What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

Brain Mess


The messages are not getting though. My body is aging and my brain is pulling a Benjamin Button on me. TV is partly to blame with all of the men’s hair dye commercials. Take a little gray out and suddenly ole cracker hips can skateboard around an empty swimming pool. Bah! My sidekick has been getting me deep into a bottle of Advil lately, so I have been taking note of the conversations.

“Hey! Hey, Body.”
“What?”
“Let’s go to Palm Springs and play four baseball games over the weekend. It will be fun. We can throw, run, slide, and then go drink lots of margaritas with our buddies.”
Three days later: “Ow. Ow, OW, ow. Maybe if I elevate my feet my joints won’t hurt so much.”

“Hey, Body. The young ladies are out tonight. Yay! Let’s do shots with them. Come on. Oh, and buy a bottle of bubbles—girlies love them and bubbles go well with shots.”
“I don’t think my liver can handle it.”
“Don’t be such a buzz-kill. You can do shots and not lose control.”
The next morning: “Did anyone get the number of that bus? My mouth is full of lemon flavored cotton and my eyeballs hurt.”

“Wow, Body, check out those jeans. They’re cool!”
“They have holes in them.”
“That’s the style. Try them on.”
“Well, they’re comfortable, but they’re slim-fit. Aren’t they a bit tight?”
“Nah.”
That night: “Yo, Justin Bieber, are you going to grow out your bangs too? Nice cock bulge, Meat.”

“You can jog down the beach with her. How hard can that be?”
“I’ve only been running on the treadmill. She does marathons. This could be embarrassing.”
“Stop it. She’s a chick, damn it. You can keep up.”
During the run:
“Are you OK? You look kind of purple.”
“No … I’m … fine.” [Hands on knees, gasping for air.] “Medic!”

“She has been talking to you all night. Take her home and make sweet love.”
“No.”
“Don’t be a pussy. At least get her number.”
“What if she rejects me?”
“I can take rejection. Go for it!”
After she leaves, with her number: “See? I told you she was just being friendly.”
“Oh my god. This body is old and undesirable. Can I get a transplant?”

“It’s a buffet, for crying out loud. You’re eating a salad?”
“I’m a biscotti short of two hundred, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“But, it’s a buffet featuring all the Cajun shrimp and prime rib you can eat. You can burn it off.”
Next day at the gym: “This scale can’t be right. Maybe my sneakers are heavy. That’s it—I’m going on a damn grapefruit diet.”

“The band is great and they’re coming to town. Get good seats so you can see.”
“I don’t know. There’s probably going to be a mosh pit and I’ve heard the band is loud, live.”
“There’s no sense in attending a concert and sitting in the back. Come on.”
Next morning after no sleep: “[Diiiiiiiiiing.] I think I broke my eardrums. Ugh. I can still smell that awful mix of beer, pot, and fog machine. What was I thinking?”
I need to have a self-intervention.

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