Welcome to Stockdale (Part 2)

Welcome to Stockdale (Part 2)

I reach my hand through the window of my truck to unlock it from the inside. It's never worked right since I got pissed and slammed the door into speaker box at Dawg House burger stand. Every time he told me to hold on, I plowed my door into the intercom. I was hoping it would fill his ears with feedback. If you can't run with the big dogs, stay away from the Big Dawg burger joint.

Reaching under the seats of my truck, looking for my neck tie, I ran into a collection of Mountain Dew bottles. All filled with my dip spit. I like to keep them around because after they saturate for a few weeks, I pour the saliva into the hanging plants on my front porch. It may smell like a cat pissed in a mayonnaise jar full of horse puke, but my Fuchsias have never been so psychedelic.

I look at myself in my rearview mirror, sucking my teeth as I clip on my tie. My boss says I shouldn't wear ties with short sleeve polo shirts, but what the fuck does he know? He's 28 years old and works in a mattress store. Shit, at least I'm 42. I didn't get an old man job till I was an old man. That fag acts like selling people a place to fuck helps in the procreation of mankind. Shit, 9 times out of 10 I fuck on the couch, and the other 1 time, I'm hitting a jack in the shower. Gotta be careful about jerking off in the shower though. I passed out in there from heat exhaustion once.

Like I always say, "Shower jerkin willy? Keep the water chilly! Jerkin Peter Pan? Turn off the ceiling fan!" You know, cause when you jerk off Peter Pan, you float up in the air. I think. Anyways...

As I'm backing my truck up out the driveway, I see my neighbor. We call him "Racist Randy". I'll get back to why we gave him that nickname. But I'm pretty sure I painted a pretty clear description already. Ya know, for a Neo Nazi skin head, he sure does take really good care of his yard. One time I asked him how he always kept his flowers so good looking all year round. He told me it was cause he used dead jewish and black people as fertilizer. I'm not sure if he was joking, he just seems like that kind of guy.

Randy always has the best weed. Like big ass buds! He's the one I always buy from. The only strange thing is he names all of his pot different racist names. Not being a very racist man myself, it get kinds of awkward.

"Yo Randy! Lemme talk at'cha for a sec!"

Randy walked up to my truck. I swear to god he must practice walking like a nazi in his basement or something. But I kind dig the red boot laces.

"What's up Rip? Headin to work?"
"Yeah man, you know it. Hey I was wonder-" Randy cuts me off mid sentence.

"I don't work! I dunno how you let that Jew boss of yours tell you how to run your life. Last thing on my list is having some Christ killer telling me what to do."

"Uhh.." .. At times like this it's just best to agree with the guy. "Yeah, he's a real Jew-Jy Fruit." -Man, that was a bad comeback. Candy isn't racist.

"JEW-JY FRUIT?! HA! Damn Rip, that's a good one! I think you should hang out with me and my-" This time I cut him off.

"Yeah, listen Randy, I'm running late for work. I was just wondering if maybe later I could come by and pick up twenty sack."

"Of course! Anything for my white neighbor. What kind do you want to get? I got in some new stuff. I call it Kike Kush. Or I ever got some of that Northern Lights Nig-"

"Ya know Randy, just whatever I got last time. It's cool." I start backing out into the road.

"Oh you mean the Jungle Bunny Buddha? Or the Sambo Skunk?"

"Yeah, that's cool! Later Randy!"

I skid down the road as I see him salute me in my side mirror. Ya know, I don't really care if you're racist. Just don't bring pot into it. You're just gonna ruin it for everybody.

As I ever so slowly get closer and closer to work I realize I'm just about out of smokes. And by almost out I mean I only have 2 packs left. I smoke a lot in the bathroom.

There's this same gas station I always stop at it. But I hate going in there sometimes, because it's connected to this dry cleaners. And if you park in front of them and not the gas station, the little Chinese man comes out and screams at you. Listen at me. I think Randy is starting to rub off on me.

And of course, I think I just jinxed myself. Because, of course, the only place to park is in front of the dry cleaners. I better make this quick. I park the truck and try to sneak into the gas station.

"Hey! HEY! You no have dry clean, you no park here!"

(Told ya)

"Oh come on man! I'm just running in for a pack of smokes! Just be cool man. For one minute."

"No! You move car, or I call police!"

"Oh. Ok. You want me to stand here while you call the cops? Kiss my ass buddy." I walked into the gas station to do my thing. I'm really not in the mood for this today. You'd think after 9/11 people would be a little more generous. Not in Stockdale County. Oh no.

I get my cigs and come walk back out to my truck. Only to find the owner of the dry cleaners standing behind my truck, writing down my plate number.

"I got license number! I call police! I report you!"

"Oh come on brother. Be cool! I love your guys's food!"

"I not Chinese, you dick! I Korean"

"I know. I meant asshole food!"

Today is going to be a long day...

Welcome to Stockdale!

(Part 1. Life through the eyes of Ripley Canton)

I woke up on the front porch. Laying next to the swing. I guess I rolled out of it at some point last night. Or maybe I never even quite made it there. The cracks in the wood left imprints all over my face. How long had I been out? The sky was turning blue and the sun was beginning to wake up to piss me off. I looked at my watch. Six fucking A.M.. Last thing I remember is watching the 11 o'clock news, then going outside to smoke a cig..

Holy shit I'm so thirsty right now. And by the look of all these empty bottles and cans, I was last night too. Got a cigarette butt stuck to my arm.. God that's fuckin sick. Speaking of cigarette.. Pat myself down and find my pack. While the other hand reaches to grab what's left of this 7 hour old stale warm beer.

Reaching down the front of my jeans searching for my Camels, while I tilt this bottle back to fill the dried ditches in my tongue with something wet. Wait a second. Fuck. I just found my cigarettes. They're all in this beer I just poured in my mouth. Good thing this is my porch, cause I'm throwing up on it.

After I decorated the prickly bushes with whatever was left in my stomach from last night (looks like a swallowed a Slim Jim whole with a YooHoo), I wipe the corners, swallow, spit, and push myself inside. Holy shit! Why is the T.V. up so fucking loud? I fucking hate that thing, especially right now. Who ever invented commercials doesn't have a drinking problem, I can tell you that. It feels like there's a cat perched inside my skull. Doing all those things I hate cats for. Scraping its sandpaper tongue right down the center crease of my left and right brain. And it's making a noise like someone dragging forks across a ceramic plate. It's tail extends out my ear, wrapping itself around my neck making me sweat. While its claws push in and out of the back of my eye balls with every heartbeat... This is why I'm a dog person.

What the hell day is it? Why am I even asking that? I know what day it is. A work day. I do the same thing every night. Get off work, get drunk, pass out, wake up, sweat it out. Sometimes it's nice not giving a shit about your job. I work just enough to keep my lights and my buzz on. I figure if I wake up still drunk that don't count as drinking before work. And I've been known to drink half a bottle of mouthwash too. Freshens my breath and puts a pep in my step.

So I throw on a clean work shirt. And by clean I mean the one I have on already. And by work shirt, I mean the one I wore to work yesterday. It ain't shit though. I work at a mattress store called King's Sleep Mattress. You might have seen the commercial. Got that Mexican man wearing a cape with his arms in the air. Pushing the slogan out his teeth with a Mexican accent, "Leep lie uh King! At duh King Leaps Matt-trruss!"