair, dressed me in my "good" clothes, an uncomfortable pair of shoes, and a plaid clip on tie. "No rough-houzing in these pants boy," she growled. "You rip 'em, and I'll rip you."
I went down stairs to find a soggy bowl of Trix sitting on the kitchen table across from my father, who was sipping coffee, reading his paper, and laughing at some wacky morning DJ. I sat down and started to slurp the cereal, splattering instant milk all over my tie.
My father looked down at me, and shook his head. "Boy, would you be careful. You wanna start school looking like some kind-a-slob?"
He grabbed the a paper towel, and rubbed the splashes of "astronaut milk" into the clip on, turning them into large, dark wet spots. Then his sneer turned into s smile. "That's alright though. Those nuns'll straighten you out."
Now the fear started to kick in. I was starting school today. Real school. First grade. Sure I had been to kindergarten, but that was public school. This was different. This was Catholic school. Maximum security. I had heard stories of beatings, and public humiliation from older kids, that would make even hardened delinquents burst into tears.
Why was my father laughing about it?
Before I had a chance to ask the question, my mother burst into the room, holding my two-year-old sister under her arm, like an awkward looking piece of luggage. "Are you done with" she said looking down at my bowl?"
I had lost my appetite, and any desire to speak. I just nodded my head. She grabbed the bowl, "like we can afford to waste good food."
"Don't worry," my dad answered as he turned a page. "The sisters 'll get him all right."
My mother didn't answer. "Go brush your teeth," she barked. "We gotta get going." She pointed me in the direction of the upstairs bathroom, and I quietly walked them like a man going to the electric chair.
As I brushed my teeth I could hear my mom yelling at my sister to stand still. I guess she was trying to get her dressed, and Missy never stood still. By this time my stomach felt like I had swallowed a brick. I was scared, but I knew that I couldn't tell my parents, because then I'd be a baby, and besides my father seemed to be enjoying the whole event.
I was standing making squishy sounds with the water in my mouth, and looking in the mirror at my greased down hair, when I heard my mom again. "Let's go boy. You don't wanna be late on your first day." Her voice startled me, and I swallowed a mouthful of watery toothpaste. I started to cough. "Come on!" she screamed again.
Its not that my mother was a mean, or a hard woman. Far from it. But she was the type of person who could get real nasty when she was rushed, and she always seemed to be rushed.
With the third scream, I wiped my mouth on my tie, summoned all my six-year-old courage, and headed down the stairs.
When I got to the living room my father s leaving for work. " You stay out of trouble today" I nodded and looked at the floor. He ruffled my hair and then tried to wipe the grease off on his work pants. "You're gonna do fine."
He kissed Missy, and walked out the door.
"Where is that goddamn thing?" I heard my mother yelling from the hall closet.
After a lot of banging and thumping, she came out of the closet with a bright yellow rubber rain coat, and a pair of goofy rubber boots.
"Here, put these on. Your grandmother bought them for you. God forbid she sees you, and you aint got them on."
I took the coat, and put it on.
"It stinks mommy."
Missy immediately ran over, and started sniffing around me. "Pee-yew, dis ting tinks."
"Just put the damn thing on. You better not make yourself late..........and get those boots on. Now!"
"You got a tinky coat. You got a tinky coat."
"Mom, tell Missy to shut up!"
"You got a tinky coat. You got a tinky coat."
"Mommmmmmmm!"
My mom snapped with anger. "would you stop being a baby. Just ignore her and get those damn boots on."
"Yeah, you better jus' dignore me. You tinky coat." The little brat started to dance around me singing. "Tinky coat. Tinky coat. 'immy's got a tinky coat."
With her second pass around, I stuck a foot out, and she went flying onto her face. A shrill scream echoed through the house. My mother added to it like some kind of duet of agony.
"You little bastard. Did you knock her down?!"
"No mommy. It was an accident." I knew she wouldn't buy it. She never did.
"I told you to get those damn boots on. You just can't........." She realized the time, and ran into the other room.
A minute later she came in from the kitchen pushing Missy's coach. "Hold that door open" she said.
"I didn't put my boots on yet."
"Forget the boots," she said as she hooked the latches on my coat, "just get the door." As she pulled the hood over my head, her mood seemed to change. She looked at me, and a small smile came to her face. "You're getting so big."
I held the door from outside as she bounced the squeaking carriage down the three white marble steps that lead to the sidewalk.
It wasn't one of those light weight, fold up, plastic coaches like my wife has. It was a monster, Cadillac, baby-Sherman tank with a steel frame, an armor like canvas hood and huge white-wall tires, with huge spring shock absorbers, ready to take on the toughest inner-city terrain.
If necessary the carriage could hold two children, a weeks worth of groceries and a half a case of 16 oz bottle beer on ice. The latter of which was a necessity on weekend outings with my father.
The frazzled woman dropped the coach in the middle of the pavement and went back into the house. A second later she returned with Missy, a large purse, a diaper bag, a bottle, a stuffed clown and a dish towel. I got the impression she didn't know about the dish towel but you can't expect a tornado like my mother to be very discriminating.
She dropped the whole bundle into the coach like so much laundry, opened her black umbrella, pulled the hood over the stroller, and we were on our way. The carriage springs squeaking and Missy's head bouncing with every crack in the old cement pavement.
It looked like under better circumstances it would have been a nice day. The rain was starting to slow down, the sun was breaking through the clouds, and the sparrows were singing in the little tree outside my house. I really liked that tree. Its not that it was all that beautiful or large but it was the only green for blocks and blocks.
That little tree was my first clue to what life was like. I watched it's leaves bud in the spring. I saw it in all it's green splendor in the summer. I felt it's warmth as it turned golden brown in the fall and I felt sad as it slept through the winter.
There was a public park a few streets away but it was a hang out for hippies and junkies. "Needle Point Park" was a place where people smoked funny cigarettes and protested the war. Not a place for "normal" type families.
We lived in what I guess you would call a lower-working-class, white neighborhood. I hate to label it like that because at the time it was so much more. Blocks and blocks of small row homes filled with families.
It was a place where your dad went to work around 8:00 in the morning and came back about 5:30 in the evening. When he walked in the door there was a home cooked meal and a cold beer waiting on the table.
It was place where you lived next door to your aunt, around the corner from your uncle, and a block away from your grandparents. If you were a kid you stayed out of trouble because everyone knew everybody, and people didn't ignore each other like they do today.
I'm sure the years have made the neighborhood more attractive, but I know it wasn't Disney Land. There were junkies, hookers, bookies, thieves, drunks, bums, drug dealers, dirty cops, and every other inner city scourge. It just seems that back then people took care of their own. They worked in the neighborhood. They played in the neighborhood. They raised children who grew up and bought more homes in the neighborhood.
My mother and father met in front of the same candy store my grandparents met in front of, and every Friday during the summer, they'd take me there for a hand dipped ice cream cone.
