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Sui the foot doktor Vice Captain
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 Posted: Sat Dec 02, 2006 6:28 pm
The Hill. Our Constant Companion. The Breaker of Dreams. It had many names, like a bad fantasy villan, almost all of them sarcastic or implying capitalization; regardless, they all held the same meaning. Miles away from sweet beloved clay, the Hill was the place where the inexperienced feared to tread. When winter came, the ground hardened up and never turned back; even in spring the terrain, combined with the steep uphill climb, proved murderous for even the finest young men trying their hand at a good old-fashioned sprint. The phrase "I'll be sore in the morning" seemed even more cliche on Hill-day.
Each workout was its own Charge of the Light Brigade, although broken between the faster runners and the weaker ones, who often found themselves twice the distance behind their betters.
But there was one thing most of us shared, despite the invincibility of the varsity letter the select few carried on their jackets: the incredibly insistent urge to piss. A good mile away from the school, with no bathrooms around, we were all exposed to nature in front of the two most sadistic coaches in a good few counties. After years and years of filling bladders and waiting for two hours to let loose urine upon an agreeable porcelain toilet bowl, some grow impatient in spite of the teachings of Western society.
But The Hill demanded respect! It was Ye Elder God of the Running Man, the Divine Judge that selected and separated the best from every other runner on the team. It required reverence, lest the earth below our unhappy feet swallow us up in vengeance.
When one of us, defiant in his last year with the team, said rather audibly from the top of the hill, "I need a piss," we all looked up and watched him waddle, swinging his legs out wide and proud, hands on his hips, to the end of the hilltop. The Hill stood defeated as he faced away from the rest of the runners, who stood in awe, urinating in the wind. No one had ever been as ballsy, and no one, most likely, will ever be again. The coaches, either too busy observing the new flock as they suffered or too disinterested in the activities of their varsity runners, ignored the stream of liquid waste swaying in the winter breeze.
Little bits of barbarism like pissing on the hilltop kept us sane and giggling through each oxygen-starved breath.
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Posted: Sun Dec 03, 2006 9:18 am
lol prompt contest-based
always wanted to do one off this
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The wind beat up clouds of dust along a lifeless stretch of land, eroded from lack of grass to keep the soil from washing away with each rain. It was the work of the Harvesters, alright. Exploring the terrain revealed the marks of their assault: holes in the ground where trees had been torn up, the giant footprints where they had stood to activate the grass-vacuums in their robotic arses. Sipping his organic green tea, Adrian Brice found himself at a loss for words. He had been battling the corporate-sponsored machines for years, but it seemed as if every day they constructed and released another upon the world.
Adrian Brice was the leader of a small resistance movement; the Harvesters were here to patent grass and trees and acidophilus, for Christ's sake, and his men wanted to do something about it. Music, he had found, was their weakness, and he set up his stage wherever the impoverished and throughly-patented (one corporation sometimes bought patents for the arms of people in one region, while another bought patents for their heads) people would accept them. Such was the scene in America. Even Adrian's "Rock Against Bush" concert almost a decade ago hadn't been enough to stop the march of the continual conservative Christian corporate march across the countryside of the Western Hemisphere. He was forty now, but little progress had been made in exposing the corporations as big rich mansions for war criminals.
Adrian ********' loved the countryside, man!
Miserable, he sat himself down at the foot of a bare and dry hill when he heard it -- the cry of the trees. Somewhere, the robots were out and about, ripping more nature and more love from the soul of Mother Gaea. But the trees were not the only things wailing. When Adrian pressed his ear to the ground, he heard the sound of a foot being tapped to a beat. The resistance was fighting back. He gathered his bandmates with a rallying shout!
"On Hobo! On Girl with the Hippie Hair! On Johnny and Norman! Dash away, dash away, dash away, all!" he crowed, strumming a note on his own guitar to let the freedom fighters across the plain know that help was on the way.
Adrian Rice and the Grasssavers (that's three ********' "s"s there, man. Yeaaaaah) shot up the hill with all the fury of one of those kids who didn't run at all before track season started. When they got to the top, they were already out of breath, but perseverance brought them further still, and the run downhill was significantly less taxing on the old quadriceps. The sounds of the acoustic guitar grew louder with each lumbering stride. Girl with the Hippie Hair exhausted herself, though, and Norman, a well muscled (but evidently out of shape by the way he was panting) picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, continuing the charge. Adrian played his guitar furiously to inspire them, dragging all the pedals that changed its sound behind him. He would never admit he'd splurged for an electric guitar that looked like an acoustic, but it was all good, man. All good.
When they reached the battlefield, things looked bad. Dozens of Harvesters and their corporate suit masters had already begun to suck the grass away, and the band members fighting against them were slowly being pulled toward the robots. Adrian hit a note on his guitar. "Let's do this!" he said, like every other hero before him.
