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The Warmest Gun

I can still recall the swell of emotions that rippled through my veins when I fell in love for the first time. I was so elated, so overwhelmed by happiness, that I roundhouse kicked my love right in the fucking jaw and stuffed her, still screaming, into a trash can that I then proceeded to throw down a hill. Like a licked finger stuck into an electrical socket on a dare at Brian’s stepmom’s house in third game, the thrill was just so exhilarating, like nothing I’d ever experienced or even fathomed, that my impulse took over and found a way to release that brand new energy as safely and expediently as possible.

Later, on the day my first son was born, I simply could not contain my excitement at the sight of the fresh, new life that I had myself created (along with some help from my Fifth Love). I lit my own shit on fire and smeared the flaming excrement all over our fantastic doctor before smashing window open with my forehead and throwing him into the parking lot as a way of saying “Thank You.” Then I went over to my son and lifted him from the crib so I could look directly into the beautiful, crying, bloodshot eyes that I had given him. I was so engulfed with bliss and merriment that I ate the little infant right up. I was so consumed with life that the only thing I could do was consume some more!

And then came the day of America’s greatest victory: the Red Sox finally won four World Series in a row. I didn’t know how else to express my undying affection for the greatest American sports team, so I did what any devoted would do. I hijacked a plane from Logan Airport armed with a nuclear device and dropped the bomb right on Fenway park. I wanted the world to know that this team, and that I had never so proud to be a part of something in my entire life. The only way I could conceive of expressing this sentiment was by lighting up the oldest baseball field in the country for the entire world to see, so that they could truly understand my appreciation for these ball-playing dynamos.

“Happiness is a warm gun,” I heard once, in one of those old songs. Looking back, I’m not sure how I ever lived before I understood how true it really is. In those rare moments when you feel your entirety being consumed by that euphoric joy — sometimes you just have to let yourself pull that trigger, if that’s what you’ve got to do.

I Always Liked the Taller Girls

She bared her breasts alone for me in a room full of queens and celluloid, two large globes with plump pink mountain tops that looked me in the eye and I wondered how she went from top of her class, feeding on caffeine pills, to the tacky, flashing lights of this small room with Spanish subtitles. There was always that hint of misogyny, of feminism failed while she made time with that jheri-curled luchadore, that Mexican military brat. Was this her first time in Vegas? After the wedding, it’s possible that she never left, never returned to a New York future where men would call her “bitch” while she pulled new pantsuits and racked in six digits, or more. Would her father approve, if he knew what she was up to, or is he too busy with his trophy wife making the Marriott Desert Sands as delightfully hospitable as such southern beaches would allow? She was such a smart girl when I knew her, which never seemed so long ago — second from the top in mind, but always a head above the rest.