Your family didn't need a car because you hardly ever left, and if you did, you could get any anywhere on the "El." An elevated train that cut though the center of the neighborhood like a river into the city.
Every corner was a candy store, a grocery store, or a bar. And every family was just trying to get by. Thing just seemed to be way less complicated.
As we walked down the street towards the "El" tracks I saw two of my friends playing across the street. I was hoping they wouldn't see me but they did. " You got to go to school," they sang in unison. "You gotta go to school.'' They didn't go to catholic school. They were the "publics" and didn't start school till next week.
My mother didn't seem to hear them so I just pretended I didn't hear either. Then I heard the small voice coming from the coach, "You gotta go da school. You gotta go da school." I wanted to yell at her but I was afraid that if I did I would cry. So I just tried to ignore her too.
Even though I felt like I was walking my last mile it was only about a five block hike to school.
It was a scenic trip. About two blocks from my house was where the "rich" people lived. They owned the only used car lot in the neighborhood, which sat on the corner of my street and Roblen Avenue. Next to the lot they had the areas only single home with a huge yard.
Sitting in the middle of that yard was Barney. He was a giant St.' Bernard that laid there as if to have no intention of ever moving.
Every morning an old lady would come out of the house and lay a bowl of food in front of the dog. Without getting up, the hound would drop his head in the chow, and started lapping it up with his huge slobbery tongue.
All of my friends had dogs, but my mother would never let me have one. Dogs were messy and would ruin her chance at having the cleanest house in North America. So in some weird sort of way this immense, brown and white bundle of fur was mine. I always looked forward to seeing him even though he never had the energy to look up at me.
After passing Barney and the car lot you were on " the avenue," a large two lane street marked by the "El" tracks over head. When a train went by it was like thunder for about thirty seconds but people from the neighborhood didn't seem to notice. If you were in the middle of a sentence you would stop, wait for the deafening rumble to end and then pick up your thought without missing a beat.
Under the "El" there were stores. Not normal stores like Woolworth's or Kressgees that were further up the avenue. These were stores that were owned by people who sat outside on beach chairs and drank beer all day. They sold used appliances, bike parts, broken televisions and other assorted junk.
The scariest part of the trip was when we had to go under the railroad bridge, because that's where the junkies hung out. During the school year the cops usually chased them away in the morning, but you still had to contend with the pungent smell of urine and vomit.
Coming out from inside the dark tunnel, and taking your first gasp of reasonably fresh air, you could see St. Morta's Roman Catholic church and the school.
The 100 year old monument to "Catholicism & Education," sat with a hospital on one side, a small hotel for junkies and hookers on the other, and a YMCA for railroad men across the street.
The school had posted crossing guards all around the area to "insure the safety of the students." These were usually women in their early 90's who hated children, and if given half a chance would probably run them down themselves.
As we went past the crossing guard, my mother informed me that this woman was my friend, and was here to help me. "If you don't do what the crossing guard says," she warned, " you will be in some serious trouble."
I gave the old uniformed woman my cutest hello smile. She answered by growling and telling me to "get a move on."
After the obviously irritated woman allowed us to cross the street we walked past the hotel, stepped around two winos, and walked up to the front gates of the school. By the now the rain had stopped, and I was starting to sweat in my rubber coat.
"You wont need this," and she helped me out of it, and through in the basket under the coach. The smell stayed with me.
She then looked around like she was searching for an entrance. "Usually you'll have to stand in the school yard," she mumbled, "but since your first day I have to take you right in." I didn't know if she was talking to herself or me.
"What mommy?"
"Nothing. Let's go."
She walked backwards up the 12 steps, pulling the coach up behind her as went. Missy let out a playful grunt with every bounce, and I followed as slowly as possible.
We stood in front of two huge wooden doors. My mother reached out and grabbed on to the large handles. She pulled it, but it would not open.
Thoughts began rushing through my head at about 100 miles an hour. Maybe my mom had the wrong day. Maybe she had the wrong school. Maybe they decided to close the school. Maybe its one of those Jewish holidays we got off for in kindergarten. They weren't great holidays. I didn't get presents but at least I didn't have to go to school.
My mother gabbed the handle on the opposite door, and gave it a tug. "is it locked?!" I yelled. My mother didn't answer, and with a slight grunt, pulled the door open.
We walked through the huge wooden doors, and went into a yellow hall, that lead to the class rooms. There was a harsh smell that just about made my eyes water.
"It stinks Mommy," I pointed out. "Its makin' me wanna throw up."
"I trowin ' up too, " came from under the dish towel.
My mother didn't buy it. "Its only paint, and even if you do get sick, you are still going to school. So keep your hand out of your mouth." I had a talent for puking on demand.
Immediately to the right of the door-way, there was a folding table with two very pleasant looking women sitting behind it. The older woman smiled at me, and then began to talk to my mother.
"Hello, I'm Mrs. Bla Bla, and this is Mrs. Bla Bla Bla," she said in a soft voice, kind of like a mental patient. "We're not teachers. We're personal teaching aids from the neighborhood. And you are?"
"Mrs. O'Neil," my mom answered. "This is my son Jimmy. He's starting first grade today."
The younger of the two women looked down a list with a pencil, "mmmmmmmm. Here you are, James O'Neil, room 2. That's Sister Anne's room." My mother thanked the two "Stepford" personal teaching aids, and we walked directly across the hall to an open door with a big #2 on the wall next to it.
The room looked gigantic. The ceilings seemed to be forty or fifty feet high, with giant florescent lights suspended from tiny poles. There were about 50 small wooden desks, most of which were occupied, in neat rows across the room. It was a corner room, so there were black boards on two of the walls, and giant windows on the others.
In the front of the room, centered over the blackboard, there was a little brown speaker, and next to that a crucifix. There were also various educational, and religious pictures scattered all over.
In the corner of the class, opposite the door, there was a blue, metal desk which I knew was for the teacher. On top of the desk were some books and a yard stick. The teacher was no where to be seen.
My mother wasn't sure what to do. So we stood there for a moment. There were already about 30 children sitting in the classroom, and they all seemed to be as frightened as I was. Then the silence was broken. "You gotta go da school. You gotta go da school." I was so embarrassed. A couple of kids giggled, which made her even louder. "You gotta go da school . You gotta go da school."
Finally my mother noticed it. "Missy, be quite or the teacher will get you." This scared the hell out of me.
Then as if to appear out of nowhere, there was a tall, dark figure dressed completely in black from head to toe. It was wearing a big black box on its head, with a white frame around its face. Missy immediately started to sob with fear. Then this psychotic-penguin-from-hell looking figure reached out a limb towards my mother.
"Hello," she smiled. "I'm Sister Anne."
"Hi," my mother answered. "I'm Mrs. O'Neil, and this is my son Jimmy."
The nun acted as if she didn't hear my mother. She looked directly down at me, "And what's your name young man?"
"Jimmy," I whispered.
"Speak up young man," she barked like a drill sergeant. "What's your name?"
I glanced at my mom for help, but she looked as shocked as I felt. "Answer the sister," she nudged.
