Please don’t freak out.

Heat Shot painting by: aaViPiR

Head Shot painting by: aaViPiR

There are little to no differences in the schedule of a dog and an unemployed person. I know because as a part-time contractor and full-time unpublished writer, I am by all means “unemployed”. Between the frequent naps, snacking all day, and looking at the window checking out every car and neighbor that passes by, me and the dog have a lot in common.

There are only two major differences between our schedules. He gets out of the house way more frequently than me, and he gets to lick his genitals.

I cannot stress enough how terribly depressing is to work from home. I’ve never been more interested in suicide in my life, so much so that I feel very passionate about it. Passionate enough to NOT want to do it. I have found something that has peaked my interest and is worthy of living for: death by own hand.

So, in my quest for research into the matter, I have explored countless of gore sites, seen tons of pictures/videos of botched suicides, and gone really creative about how to plot the most hilarious and yet poetic suicide of all time.  I want people to hear the story and ask themselves these two questions “what the fuck? and, how is that even possible?”

Scenario #1: Birthday Party for the Dead.

I get a birthday cake that says “I know who killed Kennedy”. I will collect a bunch of dead forest critters: squirrels, skunks, geese, rabbits, birds, even a couple of small snakes. I buy birthday party supplies: hats, balloons, party favors, and mini tuxedo outfits. I rent a room in a shitty motel- the shittiest I can find within a 150 mile radius. I bring my cute little dead friends and outfit them with the party hats, tuxedos, put slices of cake in front of them, I smear some frosting on their little dead faces, and smear some on mine too. But here is the kicker, I give the squirrel a handgun… and I shoot myself with another one. During forensics they will know the squirrel didn’t do it, but think of the person that walks into that scene.

Scenario #2: The Set Up

Befriend someone I fucking hate. Have them invite me over for drinks/coffee or even dinner, and when they are not looking- poison my drink! They will go to jail for it!  (Ok, it is only funny from this side of the fence.)

I guess there is another major difference between me and the dog: the dog is definitely a better person than I am.

Of cocks and honor.

Rooster Art, original oil painting by Debra Hurd

Rooster Art, original oil painting by Debra Hurd

I know nothing about guns except that I should get one. My father owned a few guns and used to stash them around the house in the hollow spaces between the decorative wood panelings and the actual wall. He would go shooting at least once a month. He would use them to kill chickens in his farm and the endangered carnivore birds that hunted his chickens (see: guaraguao). If I was a chicken, I would have serious mixed feelings about my father’s gun usage.

My dad only killed chickens for food or to settle chicken disputes. Chickens can get out of hand, especially when they raise little cocks. We ate the eggs for the most part, but sometimes he would let some hatch to maintain the population. I’d say, from a batch of 6-8 eggs, only one would be male. This is when chicken drama ensues.

I hate cock fights in the sport sense. But when you see one how nature intended it to be, oh, it is quite a scene. Even the chickens gather around to watch the spectacle. You know one of them will win and bathe in honor and glory. The sexiest chickens will become the winner’s groupies. The loser would be humiliated and forever remain an unfuckable outcast with his feathers all jacked up as if he just got done with his 4th round of chemo, and with an incurable limp that screams of weakness and defeat. Cocks take their feathers very seriously as they are very shiny and add fullness- makes them look bigger and dignified. For a cock, having a prominent tail is the equivalent of a king’s crown… or a Lacoste polo for the douchebags.

Usually the loser cock will follow the order of things and simply find new territory and new chickens who didn’t witness his ass-whopping. But sometimes the humiliated cock will just not give up. He dreams of vengeance. He plots his attack. He lusts after the winning cock’s groupies. He starts to spread rumors about winning cock’s sexuality. He goes on a marihuana plant diet to cope with the disgrace. I’ve heard of cases in which the loser cock bartered eggs with rats in exchange for coca leaves. (Rats are notorious for having excellent coca leaf hook-ups.)

The rumors, the drug abuse, the missing eggs, it all adds up. The tension in the coop is detrimental to the chickens. So in an effort to maintain a high quality of life for those chickens my dad does the most humane thing possible: delicious rooster stew.

I bet the winning cock felt a great sense of respect and loyalty for my father when he took care of that dick. I bet this act further validated the winning cock’s supremacy and made the groupies all wet. Everyone is a winner.