Now it's gym, a year ago, and we're playing soccer outside. I'm the goalie, not by choice. Everyone wants to kick ass in the field and be a Real Man. They also want to win, which is funny as hell, because they made me the goalie.
“I don't want to be the goalie,” I tell them. “I can't catch the ball, and... “
“You get in that net and stop those balls,” says Gossling, “or I will stop you. Hear me, bitch?”
“Get in there, faggot,” helps Bryan.
Ultimately, in spite of these dickweeds, I decide, what the fuck? I'm stuck with it and I may as well try my best with what meager sportsmanlike coordination I have. I put a considerable effort into stopping the first goal. I fail.
“You fuckin' faggot,” screams Eric Holmes. “Catch the fuckin' ball!”
“Stupid!”
“Hey,” I try to tell them, “I told you I wasn't good at...”
“UUUUUUUUUUDUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHH!!!!!!” Slurs Holmes.
“Faggot!”
“Stop those fuckin' balls, you faggot, you goddamn retard! And you'd better not fuck up!!!”
Twice I try, for some reason. Twice I fail.
Gossling, screaming and spitting, “WHY THE FUCK DON'T YOU STOP THE GODDAMN FUCKIN' BALL????? PETTET, YOU FUCKIN' MORON!!!!!!!”
“Well,” I begin.
“DUUUUUHHHHHHHH, OOOOIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!”
“Well,” I continue, as he keeps yurching, still hoping maybe the voice of reason can squeeze itself in edgewise somewhere, “if you don't like the way I do it, maybe get someone in here who can...”
Screaming like a tyrant and spitting in my face, “YOU FUCKIN' FAGGOT, YOU STAY IN THIS FUCKIN' NET!!!! YOU STOP THOSE GODDAMN BALLS, OR I'LL KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOU, YOU FUCKIN' RETARD!!!!”
Another round. The other team goes for their goal. I stand aside and let them get it.
“GODDAMN YOU, FUCKIN' PETTET!”
“FAGGOT!”
“YOU STOOPID SHIT!” Roars Gossling. “YOU STOOPID FUCKIN' FAGGOT, YOU LET THAT BALL GO THROUGH, YOU FUCKIN'...”And I spit in his face and start walking off the field.
“YOU FUCKIN' SONOFABITCH!!! YOU FAGGOT! YOU STUPID, SHITTY, FUCKIN' COCKSUCKIN'...” He lands a nice, hard punch on my back.
“Let him go! Leave him alone,” hollers Coach Giras. I exit the soccer field. I sit in the dirt and think about guns.
Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2020 Molotov Editions.
This'll be my final blogpost for 2020. Hope the end of the year finds you well. Yeah, I know it's been a haul. Lost a kitty who meant the world to me. Got a new precocious little runt that looks uncannily like both him and his late sister. Lost a stepsister. Goddammit, though, I got a book published (which you should buy)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0858TY6M8?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860%22With&fbclid=IwAR1a_VhrXIvD6T8NhXdIhUG4GtBCfWNlBJmX2rNvAi_AF0tc_xB0K2GUXawand just finished writing a new one. So, blessings, curses, the whole shebangabang. Not to sound flippant over the whole thing---just the crazy ebb and flow of life.
OH---YEAH----we had an election, and the winner was....Goldman Sachs. Again. I've pretty much divorced myself from electoral politics at this point and consider it to be a destructive, worthless waste of time. In January I'll probably pen a postmortem on the 2020 spectacle and/or the Trump years in general. If you're in the tank for either Trump or Biden, know up front that I hate them both with the intensity of a thousand suns (anyone who knows me knows this) and you're probably not going to like what I have to say. Be there or be square, Juice Dogs.
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
SNIPS-LaRocca
THE ROLLING STONES-Let it Bleed
SHARKS-Jab it in Yore Eye
ALICE DONUT-The Untidy Suicides of your Degenerate Teens