"I'm Jimmy."
"No your not," she said in a sure voice. "In this class your name is James. I don't recall reading about a Saint Jimmy in my bible. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I felt like I was in no position to argue. I was pretty sure my mother felt the same way.
"I think we can take it from here Mrs. O'Neil," she said never taking her eyes off of me.
My mother smiled at me in a strange, almost apologetic, way. It was almost as if she didn't want me to be there either, and for a moment I felt I was going home. Then she said good-bye.
As she walked away, I wanted to scream out, but I was to afraid. So I watched her bounce the coach down the steps, as the huge doors slowly swung shut behind her.
I never felt so alone.
Sister Anne's snapping voice spun me around from the door and into the room. "Mr. O'Neil, you will sit in the fifth desk of the fourth row. Now be seated. I walked to the first empty desk I saw, and sat down.
"Mr. O'Neil, do you have some type of difficulty following instructions, or are you just trying to be a comedian?"
"I-I-Ah-I-Ah," I answered softly.
With that she grabbed me by the ear, and guided me to the desk she had assigned. "I hope this is not a sign of things to come, James. We are not getting off to a very good start. It seemed as her lecture was just beginning when it was interrupted by screaming right outside the room.
"Nooooooooooooo! You can't make me go! No! No! No!"
Sister didn't even blink. She disappeared out the door, and a second later came back holding a young boy by his hair. "Robert," she said. "I am not going to deal with your pertinacity again this year. You will shape up or find yourself finishing the year in public school."
I heard the girl in front of me whisper to the girl on her right, "that's Robert Murphy." "He got left back last year."
Robert had been quieted to a whisper when she slammed him into the desk behind me. "Now sit there, shut up, and maybe you can show us that you are not as stupid as we all believe."
All I was thinking at this point was that Robert Murphy was the only one who really knew what to expect. He had been here before, and he seemed more afraid then any of us.
Sister examined the entire class with a glaring look, then she slowly closed the door making sure to get the full squeaking effect. "All right class, let us begin." "I am Sister Anne," as she wrote her name proudly on the black board, she continued without looking at the children. "I will be your teacher for the entire year. Hopefully you will continue to be my students for the entire year."
"We have two basic rules in this class. You will only speak when it is necessary, and you will always raise your hand before you speak." Her eyes scanned the class from left to right. "Do we all understand?"
The room was silent.
"Do we all understand?"
"Yessssssss," hissed out across the room.
"You will say, yes Sister Anne. Now, do we all understand?"
"Yes, Sister Anne," was then sung out in a way that reminded me of Missy.
"Mr. Murphy," She barked. "As you are a veteran in my war against ignorance, and will one day most probably be my only shaving student," she smiled. "would you please inform the new students of how we begin every class."
"You yell at us."
In one swift move, the sister spun around, grabbed the yardstick off her desk, and whistled it through the are like a fencing master. "Don't try my patience young man. Robert got quiet, and Sister continued. "We will begin every class with our very own class prayer, which I have personally written. The prayer was originally done in Latin, which is God's preferred language, but because Catholics like you, and your families have become apathetic and lethargic, we no longer speak the beautiful Latin language."
No one understood her, and in retrospect I don't think she cared. "Its only a matter of time before we have women priests, we're giving out green stamps with the communion, and the Holy Father will be dancing on Ed Sullivan."
She paused for a moment, looking down at the floor, then turned, took a stack of papers off of her desk, and passed them out to the class. "This is our class prayer. I will go over it with you. You will take it home tonight, and have your parents help you memorize it."
"Starting tomorrow we will begin everyday with the class prayer, and then the pledge of allegiance to our great American flag. But the prayer must always come first, so that we can show God he comes first."
I looked at the paper. I knew a couple of the words, but not all of them. I thought, "Oh my God, I can't read as good as everyone else. She's gonna kill me."
"Can anyone read the prayer for the class," Sister asked?
I put my head down in fear. I started to feel sick. Then I could feel the heat from her black costume as she walked up to my desk. "You are not home with mommy now James. We do not have nap time here." Many of the children laughed, and laughing louder then anyone was Robert Murphy.
"Mr. Murphy, as you are the senior member of our little assembly, why don't you read the prayer for us?"
The boy cleared his throat, and began. "Dear lord please................."
"Mr. Murphy, is that how we start a prayer!?"
"No sister."
"You know Mr. Murphy, if prayer is not important to you, maybe I can arrange to have you sent to a godless communist country like Russia. I don't even think your mother would object. The Russians also feel that prayer is not important. Is that what you want Mr. Murphy?"
"No Sister."
She continued as if he wasn't even there. "This is the type of impertinence that infuriates me. Our brave Catholic boys are giving their lives in Vietnam, so that those sinning, perverted swine will not disease the world with their sick ideology, and you don't even care. Do you Mr. Murphy?"
"I dunno."
"Begin the prayer again please, Mr. Murphy, and try to remember you are speaking directly to God."
"In the name of the fadder, and of the son, and of the Holy Spirit. Dear Lord, please give me the strength and patience to be a fine Catholic student, and learn everything I need to stop being a worthless sinner, and gain my way into heaven. God be Blessed. Amen."
"Fine Mr. Murphy," she sneered. "It only took a entire year for you to learn it. I'm sure your mother is very proud."
The girl in front of me whispered again, "He aint got no dad."
Sister Anne spun to the direction of the whisper. "Do you wish to share something with the class Miss........" There was a long pause as she looked down at her role book, "Freed."
"No Sister," squeaked the mousy little voice.
"What do you mean by, 'No Sister', Miss Freed?"
"I don't know Sister."
"Come here Miss Freed."
The small girl, in her small plaid uniform, slowly got up and walked to the front of the room.
"Face the class Miss Freed. Since you enjoy talking so much, I want you give you a chance to talk to everyone.. Do you know the pledge of allegiance?"
"Yes Sister."
"You do? And who taught you this pledge of allegiance Miss Freed?"
"I learned it in kindergarten."
"And at what great institute of learning did you partake of this endeavor?"
"Huh?"
"No Miss Freed. If we do not understand a question we say, excuse me Sister?"
"Scuse me sister."
"What kindergarten did you go to?'
"The Kennedy School."
"Oh, a public school. How nice. Please begin the pledge Miss Freed."
The little blonde put her hand over her heart and began. "I pledge allegiant to the flag, odda Anited States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, One nation, under God, invisible, with liberty and justice for all."
"That was fine Miss Freed, except here at St. Morta's School, we finish the pledge by saying 'God be blessed.' I'm sure they didn't teach you that at the John F. Kennedy School."
Little Betty Freed looked confused.
"Please sit down Miss Freed."
As the little girl sat back down, the nun passed out another stack of papers. "These are our copies of the pledge. You will also have this committed to memory by tomorrow."
I also attended the Kennedy School, and I knew the pledge, but I didn't want the sister to know I went there, so I pretended to read the paper, as the nun then systematically began to pass out another stack of papers.
