Saturday, March 24, 2012
Hey. It's me, the flour that attacked Kim Kardashian. I'm resting comfortably in the bottom of a vacuum cleaner bag at the moment, but it's getting pretty boring in here. I mean, not that the flour canister in which I resided before this whole thing started was Club Med, but at least I didn't have to put up with carpet lint and gum wrappers crowding my space, you know? Anyway, anyone think they can bust me out of here? I mean, I'm like the most famous flour on the planet right now. I'm sure you can find a use for me. Ebay, anyone?
Anyway, here's how it all went down, 'cause I'm sure you're dying to know why I went ahead and spread myself all over Kim Kardashian and ruined her little perfume launch party.
Like I said before, I was hanging out in the bottom of the flour canister when suddenly the sky opened up and light poured in and my owner, a little Asian gal who mostly eats out, peers down at me. And of course I'm thinking, "Finally, she's gonna bake cookies or something."
But no. She's got a Ziploc bag in one hand and she starts scooping me up and dumping me in the bag. Of course I'm wondering what the hell is going on. I'm flour. I don't belong in Ziploc bags.
Once all of me is in the bag, she stuffs me into her purse and then we're off. I don't know where to; I'm stuffed inside a bag inside her purse and can't see shit. So if you're looking to blame me, look elsewhere. I'm innocent...mostly.
It's quite a while later when I feel her hand squeeze me and the bag is lifted out. Nice place: red carpet, pretty ladies all dressed up, cameras flashing everywhere. Very exciting. And then I see her. Kim Kardashian. You might wonder how I know who Kim Kardashian is, but I live in America. Everyone knows Kim Kardashian, even if you don't have any reason to.
And I see what's going to happen. I try to stop it. I do. I shout, "Run away, Kim! Kick off those marvelous heels and run like the wind in your spectacular leather pants!" But no one hears me because Ziploc bags seal really well.
My owner, the Asian lady, rushes at Kim and lifts me up and then---KABLOOEY!--I splatter all over Kim Kardashian. A lot of me gets on her very classy looking coat and a little bit of me ends up on her blue shirt (it's very soft and nice). Some of me gets on her face, even. And I'd like to report to you that Kim's face is exquisite, but the truth is it's so covered in make-up that it's hard to tell.
But the hair. Oh, the hair is another story altogether. And this is where my innocence may be called into question.
Being all over and up in Kim Kardashian's lustrous hair was like running on clouds and swimming in pools of the finest milk chocolate. It was like sledding down a mountain of silk. I was assaulted (yes, I was assaulted!) by the intoxicating aroma of tee tree oil and peppermint, of rosemary and lemongrass. I spread out to absorb into my essence as much of whatever haircare products Kim Kardashian uses.
I took, greedily.
And then everyone started screaming and pointing at me and I was ashamed. I had been caught. Much of me jumped off then and fell to the red carpet. The beautiful people stared at me with disgust in their otherwise beautiful eyes. Photographers took pictures of me. Bruce Jenner loosed his trademark acidic tongue. "Crawl into the carpet and die, you fucking flour!"
And I would have, had not the vacuum come along and spared me further humiliation and scorn.
So there you have it. Judge me as you will. None of this was my idea, but I cannot say that parts of it were not enjoyable. And if Kim Kardashian's fragrance is indeed a "True Reflection" of the smell of her hair, then count me in. The world needs more beauty.
To say that the visitors’ locker room was a shithole would be paying it too high a compliment. The cracked cement floor was painted a depressing gray. Rusted metal lockers that you could sort of tell had once been robin’s egg blue lined three of the walls. Near the lockers were heavily lacquered wooden benches where you sat to tie your shoes. And behind those benches, right out in the open, with no walls or doors to conceal them, sat three toilets.
We were captivated by those naked toilets. Taking turns, we approached them in groups and found them disappointingly normal, complete with clumps of soiled toilet paper clogging the drain holes, dried piss drops on the rim, and a floating turd in the one on the left.
A few brave souls (Davies was one of them) contributed their own urine to the mess and were cheered loudly for doing so. No one dared sit down, though.
It was at this point that I felt the first faint stirrings in my abdomen. It had been a long bus ride and I really should have thought ahead and addressed any potential problem before climbing aboard. I was about to rue my lack of preventive action.
My condition quickly deteriorated. I probably exacerbated it by thinking about what I was going to have to do. There was no way I was going to be able to avoid those exposed toilets. I sat on one of the wooden benches and bent over, my head between my knees. I took deep breaths and kept glancing at the toilets, hoping against hope that walls and doors might somehow magically materialize.
As usual, my teammates ignored me and changed into their uniforms. I prayed I could hold off until they took the court for warm-ups. As more and more of them exited, I began to feel better. It was going to be disgusting to sit on one of those commodes, but at least I wouldn’t be witnessed by my older and more physically mature teammates.
Finally, the last of them left. I was alone. There was no time to spare. I dashed to the middle toilet while unbuckling my belt. I yanked down my khaki pants and sat. No sooner had my bare ass touched down on the cold and sticky seat did it explode. Shrapnel burst forth and sprayed the inside of the bowl and my whole body shivered in response. The force of the blow was such that I involuntarily closed my eyes, like when you sneeze, and when I opened them again, Tyler Prescott was standing with his mouth open across the locker room.
“Aw, gross!” he yelled. He spun out of there shouting, “Finley shit! Finley shit!”
There followed a stampede of upperclassmen, all eager to see the spectacle for themselves. I was wiping when they stormed into the room. They kept a respectful distance and gaped.
“Sick,” someone said.
“That’s so nasty,” said another.
“Goddamn, Finley,” a third teammate chimed in. They had finally recognized my presence and they were awed. Also repulsed.
Coach saved me, or so I thought at first. His deep voice boomed ahead of him. “Let’s go, guys! What are we doing? We’ve got a game to play!”
My teammates hustled out and I stood to hike up my pants. I guess Coach wanted to make sure everyone had cleared the locker room, because as I gripped the top of my khakis, he cleared his throat. Instantly, I straightened.
Coach's eyes flashed to my groin and then just as fast snapped back to my face. He looked embarrassed and I thought I knew why. Male teachers and coaches have to be careful in locker rooms, and I’d just caught him checking out my junk. But as it turned out, I misread his embarrassment.
“Well, you’re only a freshman, Patterson,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ve probably still got
some growing to do.” Then he gave me an abrupt, businesslike nod, spun on his loafers, and took