Metalkabout Merry Birthday

When people first heard the news, they said: "Congratulations! How wonderful." And it was.

But then, eventually, they'd ask the one question you couldn't answer: "Who's the father?" But you dare not answer with the truth. If you did, you'd be seen as a whore, and you'd be cast out into the night to walk the desert, possibly even be pushed up against a wall and stoned to death. You were smarter than that. So you did what anyone in your shoes would do: you lied, telling everyone it was your husband, Joseph, who fathered the child, not God.

And that was that.

And, in a way, you weren't lying. In a way, you didn't exactly know. You thought you knew, made an attempt to believe you knew, even convinced yourself that you did know. Joseph was the boy's true daddy. All rationalizations were based on faith, not concrete evidence. Evidence that would easily be afforded today, what with modern technology and all making DNA so incredibly easy to pinpoint. And in pinpointing, all signs would've led up — as in high above in the heavens above. Because God was your baby's daddy.

You see, you're Jesus' mommy. And even though you didn't exactly know it then, you were doing the world a great service. Your son saved the world. No small feat, for sure, but one he did willingly and still does today.

So sinners can keep on sinning. And idiots like me can keep writing stupid shit like this. Even on Christmas day.

So thanks, Mary, for bringing Jesus into the world. Merry Christmas.

Happy birthday, baby Jesus.

And even though I didn't get you a gift this year, thanks a lot for the new sweater. It's my new fave.

Peace, world.

Metalkabout 'twas the night before Christmas

... And all through the house, not a creature was stirring ... because everyone was wide awake, giddy from the news you'd just delivered.

Everyone except your uncle Bob, who'd just flown in from Seattle for the holidays. He was too busy outside drinking eggnog and chopping wood for the fire. So he missed your big announcement. And when he asked you to repeat what you'd told everyone else, you seemingly ignored him and continued jumping up and down, giddy from the news yourself.

"Will someone please tell me what's so exciting?" he pleaded. "Oh no! Did aunt Charlene light one of her farts on fire again? Damn it! I flew halfway across the country and missed a classic Charlene blue flame? Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Your uncle Bob stomped his feet. Still, no one answered him, even those who heard him whine like a little girl who'd just gotten mud on the dress she was going to wear to midnight mass. So there he stood, in the middle of the living room, while the rest of your family danced around you in celebration of the news of your most wonderful gift.

It's the kind of gift that will make all other gifts you receive for Christmas fail in comparison. It's a real winner, this gift. It's something you're certain will be hard to top for years to come.

It's the gift you've been hoping and praying for for years now. It's the gift that will one day say: "Merry Christmas, mommy and daddy."

It's an awesome gift indeed.

Peace & Love to all you bozos out there. I'm gonna be a daddy.

Oh fuck ... now what?

Metalkabout how you know you have the patience of a saint

Your phone rings constantly, as most people's do. If you had to count, you'd guess it's at somewhere around a million times over the course of ten years.

Most of these calls are from sales jerks selling subscriptions to magazines you've never heard of or wouldn't read, or they say they're calling on behalf of a charity organization you've never heard of or couldn't give two shits about. Most days, you quietly say no thanks and hang up.

But today some cold-calling son of a bitch wouldn't take no for an answer. When he asked you if you wanted to open a free checking account in exchange for the world's best Teflon pans, you paused, then said, "No thank you." When he persisted, you paused, then said, "No, really, but thank you." When he offered you two sets of pans and a set of kitchen knives and a cheese grater just for opening the account today, you paused, then said, "Listen, jackass, how many ways do I have to say no before you get the hint?"

"The sheet here says six, ma'am," he said.

"It says I have to say 'no' six times before you leave me the fuck alone?" you questioned.

"That's what the sheet says, ma'am."

"So how many are we at right now?" you asked.

"That last one was number three, ma'am."

"Alright. Fire number four at me, then. What are you offering?"

"Uh, sorry, ma'am, I'm not entirely sure," he said.

"What do you mean you're not entirely sure?" you asked.

"Well, ma'am, you see ... you're the first customer to ever hang in there long enough for me to get past the third offer. Most people hang up on me after number two or three."

"So why don't we do this: When you find a fourth, fifth, and six reason for me to say 'no' to you, give me a ring back, OK?" you said.

"Sounds good, ma'am," he said.

"Bye now," you said.

"Good bye, ma'am," he said.

Gosh you're so patient.

Metalkabout pigeon ... shit

You went to see God today. You see him almost every week now, ever since your wife, Trisha, left you for Stanley Gottisman, the local Snap-On Tool salesman who's banged just about every one of your neighbors' wives ... and now yours.

