Cockblock Inn

I’m in a 12th floor room at the Marriot Courtyard in Louisville, Kentucky and I’m just pissed off, as I am sitting in some faux fabric arm chair that is just like the one at my wife’s house.  Thankfully, anger knows no time frame, zip code differentiations or fabric of the arm chair when it comes to spewing forth that which needs to be vented (Mentally speaking of course).  I mean hell, if my pops didn’t kill anyone in his 32 years at the U.S. post office, I’ve got a good 5 to 10 before I subscribe to Guns & Ammo, Separatist Weekly, Just Plumb Fucking Crazy and believin’ the gov’ment has bugged my feces.  I’m not saying it can’t happen.  I’m just saying, to the best of my knowledge, it has not happened at this particular juncture.  However, in the interest of full disclosure, I will say that my last fart kinda sounded like a car alarm chirp rather than an intestinal burp.

So, the theory behind this was to parlay, and get the half better than me out of our area code – and for us to have some “we” time.  It’s good in theory and all, because theory doesn’t involve the truth and executing a plan.  In this instance, the only thing I believe to be worthy of execution is my son. Very hornily speaking, I don’t want him to die, multiply or be harmed by any intimate or animate object.  I love the little bastard, and love is what brought him into this world.  Well, unprotected and intentional sex actually.  Butt right now, he is stopping so many chickens from coming home to roost, Colonel Sanders would slap a beard and seersucker suit on him in a moments notice.  That friend or medium rare acquaintance knew exactly what in the fuck they were doing.  A 5 year-old, not so much.  I mean, it’s not like he’s knowingly stopping himself from getting the sibling we’ve been unable to buy up until this point, but he’s smart enough to fucking figure it out.

I mean, goddamn, I’ve left the TV on HBO, Skinemax and Showtime enough for him to be fully aware of the incredibly high pork intensity that comes from a hotel room.  Thank God I did not spring for the suite.  If I had, I would currently be getting gouged and cockblocked at the same time.  A sweet – as I prefer to call it – would only give him more rooms to thwart my moves.  I thought I found a Virgin record in his room the other day.  I just thought it was an old Stones reissue.  Nah, it is quite clear the “ignore human nature” sect of the world have already gotten to my 5 year-old seed.  I think Edwin Starr said it best with, “Vacations.  Good gawd y’all.  What are they good for?  Absolutely cockblockin’!  Yeah!  Yeah!  Yeah!  Say it again.”

It’s not like the de-block had not been planned.  For those of you who know me – or have paid top dollar to find out my most personal of personnel info on one of those scary, nosey for-hire pay sites – my mother toils her professional wares in Louisville, Kentucky for one week, and then comes home to be weak with my father for the next 7 calendar days.  In shorter words, my madre is all up in this zip code trailer, and is readily capable of taking over for his welfare so that my wife and I could enjoy the finer things in life for the next 10 to 12 hours.  When you are married, this means falling asleep to some movie you didn’t really care to watch, and waking up intermittently without having to move a dog over, feel for a child or realize you’ve drooled someone’s hair together.

Over the last couple of weeks, my son has decided that he has no interest in spending the night with either of my parents.  In the olden days, i.e. his whole life up and until the last month, he would spend the night with them so often he had a line of credit.  But, for whatever raisin, he thinks he can now commiserate with how the brown cow learned her mother was a slut by being branded off on the grand bovine every weekend.  Look, my wife ain’t a slut and I don’ thave enough of the good looks and energy to try to be anything other than a smartass drunk.  My son’s weird psychosis does not stem from being pawned off on a familial personality, so that his parents can rock down to Electric Avenue (XFM 80’s @ 8 can be a motherfucker).  I ain’t tryin’ to force his parenting/sitting down the throat of anyone like the star of “No Means Yes”, or some other very low level, poorly thought out porn movie.

We was sposetuh “do nothing” today, which is a very odd suggestion slash request from my wife.  “Doing nothing” usually entails busting what little ass my gut didn’t eat by finishing yard work, cleaning, or something else I both: (a) have no interest in, and (b) wish I could have paid my buddy Octavio to do for me.  I’m tellin’ ya, I ain’t never seen that fat fuckin’ Dr. Phil mow a yard, and I don’t need to.  Octavio – of Machaen Lawn Service in Paducah, KY – saves more marriages than any fat, fucking bald Texan with an annoying accent and a flare for the obvious ever has.  Look, even if screaming at idiots nationwide on a cable t.v. hook up took a lot of brain watts, all them fuckers throwing coats, deciding divorces, takin’ people to court and getting grilled for no reason wouldn’t be able to do it in an half-hour to hour time frame.  You can’t fucking solve any real problem in your life in less than a span that’ s measured in days.  Figuring out the answer to what to wear to the bar is not really that fucking important.  Picking the right suit to wear to work is like picking the booger you like most from the fashion nostril, rolling it up and flicking it on bystanders.  If you wear a uniform, your decision making post-shower is less complicated than Bill Gates figuring out which robot will put on his underwear each day.