"This is a list of all the supplies you will need. Give it to your parents. You are to have all of these supplies with you by Wednesday. You will not be able to participate in class without these supplies."
"Before you leave today, you will also be given a box of church envelopes. You will give these to your parents. Every week you will turn one of these envelopes in at Sunday mass, with at least a quarter in it."
"Remember, as a Catholic it is your responsibility to be charitable. I know a lot of you will get a nickel at lunch time to buy a pretzel, or candy. Well, a true Christian would give the money to charity."
"On my desk there is a box with a hole in the top. This is to help the little pagan babies all over the world. A pagan baby costs $3.00. Each time our class buys a pagan baby we will hang on of these on the wall." The nun held up a picture of a little black baby.
"At the end of the year," she continued, "the class that has bought the most pagan babies will get a special reward. So when you have that nickel I want you to think about what God would want you to do with it, and remember he is always watching you."
She sat back on the edge of her desk, and folded her arms. Her tone became more pleasant. "I remember a few years back I taught a student, I'll call Johnny. Like most children he was lazy, and disrespectful. He didn't care about anybody but himself." She paused for a moment to look at all of our faces, then she continued.
"One day after lunch, Johnny's mother gave him a nickel. Johnny new that there were starving children in other countries who could not even afford bibles, but he still spent the money on a pretzel." She paused again to look at the floor and shake her head.
"Johnny took one bite of the pretzel, and started to cross the street. Just as he stepped off the curb a truck spun around the corner and killed the boy instantly. The pretzel sat next to his body, soaking in a pool of blood." She paused, stood up, walked behind the desk, and sat in the small blue chair.
"All I know is that this boy had to face Jesus knowing that his last moments on earth were spent selfishly, and sinfully. Children, don't let this happen to you." You could have heard a pin drop. I thought about how I had bought a pretzel the day before with money my grandpop had given me. Now I was in danger of burning in hell for all of eternity.
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 5th, 2001
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12:34 am - Conversation with an asshole
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This guy PittDMB is from www.americanjackass.net. He was pissed because the only talented writer on his lame ass site,PrettyBitch is now writing for AmIaHotBabe.com.
So this guy is slow witted, and his only thing in life was he was once president of a frat. So I wrote a satire story about him, which was pretty damn funny. It's still over at InternetGossip.
So after the stroy was up for a day. this was him IM'ing to give me a piece of his mind.
PittDMB: That's all you guys got?
Psycoid: excuse me
PittDMB: weak
Psycoid: what is
PittDMB: really weak satire
Psycoid: sites been down all day, slow down and tell me what you're talking about
PittDMB: No need to, since you seem to post int he comments section
Psycoid: Oh the story about you being a cock sucking ass takin' faggot frat boy? I got confused when you said satire. Since you're most probably a cock sucking ass takin' faggot frat boy in real life
PittDMB: hahahah, you're 30?
PittDMB: and still bitter?
Psycoid: yeah, I'm 30, but apparently from the emails i got most people liked the story because you are universally considered to be an asshole most likely to be a cock sucking ass takin' faggot frat boy in real life
Psycoid: and the best you got is HAHAHAHAH, you're 30
PittDMB: thats not the best i got, and yes i am an asshole
PittDMB: just suprises me that your still bitter, but for a depressed fat old man shoudl I expect less
Psycoid: yeah it is the best you got and it's annoying to talk to you because it takes so fucking long for you to come back with a snappy comeback
Psycoid: I'm not bitter. I got friends in frats. I JUST DON'T LIKE YOU!
PittDMB: my loss?
PittDMB: no
Psycoid: So why are you talking to me you simple fuck. The story was funny. You look like a faggot. People enjoyed it. Now go write something nasty on your little site about me. I'm old and fat....there i got you started you brainless ass clown
PittDMB: hahah your the brainless ass clown, cause you'll never be mentioned on our site.
Psycoid: oh, and lose out on all those hit.
Psycoid: You can't even insult me on your own you idiot you just repete what i say.....try this, "I know you are but what am I?" that should hold you.
PittDMB: yes, cause that's what its all about, hits from mindless dorks that plugaway at the internet, get a life, worry about more important things. Hope your kids join a frat or sorority so they dont' end up as a depressed fat guy like yourself
Psycoid: Yeah, go Greeks!!!! Hey, it's no secret why they call you guys greeks
Psycoid: And you're frat was so proud because they had a 2.9 average. Lab monkey's can get a 2.9
PittDMB: hey, piggy claims you wrote the story. So here's my advise to you big investigator fatguy, instead of going to google, typing in Nick Laughlin and Delta Tau Delta which i told piggy
PittDMB: try to find something
Psycoid: I did write the story you cock sucking moron, and their wasn't much investigaing necessary. but look at it this way. this is the most attention you've ever gotten in your life
Psycoid: and you know sucked a dick or two so suct up
PittDMB: hahahh, i just find this so funny, coming from a grown man with kids, hope you set a better example in "real life"
Psycoid: so you keep threatening pig, you dickless wonder and I'll just post it on one of the other 100 sites that think you're a douche bag. Hell I'll post it on all of them
PittDMB: go for it
PittDMB: please?
PittDMB: hey and put the name of the frat back up to
Psycoid: you could always sue me for slander but then you'd have to prove you never sucked a cock or took it up the ass. That doesn't sound like a good idea.
PittDMB: it adds quality to your otherwise seemingly bitter cause your life sucks and you have some once of respect on the internet writing
PittDMB: hahahha, slander over what some douchebag portrays his stereotypes of fraternities to be?
PittDMB: no thanks, i have better things to do
Psycoid: See, this is how it works. I'm here relaxing, and some asshole AIM's me. In this case you. So I find his site and trash him. Then he comes back the next day spending a good 20 to 30 minutes telling me how the article didn't bother him. You are a stereotype
Psycoid: Then you'll continue to try and insult me which you can't because you know less about me than you do about the female private parts. So go away before you write tomorrows story for me.
Psycoid: done? I can do this all night?
