That's Never Going to Heal if You Don't Stop Picking at It

Once upon a time, what specific "time" it was is something of a mystery, and by "mystery," I mean way back when I was still dwelling in a small cinder block cell (or college dorm room, if you will), I knew three young gentlemen who insisted upon calling all name-brand merchandise by its lesser-known generic name, or a generic equivalent.

For example, they never called Frisbees Frisbees. They called Frisbees "novelty flying disks." Yeah....

Q-tips were always "cotton swabs," Kleenex was always "facial tissue," and I'm sure Cheetos were always "cheese flavored corn crisps." I'm not joking. They actually did this. I frequently asked why they did this, but I was never presented with any logical or practical reason. I think mainly it was because they wanted to be different. Or amusing. Or both.

This is not to say that I required a logical or practical reason – I rarely make such frivolous and futile demands on people. If they had told me it was part of the requirements for their Unholy Cult of the Latter Day Satan's Helpers, or if they were doing it because of some sort of obscure foreign holiday, I would have understood completely.

So needless to say, out of these three gentlemen, I was really only good friends with one of them. Nice guy, very Irish. And I'm sure one of the other two has since won the World's Biggest Yuppie Douche Award – 3 years running! And if he hasn't won that infamous and prestigious award, I'm sure he will soon. He is destined for it, trust me.

And as for the last fellow, well.... I don't know. I just don't know. I'll say this much, though: I hope he stopped wearing those tight-fitting denim high-waters. Otherwise, at this point, he's definitely as sterile as an unopened Band-aid. Oh, I'm sorry – as sterile as an unopened "compact adhesive bandage." And hopefully he has figured out that there is more to life than getting blow-jobs from strange women. Granted, there's not much more, but there's still more.

In any case, they were an interesting bunch. Not as interesting as, say, the creepy, foul-smelling derelicts who seem to be omnipresent in the world of public transportation. They are on EVERY bus at EVERY time. Explain that to me!!!!! They lurk and they loom, always muttering to themselves and occasionally displaying some of the more savory symptoms of THE DREADED TOURETTE'S SYNDROME.

Yeah, no one comes close to that lot. They're the best of the best of the best, SIR! With honors! No one is nearly as interesting. Or as malodorous. And the more normal you appear to be, the more they hone in on you. They feast upon the Average Joe and the Mind-My-Own-Business types like maggots on an old leathery steak. The best course of action, and the course frequently employed by my cousin, is to behave even more inappropriately than they do: random clapping, raucous guffaws, mindless humming, things of that ilk.

I had to take a bus out of Providence once – Providence to Pawtucket, so you know there's going to be a number of Exceptionals on that one. It was raining heavily that day and many of the roads were flooded. And of course there was a cataclysmically stoned guy sitting near the front, occasionally laughing at nothing and rubbing his droopy, red-rimmed eyes. He was probably in his mid to late 20's, though it was hard to tell. It's always hard to tell with druggies. Anyway, we got to one flooded road and the bus almost got stuck. The guy immediately burst out with, "Ohmygod!! Ohmygod!! This is just like that movie, "Alive"!! Did you guys see that movie??? Wow! This is just like that movie! You know that movie, "Alive"?? I want you all to know that if we get stuck here forever, you all can eat my bum. I'm kinda skinny, so it'll sorta be like eating a pigeon. But you can have it! I'm giving it to you!"

Then he proceeded to give everyone on the bus "bad-ass" nicknames. I don't remember all of them, but I remember that my sister and I were lovingly labeled "9 Millimeter and Baby 9" respectively. Then he rubbed his eyes, coughed a few times, and looked around like he had no idea where he was or who all these people were.

Ah, memories. I liked that guy. He was cool. He didn't use generic names or wear tight high-water pants. I'm actually impressed that he was wearing pants at all, come to think of it. Go him!! So good luck to you, Raving Derelict, wherever you are! I sincerely hope you didn't offer to let people eat your bum too frequently. You never know who might take you up on it.



I'm cold and there are wolves after me,
The Cage.