You know, I can’t help but think about all the things I was convinced of growing up in Greenville, Texas regarding Dallas. The dark neighbor who peered like Sauron’s Eye above the rock wall of Rockwall to spy upon we god fearing Greenvillains. That’s a word, because me and others say so. Isn’t that how this works?
Seriously, entire sermons were preached to me via the pulpit claiming Dallas was the be all, end all of Satan’s butthole. All those cool guys on the K-Mart parking lot who got laid easier because they’d attended a concert or two with their mommy’s and daddy’s…
F*ck those guys. Exaggerating ass’s.
Seriously; I knew a guy who was a roadie for Hell Yeah before their tragic end, and he got a chick I’d liked for thirty years with a snap of his mighty, black cargo shorts. All too easy.
Sure, this place is evil as all get-out, but in a p*ssy sort of way. It cringes if you look it straight in the eye, and then it asks its mommy for permission before staring back. Some of you might catch my drift with that saying, but it’s cool if you don’t. Just about everything you come across here is a poor impression of something done elsewhere, only much, much better.
Example: Meow Wolf. Go to Santa Fe. Don’t ask questions, just do it.
In hindsight, that was Greenville. Whenever something cool happened, it was something leftover and watered down from Dallas; only last year. We simpletons knew not, and therefore it blew our goddamn minds. Then, there was always that one kid at school who was like, “Well, actually…”.
Eat sh*t, f*cko. Let me invent a time machine, and I’ll front you out circa 1985 “Back To The Future” scene.
Me? Oh, I was scared to death of this place. Rockwall was too close for me. Hell, Interstate 30 was too close for me. My tism’d ass stayed on the service road until I had NO CHOICE. Then, I reached the age of alcoholism, masked, and normalized; just like a car: I was only as brave as the amount of fuel in my tank. Man, that’s a hard way to live for twenty-five years, especially when it comes to having a military career mixed in. Am I beginning to make sense?
No, the law enforcement gig raises zero flags whatsoever. Those places are dog pens at a kill shelter.
I think the most misunderstood thing about me is that I’ve planned absolutely none of my life’s sh*t show; I just kind of fell into all of it like a Forrest freakin’ Gump who hated to run. Trust me; I loathe living it just as much as you force yourself to continue reading.
Back to mighty Dallas and all its phallic glory; long live the mighty Dallas Phallus. Photo included for clarity:
Also, this isn’t a fair representation of downtown Dallas. We have historic floods here. People die. We choose, myself included, to advertise one of these tragedies as a post card. That’s everything you need to know about Dallas.
Don’t get me wrong; I love it here. It’s the watered-down New York at a portion of the price Greenville-ized Christmas gift that keeps on f*cking giving. It’s home.
Interjection: I live in Oak Cliff. We’re cool on this side of the river, baby. The shenanigans on the Highland Park/Mid-Town/Downtown side of the bullsh*t ain’t got anything to do with us.
We, the people on the cool side of the Trinity river, “Fart in your general direction.”
Bitches.
Now, to business.
My wife was having difficulty finding an air pump between home and work. It’s that one week of Fall-ish stuff in Dallas, so everyone’s tire light came on simultaneously. Also, that signals the zombies to cut them off at the hose to make impromptu smoking apparatus’. Apparati? Meh.
It’s either that, or they’re selling them at pawn shops, which makes no damned sense to me, unless there’s a run by home-owned hose companies to implement the stolen apparati? See? F*ck you, WordPress, and your little squiggly line in my rough draft. I’m making it a word!
Anyway, I carry a rechargable tire pump in my truck. I’ve purchased them for several family members, but the wife misplaced hers. Love it. Also, her car is a Mini, and my pump doesn’t fit her tires. Also, it doesn’t use normal freaking oil. Import. Goddamn Gremlins and whatnot. That almost sounds like bedroom code: my pump doesn’t fit her tires. Run with it.
My advice to all the transplants on the wealthy side of I-35: stop reading this now. I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the people you exploit for wealth and power aka the one’s who wipe your ass for money. Basically, me and mine. We all do it in one way or another. By proxy, at least.
To my friends where the streetcar ends…
Be mindful.
Oh, I like that.
My friends where the streetcar ends.
That’s an Oak Cliff motto. Hit me up, Oak Cliff. Money talks.
If I were a criminal, and I’m not, but I was, and then I was groomed into a man with zero scruples, military, law enforcement & anti-terrorism training, and the mind of a fiction author…
If I thought like a criminal, I would cut the air hose, and then wait in the dark for some chick who’s late for work to try and air up her tire. While she’s dumfounded and Tweeting about it, the car gets stolen or, worse, she’s robbed, killed, or even worse-worse; dig?
If I were writing a short story about an Oak Cliff serial killer, that sounds EXACTLY like something I’d pen. Or, did I just plant the seed by writing it into existence? Will Dallas PD come knocking when the copycat strikes the local 7/11? Could that even be a thing?
I mean, yeah; I guess it could be. Our PD, although quite diverse, is run conservatively. I’m a screaming lib’ who writes one-hit-wonder, spooky stories, with a much younger wife, and a bumper sticker stating “Ted Cruz ate my son”.
It’s a clickbait trial; case closed. Politically fueled rhetoric…
…that makes me post-humously famous for Starving Zoe, and my grandkids get to go to college on Pepaw’s dime.
That’s a legacy I could die with.
Shameless convenience plant…
To most, 1865 was an eye-opening year. The American Civil War was officially over and the soldiers fortunate enough to survive the bloody conflict returned home to collect the pieces of their former lives. To young Arizonan, Robert Jack, the fateful desert homecoming marked the end to all he once knew. Forgiveness is overrated. Death is final. Revenge, however, dances between the fine lines of mortality and eternity. Love always finds a way.
Air up your tires in the daylight, ladies, or spend fifty dollars on Amazon for one to keep in your car. No, detective, I don’t own stock in Amazon. See? I’m preemptively prepping for the inevitable interrogation.
I can’t tell if it feels good to be back, because I’m not sure I was ever there to begin with.
Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.
See, officer? Why would that be my catch-phrase if I owned stock in Amazon? Man, I’m getting good at this sh*t.
Bring it.
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