PittDMB: i'm not a stereotype, it works two ways buddy and i have the right to voice my opinion on you. will i do anything further? No, cause your opinion has a bout as much worth to me as the people who actually think you are something, when in reality you were a loser that couldn't cut his way through college and now you find yourself an old depressed man who gets his kicks out of running a "new found internet life" I'll leave you with this. Hope your kids turn out like me and not you. we have enough depressed fat people in american
Psycoid: If the article didn't matter to you wouldn't the "smart" thing to do would be ignore it and me. But you are stupid. I hope my kids grow up just like me, and spend their free time exposing loser scum bags who try to be bigshots or keyboard toughguys . Now please go away I am missing the Simpsons
PittDMB: hahahh, goodluck with the kids, I doubt it though, just letting you know i think you can do better. the gay frat thing is usually reserved for those that were left behind in college and highschool, which obviosly you were, have fun being the depressed fat guy
Psycoid: I don't know where the depressed fat guy thing came from but we'll run with that. I got kicked out of college three times, and was asked to join several frats. (I sold drugs). Quick way to get accepted into the Greek community I found. I've got one kid, he's 10. I'll let him read this when you're finally done although it takes you so long to respond it will probably be past his bedtime. So tell us some good Frat drunk-giril gang rape stories. You guys usually love that shit
PittDMB: you think after 30 years you'd learn what stereotypes really are. Now caraterize me as a wigger cause I bartend at an all black club. or wait you can't take that angle cause then you'd be a racist right? If your son does read this which i doubt. ..... it shows that you truly aren't cut to be a parent
Psycoid: All that college and your a bartender in an all black bar? But forget that, let's get to the gang rape stories......come on start where she passes out and you line up
PittDMB: coulnd't tell ya, but i can tell you when i had to fuck the goat in the ass
PittDMB: you truly are gullible
PittDMB: Tell your son about how you sold drugs, i'm sure he'd be proud of you
PittDMB: you know what, i'm done, we've established what we want. Your writing could use some improvement , you coudl have done better
Psycoid: He knows all about that. I think it's good to be honest with your kids about your mistakes. If you and your man ever adopt i hope you take the same route
PittDMB: will do
PittDMB: keep up the great private investigating
Psycoid: I'm not a private investigator. Where do you get your info?
Psycoid: Christ, I could write a book in the time it takes you to come up with a snappy reply. You are a complete idiot. Do you ever forget to breath?
Auto response from PittDMB SIGNED OFF
Well, I guess he told me. Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Sunday, December 2nd, 2001
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12:54 am - My thought for today
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| Tuesday, November 13th, 2001
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11:13 pm - I got fired
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So I admit to having a blade fetish. This girl im's me and tells me she has the same thing. I think cool. I add a bunch of bullshit, and a nice AIM convo and this is a good story. Since Internet Gossip had pretty much begged me to write for them because they "wanted someone to shake things up" which i did.
So they get some complaints from this girl and her mom and they censor my fucking story. As Matty formally of Playtimestuff will tell you, I go fucking nuts if you change my shit. i woudl rather you delte the whole fucking thing then fuck with the content.
So I ask my old buddy webpig about the situation and all of the sudden he gets religion and fires me. So now the site can go back to him and the wanna be Geraldo Rivera, Damian writing aa couple boring bullshit stories a day. Fuck them.
I was thinking about going to Cockonabun, but me an amada got a history. So who the fuck knows. You got a site? you need a writer? Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Thursday, November 8th, 2001
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9:31 pm - Look dumbasses
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If I was going to kill someone would i write about it here first. We all have our little fantasies and fetishes. I've been giving it a lot of thought since I've been thinking about attending the next fetish ball with Raven.
Do I have any real fetishes. I'm not into the feet thing. Watching someone go to the bathroom does nothing for me. I can only imagine vinal or rubber pants making my balls sweaty and itchy. I don't like to be tired up, and have experimented with tying a woman up, but really didn't find that all that exciting. Except once;
There was a time when a young lady I was seeing wanted me to tie her to the bed. Stop me if i told this story before. Anyway, i tied her up, and did this and that. It was okay, but nothing special, until it became time to untie her. I reached into my dresser drawer and pulled out a stiletto. A quick click and the blade ejected. I heard her gasp.
I put my hand on her chest and could feel her pulse increase. It wasn't fear, or maybe it was but she was so excited at this point. I began to run the blade around her body. Never cutting or slicing, but kust letting her feel the thin cold metal blade against her skin. She came twice just from the touch of the knife, and I was more turned on then i remember being in a while. I cut lose her legs and had her, never leaving go of the knife.
I'm not a volent person by nature. I do have a love for blades, daggers, swords, knives. I love the craftmenship. how something so beautiful can be so deadly, I got a thing for vampires. When Raven does her vampire show, I am mesmerized. My only comment the first time i saw it, was "Needed more blood." So do i have a fetish or not, and if I do what is it?
Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Monday, November 5th, 2001
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7:49 pm - Passion Has Many Faces
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As I was driving around certain parts of the city that by law I'm not suppose to be in today. I was thinking about people I hate. Then I got more fixated on the word "hate" itself. Much like it's evil twin "love" it seems so over used. What exactly does it mean;
Dictionary definition: HATE: noun; a : intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury b : extreme dislike or antipathy : LOATHING
Intense hostility and aversion is some strong shit, but basically that's where my heads at right now there's nothing I can do about it. Sure I can bitch, complain, and make threats like most people do. We all know the basic response someone has when they truly hate someone is "I could kill him!" but could you?
Is there anyone out there in your world who you have such a hostile aversion to that you could take their life? Make them cease to exist, and feel that the world is a better place for it? I don't mean Osmin Bin Laiden or OJ Simpson. I mean just an average Joe that for some reason you truly hate because they hurt you in some way. And if there is that one or two pieces of human slime out there, how would you bring them to an end? How would you do it?
I don't know who the pussy is that invented the "drive by" but that is so fucked up. Drive by real fast and empty a clip into a crowd, No, a gun in itself is almost impersonal, and if you hated the person wouldn't you want them to know it's coming.
A simple knife with a razor sharp blade tucked behind you in your belt. You look them in the eyes and then make the move behind. They have no idea. Cupping and pulling up their chin with your left hand you take the blade in your right, and pull it across their throat, long and deep. You can hear them trying to gasp for air in the hole you just gave them, but all their doing is sucking the blood into their lungs. Maybe some kicking and some struggling until you realize that left hand under their jaw is all that's keeping them from hitting the floor. So you let go, and they fall. The blood begins to puddle around their head, but there's still life in their eyes as they look up at you knowing full well their time has come. Bending over to clean the blade on their shirt you smile, and say goodbye.
Have you ever really hated someone? Tell me about it. Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Saturday, November 3rd, 2001
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9:17 pm - Quoth The Raven, "Next time for sure."
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Last night I was suppose to meet Raven, Crimson, and D. they were heading down to the City Of Brotherly Love to go to a Fetish Ball.
The original plan was I was to meet them before the ball, hang out, and have a few drinks Raven did tell me to make sure I brought a camera. I had two in the car.
They figured on being in town around 7pm, around 7:30 the cell phone rang and I heard that familiar voice. The voice that launched a million erections. (was that crude?) It was Raven telling me they were maybe an hour away, but honestly it seemed further to me. I hung in the city till about 8:30 waiting, but no word. I felt a bit hurt, slightly neglected and started my 60 mile ride home.
Of course as I hit the toll both on the Atlantic City Expressway about five miles from my house the phone rang again. Again that sweet voice. They were at a hotel and wanted me to meet them at a nearby bar. I was of course an hour away from Philly, so we decided this wasn't going to work and that we would meet for breakfast.
When I got home my son asked me if I knew anyone from Australia, named Raven. I said yes she's a friend from the internet. I expected him to ask any one of a million questions, but all I got was, "Does she know anything about kangaroos?" I promised him I would check into it.
