Beefsteak Mistake, Jake - 3

By Kelly Jameson

Sexes, flexes, you stupid hexes. Fuck my pussy! My gushy pussy! Squishy fishy missy. Hunt cunt let me be blunt. Passhole for my asshole. For the next half hour, I am treated to the best beefsteak in Texas. Let me tell you, I am sweaty when I leave her house. House mouse douse flounce she does things with gravity an astronaut would envy fritter titter expend mend bend I am walking stupid, walking stupidity cupidity on a Texas cul de sac frac mac jack me off splendid desire Denver denvy and we are back to envy. Beefsteak mistake, Jake. To calm myself, I repeat this phrase aloud about 100 times while jerking my head like a chicken.

I find another house, knock on the door. I can speak normally until I feel the tic coming on. Disruptions enter in and out of normal speech patterns. That’s how it is. Housewife answers. I try not to think about how Mozart was obsessed with filthy verse and breaking wind. Beefsteak potato tomato. I ate her-oh! the faggot boasts of perfume ghosts I want some of mama’s pot roast. Fuck me the most. They say if a man doesn’t believe in what he’s doing he can do a much better job of doing what he doesn’t believe in because he’s not emotionally caught up in it.

"I'm here to share important information with you about my beliefs," I say, not sure what my beliefs are. I can see past her into her dining room. A bunch of noisy kids are celebrating a birthday party.

"Oh, I can't adopt a religion that doesn’t celebrate birthdays or let me watch SpongeBob SquarePants," she says.

"Well, thank you—cuck cuck cuckkkkk duck the duck Fuck fuckity fuck fuck shit, Damn you! DAAAAMN YOUUU you fucked the dog in the kitchen sink you whore assed cunt—thank you for your time, ma'am."

"I'm going to call the police."

The door slams in my face as a hired clown inside begins juggling and I'm standing there saying "Shut the fuck up you gay ass faggot ee cummings, shiteating cocksucking, cunt eating bastard Led Zepplin drummings. Happy birthday." Sometimes I impress myself.

I need another beer. I feel pretty stupid. I sit on the curb for a while, temporarily decreasing the curb appeal of the neighborhood. I take my jacket off. I can’t help thinking about the naked salesman-loving woman with flank-steak boobs and wine-goblet eyes and wondering what it takes for a simple human being to be happy.

"Fuck you you titty sucking bitch with balls!" I yell to no one in particular. My shoulders shrug; my head jerks, then jerks again. I’m not sure anymore what questions I'm supposed to be asking these people. The pamphlets I carry are somewhat faded. I have like 500 of them in my pick-up truck. I’m not sure how long they've been there. Maybe since junior high.

A kid on a bicycle rides by. I yell, "Yard hard play cards great big balls of lard you fart take my heart did you shart you fucking tart!" He gives me an odd look and pedals faster. He doesn’t know about my experiments with acoustics and the physicality of sound. I guess. "Intonation fornication masturbation!" I add for good measure. Growing up, I used to sit in my room for hours and release my tics. Just like Charles Ives, but without apposing bands playing different tunes while marching towards one another. Larynx pharynx oral cavity depravity concavity. I’ve read that only 5% to 15% of cases of TS have the "cursing" symptom called copralalia. There is no cure. I guess I’m just lucky. Beefsteak mistake, Jake. The turning point for the tomato's reputation in the US came on September 26, 1820 when Colonel Robert Johnson ate a basketful of tomatoes in public, apparently without ill effect. I like to think about ketchup. Ketchup originally started out as ketsiap, a 7th century Chinese sauce made with fish entrails, vinegar, and spices. It wasn't until 1792 that tomatoes were used as an ingredient. Fish entrails pails snails faggot tails tomato breasts pests nests I can’t locate west.

Finally, I get up, go to another house. I decide it will be my last. I knock. It opens. It’s my mother. Whom I haven't seen in years. My father too, standing behind her, puts his hand on her shoulder. His face! It’s a shock how much older he is. It makes me want to cry. His punched-tomato face. Picked vine-ripe snipe up the pipe let's not gripe stuffed and baked bell pepper stripper take down my zipper put it in your mouth a ripe beefsteak tomato Willie-Nelson boobs like flank steak and a pound of fresh salted mozzarella fella add one cock. Mock shock jock state-of-the-art put it in your cart with its unusual ribbed shape and few seeds, grows like weeds plump and meaty in my hot sun mouth on my lips in summer Willie Nelson woman gave me a hummer tongue of song hard bard guard guard skin so ripe you sound like a retard!

More words move and swish through my big head:

Former Jehovah

Digital truck driving Casanova

Bova, nova, stupid bullshit cordova benackova supernova!

Capital of moldova!

"Have you read about Jehovah?" I ask. "Do you like meatballs you cocksuckers?"

"It's a miracle," my mother says. "A goddamn miracle." She weeps as she hugs me like a mad woman. I see my father's eyes water. If he keeps crying with his punched tomato face, I think his head will turn into a bottle of runny ketchup.