But old Stanley wasn't happy just tapping into your beloved wife's ass, he fell in love with her and convinced her to leave you the first chance she could.

That chance came seventeen days, five hours, and thirty-three minutes ago, when you broke one of her favorite mixing bowls while doing the dishes.

When Trisha heard the snap of the bowl, she ran up behind you, looked over your shoulder down into the sink, and then cracked you on the back of the head, with that 3.5 carat wedding band you bought her twelve years ago. Then she said: "You've gotta be kidding me, Charlie. They don't make those bowls anymore. Now what am I going to do? Now how am I going to mix my famous chocolate chip cookies, the ones your fat, fucking father devours every Christmas day? You're a putts, you know that, Charlie? A real dope. I'm done. I'm taking the kids and I'm leaving. It's over, Charlie. You and me, we're through."

And just like that, she left.

And, unbeknownst to you, she's been shacking up with old Stanley the tool guy. He even has your daughters, Gina and Terry, calling him daddy. Oh yeah, it's bad.

Meanwhile, ever since that horrid day your marriage came to screeching halt, you've been going to church, praying to god that your wife comes back to you.

And that's where you were headed today, when, as you opened the door to St. Francis, a pigeon shit on your shoulder. It was a wet shit, so it splattered all over the place, including the corner of your eye, blinding and disorienting you so much that you fell back down the stairs and landed on your head, in the exact same spot where Trish hit you seventeen days ago.

You're still there, looking up at the sky, wondering what the hell just happened to you, as blood oozes from your cracked-open skull and runs down the street.

And as you fade in and out of consciousness, you keep asking yourself: I know when a bird shits on me it's good luck. But a bird shit on me while I was opening the door to church. And then I fell. And now I'm dying. Does that mean God's mad at me? Or am I going to have good luck in heaven?

Trish ... where are you, babe?

Your obituary will read: Charlie Steed, beloved husband, father, and a church-going man, was shit on by a pigeon and dyed as a result of it.

Fucking pigeons.

Metalkabout barfly the savior of man

You tied one on again last night. Just like the night before that. And the night before that. And so on. Because you were on duty — you were working. You chose this bar because it was new. And "new" in your line of work is a good thing. All around were new faces, new stories, new laughs, new accents, new people. All around, as you sat with your Jack and Coke in your left hand and your can of Bud in your right hand, you saw faces of people you'd never met — stories you'd never heard. You were in the company of strangers. Complete and utter no-names in your book, which is a big, thick, black, tattered book with the names of all the people you've ever had a drink with in bars around the country.

In bars just like this one.

You waited for someone to pull up the stool next to you. You waited to add another person's name to the big book that's bound together with layer-upon-layer of clear packing tape and held closed by an old shoestring you took off a boot you found on the side of the road in New Mexico. No one came by to have that drink last night, unfortunately. There was this one guy, a Vietnam Vet (or so he said), who took a seat and ordered a shot of whiskey. He glanced in your direction, saying, "Here's mud in those fucking gooks' eyes, mister," and then knocked the shot back, slammed the glass on the bar, and walked away, making sure to leave you with a few parting words: "Ah ... fuck it — fuck it all!"

You would've loved to put him in your book — he looked like he belonged — but you never did catch his name. Oh well. "Here's mud in your eye, fella," you muttered, raising your Jack and Coke and taking a stiff drink. Nothing better.

It wasn't always like this, though. You've been filling that book of names for the past twenty-five years. And each one represents a person's story. Maybe they were in need of an ear to bend that particular night. Or perhaps they just wanted to sit by someone and have a quiet drink. People up north tend to brood and sit in silence like that. You like it up there. You've given a lot of hugs in the Northwest. Sixty-five in Seattle alone last year. Those people are warm — their stories are your favorite to listen to. The midwest is toughest for a guy in your line of work. Those Mormons got a lot to say — some real sad stories, too — but they're always looking to see if you're the prophet in disguise. It always breaks your heart to tell them you're not. The way you see it, those mormons could take a lesson or two from the folks in the southern bible belt, which is to say they never mix booze with talk of the bible. But then, it's your job to listen ... and drink, not to preach. So whatever the needs of the people who choose to sit next to you, you've always been there for them.

Your book is living proof of your contribution to the sanity of all citizens. You drink to listen and console and relieve people of their stresses and woes.

You drink to save the human race.

And up until last night, you've been doing a fine job.

Consider last night a little break. You're sure to have more stories. After all, there will never be a shortage of thirsty people in the world.

Here's mud in your eye.

