Sometimes I Feel Like I'm Beatin' a Dead Horse

The past few days have been marred by insolence and beer and dead horses. On Thursday I saw a dude wearing capri jeans at the Fullerton L station, and I nearly vomited. Men, whether you are gay or not, capri pants made of any material should not be worn under any circumstances. Please, I beg of you, heed my advice.

Jester and I spent our first weekend as landowners being benevolent to our serfs, who spend most of their days plowing our fields and harvesting nuts and livestock. Our fiefdom is small but strong, having gained the allegiance of several vassals in less than a week.

Friday we headed to Rocks for an evening feast, giving the serfs a night of rest, which undoubtedly led to frolic, dancing, and the consumption of mead, mulled wine, and fattened geese. To gain their respect, upon our return, Jessie made an example of a particularly drunken man who had gained skill as a reaper. He had the forthrightness to speak directly to Jessie without first asking permission. She lifted the man at his crotch with his own scythe, drowning out the man's screams with her own admonishments to the fearful onlookers: "Have we your attention?!" No person dared speak as blood began to trickle from the man's trousers. Lifting the man higher, she yelled again, "I said, have we your attention?!" A muted chorus of "yes m'lady"s came from the crowd. "Good," Jessie responded, "Because from now on, you shall not speak so much as a word in our direction unless spoken to. Is that understood?" Again, the crowd answered, "yes m'lady." Not finished, Jessie continued, "Good, because if any of you ungrateful buggers make the same mistake as this young man -- well, former man," she smirked as she looked at his blood-stained pants before continuing, "-- then I shall not be quite as merciful next time." With that, she set the man down. Woozy and bloody-crotched, the man bowed and said, "Thank you m'lady." Jessie turned to face the man with a steely look in her eyes. "Have we learned nothing?" she spoke, in a cold and deliberate tone before jabbing the scythe in the man's stomach and, in one swift upward movement, tearing a hole to the man's chin. As the man's entrails spilled from his body and the man's wife and five children swarmed his body in hysterics, Jessie dropped the scythe to the ground and looked at me provocatively. "M'lord?" she asked with a smile, holding out her hand. I grabbed her hand, knowing that, with her, bloodlust and titillation are often one in the same, cured only within our chambers. And without her corset.

Saturday we spoke not of what occurred the night before, choosing instead to frequent an off-track betting facility to watch Kentucky's derby. Bets were made, beer was drunk, fillies were euthanized. A fairly typical Saturday afternoon.

My favorite Eight Belles-related quote came this morning on SportsCenter. They were discussing the filly's demise with an equine doctor, who said -- and I'm paraphrasing -- "It's no dangerous than any other sport. Athletes get injured in horseracing just as athletes get injured in other sports. The only difference is that here we euthanize them." Thanks for clarifying.

After the OTB, we went to Beer Fest, which is short for Beer Festival. In attendance were a couple Gregs, a Floppy Burrito, a current and former Pope, a Tron, a Magdog, a Derrick, a Meagan, an Alex, an Alex's nameless wife, and potentially several thousand others. Four hours of all-you-can-drink beer from around the country and globe, 3-6 ounces at a time, depending on the pourer. It was a catastrophe. We walked (?) from Navy Pier to Timothy O'Toole's, which is apparently a bar, not an Irishman's home. Touch-screen trivia was played. Records were shattered by KAAGGCAJJ, or any combination thereof.

From there, we jogged (?) to Paddy Long's. A spry man named Gregory -- who constantly carries around in an ill-fitting cage a small, wry-witted monkey he wrested from a soothsayer in a Tashkent bazaar -- was unsuccessful in his bid to catch the last train out of the city, and so he rejoined us after a painfully awkward hour-long absence, during which Jessie, Jeremy, Ari, Chandler, Alex, Alex's nameless wife, myself, and potentially others just stared at each other blankly while occasionally looking up to see who was winning the Western Bulldogs-Sydney Swans match. The kitchen was closed, and so were my thoughts. Gregory and his monkey arrived, much to everyone's enjoyment because it meant that we would soon have the opportunity to watch Gregory spray his monkey in the face with a garden hose for no reason whatsoever. This would last somewhere between zero seconds and three hours.

Gregory and his monkey took up lodging at our residence for the evening. We offered to give Gregory's monkey the portions of the reaper's stomach and liver that had not been picked away by crows and wild dogs. Gregory refused. "Insolence begets starvation," Gregory stated, stoically, before closing the door to his chambers to retire. Through the door, we heard the adorable pleas of an insubordinate little primate (the monkey, not Gregory):

"Oh please, Gregory. I have not eaten in days. My little stomach cannot take much more . . . [the creaking of a metal cage door opening] . . . Oh, thank you, Gregory. I knew you would come around. . . . Wait. What are you doing? . . . Oh no, not the hose, Gregory. . . . [the whistle of a garden hose cutting through the air and then coming into contact with the face and arms of a monkey, followed by terrifying screams] . . . Please stop, Gregory. . . . I will improve, I promise. . . . [more screaming] . . . I hate you, Gregory! You are nothing but a bastard man! . . . [more screaming] . . . Oh, who am I kidding, Gregory? I could never hate you. . . . [more screaming] . . . Even your vicious and repeated beatings with a garden hose feel like hugs and kisses. . . . [more screaming] . . . I am smitten, I'll admit it. . . . [more screaming] . . . Perhaps it's your silken hair. . . . [more screaming] . . . Or the way you throw a frisbee. . . . [more screaming] . . . So effortless . . . [more screaming] . . . Or your constant refusal to compromise your beliefs for the well-being of a little monkey who cares ever-so-deeply for you. . . . [the sound made by the hose increases in frequency, and the screaming reaches piercing levels] . . . Oh Gregory, this is so 'us,' isn't it? [thud of
an unconscious monkey hitting the floor]."

When we awoke in the morning, there was Gregory and his monkey were no longer in the guest chambers. A note indicated that Gregory had in fact stayed with us and since left. However, there was no trace of his monkey. It was as if there had never been a monkey in our residence at all.

Confused, Jessie and I bought a box spring and mulled over the previous night's indiscretions while watching a documentary on Evel Knievel. We all have our own personal Snake River Canyons, we concluded. I received a text message from a DBH that indicated the 1984 Jeffrey Shamos vehicle Kid Colter was available On Demand. As a DirecTV subscriber without access to On Demand, I was horrified.

This morning some motherfucker chose the stall next to me, even though I was the only person in any of the four stalls at that point, meaning that there was clearly an opportunity to take a stall that would have provided the preferred one-stall buffer. Have people no manners? I beckoned Jessie, and she broke both of the man's ankles before injecting him with a serum that caused cardiac arrest.

This evening, a rotund d-bag with a fauhawk driving a cream Escalade while talking on his cell phone pulled out of a mid-block alley in front of my law-abiding drive down Lincoln Avenue. When I laid on my horn and rhetorically asked "what the fuck?", he honked back and angrily responded, "what the fuck?" and continued to sling unpleasantries in my direction. I think he was actually ready to get out of the car and fight me. I was (and still am) extremely confused. Luckily Jessie was with me, so the man's skull soon resembled a split grapefruit.

Next week my armies will take the Earl of Schaumberg. The week after, we shall sack York. But first, we shall read and laugh at this. Glad tidings to The Brothers Weeser* (minus Dan and Tim, oddly) for the link.