on being late, cats slapping each other, and nude modeling
Iâm one of those guys whoâs late for good reasons. For example this morning I knew I had an 11 AM photo shoot with the fiancĂŠ artist. I knew it would take exactly 30 minutes to drive down to town and get changed into my suit then slip into my snake boots and begin the shoot, but what was I doing at 10:30? I had the Iphone out and was putting the wire with two dicks into the phone-vagina and the computer-vagina at once to try and do some transacting of computer data-sperm. This, you see, was a good cause. I knew that after the fancy-shoot Iâd skip on down to shitpark, just across the tracks, and push around on the brandy new features that the boys just built (a smooth-as-ice ledge just below knee high, a steep little bank/hip with some angle iron on top that will look you in the eye and call you a bitch then slap you down onto the lumpy concrete if your body -or your ego- oversteps the bounds of confidence and grace like an inmate asking for an extra pudding cup, and a mellow ass quarter pipe with a sly-scooping inch of vert at the top that sends your board sky high and makes taking anything to fakie quite intimidating). So I wanted to upload some tunes to my Iphone that would treat me right on my hot and humid journey. I just downloaded this fuckin mewsic but I couldnât upload it without getting rid of some photos and videos because my poor incapable smart phone was too engorged with data to take on any more. I began to upload the videos and photos to dropbox (because my computer is just as engorged as my phone, and much older) when I realized that the whole process would take half an hour! Then I realized I only had 20 minutes to get to the shoot! So I pulled out all the digi-dicks from their female counterparts and slammed into my P.O.S. Toyota and worked her tired and clanking engine all the way down to town in a record-breaking 22 minutes and 47 seconds. I spent the next two hours standing perfectly still in front of a green screen, pointing a mystical blue gaze into the long and penetrating lense of a Nikon D800 trying not to flinch, sway or fart while dressed in the traditional fashion of a puritan governor in 1550. This was my second modeling job. My career is really taking off. Anyway, I got a serious case of swamp ass wearing some knee-high snake boots and decided it was time to lather myself in sunscreen. Yea the sun was nigh upon noon, and mine ears were pink as a ripe pigâs cock. With the freedom of time and my own (21st century) clothing (krew jeans, 99% spandex) I sprang across the train tracks and down the rocky hill to the patch of concrete duly-dubbed âShitparkâ. The same homies who are always there were there, smoking their Marlboro filters. One, the understood âso goodâ kid, was doing wallie-back tails on the previously mentioned ledge. He also did a back blunt to nose manual that looked like something Chris Bradshaw would do to a flat box. Please excuse this flagrant inter-boardsport comparison; itâs just so necessary because the styles sometimes blend. This little baggy-pantsed dude was sliding blunt on two wheels when all of the sudden his front wheels smacked to the deck and glided all the way to the end with a mild pop off to show that he knew his deed was righteous. I flicked shuvits around and contemplated frontside nosegrinds feeling happy as hell because I was surrounded by good skateboarders who didnât judge their counterparts by the number of flip tricks they have in their arsenals. They were the kind of dirt bags who will welcome anybody into their homes so long as their willing to get drunk off cheap booze and burn a refrigerator on a Wednesday. Just the people you want around when youâre rolling on four wheels in Shitpark. The little homies came around too, all together, like they just got out of school but itâs mid-August. First thing one of them said to me was âare these your cigarettes?â Little guy couldnât have been thirteen years old and he cheefed a Marb 27 like a cherry flavored freeze pop. âWe just got the cops called on usâ the punk of the group bragged, âfor buying a frigginâ soda!â I called him out on this preposterous claim. âNo, tell the truth,â I said. âPeople like it when you give them money. You got the cops called on you for being little fuckinâ punks.â He grinned and said, âyeah, well we were trying to fill our water bottles with soda from the fountain at subway. I thought the soda was supposed to be free, so whatever!â His friend piped up, âyeah so the guy got real mad and made me pay for mine, so then we went back later for a free refill, âcause youâre supposed to get free refills, and he called the cops on us.â I left them to order each other around like meatheads and went to get my free motha-fuckin-sandwich. Thatâs right. The first paycheck of my modeling career was a turkey-pesto sandwich paid for by a man named Bear, who said âjust go down and tell them I got you, thanks for doing the shoot.â So I got my sandwich and a delicious Iced coffee, and then decided to pop back into the studio to give him my thanks. Little did I know, this photographer was in the middle of yet another shoot of a much more racy nature. As soon as my head popped through the door that girlâs arms were wrapped around her bare chest and she gave me a look that only rapists and kidnappers should ever deserve. I apologized profusely for interrupting the creative process. She was naked for the art. I was hungry, and didnât know any better. I hope she forgives me. I definitely got the better end of the bargainâŚMy stomach nourished and my eyes enlivened by such a beautiful sight, I drove my shit-can back home and enjoyed an evening ofâŚwhat did I do this evening anyway?