Metalkabout judgment day

You were driving down the road today in Red Hook, Brooklyn, singing at the top of your lungs along to Whitney Houston's new jam, when this asshole cut you off and almost caused you to hit the medium. "What the fuck, homey!?!" you yelled, as if he could hear you. "You make me crash my girlfriend's car and I'll fucking kill you, you motherfucker!"

The car came from the direction of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, so you assumed the guy behind the wheel was one of those tight asses from Manhattan, probably, the Upper East Side or Tribeca or NOHO. This pissed you off even more. And then the tight ass from Manhattan kept riding his break, stopping and starting at the corner of every street. And that pissed you off even more. He was obviously lost and looking for a specific place. But you didn't care. In fact, it made you go ape shit.

"You motherfucker!" you yelled with your head sticking out the window. "I'm going to fucking kill you!", pounding on the steering wheel to punctuate your angry words.

Seeing blood, you swerved to the left and gunned the engine so you could get around the guy and cut him off. You were going to break HIS fucking face, yelling, "I'm going to break your motherfucking face, you motherfucker!"

You passed the car and swerved to the right to cut it off. Just then, though, the guy stopped the car and threw it into reverse. This pissed you off even more. But what pissed you off even more than what had just pissed you off even more ... was that the look on his face told you one thing: he was completely unaware that you were looking to beat his ass. He had no clue that you, just like a ten-year-old boy cracks open a piñata on his birthday, were looking to open his skull with the little Yankee bat you got on bat day at the stadium and keep under the seat of your girlfriend's car.

But then he turned toward you, giving you a good look at his face, and what you saw was less about his age and more about the white collar he wore around his neck. He was a priest. And what he did next will haunt you forever: He waved and rolled down the window, saying, "Excuse me, young man, I'm sorry for almost killing you ... but I'm lost — and I'm late for mass. Do you know where St. Agnus is?"

You're a big asshole. And now one of God's messengers knows it.

Good luck explaining that on judgment day, fella.

Metalkabout just desserts things

You stood up, making sure to look each person seated around you in the eye, and said: "Hi. My name is Terrance Tittlewonder and ... I'm a hack."

"Hello, Terrance," was the response from The Habitual Liars Action Support Group, or THLASG as you like to call it.

You then went on to tell them your story of woe. But what's sad to you isn't exactly sad to others. Especially when they're sack-of-shit liars themselves. You've spent your entire life lying and cheating and "borrowing" the ideas of those around you. You did this because you're the son of the son of the son whose father was Charles Caleb Colton, the infamous 19th-Century scholar who coined the now-famous phrase: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Although it was he whose work was stolen back then. Now, it's you who steals. And you flatter your victims to get away with it.

And it works. Which is something you can attest to. Because for the past twenty-two years, you've been flattering every poor sap you've stolen from.

The worst was your friend Russel. When he invented the doggy door, you ran to the U.S. Patent Office and filed a similar idea first. It was exactly the same as Russel's idea, the only real difference being a door that swings from left to right, not up and down like his. When Russel found out and confronted you, you said, "Russ, buddy, I was on the verge of a similar idea when you had your eureka moment. It's what 'inspired' me to come up with my idea. So thank you, old friend, I couldn't have done it without you." Russel wound up thanking you that night, none the wiser that you'd stolen more than his idea — you'd ripped away any chance he'd ever have at fortune and fame.

Yesterday, the worm turned, when you found out that Nancy Gunthermoore, a close friend of yours, stole a jingle of yours. You'd worked on it for months, even collaborating with Nancy and telling her you'd cut her in if it sold and went big. Well, it sold ... and it's going big. So big, in fact, that Nancy will never have to work another day in her life. When you confronted her, saying, "Nancy, how could you steal from me?" She looked at you, reaching across the table where you both were sitting to fix your tie, and said, "Steal, Terrance? I'm not stealing. I just took your jingle and added a few things of my own. It's not yours, fool, it's mine, even though I was inspired by you. So thank you."

All the liars you're now standing around at THLAGS feel bad for you, they do, but they also know you just got your just desserts.

Sweet!

Metalkabout you'll be sorry for wearing that sari

"Hello, Mr. President," you said, making sure to place your left hand over top of his right hand. You did this so no one could contest the photo of you and Barack Obama, so no one could say you doctored the photo by putting your right hand in his to appear like her was shaking it. With both hands on his hand, you were sure that no one on Facebook would question you when telling your story about meeting him during his first Presidential dinner. "It's nice to meet you, sir. Big fan," you said as you released your grip and moved along the processions, unbeknownst to everyone there that you were the party-crashing, media-hungry nobody you are.

No one will question any of that.

