ShopliftingWhen I was young and impressionable and on holiday in France, I followed some friends into a sweet shop and we each stole something. I was so mortified by this, I returned them.
My lack of French hampered this somewhat - they had no idea why the small English boy wanted to add some chews to the open box, and saw it as an attempt by a nasty foreigner oik to contaminate their stock. Not my best day.
What have you lifted?
(
chthonic, Thu 10 Jan 2008, 11:13)
« Go Back
Bowling Balls and Broken LegsIn high school, as a ne'er-do-well musician in a punk band, fond of everything fractious and foreboding.... i used to go bowling with my friends.
Purchasing big fuck-off slushies on the way to said bowling alley, we would then proceed to the nearest liqour store to purchase what would amount to some abomination you could strip the paint off your car with. Ethanol and a gallon of sugar water. Aces.
For the sake nipping a long and self gratuitous story in the bud, the expected happens - we bowl, a short time later we are arsed, and shortly after that i am compelled to do what is natural in a situation like the one hitherto attenuated - theft.
A particular beauty caught my eye. She was robust yet humble, demure yet demanding, and the had an eye near her bottom that reminded me of the Great Red Eye of Jupiter. T'was The Bowling Ball of My Dreams. Love.
Luckily for me I was wearing a shoddy greatcoat in which the linings of the pockets had been torn out - rendering the entire insides of my greatcoat one huge pocket, from front to back. I would lose things for months in this jacket.
In goes my lovely into the wormhole that is my jacket. It's quite heavy and is interfering effectively with my balance, so i grab another bowling ball, unfortunately rather plain,and plop it into my other pocket to regain my equilibrium. Result. I look like a centarian who at one time sported perky double-deez.
Result! Into the parking lot we gather around for the prizes. I dig around the tickle-trunk and produce the unremarkable ball from my left pocket like a nineteenth century illusionist. Red Eye was proving to be a bit more reluctant in coming out of her shell as the tear in my right hand pocket leading to limbo was somewhat less torn than my left - it was stuck coming out like a golf ball through a garden hose.
Like an utter spastic i grab the corner of my jacket and start swinging it round like a bolab, praying for centrifugal force to do its job well.No results. I change tactics and jerk it from side to side like the Grim Reaper at WWI. All seemed to be going well until i slipped in mid swing and legged myself in the shin with the equivilant of an artillery shell.
Did i learn? Not really. Did it hurt? Most definitely.
Length? One Legged and self gratuitous.
(, Tue 15 Jan 2008, 7:17, Reply)
« Go Back