Palm Frights

My facial hair is three to four days long, just beginning to soften after its rough brillo phase. Stray cat hairs and random dust cluster in the velcro hooks puncturing my epidermis like a cheaply constructed lint roller. I keep picking at my face, pulling away nothing, still feeling begrimed. A phantom feeling like a cellphone buzz signaling nothing. I palm my face. If your hand is bigger than your face then you’re going to get cancer. It’s not true, but kids would tell that to each other so when the other one, confused and fearful, attempts to discover if he/she is doomed to be a cancer victim, the other one, waiting for the perfect moment, pushes the kid’s hand full into their face smashing them in the nose, bewildering them. And laughing.

It’s all a big joke. Like unbreakable watches, unbreakable hearts and Unbreakable*, the movie starring Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson.

*Actually, that one was good.

Sunday night musings

A wasted Sunday gets in your brain. You question the point of existence and the imminently liberal use of 2nd person. You recline in your bed with plans to go to sleep early, but you tire yourself awake. You read a paperback, web surf, play with your pubes at length, feeling the coarseness, pulling at tufts like weeds, trying to discern if this one is longer than that one, checking your junk for oddities, taking in pleasure in the meditative act of blind, platonic fondling. No boners (or female equivalents) here. It’s your body, your mind. You lay so long you feel as if your limbs are frozen and movement of any sudden sort, while inevitable, will inevitably cause some tendon to snap. Visions of surgery, traction, sweaty-browed rehab. You remember shaking a leg out hokey-pokey style earlier in the day, wondering whether the unexpected noise that sprouted from the joint was the sound of severe ligament damage or a nearby car crash. You shook it again to be sure, it was seemingly intact, no harm done, but you know that’s false certainty. The damage is done indeed, like listening to music at rock concert levels as a kid, the hidden debilitation is biding its time to go into effect. Like dementia or impotence. You think humans should probably only have a 50-year lifespan, but what about all that’s been achieved by people after age 50. Maybe your best is yet to come. Selfish. Pathetic. Just another excuse to be lazy, waiting for the gravy train. Enough indulging. You move. It hurts, like hell for a long second, but nothing breaks, nothing’s broken. The subtle tears can heal. You’re not done, you’ve got more left in the tank, which reminds you, the car needs gas, and you’re out of eggs, people are dying, Wednesday’s going to be nice, a friend left a random voicemail, you pet a dog’s soft fur, you wipe your ass, you tire yourself asleep. You wake up.

God made dirt

I’m from the north. Years ago during lunchtime, a colleague (he was from the south) dropped some food on the floor. He picked it back up. He held it to his mouth, preparing to eat it. I asked if he was going to eat it. He said, “God made dirt, it won’t hurt,” and ate it.

I laughed hard. Excessively so. I laughed like this guy I used to work with at Blockbuster Video. He laughed really hard. The dumbest, lamest jokes had him doubled over, splitting a gut. If he laughed at your joke you earned nothing. You had no idea if you were being funny. And when he inevitably laughed at someone else’s pathetic offering, you hated him.

I laughed like that. First, it was the rhyme. I appreciate a good rhyme. Second, it was the simplicity of it all. Third, I’d never heard that expression before, and I laughed at how sheltered I apparently was in my northeastern enclave.

That colleague also said stuff like, “He was on her like a duck on a June bug.”

We never said such fun things in my home, growing up.

Last night I went to brush my teeth. There was an inch-long hair poking out from the bristles. It wasn’t mine. It was too short to be my wife’s. There’s something inherently disgusting about any thing being attached to your toothbrush. It’s holy ground. The hair was too straight to be a pube. It was probably the cat’s hair.

I pulled it out, flicked it away and brushed my teeth.

God made dirt.

Love in the time of the singularity

Maybe in the future we won’t fuck anymore. Just touch our heads together. Our heads growing bigger and more powerful. Everything tied up in those neurons, all sensory perception barricaded there. All nerve endings migrating to our temples. And when two heads, propped up on mechanical, android bodies because our hollow skeletal bones are insufficient for the task, touch, those ‘beings’ will orgasm simultaneously. Feel united, complete. That will be love. No heartache no despair no cock thrusting and depositing semen. No quivering vaginal walls. Just skin, two patches of skin, residing directly external to the prefrontal cortex, connecting at an atomic level, conducting electrical impulses, messages, communicating infinite adoration.

