Hostess Fruit Pie Power + Eulogy to a Stillborn Night
When I was a kid, there was a bookstore a few blocks from home. It was located in one of the many strip malls that dotted Buffalo Grove Road. The store was kind of ramshackle, something you'd expect in some north side Chicago location, not suburbia, but it didn't give off that ethereal charm expected from most used book stores. The store was queened over by this fat lady whose pores oozed prima-donna snobbery. She had brown, greasy hair, which hung over her face like cuts of meat dangling from some ceiling beam, and squinty eyes red from pouring over too many stained-leafed romance novel. I don't remember if she actually walked around her store. I think her bulbous blob simply rooted behind the counter, giving her ample opportunity to glare at anyone who might be browsing through her wares. I tried not to stop in there for fear of her oily glance. When she looked at me, I felt like I had been thrown headfirst into a tub of processed hog lard. But, one afternoon, my sister decided that she wanted to exchange some of her books for other books. That was/is common policy at any used bookstore. Since Fat Lady's used bookstore was the closest in the area, we went in there. There was some hubbub, which was not clarified to me until later, but apparently the book-bitch would only accept exchanges for like-books. So, my sister could not trade her books for fatter books, only children's books. Babysitter's club begets babysitter's club.
That nonsense did not interest me. I wanted comic books and bought a whole stack for about twenty-five cents each comic. Most of these comics were well over thirty years old. I did not realize it at the time, but I had stumbled over some kind of comic gold mine. I regret not keeping them. They would've been worth a fortune, but probably not, since I spent much time reading them and putting my kid-grease all over the pages.
The ads in the comics were quite amusing. There was one ad in particular which I enjoyed; the Hostess junk ads. Hostess ads would feature a comic book hero, usually of the Marvel variety, attempting to fight some adversary but failing until Hostess was consumed. The magical power of the Hostess would enable the hero to achieve whatever. A pop-culture demon such as myself (At least pop-culture from the 80s, 90s), adores such advertising gems. Even now, I occasionally quip that something cannot be done until I have Real Hostess Fruit Pie Power.
Well, today was spent attempting to clean my apartment. Flippy is coming tomorrow and I'd rather her not see the refuse of four men. Unfortunately, cleaning is not my bag and for the most part, I've been rather lackadaisal about what I should be doing. I managed to get some laundry done, and the floor in my room is actually blue, although copper is strewn about. Pennies have a tendency to breed. I need to figure out how to get my quarters and my twenties to breed as well. In spite of aborted money breeding attempts and at least an hour playing video games, cleaning was slowly underway. At each junction in my cleaning thorough-way, I found an excuse to not proceed. Obviously, a source of energy was need. I needed REAL HOSTESS FRUIT PIE POWER.
Real Hostess Fruit Pie Power was available at the local gas station for only $1.09. I went with the premise of acquiring more quarters for laundry (Note to self: maybe quarters are gay) and spent some time staring at the Hostess section. There were three fruit pies available, and I think they've been there for quite some time. Much like wine, the powers of Hostess fruit tends to accumulate as shelf life passes. Were I to eat one, I would most likely be transformed into a being of pure, omnipotent power. I had to think about this carefully. Would I use my powers for good or evil? Would I be able to completely metabolize all 500 calories without growing jumblies? Would I ever find my one true love? The possibilities were mind-boggling and I shifted around the gas station looking for answers, or at least more quarters. After a few minutes of agonizing thought, I realized that someone would have to be man enough to eat old fruit pie, and that someone would have to be me.
Surprisingly, the fruit pie was very good. The crust was all glazed and shit, and the insides were sweet and strangely fluid, much like oil is after it has been gleaned from an engine's vein. I finished it quickly, outside, like all food should be. That was a half hour ago. I'm still waiting for my REAL HOSTESS FRUIT PIE POWERS. I think they'll kick in any moment now. I'd like mind control. That would be a blast.
"George W. Bush. This is Jesus speaking."
"Jesus?! In my head? Great googly-moogly!"
"I want you to balance the budget, reduce the deficit, strengthen the dollar, provide universal health care, and read a damned book every so often."
"Um, Jesus?"
"Yes, my son."
"These are not the droids you're looking for." *runs*
Hmm. Could happen.
-------------
Ever have one of those nights where everything seems to fall apart? Yeah, last night was one of those nights. The night was pregnant with possibilities, but in the end, it birthed a stillborn.
The fraternity was having an exchange. Basically, a bunch of sorority girls come over and get wild and shit. The theme was Pajamas. Girls were expected to wear something revealing. I donned my trusty plaid pants and wife-beater, picked up a forty (King Cobra, I bow to you), and thwaped the house with both feet down. The house was abuzz, beer flowed, and I was unable to drink any. An hour before, I had made a thick deep-dish pizza. Apparently the deep dish was deeply in my stomach and no beer was going to make it down.
I can handle not drinking. Although a bit of drink is nice, it is not necessary, provided there are women and dances. At about eleven, both women and dances were gone and the night seemed dead. Blondie and I tried to salvage what we could by heading to the local dance club. Normally, I love dance clubs and I dance as often as I can, but for some reason tonight, my body did not want to dance. I had to force myself to go through the motions, and when you're forcing yourself to dance, you're not actually dancing as much as you're moving around weirdly. If I have to force myself to dance, something's wrong. And, although I usually don't care about approaching girls from behind and dancing with them, for some reason, I was timid. I think it's that I didn't really want to dance with anyone and my mind knew that, so it denied me a potential partner.
I skulked out of 110 a few minutes before closing and headed home. Once home, Kapo told me about a party at one of the local frat houses. I really didn't want to turn in for the night, but felt that something had to happen otherwise this particular Thursday would've been one of the most horrid of the year.