The breakfast plan seemed like no problem. They'll be partying all night so I'll sleep in and catch up with them in the morning when they roll out of bed. I didn't get to bed myself till around 5:30am, so I was pretty surprised when Raven called me at 8:30 this morning. Needless to say the breakfast never happened.
So long story short, I blew my chance to meet Raven. I felt like such a dick, but being the sweetheart she is she said that there will be another fetish ball next month and we will meet up then.
Oh I left this part out. Raven invited me to go to the Fetish Ball with them. I punked out big time. I was not at all sure I could handle that kind of scene, but I promise you this..............
I will, God willing, meet Raven, Crimson, and D next month. Not only will I meet them but I will go to the Fetish Ball with them, if I'm still invited and I will find out if Raven knows anything about kangaroos.
Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Monday, October 29th, 2001
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10:47 pm - More fiction
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It's just a fucking blah thing. I'm upset about everything, but couldn't give a shit about nothing. I use to have ways around it. I would get drunk, but after a while that would only make things worse. Drugs help at times, but as your tollerence builds so does your appetite.
Ah, there was nothing like a few days of meth followed by a hand full of valium or xanax to make that feeling go away. It always came back, but then you just do it again. Problem is all the real world bullshit makes it hard to be in a constant state of entropy. Then there was binge eating, binge masturbating, binge fighting. Anything to spike a feeling. Anything to bring the soul back to life.
So one day I'm sitting there surfing on the net and there sitting on my desk is a box cutter. I pulled out the thin long blade. It was one of those disposable very thin long blade. About .99 cents in any hardware store. I was mesmorized by the blade. So thin & so sharp.
I don't remember the first time I drug it across my forearm. I don't think I felt anything, just the warm sensation of the blood running down my arm.
I wasn't suicidal. The second time across the arm i felt the pain, but it wasn't unpleasant. There is such a clarity in pain. it was the spike that I was looking for. Fuck it was a rush. it was such a fucking rush that I slowly and deeply drug the third slash which practically gave me an errection.
By then i felt a release. not an orgasim. Just a release. A moment of focus in the pain. I watched the blood trickle to the floor for what seemed like a hour, but it wasn't i was just in some glazed version of life, and enjoying every fucking minute of it.
The blood was running onto the floor when "my babies mama" came in. For a brief instant she believed it was an accident, but fuck I was euphoric (spell check is for pussies). She knew what was up, and the idea sucked the blood out of her face faster than my arm.
I was bloody, and she patched and cleaned without really saying much. I let her do it. The next day everything with a blade (I have a dagger collection) was removed from my office. That was cool. I still felt pretty good. Later that night i promissed to never do it again, and I haven't. The scars were bad and drew a lot of comments, first they were from my dog and finally a nice tat covered them up. A lonley wolf sitting in the night letting go with a howl that no one will ever hear.
I had fun last weekend, but none of those people are real world anymore. All back to words on a screen. Life's like that. So the feeling is back again. I see nothing past now, but I always keep my promises. Nothing is ever what it seems. Maybe I'll try binge masturbation again. Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Saturday, October 27th, 2001
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12:29 pm - Dumb stuff
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There's stuff on the web that's way dumber than my journal like on line auctions. Let's face it, Ebay is just proof that you can get computer access from the trailer park. It's a big ass fea market where you don't have to look at the rest of the mutants. Have you ever been to a flea market? I use to move merchandise for a local business man (thief) at various flea markets. People will buy shit that normally they could not give away. You have no idea how many people sell those used portable toilets that they use at home for sick people right before they die. You'd be even more suprised at how many people buy them. Who the fuck would buy a used plastic toilet? I discovered that most people go to flea markets only because they couldn't get tickets to the tractor pull. Now, I have nothing against Ebay, Flea Markets, used plastic toilets, or tractor pulls and I guess any one of these things would be all right but I'm thinking that if you enjoy three of more of them then your grandparents were probably first cousins.
I ENJOY PORNOGRAPHY. At least most forms of pornography. If you're into kiddie porn you should be shot, and some of the fetishes like SKAT are just a little to much for me. Maybe the SKAT people could hook up with the used plastic toilet people. Why is it that every porn site you go to has that very legal .All visitors to this site must be 18 years or older. If you are under 18 please click here to leave this site now., and if you click there you always wind up at the Disney Site. I have a couple problems with this. First of all, if I'm a 13-year-old boy and there is a chance of me seeing even the slightest outline of a fucking nipple on that next page, screw the law I'm going in. There's spankin' to be done!!! Besides that, who determined that Disney is the official opposite of porn. I would absolutely do Snow White, and you know she would dig it to. Hell she came back from the sleep of the dead just to hump a normal size wang. The chick from Beauty & The Beast is hot but you got to figure Beast was packing a salami and probably tore that shit up. The Little Mermaid, no way. Human women can smell bad enough. I liked Cinderella but only when she was nasty, poor, and dirty because then she would have worked a lot harder. Make a broad like her a princess and the party's over. Jasmine from Aladdin is fine. Damn, I would like to get my hands on that, and hell I'm going to admit it Lady has those big brown eyes....nevermind.
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| Friday, October 26th, 2001
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7:57 pm - Fiction time by DrT
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First Date
First dates are always hard for me. Let's face it, I'm not exactly a ladies man. I'm 35, balding, overweight, and still dress in clothes I bought in the '70's. If a woman does show any interest in me, it takes all the courage I can muster, to not freeze up, and sound like a complete idiot.
That's why I'm so happy about last night. For the first time in my life, I took control. I finally decided to be a man, and things couldn't have gone any better.
I guess I should start at the beginning.I met Linda about six months ago. She's a clerical assistant in my office, and about 15 years my junior. She has blond hair, big brown eyes, and a body like a Barbie Doll. In a word, the girl is cute. Not "cute" like a little puppy dog. She's more like a nasty little school girl, always ready to show
you what's under her dress. I get pains just thinking about it.
It took me about a week, just to say hello to her. It took another for my voice to stop cracking when I did. Eventually, we started to share little pleasantries at the coffee machine, but nothing more.
Within two months I could see a change. I could tell she was interested in me. She was such a little tease, the way she would walk by my desk, the way she would bend over to take something out of a filing cabinet, the way she would bring the straw up to her lips when she drank a coke. She knew exactly what she was doing. There was one particular day in the lunch room with a banana, that just about drove me insane. She slowly peeled it down, and then gently nipped at it's tip, never once making eye contact with me. When it comes to seduction, she's an artist.
Most of all, I could tell what she was up to by the way she pretended not to notice me. If you didn't pick up the little clues, you would think she didn't know I was alive. Her little game was so obvious, it was almost childish.
I decided to make it easier for her. One late night trip into the personnel file, and I had her home address.
After a week or so of surveillance, I knew almost everything there was to know about her. Were she shopped, what she bought, what she threw away, who she talked to, what loser she was seeing, what she watched on television, and what she wore to bed. I had definitely done my homework.I was real slick at first, playing along with her little game; a chance meeting at the grocery store. I'd "accidentally" rub up against her at the video store. It was classic "cat & mouse," and I could smell the cheese on her breath.