The band rocked out for hours, and it seemed as if the robots were going to falter. Adrian's fingers were sore from playing, and he had broken at least twelve picks killing the robots softly with his song. Slowly, the other band in the valley began to play louder, brought up by the folksy style of Adrian Brice. As the noble jam session continued, Adrian felt his throat getting hoarse, but he kept playing. This was for the environment, man. No stopping now.
The robots burst into flames, vaporizing their corporate suit pilots and saving what was left of the valley. From the trees, Adrian could see squirrels and deer beginning to peek their free animal heads out into the liberated wilderness. Adrian let out a whoop and ran down another hill, invigorated by his victory. His band followed slowly behind, all out of shape, all with thighs that just weren't big enough for a guy like Adrian. Girl with the Hippie Hair, who had barely saved enough energy to wail like the banshee she was, made him some of that sweet green tea with honey he drank before concerts.
"Here, man," she said, handing him a cup. He smiled and ran a hand through her thick brown hippie hair.
The frontman for the other band beamed, pointing at Adrian and Girl with the Hippie Hair. "You know, man, that's some love you've got there!" he proclaimed jubilantly. "Love's a great thing, man."
Adrian's smile faded. "This is love? Nah, man, 'snot love at all! We just do this for frickin' publicity, man."
"s**t. ********' brilliant."
"Yeah, the mass media eats that s**t up. I mean, to me, this is, like, porn, man, but if it advances The Cause, who the ******** cares, right?"
The two vocalists laughed to the tune of their sweet acoustic rhythms, drinking Grey Goose in the ruins of the Harvesters until sunrise. When the band members were all awake, they bid each other goodbye and continued wandering about the countryside, destroying robots with the folk music that America lost in the cutthroat era of mass communication. The sun rose on a great victory for nature that day, and Adrian Brice and the Grasssavers rose with it.
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Sui the foot doktor Vice Captain
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Sui the foot doktor Vice Captain
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Posted: Mon Dec 11, 2006 6:47 pm
There's a young man who grabs my a** every few days between classes. He cups gently, never too rough, like a lover's loving touch of love. I imagine he doesn't do this on purpose; in the rush of trying to grab my a** he must muster whatever he can, and every goddamned time, it's so light.
I've never seen this gentleman's face, but I imagine every person walking behind me has. They've seen his hand and my a**, together for a split second, and then watched for a reaction. They've waited for the kid with the backpack and the violated a** to come racing down the hallway (he's a sprinter, after all) and to tear into the little shitbag who just touched his butt.
But I've never seen his face. I've never turned around. The only thing I know about this gentleman is that he's got one hell of a big hand and he cups. He cups.
I imagine that he plays baseball. It's their tradition to slap each other on the a**; every time the sports awards (basically a naming of names unless you've made varsity) come around, there's one guy who slaps everyone else on the a** as they get their award. I've had it happen to me holding the locker room door open for baseball players (the chivalrous and humble little trackfag that I am). They slap people on the a**. They slap people hard.
I imagine he wears the same oversized baseball sweatshirt every day, just to display the fact. His shirt says, "Hey, I slap people on the a**" even though it has a big angry baseball coming for your face emblazoned on it. That baseball tells everyone who slaps people on the a**. It's a marker, a big monument to his escapades. "Watch out for this kid, he slaps people on the a**."
I imagine he has those huge earrings that bore holes into the earlobes, just because I have some strange aversion to them. Ear-ist, I suppose. Instead of finding black people disgusting, I find terraforming your ******** earlobes into gaping chasms throughly disturbing. I imagine he wears those huge earrings for the simple fact that they nauseate me.
Guys grabbing my a** kind of nauseates me too.
I imagine he doesn't like grabbing my a**. Or, at least, it doesn't arouse him. He wants to grab my a**, but not because it's a nice a**. It's rather hard, actually. Track guys have buns of steel, and all, so there's not much to grab. I can't fathom him finding grabbing my rock-solid a** sexy. He grabs my a** because he can, because he goes to the cafeteria and giggles to his friends about "the butt I just touched." Some of his friends mutter about how gay he is. Some of them laugh with him.
Me, I just keep walking.
I like to think something happened to him in his childhood. It justifies his a**-grabbing for me, allowing my inner psychoanalyst to sympathize with him for a bit. His dad spanked him too much as a boy, I think, and so he developed an a**-complex. He needs to touch asses to feel good about himself. If he doesn't, the memories come flooding back -- the sting, the tears, the terror.
Really, he probably just wants to degrade the pale kid walking to class. If he knows my name, I'd be surprised. My a** is just a bullseye. My a** is just the thing you can laugh at and make your day a little less burdensome. It's relief, like a warm bed to come home to after one of those Mondays.
My a** is beautiful.
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Posted: Sun Dec 17, 2006 6:50 pm
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Sui the foot doktor Vice Captain
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