Saturday, October 5, 2013

How to Rule at Free Art Museum Day

How to Rule at Free Art Museum Day
By: David McGhee

I woke up at around six this morning and immediately checked my Facebook and Twitter. Because that's just what I do before getting out of bed. Every day. Same thing. It's because I swear when ever I get a response to something I completely flip my shit and say “Holy cock of Christ! People are interacting with me!” But most times than not it will be some shitty invite. I don't mind it when people do them. In fact I do them myself when the mood strikes me. But nothing is a bigger letdown than seeing that you have five new alerts and all of them are inviting me to some shitty party or show. I don't go out anymore people! Respect that or... Actually you can still send me invites. I don't want to be a jerk. But it does suck to see that no one responded to my witty post about a military man's penis. Ugh! What do you people want from me!?
Shh... Don't be like that. Daddy didn't mean it. Here. Come to my sweaty arm pit and I will wrap my arm around you and tell you that it's all going to be fine. It will. It just takes some time. Unless you have diarrhea, in which case things will never be fine again. And it's all your fault!
Frank was kind enough to leave me a cigarette on my book case this morning. You know. It's a case that holds books. And it's full! I need a new one. I wonder if I had two book shelves, would that mean two cigarettes in the morning? A girl can dream I suppose.
I recently got H Pylori from food poisoning. And it's all Chobani's fault! You see, a while ago they recalled some amazingly delicious vanilla yogurt that I ate before the recall went into effect. Ergo, intestinal bacteria swimming inside my uterus. Or wherever I hold that stuff. I was so sick for so long that I was starting to get used to the sickness like I did with my Hep C. With that shit you're tired all the time and you're sick all the time. It's like having a minor to medium cold every day for the rest of your life.
You see, I was a very bad heroin addict at one time. Like “Holy shit, let's hide the jewelery!” addict. Yes I stole from people and companies. I never really robbed anyone but my folks. Even then my father wouldn't press charges. If only they had gotten my Aspergers diagnosis along with the Suboxone in the first place. Man I did some stupid shit.
I remember being two bucks short and coming up to the little Honduran dealer. I rolled up the money in a ball so that he would just jam it in his pockets and not count it. I was hoping on that. But that day was destined to be a real dick slap to the face. And not the good kind of dick slap either. No, this is either a three inch penis or a five foot schlong just pounding away at my cheeks. What bullshit!
Anyways, he counted the money and he and his dealer buddies started laughing and calling me a “punto.” I'm sure that they were saying that my hair was amazing, but instinct told me that it had to be a curse word. I begged the man for just on ten dollar piece of heroin. I was in so much pain from withdrawal that I was literally crying in front of him and his compatriots. I saw them laughing and then the one that had the shit stopped smiling. He pulled a black balloon from his mouth and held it over his head. He started laughing again and he said “Bark punto!”
I felt a shot of freon course through my veins. I had never been so humiliated. But truth be told, I do it pretty often and really should just sort of shrug it off as another day at the beach. If Denver Colorado had beaches? It is literally a desert that was gentrified into a livable city. All those beautiful trees downtown? All transplants.
I did as I was told. Then he made me beg. I swear he would of asked me to hump his leg if it he had drawn it out further. He spit in my general direction and threw the black balloon far over my head and almost into the gutter.
“Adios punta!” They cackled as I was on the side of the sidewalk looking for the piece amidst all the crap that seems to accumulate near the storm drains. After a few minutes I was about to give up and just go turn myself in or something. I was in so much physical and emotional pain that I was sure I would kill myself soon. And I'd do it while in withdrawal. I swear I don't with opiate withdrawal on anyone. No matter how tall and beautiful they may be.
I went into the Arbys and smoked half of it on a piece of tin foil (because I hadn't yet discovered the joys of shooting the stuff up) and kept the other half for later. I don't know why I always did that. I would just be smoking / shooting it again as soon as I got home anyways... It's more the ritual I think. The ritual of using drugs is more times than not, the biggest thing you need to get over. The prepping of whatever you're doing brings just as much pleasure and security as actually doing the stuff.
Having no money and recently high, I decided to go pan handle downtown Denver and maybe get some money for a Jamba Juice. If you don't know who they are well it's this smoothie place that uses fresh everything for their stuff. It's sooooooooooooooooooooooo good! Even though they took it off the menu, you can still order an Orange Berry Blitz. Trust me on this. That's citrus up your ass son!
I had made two dollars when I walked up to a nice looking lady in a black baseball cap and a brown jacket. I asked her if she would have any change so that I may partake in Jamba Juice's Jamba goodness.
So instead of giving me a dollar or whatknot, she fucking slaps some cuffs on me and tells me that I'm under arrest for “aggressive panhandling.” What the fuck? I mean, I said “please” every time. It didn't have to escalate to this you know. But she was proud of her kill and I walked silently and deeply crushed. She brought me to a gaggle of plainclothes officers. They sure did look like officers too. What homeless person works out enough to have guns the size of Texas (I only use this metaphor because, as you may know, everything is bigger in Texas) I was more than intimidated by these people.
When one of them asked me if I had anything in my pockets I just up and said. “I got heroin in this pocket.” and I pointed to my left pants pocket. They first patted me down and then they went into my pockets. They found the piece of tin foil with the little piece of stuff stuck to it like molasses on a hard winter's day.
Yadda yadda yadda
So anyways, we went to the Denver Museum of Modern Art. It was their free day and we tend to like free things, so we went. In the car I read silently to myself. A little big book that goes by the title of “Stephen King's 'IT.'” Not that it's little at all. It's fucking one thousand and one hundred pages. It's a beast! And I love it! It's by far one of his better books. I was told that there will be a scene with children gang banging each other so I will keep a lookout for that. Only in my mind they'll age to post eighteen years of age and they'd all have man hair. Mmm... Man hair. More men need to show it off, because man hair is super sexy fellas!
Did you know that a man's sweat will turn on a straight girl / gay guy with his arm pit pheromones. It's true. Looking at a sweaty sexy man in a book is one thing. But to be right in front of this tall awesomely awesome dude and smell his musk up close? Fuck yeah!
I hope this doesn't make me into more of a freak. That's the last thing I need is to be demoted lower on the corporate ladder of life. I bet that that game plays more like chutes and ladders. One roll you're on your way to the top and then you slide back to the bottom. Usually with no money, no phone, and a sore bum.
From now on I'm going have to charge for my services. I'm asking two fiddy and a bag of skittles. Oh baby. Oh baby. Oh baby. Are you turned on yet? Hrmm... Neither am I. So let's look at a redheaded macho man!