Back to whatever we – and by we, I mean me – were talking about, I thought I was going to get to parlay on up here, hang out with my bride sans child, and do what she said was nothin’ – and what I call somethin’.  But no.  Our child has continued to dominate our life even while in a visitor’s park.  He refuses to stay with my mother and is all bowled up in the middle of our hotel bed.  He and my wife are watching one of those Sci-Fi movies.  If it describes the mode in which the movie is delivered, abbreviations are acceptable.  But abbreviating the genre of a whole type of flick just proves that you ain’t really holding anything worth watching, because you can’t even decide what the fuck it is.  Think of all those Tranny movie covers you stumble upon while looking for normal, straight porn.  You’re either a Transformer, or Well digger.  One or the other.  You can’t have half-parts of one and half-parts of the other.  The duck-billed platypus is clearly the exception.  Hermaphrodites are descendents of the Greek God of Confusion, so their origin is known.  They don’t know it, but we do.  Well, maybe.

Anyway, this movie has went all Greek mythology and shit.  There are bolts of lightning, clouds, mountains, volcanoes, random flames of fire and everyone wearing clothing suitable to get passed security at the Medieval Prom and 33rd Annual Gingivitis Ceremony.  I’ve never understood how fools in these type of movies can honestly not say they didn’t see it coming, when a motherfucker levitates in wearing a cape, three piece suit and Ferragamos while explaining he needs you to jump into the fire pit to repent for the sins of your 10th removed great grandfather.  Words to the possibly ignorant.  If a motherfucker ever levitates anywhere near you, take off running.  They have either been seduced by the darkest side, or are in a new version of that one video by The Cars.  When a dude or dudette is more pale than a lighter shade, turn around and run.  Whether they are a good vampire is of no consequence.  They is still a vampire, and those motherfuckers get itchy round the Red Cross.

Wherever you were, my son is flung up in this incredibly soft rack with my wife, and she is more engrossed in this movie than seeing me naked.  She’s looking over at me – the room is completely dark except for the reflection off my computer screen and bottle of El Jimador– reciting lines and laughing.  I get a lesson in Greek cockblockery every time she turns to me and explains why I needed that previous explanation explained to me again.  Look, the Greeks apparently existed.  Socrates and Playdough wrote awful fancy n’ all, but so what?  That architecture was cool, but I’ve seen the exact same thing in Vegas.  Julius Caesar was great because jerking a baby out of a belly via knife, and the original form of break dancing were named after him – both of which I am a card-carrying, brain-shaking member of.  Caligula was cool because he was kind of like the Greek Larry Flynt; just fucking, fornicating’ and wearing tree leaves of his choice.  This dude was not a figment of sexual relations.  He was the first recognized porn star in the history of the world.  Alas, he was inbred or some shit, and died before his way of life could be normalized among the non-Mormons (Don’t let that tidy dress fewl ya.  A big ass beard can make up for three hands, if you know what I don’t even know I’m sayin).

Back to the matter that will probably end up in my hand, I rented this fucking hotel room and the only thing fucking about it is the price.  Concrete, gravel or asphalt couldn’t even get laid up in here.  I mean, this is the perfect example as to why those about to rock should not salute so much, especially if they want to continue their exploration into the depths of whoever’s inner whatever.  To be transparent, I love my wife.  We hate each other a lot, but that is just foreplay.  We both love our Napoleonic son too.  No doubt.  However, he is impinging – and infringing – upon my “daddyness” like never before.  If you were throwin’ down over $200 a night, wouldn’t you want to get on the good foot and do the bad thing enough times to give even Charley’s horse a cramp?  You’re goddamn right.  Hotel rooms are the married persons equivalent to prom.  There isn’t as much pomp and circumstance, but there is a lot of pump without consequence.  I mean, seriously, you’ve done it enough.  If it is great, it has been that good before.  If it ain’t, it has been that bad before.  At least one of you doesn’t have to put on a bedazzled-sequined spandex laced formal finger cuff, and the other doesn’t have to drive 100 miles per hour to get you home by midnight.  Hell, when you’re married – even with a hotel room – you’ve usually de-robed, fucked and are snoring by 7:30.  That is, of course, if your son hasn’t de-robed and planted himself all up in the middle of the landing zone.  At that point, you pretty much have to put the plane back in its hangar, and ask the pilot to come in and do some drills.  So, in one sense, being married is like being single.  Imagine that.