9-2-5

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck fuckity fuckerstein!!!

These were my thoughts on my very first day of work at a picture framing shop in the "big city." Let's call it "Frames Unlimited." And the fuck soliloquy was for good reason. I had just dropped a huge piece of broken glass straight down into the top of my leather 'Mary Jane' shoe. The glass sported a fantastical curve and a wicked point. It lodged nicely in betwixt the bones of the top of my foot and hummed gently as it settled into the meat.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

This shit hurt. Happy glass winked at me in the light. The self-mutilating Goth kid in my sick head celebrated the nice play of blood and lymph on the glass. The pimply woman in me wearing a wrinkled button-down shirt and "nice" jeans trying desperately to look like a grown up wanted to cry. But it wasn't the pain that brought on the Fuckery. I slowly pulled the piece of glass out of the fresh, new gash in my foot. The wound looked like a small, tender vagina. I may have said "awwww!" (It was awfully cute.) But then, in the treacherous manner of vaginas everywhere, it filled with blood. And more blood. And then more. It wouldn't fucking STOP.

Cut ahead to me, 10 minutes later, feigning wet fart sounds to justify my prolonged presence in the bathroom, trying to stuff enough brown paper towels into my shoe to sop up enough blood to minimize the O.J. Simpson tracks I was leaving in my wake. It was futile. It already looked like a crime scene and was slowly ripening to 'sloppy-joe day at the sanatorium' territory. I couldn't tell the new bosses that I had dropped glass on my foot... they'd figure out that I was a dumbass and fire me. I briefly considered trying to convince them that I had come to work that way, but dismissed the idea as impractical. They'd already seen me give a friend the "high kick high five," an incredible and powerful demonstration of convivial affection that would certainly have revealed the presence of what by now looked like a maxi-pad for the homeless.
Nope... best just be honest, and pretend that it never happened.
So I gather my shreds of calm and confidence about me like the torn prom dress of a monolingual foreign exchange student (no means si, Manuela...) and make my way back out to the work room, executing the classic "un-limp" to cleverly disguise my gimp paw. This naturally results in a sort of exotic, jerky perambulation, not unlike the "Buffet Shuffle" performed by millions of Pension Pimps every Tuesday afternoon at the K&W Cafeteria.
In the down time between impromptu performances of my new walk, I keep an eye out for shreds of maroon-spattered paper towel laying on the floor like the after-party from Mafia Autumn. I like to think I was subtle.
I managed to get in a few good hours of this shit before I noticed that my new 60 year old boss was limping too. He'd been limping all morning. In fact, he had been limping since 1945, when he was diagnosed as a small child with Polio. We had not yet reached the stage of our relationship where he got drunk and puked in my face as I gave him head one night; these were the tremulous, early days.
He looked at me with watery, bulbous blue eyes, not unlike an Aryan pug. With precise, hairless, strangely pink and shiny hands he reached to his right, pulling a little packet out of a drawer. His eyes never left mine for a moment as he tearfully, slowly ripped the packet open and swallowed the contents. Pills. He flung the empty paper packet back onto the work table. My eyes broke from his at last as I read the print on the envelope.

"Fem-First Women's Daily Supplement."

Fuck indeed.



Shit on the side:

Henry VIII scored his first wife when his older brother died shortly after the wedding, having apparently not secured the little woman's cherry. So Henry did the sporting thing and took care of it, causing no end of problems that lasted for decades. Not to be outdone 400 years later, Princess Victoria Mary Augusta Louise Olga Pauline Claudine Agnes (May) of Teck was due to wed that stalwart sprig of British Royal Hotness, Albert Victor of Wales. Despite NOT being named "John," he died, and just before the wedding at that. What's a mail-order bride to do? Why, marry his brother George (later King George V), of course! So far, so good. Maybe the trick is marrying your dead brother's girlfriend instead of his widow outright.

Big Bad John

I'll bet you're wondering who I am. Well pish posh, sod and bother! I shall tell you. I am His Royal Highness, The Prince Alexander John Charles Albert "Johnny" of Wales! Mayhaps you have not heard of me. Sadly, I shan't be in the least surprised. I represent that rare sprig of the English throne; a male heir named "John." I also perished as a day-old infant, so do forgive my pretensions at appearing before you at a more advanced state of life. If you had any notion at all of how difficult it was to chase poon in the afterlife in the guise of a day-old infant, you'd understand. And Johns have it hard enough.
You see, we have a bit of the ole' curse upon us, it seems, with the appellation of "John." A nice enough name, but dreadfully rife with contentious overtones. Nobody seemed too terribly interested in using it until 1167, when the querulous infant who would become King John of England was born. His parents had already endured the birth and naming of three other sons, and settled upon "John" by way of a cop-out. No one REALLY believed he'd ever rule, but alas, these were dreadfully harsh times. He managed to live until 1216, without even once acquiring a desirable personality trait, it seems. He was lecherous and incestuous. He was a thief and a coward. He sired slews of bastards and kidnapped for his second wife, a child named Isabella (who incidentally, was due to marry someone else. Like I mentioned, hard times.) He had 5 children by Izzie, and then concentrated his full attention on undermining his seat of power by signing away Royal privileges in the form of the Magna Carta. By the time John's carcass was reverently shoved under an effigy at Worcester Cathedral, he'd acquired a few more nicknames, all of which seemed to direct an unreasonable amount of negative attention at the royal Trouser Trumpet. "Lackland." "Soft-Sword." And my personal favorite, "Bad." Clever, that.
So 'John' was quite the shitty name to saddle a young lord with for many a year. It was generally accepted that the name was no good and brought shame upon us all. But then, a few generations passed and people began to get a bit slack in maintaining the proper vigil of hatred for the name. Hence, my birth, to the most lovely Princess Alexandra of Denmark and Prince Edward Albert of England. I was to be the sixth and last of the litter.
But we Brits are a sturdy, stubborn lot. Not to pass up a good thing, my nephew, King George and his piece, Queen Mary saddled THEIR youngest boy with the name too! Alas, curse: 3, inbred royals: 0. "The Prince John" was buried right beside me. They congratulated themselves on this act of organization; "Our little Johnnies are together!" Bastards, the lot. Fuck 'em!

Gratuitous additional fact of the day:
For a brief period of time, Victor Fleming was simultaneously directing "The Wizard of Oz" and "Gone With the Wind." Can you imagine the mind-fuck? Hoop skirt-midget-Mammy-Tin Man-baby birthin'-more midget-burning of Atlanta-Poppppiiiieeessss!!!!
And that's not even getting to the Flying Monkeys.