What people will question are your motives. And more to the point, they will ask how the fuck you got past all those Secret Service Agents who are supposed to protect the president from potential harm — from say, a terrorists looking to unleash chaos onto the country by killing our leader, or a racist looking to take out the nation's first black president ... or a psycho and her husband trying to score reality fame by sneaking into an invite-only dinner at the White House.

That's what people will remember about you.

And although dressed appropriately in your red sari and he in his tuxedo (you looked lavish, elegant even, or so the people at the New York Post are saying), you were not invited. But there you were, rubbing elbows with this country's politicians and the world's dignitaries. You smiled, making sure to inappropriately touch each person you could rope into a photo-opt. Even Katy Couric let you grope her. Nice job, Katy, you were scooped. All inappropriate but strategically-placed displays so people wouldn't question you and say you made the story up. Oh yeah, and just so you coould get a job on Bravo TV.

But now that the party's over and you were found out way before it ended, the whole world's talking about you. You're the reality show wannabe that may have introduced a little reality into the world. You're the attention nymph who just may have shed some attention on a situation that could have been much worse than just you forcing the likes of Joe Biden to pose with you like it was prom night.

Sure, you're out there — as in "freak show" out there. And sure, your motives had nothing to do with pointing out a major flaw in national security. But you did. And because you did, chances are, the government will punish you — big time. You will be sorry you wore that sari to the White House, that's for sure. Because you've exposed the likes of the Secret Service to it's biggest secret yet: It's not as prepared to protect and serve the president as it would like us to believe.

And for that, you should be awarded, not punished. Because of your stupidity and self-centered, self-promoting prank, you can bet the guys who are supposed to be protecting our nation's leader will be focused on that and nothing else from now on ... as soon as they deal with you and your husband. You've become enemy number one right now. Look out.

But if the president were any kind of leader, he'd fire the right people (head of national security, please step forward), for what is obviously one of the biggest security breaches to happen in his own backyard, and he's celebrate you.

Maybe he and Michelle should have a dinner in your honor, publicly thanking you for brining this issues to light. This time, though, your name should be on the top of the guest list.

After all, you'd be the guest of honor.

Da-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Metalkabout Mallrats

With Thanksgiving guests still sitting around your living room, you went upstairs last night and turned in. It was 7:30, and you had to be up in four-and-a-half hours to beat the crowds at Best Buy.

You'd had your eye on the 52-inch flat-screen TV for years. Ever since the whole flat-screen TV craze took storm, in fact. But you and your husband, a part-time exterminator and full-time loser, could never scrape up enough money to buy one. And sure, you'd thought about putting it on your already-maxed-out credit card, but that guy on TV, the one who goes into people's houses and berates them for spending foolishly, scares the crap out of you — especially since your sister-in-law, Gloria, works for the Bravo TV Network and says she can get you on the show. That's too close to home for you. So you've held off.

But not anymore. Best buy is having a sale. 50% of their already-marked-down-low price of 30% off, which adds up to ... oh, a whole lot of off a TV that normally goes for $3,000. And according to the sales circular in the Star Ledger, the first twenty-five people to buy the 52-inch flat-screen TV on Black Friday, will receive a free Blue-Ray disc player and all the HDMI chords that go with it. What a bargain.

And all you have to do is be at the Best Buy by midnight.

You will wake up and 11:30, dress, get in the car, and drive the fifteen minutes to the mall where the Best Buy is located. And when you turn into the parking lot, you will realize what many other people like you realize on this day: People who look for deals are like packs rats. They come out of the woodwork. And, sadly for you, twenty-five rats will already be in line. You will be number twenty-six.

And number twenty-six doesn't get all the extras on the 52-inch flat-screen TV, oh no. Number twenty-six gets choice of a toaster with convection oven or a reading lamp that uses those new energy-saving bulbs.

So what's it gonna be? Really good bread with a new toaster, or save the earth while reading?

Better hurry. Because if you don't choose fast, they'll give it to the fourteen people that have lined up behind you in the past fourteen seconds.

Shop 'till you drop, suckas.

Metalkabout it's your time

They've been staring at you for the last twenty-four hours. Everyone but Milly. She won't look at you. Not even for a second. And all you want is for her to look at you. That's all you need. It's All you care — her look. No one else's. But they keep staring, while Milly keeps looking away.

You don't know why she's crying. You don't know why they're all being so nice to you. You can't explain why they've given you so much food in the past ten days. So the staring is par for the course of odd things that have been happening lately. And Milly not being here with you is making it all so unbearable.

But then, you were her favorite. You were her pride and joy. You were her best friend ... as much as a turkey can be a little girl's best friend.

And tonight ... you're going to be the best dinner she ever had.

Bye-bye, Tom Turkey.

It's sad because it's true.

Doh!