"Would you like a brochure about the end of the world?" I ask.

"Holy crap. Son, what the hell are you doing with all those?"

I look at the brochures in my hands and don’t know. I've agreed with George Carlin about most things in life and I have a sudden craving for pork chops.

Like I said, I have 500 brochures in my pickup truck. They help me bring them in the house and we begin to tear them up. They've kept my room the same way it was when I was almost 13 and went to go live with the JWs, which was supposed to be a temporary thing. They tell me how they've been trying to find me for years. I do most of the tearing, because I have to tear it perfectly and it’s maddening and I can’t seem to do that, so I keep trying. I've never gone a whole day without cursing. "Fuck you and your mother fucking corporate ass!" More tearing. My father puts a CD in the stereo. Mozart accompanies the tearing. Allegro Molto. Symphony in E flat, No. 1. God, Mozart. What a beautiful, foul-mouthed man. The house smells like pot roast and potatoes and coffee. Strings hum and rise and vibrate in the air. I think about how I've never given up cursing for Lent. Shit.

I ask them how they’ve been. I ask them about my aunt, the one I told had a vagina bigger than Texas. "Oh, she’s fine, dear. Just fine. Still fat as hell."

My words, the air in that house, like strings in the mountains. There’s a brief pause as the CD changer changes CDs. I panic slightly without the music.

"I love big hairy balls you fucking cocksucking queer! Fresh is best!"

It’s almost dinnertime. Prestuffed poultry ghostly mostly. In my mother’s kitchen there were always signs of the struggle of good vs evil. Potato freighter beef asunder glowing globbing one pot wonder.

My parents always ate dinner at five o’clock on the dot. Apparently that hasn't changed. My mother heads to said kitchen. Soon we are sitting at the dinner table. My father says grace. In my head, the benediction: marinated conflagrated emigrated masturbated outer space stated, oh and how, cut from the belly muscle of a cow, fucked flank steak woman great goblets of wine the most beautiful song is a country song as it hums on the skin of her spine her breasts they're mine.

"Amen," my father says. "Amen," my mother says. "Nipple," I say.

He slices the pot roast. Puts some on my plate, passes me the plate.

I take a bite of the pot roast. "Asstwat bitchass assmunch fucker this is good!"

My mother smiles proudly, covers my free hand with hers. There is love in her eyes. "Welcome home dickhead. You have no idea how much I've missed you." Mozart plays on. We are once again a family, a family of taboo vocabulary and pot roasts, greasy with small onion miracles.

My father hasn't seen me in fourteen years. He farts at the table. The first question he asks me is "Why are you driving that asstruck shitfuck?" He is referring, of course, to my average North American-designed low quality transportation vehicle. We all keep trying. Urbandictionary.com defines life as a sexually transmitted terminal disease.

"Fuck you and your dirty whore of a wife! I don’t know," I answer. He smiles, chews on his beef. "Son, pass me the shit sour cream gravy?"

Beefsteak mistake, Jake, no one makes pot roast like my mama. She soaks it overnight in coffee and vinegar. The taste on my tongue is mature, overripe, familiar full-grown adult. Sit at the kid's table invent a fable none too stable satin duchesse batik broadcloth fluttering moth. After dinner, there's upside down pineapple cake—upside down frown throw it down!--and Jeopardy reruns. Trebek is a speck. This is jeopardy leopardy Merv Griffin stiff him history literature pop culture science for your troubles Daily Doubles! This is Jeopardy! On occasion, players have couched their phrasing in languages other than standard English without penalty: case in point, show #4604, aired September 16, 2004: SPEAKING IN TONGUES. Eight hundred dollar question. A 1996 Oakland School Board decision made many aware of this term for African-American English. One of the contestants answered: "What be Ebonics?"

Ebonics electronics phonics histrionics. Willie Nelson flank steak boob lady says callmesometimedon'tbeastrangercomedrinkmywine. No longer motherless or fatherless, I grab the world with my tongue and realize what it's like to have a crush. I take a lot of walks in that Texas neighborhood, where she tics and flaps through my goblet of a head in squeaky beats bush tail secrets rounded streets dirty soccer cleats I feel her there bud in my body muscles blood. She’s started a declaration of tolerance in the community for me. It goes something like this:

To fulfill my pledge, I (fill in your name here), will examine my own biases and work to overcome them; work for tolerance in my own community; speak out against prejudice and hate. We share public laundromats, Sonics, DQs, WhataBurgers, a neighborhood, the world!

I tongue her at 3:34 in the afternoon after drinking half of bottle of her wine. I’m a man. She’s a woman. We’re the world turning around. It’s just natural I teach her about Mozart. Frenetic genetic artificial art complex body parts fuck organizational charts Take apart voice part work of art. Order of the Purple Heart. Each day I wake up with a choice. Wind sock wind the clock Bangkok French chalk penny stock electric shock smell my varsity sock.

Hot tomatoes. I’m not riding the bench anymore, Babe.

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Beefsteak Mistake, Jake - 3

By Kelly Jameson