Stream of Conscious-piss

First things first, in the morning, stand up, Achilles pain, should stretch my calf while I graze grass and suck at the power teat of my milk-producing moo mom, my moomy,  Mumm-Ra was the bad guy on Thundercats which surprisingly hasn’t been made into a movie, they’re remaking The Mummy, the Brendan Fraser one, now with Tom Cruise, but no Thundercats, no Voltron, no by the power of grayskull I have the gray matter remember that from Breaking Bad, Walter White and the other guy’s last name was Black, combined it was gray, which reminds me of Clear & Present Danger, not black or white, right or wrong, and I told about equality and it’s true either you’re wrong or you’re right, Bob Barker spinning the big wheel, sexually harassing chicks, but he’s old and white and privileged, what do you expect, I like the spinning tea cup ride at Disney or maybe I don’t, maybe it’s too spinny, from parade pinwheels to kids doing cartwheels, fart-meals fart-meals fart-meals, breathe in the sulfurous eggs, my soul-Fast-and-Furious, along with my tinkles in the toilet like a porcelain piccolo staccato Chicken Piccata topped with the Great Muppet capers and some Lemony Snicket, that’s another book/movie I don’t care about like oxygen and air and breathing and flush it all down, flush away the toxins, flush away the memories, flush away the flesh, the weak flesh soft and pliant and compliant and giant too many giants, Andre, the Iron, the BFG, that James Dean movie from the 50s, he’s dead, I haven’t seen it, anyone want a peanut?

A spoonful of sugar

“Pass the piss stash,” he said.

“The what?” She asked, while he laughed at his own immaturity. His laughter annoyed her, it was too late for such a high-pitched squeal.

“The pistachio gelato.” She looked at him with reproach. “Pleaseeeee.”

She opened the freezer and pulled out a clear plastic container made mint-green from the dessert inside. The label on the container read Sicilian Pistachio. She passed it to him.

Holding the container in one hand, he turned and grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer with the other. He leaned against the counter and twisted the cap off.

“I wonder if the pistachios are from Sicily or if Sicilian refers to the style of the preparation,” he said.

She left the kitchen without comment.

A.M. Prose

The moon’s risen up there hidden behind opaque sheaths, halfway towards disappearing for good. The bed calls, unmade, creased sheets and a folded over comforter. I fight back sleep, eyes open, replaying a fever dream, awake, rummaging through cabinets and cupboards, searching for something to consume. An undisturbed glass of water is visible on the kitchen table, left behind, lukewarm. I chug it to 1/8th full. Leave the rest, ever the optimist. Blurry vision. Reminder to make an appointment with an optometrist. But I have eye drops in my backpack, top pocket. Screwcap, plastic wrapper. Sanitary. Skip the doctor’s appointment, health insurance won’t kick in 80% until I hit my deductible, anyway. Another hour begins. Water down to 1/16. Halving it over and over until math becomes a flat line. The cat plays with a toy in the background.

The Night Owl Dozeth, Eventually

It’s always after midnight when the first thought of sleep even creeps into my mind. The previous day’s hours had appeared and disappeared steadily like passing streetlights on a drive towards darkness. When it arrives, I cast it aside and face the fullness of night, wondering, thoughts wandering, guilty of squandering, not ready to give up.

Nonapology Not Accepted

At first MacTuber felt obliged to apologize on behalf of the entire Rehashed Potatoes Family for the inaugural post by SpudWeb, which was as pleasurable to read as shoving a brick up your own butt. But fuck that, Rehashed Potatoes is not into apologies. I believe it was Cicero who said, anything is a dildo if you’re brave enough. And if nothing else, brave readers you are. Welcome. We fly by the seat of our vintage 100 year-old potato sack pantaloons here at Rehashed Potatoes. Two good authors who once knew better words now only rehashing four-letter words and blogging prose. Anything goes.