I probably should have stayed in. The AGR house was much too crowded for a sober Jon. Every time people bumped into me, and plenty did, I felt the need to eviscerate them. After an hour of pushing people away, jail time seemed worth the utter glee I would have experienced after ripping some poor guy's entrails out with my teeth. It's a good thing that Kapo and I high-tailed it out of that place after a bit. We ended up at some girl's apartment, listening to a guy with a serious Napoleon complex bitch about some asshole and some fucknut.
Yeah. A stillborn night. Everyone's gotta have them. Balances out all the good weekends.
-----
Wonderjons unite! Form of...
That nonsense did not interest me. I wanted comic books and bought a whole stack for about twenty-five cents each comic. Most of these comics were well over thirty years old. I did not realize it at the time, but I had stumbled over some kind of comic gold mine. I regret not keeping them. They would've been worth a fortune, but probably not, since I spent much time reading them and putting my kid-grease all over the pages.
The ads in the comics were quite amusing. There was one ad in particular which I enjoyed; the Hostess junk ads. Hostess ads would feature a comic book hero, usually of the Marvel variety, attempting to fight some adversary but failing until Hostess was consumed. The magical power of the Hostess would enable the hero to achieve whatever. A pop-culture demon such as myself (At least pop-culture from the 80s, 90s), adores such advertising gems. Even now, I occasionally quip that something cannot be done until I have Real Hostess Fruit Pie Power.
Well, today was spent attempting to clean my apartment. Flippy is coming tomorrow and I'd rather her not see the refuse of four men. Unfortunately, cleaning is not my bag and for the most part, I've been rather lackadaisal about what I should be doing. I managed to get some laundry done, and the floor in my room is actually blue, although copper is strewn about. Pennies have a tendency to breed. I need to figure out how to get my quarters and my twenties to breed as well. In spite of aborted money breeding attempts and at least an hour playing video games, cleaning was slowly underway. At each junction in my cleaning thorough-way, I found an excuse to not proceed. Obviously, a source of energy was need. I needed REAL HOSTESS FRUIT PIE POWER.
Real Hostess Fruit Pie Power was available at the local gas station for only $1.09. I went with the premise of acquiring more quarters for laundry (Note to self: maybe quarters are gay) and spent some time staring at the Hostess section. There were three fruit pies available, and I think they've been there for quite some time. Much like wine, the powers of Hostess fruit tends to accumulate as shelf life passes. Were I to eat one, I would most likely be transformed into a being of pure, omnipotent power. I had to think about this carefully. Would I use my powers for good or evil? Would I be able to completely metabolize all 500 calories without growing jumblies? Would I ever find my one true love? The possibilities were mind-boggling and I shifted around the gas station looking for answers, or at least more quarters. After a few minutes of agonizing thought, I realized that someone would have to be man enough to eat old fruit pie, and that someone would have to be me.
Surprisingly, the fruit pie was very good. The crust was all glazed and shit, and the insides were sweet and strangely fluid, much like oil is after it has been gleaned from an engine's vein. I finished it quickly, outside, like all food should be. That was a half hour ago. I'm still waiting for my REAL HOSTESS FRUIT PIE POWERS. I think they'll kick in any moment now. I'd like mind control. That would be a blast.
"George W. Bush. This is Jesus speaking."
"Jesus?! In my head? Great googly-moogly!"
"I want you to balance the budget, reduce the deficit, strengthen the dollar, provide universal health care, and read a damned book every so often."
"Um, Jesus?"
"Yes, my son."
"These are not the droids you're looking for." *runs*
Hmm. Could happen.
-------------
Ever have one of those nights where everything seems to fall apart? Yeah, last night was one of those nights. The night was pregnant with possibilities, but in the end, it birthed a stillborn.
The fraternity was having an exchange. Basically, a bunch of sorority girls come over and get wild and shit. The theme was Pajamas. Girls were expected to wear something revealing. I donned my trusty plaid pants and wife-beater, picked up a forty (King Cobra, I bow to you), and thwaped the house with both feet down. The house was abuzz, beer flowed, and I was unable to drink any. An hour before, I had made a thick deep-dish pizza. Apparently the deep dish was deeply in my stomach and no beer was going to make it down.
I can handle not drinking. Although a bit of drink is nice, it is not necessary, provided there are women and dances. At about eleven, both women and dances were gone and the night seemed dead. Blondie and I tried to salvage what we could by heading to the local dance club. Normally, I love dance clubs and I dance as often as I can, but for some reason tonight, my body did not want to dance. I had to force myself to go through the motions, and when you're forcing yourself to dance, you're not actually dancing as much as you're moving around weirdly. If I have to force myself to dance, something's wrong. And, although I usually don't care about approaching girls from behind and dancing with them, for some reason, I was timid. I think it's that I didn't really want to dance with anyone and my mind knew that, so it denied me a potential partner.
I skulked out of 110 a few minutes before closing and headed home. Once home, Kapo told me about a party at one of the local frat houses. I really didn't want to turn in for the night, but felt that something had to happen otherwise this particular Thursday would've been one of the most horrid of the year.
I probably should have stayed in. The AGR house was much too crowded for a sober Jon. Every time people bumped into me, and plenty did, I felt the need to eviscerate them. After an hour of pushing people away, jail time seemed worth the utter glee I would have experienced after ripping some poor guy's entrails out with my teeth. It's a good thing that Kapo and I high-tailed it out of that place after a bit. We ended up at some girl's apartment, listening to a guy with a serious Napoleon complex bitch about some asshole and some fucknut.
Yeah. A stillborn night. Everyone's gotta have them. Balances out all the good weekends.
-----
Wonderjons unite! Form of...
posted by Jon at 2:15 PM
2 Comments:
Yet another great entry! Keep writing, man!
-mick
viva la jon
rich
Post a Comment
<< Home