After a few weeks of this, I could tell she was ready to excellerate the chase. I sent her flowers at the office. I didn't sign my name. I didn't have to. She knew who they were from. There were also greeting cards. Sweet little forget-me-nots with clippings from some of my favorite gentlemen's magazines; both to titillate, and inspire.
Last week was the final touch before the kill. I sent her a very special present, a pair of black silk panties containing the most intimate fluids of my love. I knew that would melt her frigid facade.
Yesterday, I decided the game playing was over. As she stood by the copier, I walked up behind her, and said hello.She smiled, nodded, and went back to the machine. The coy little bitch wanted to see me beg, but I played it cool.
"I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go out to dinner tonight?"
She looked surprised. She obviously had underestimated me, and didn't expect my move to come so quick. "I don't think so," she answered as she picked up some copies, and walked away.
I watched her go, and the way she was moving made it obvious she knew I was watching. The little slut was a master of manipulation. She had dealt a good hand, but now it was time to lay all the cards on the table.
I left the office early to go home, and get ready. I showered, shaved, and blew the dust off my bottle of Brute. It was time to take no prisoners. Dressing in my black slacks, a clean white shirt, and my plaid sports coat, I felt just like Rambo getting ready to go back into the jungle. "What you call hell, he calls home."
I showed up at her house around 7:15. I knew she would be at aerobics class. I parked my Pacer around the corner, and went in through the back door. I need to talk to her about keeping it locked. Its just not safe.
The first thing I did inside, was get rid of all those ridiculous pictures of that loser who's always hanging around her. I'm sure he was a pleasant diversion, but one that's not necessary anymore. Then there was the cat. I'm allergic, so he had to go.
Around 8:45, I heard her key turn in the front door. I stood in the corner of the living room, concealed only by the darkness.
She walked into the room, and tossed her jacket and purse onto the sofa. Then she walked past me, and up the stairs. The whole time pretending not to know I was there. I followed her in the darkness. Walking through the upstairs hallway, she let her long hair down, unbuttoned her blouse, and went into the bedroom, turning on the light. Finally, when confronted by my reflection in a mirror, she was forced to acknowledge my presence.
Even though the time had come, she wasn't ready to end the charade.
She screamed, and came towards me. I grabbed her, kissed her, and brought my right hand up to caress her neck, plunging my thumb into her airway. She still had to put on a little show. She struggled for a while, kicking me, and scratching at my eyes, but then her entire body shuttered with ecstasy, as she gave a gasp and collapsed like putty into my arms. She fell back onto the bed, and laid there motionless with a glazed look of love in her eyes. I leaned over and undressed her, caressing and kissing every curvature of her still body along the
way.
Then I stood back, undressed in front of her glassy stare, and climbed into bed.
She was quiet, but daring. There seemed to be no limits to the positions she'd let me get her into. She was consenting, and receptive to my every whim. We made love for hours, until I was sore, and she was cold and stiff from her multiple, multiple orgasms.
I was the total gentleman. I got up and put on a man's robe that I had found in the closet. I smiled because that just proved to me that she knew this was going to happen. I leaned over, and kissed her cold forehead. She hadn't even broken a sweat. What an animal. I smiled, closed the robe, and went down to the kitchen.
This was the perfect evening. I had remembered a chilled bottle of wine I saw in the refrigerator, right behind the dead cat. I grabbed the bottle, a cork screw, and two glasses. Then I put together a tray of assorted cheeses, and went back to our little love nest.
I don't want to brag, but she was way to tired to eat, or drink anything. So we laid there together, in silence, watching Letterman, until our afterglow was shattered by a knock on the door.
Linda was much to tired to get up, so I threw my robe back on, and ran downstairs. I opened the door to see that loser standing there. He was ruining my perfect evening, and he had the nerve to be pissed-off at me.
"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my robe?!" The guy had a real attitude problem. "Where-the-hell is Linda?!"
He pushed past me and ran directly up the stairs. I was right behind him. I'm no fighter, but I was perfectly ready to protect my love.
He burst into the bedroom, and screamed her name. She laid there silently ignoring him, and waiting for me to take care of the situation. As he reached for her, I grabbed the wine bottle, and brought it down upon his head.
He fell down on all fours, but he wasn't out yet. God only knows what he had in his mind. I took the cork screw and plunged it into the back of his head. The intruder shot up on his knees and let out a scream. Linda was paralyzed with fear. I wrapped my left arm around his neck, and twisted the utensil in until all I could see was the blood soaked wooden handle.
His limp body fell to the floor. It was obvious this was a case of self defense, but I couldn't put her through the stress of a police investigation. Taking the creep by the ankles, I drug him down the two flights of steps to the basement. I stuffed him into an old empty wardrobe, smiling with the knowledge that he wouldn't be a threat to my love anymore.
I took a shower, and went back to the bedroom, where my angel was still silently waiting. I climbed back into bed, wrapping my arms around the frightened little girl. I held her, kissed her, and comforted her for the rest of the night, until we both drifted off to sleep.
Even with the unplanned irritation, it was without a doubt, the greatest night of our lives. The stuff movies are made out of. I was the conquering white night, who slew the evil villain, and took the young damsel for my own.
I know what you're thinking; will I see her again?
Well, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. When we woke this morning, we decided that this had to be more than a one night stand. So I packed a bag for her, loaded her into the Pacer, and moved her in with me. We'll
probably be together forever, although there is this hot little "temp" I've noticed checking me out.
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7:12 pm - Who cares what I look like
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Everyone is always asking me for a pic. I have no clue why. I'm not a cam girl. I pretty much think you get to know me by what you read, but finally I have decided to post a pic. This is an artistic representation of me done by the very talented man of mystery, Dr Ivan. This guy is a fucking genius.
Now all I need is a fucking wish list. Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Thursday, October 25th, 2001
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7:43 pm - Are people reading this shit?
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Once again i got picked up by Internet Gossip. I'm starting to get a big head. I got a few comments, and a few nice emails about my Matty post, but never heard from Matty.
I'll be honest I was expecting the threat of a lawsuit, but nothing. I guess he's taking the high road, or maybe the fact that he is a known registered sex offender has him keeping out of the public eye. That's not true. He's not a known registered sex offender, but he's still young.
Matt was always good to me when i wrote for playtimestuff. I remember when he fisrt asked me to write for him he said, "As long as you're not a nigger or a jew you'll have no problem with me.' Or maybe I'm thinking of someone else.
But I kid because I love. that's just the kid of guy I am. If you come here often you know that DrT is all about love. Write me talk to me. Be my buddy.
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| Tuesday, October 23rd, 2001
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11:17 pm - Scum bag in da house
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So Matt "the huge jerkoff" Harrison is back with a new site called thissitegotmelaid.com, another in a long line of piece of shit sites this no talent fuck has put out after he destroyed playtimestuff.com
I must admit I've enjoyed Matt's antics as i follow them on Internet Gossip. First he told everyone that he owned the class or sex domain. He didn't. The he posed as a young cam girl trying to solicit money from old perverts. (Nothing to latent there huh?)