Now that I've gotten your attention, we stopped at a doggy event over by the Platte River just before going to the museum. It was called “Pugs in the Park” and I was immediately drawn to their pudgy stupid gazes. Pugs should be mandatory house pets for anyone who is allergic to cats. I like to think that their pudgy pugness was one of God's many slip ups. Seriously, they look like Siamese cats only with Downs syndrome. You can sort of see it? Right?
I had a pug to my left and a pug to my right and one other pug bouncing against his / her caged fence. I had so much pug that I will be shitting black and white for a week now. Not that I ate them. That would have been just flat out rude. I'm sure you have to buy it first before you can eat'em.
It was all really just a blur after that. We wound up in the art museum and I will swear to you that I totally spaced between the puggity puggy pug pugs thing and arriving at the museum. I was totally like “What the heck?” Because I was told not to curse in the museum. There's kids in there you know...
I took out my phone and took these pictures just for you.

And then not even a fifth through with the museum... My phone died. Which is really a shame because I eventually found some nude paintings that I would of liked to have shown you. But I suppose you could just do that on Google images. I know I use that feature to look up naked male celebrities without paying to get into whatever site the picture is located on. That's the cool thing about Google. It will show you the pictures of any website for free! You just got to know how to look.
Normally I try the actor's name and then add “nude.” If that doesn't work then I also try “naked, penis, dick, covered in jams and jellies, and just all that sort of bullshit you'd expect from a juvenile.
I never felt like I grew up really. I still have this small kid's body and it pisses me off. Why couldn't I have been normal? Living with Aspergers sucks at times like these because I can't help but over think everything in the smallest details. Some hot dude looked at me at King Soopers (Kroger for you eastern folk) and I smiled back. He looked disgusted and probably went to have tall skinny person sex with some hot chick he just met because, well, straight men be sexin it up with anything that has a hole. Sadly though, this doesn't ever seem to be the case for my ass. Apparently normal men have “standards” and “set sexuality.” Fucking A! I say take your boxers off and let me take photos. Am I perverted? I don't think I am...
You see, my fascination with tall skinny men is that I wish I could be them. Darwin's evolutionary survival of the fittest thing has got me wondering many times if I would have been dead in any other era. What with all the suicide attempts and such? Back then they thought mental health issues were best dealt with in a locked institution. Geesh! And here all this time I bet you were hoping that I want to have intercourse with said men.
Nope. I am barely sexual. I swear I like never jerk off anymore. I did it tons back in my early twenties (I wouldn't touch myself in high school because I hated my body that much. It used to be that just taking my shirt off would ensue a thunderstorm of tears) but to be honest, it's really not that big of a deal anymore. So if I'm not getting sexual gratification from such things, then why do I do it? Because I like to imagine said hot men living a slutty life and using their good bodies to make more babies. Men be all slutty like that. I just wish I could be a normal 5'10”-6' 150 pound brown eyed football watching, bitch fucking, beer drinking good old boy. Even if just for a second.

I use humor a lot to deflect my hurt. So if you ever see me in a clown suit down at the mall and I'm screaming obscenities at the passing young children, you can bet your social security check that I'm just working through some problems. By being a clown that shouts mean things to children. See? Funny huh? Oh you're such a bore...

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