After IG busted him on that he opened this new crap, then tried to seduce a young cam girl into helping him scam people out of more money.
None of this really pissed me off until I read his little random rant today.
"For those of you who don�t know, I have a very bad taste in my mouth from a few people from my Internet past. One is Lynnl, another is AndreAnna, and yet another is Ktelicious. I don�t remember all the details as the therapy has taught me to block it from my mind, but I do remember that I found her site one day and we started talking.
She (KT) was small time then and when I realized she had a lot of talent, I asked her if she would be a writer for one of my projects. When she realized how much traffic I had at the time (thank you classorsex) she was very willing to join. She even made some slick graphics for the site and was an overall great help.
Things started to get bad with the site as time progressed. People were jealousor just didn�t like it and I started making some enemies which changed the focus of the site to being defensive as opposed to offensive. It went down hill, and instead of even having some sense of loyalty,Ktelicious abandoned ship to go and hang with all of my enemies without really telling me. She left me high and dry and I didn�t like that very much at all. I never really forgave her for what happened, and she never really apologized."
Then the little asswipe goes on about who he discovered people and posts nude photoshop touched up pics of KT & Andreanna. I guess he didn't want to show the one's he thought were Lynn's as she was only about 15 when he got them from her.
Here's the story, Ktelicious was a very good writer who Matt treated like shit. He treated almost all of his female writers like shit. Andreana (next to me) was probably the best writer he had on staff, and she pretty much pulled his stupid ass out of the fire everytime he would alientate some high traffic link.
See, I wrote for playtimestuff to. I know the bullshit that went on. How Matt would screw with counters to make it appear that he and his functionally illiterate friend Josh were popular reads when they were both pretty much death at a keyboard.
Matt was a good friend to josh. He fixed him up with his own ex-girlfriend another easily impressed highschool girl. By the way, Josh if you're reading this Matt was fucking her the whole time you were dating her. Surprise!!
Anyway, the fucks now posting pics of young girl and making them appear to be fan signs. That's great since he has been known to publish pics which may be considered child pornography in the past.
What elase can i say. You're so fond of threatening legal action douche bag. Sue me! Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Monday, October 22nd, 2001
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6:12 am - Monday, Monday
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Well, i'm back now. Had a totally awesome weekend in Atlantic City and did a lotof things that the "real doctors" will say aren't good for you, but I know it was just what DrT needed to snap him back into the life cycle.
About my last post. As you can see I only got two posted comments, but I was amazed by the amount of people who personally contacted me about it. I don't know if i was more amazed that people actually seemed to give a shit, or that people actually read this stuff. Either way it was good, and calmed me down a bit for the time being.
I would love to go into the details but legally that would not be a good idea at this time. There is a very special person I've known on the net for a while. Her AIM is rouge cest moi feel free to im her. She's into cyber. Not normal cyber though just freaky shit.
Rouge ishelping me out wiith my legal difficulties in professioanl way. So I'll give her one shot, after that we'll go to my plan. Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Monday, October 8th, 2001
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6:44 pm - The following is fiction....at least that's what the lawyer tells me to say
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Did you ever hate some one? I don't mean dislike, or be pissed off at. I'm talking about true 100% pure hate. The kind of hate that keeps you up at night, that fills your ride to work, and that seems to be on your mind every free moment you have in your day. It's the kind of hate you can only have when someone you loved did something so fucked up to you that your rage becomes almost blinding. I'm talking about a hate so bad that the idea of hurting that person can literally get your dick hard.
I'm feeling that right now for someone, and I have been for months. My previous medical problems were a distraction for a while, but now it's really fucked up because physically I feel great, but the hate is still there, and the rage still needs to be vented.
I tell you this because the following will only make sense to a couple of people, but they know about AmIaHotBabe.com so on the outside chance that the people I'm feeling this for would happen to come here I want them to know what's up.
You're so stupid. The bitch should have taken me out when I was down and he had half a chance instead of pulling the pussy shit the two of you did, because now I'm healthy, I'm angrier, and I'm coming. Not just for him. I'm coming for you. Consider your actions over the next few days, and think about if you're willing to pay the cost for them. Did you think you could take something I care about from me and I would just go. away?
...........so much for that.
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| Saturday, October 6th, 2001
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3:10 pm - Oh boy! Livejournal let me in today.
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On the good tip we got our tech problems straightened out at AmIaHotBabe.com which means we've finally been able to update.
Tow of our best additions are the two new updates Stephanie and Sammy. They're both beautiful, funny, and raw. So check them out, and if you think you can handle them, feel free to send in a question.
We wanted to add a horoscope section, but finding a good astrologer is not an easy thing to do. I understand Miss Cleo has hired most of them. So the best we could find is Joey D. You can see what he sees in the stars for you at Joey D's Freakin' Horoscopes.
So make sure you check out the new stuff, and as aways you can write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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| Tuesday, October 2nd, 2001
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7:04 pm - Finally Live journal Lets me in
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I haven't been able to post here for about four days. I know the three of four of you (up from two or three) who read this shit look forward to daily updates, but this service sucks. I think it's time for a change.
First thing i'd like to address is I said in an earlier post that Neal Young was a true American original. It was pointed out by an anonomous (pussy) comment that Young is Canadian, and I'm a dumbass. No offense to my Canadian friends, but certain truths hold in this world. If an inner city kid makes good, becomes famous, or hits it big the first thing he wants to do is get out of the inner city. I think the same holds true with Canadians.
Second, like I said before I was mentioned last week in Internet Gossip because of my mystery operation. Well. it's about time I faced up and told you what I had done. You see when i was a teenager, while saving a small orphan child from a rabid pitbull I lost both my testicles.
It is a shame I've had to live with all these years. When all the other guys were standing on the corner yelling, "Yo! Maria!" and grabbing their sack, I was forced to mime the entire move, but they knew something wasn't right. Sure, I looked great in tight slacks, but how far will that get you.
I finally decided something had to be done. I saw a plastic surgeon and looked into getting artificial testicles, but because the surgery was considered cosmetic my insurance company wouldn't cover it. So I began to scrimp, and save. We cut back on living expenses, and of course the youngest kid had to go.
After all that I still didn't have enough for the good Testies O'natural(tm), but I was able to afford two round metal balls. I have to admit they look good. Everybody I've shown them to says they look real. The only problem is I 'clack' when I walk, and when I masturbate it sounds like a train is coming through.
So now you know, the rest of the story.
The good news (besides my metal nuts) is the server problem has been fixed at AmIaHotBabe.com. Which means we will be doing a shit load of updates, adding lots of new women, some new special guest writers, and a couple new features. Thanks for baring with us the last few weeks.
Write me at original_drt@yahoo.com or AIM me at Psycoid.
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