I came home and Becky was driving up. She got out of her dad’s big Bronco thing that she had for the week and walked toward the door.

“BECKAH!” I yelled.

“Jimmmm!” she said. “How was your day?”

“ah, you know, same old shit”. We walked together to the door after our customary hug.

We both went inside and sat in her room chatting a bit with a few of the other roommates. Frog and Shayla were abset due to a trip to Target. Our house is a big supporter of Target.

Shortly, however, Frog burst in with plastic bags of his items from Target. We all got up and went into the kitchen to see what he’d gotten. There was a box on the floor with a new charcoal grill in it.

“I got a grill,” he said, grinning his slightly evil grin.

“You cooking?” I asked him.

“Well, I have to test it out”

“Did you get enough food for the whole class?”

“Well, lately it seems that you guys have failed to chip in on food purchases”

I brought out some cash.

“Let’s eat!” he chirped.

And so began a house-wide effort to cook the food he’d bought with his new grill. Becky set up a stereo on the porch, Shayla stapled white christmas lights around out there, and Frog and I put his grill together, dumped in the charcoal, and then came damned close to blowing the house up lighting it.

I had some pieces of paper from the charcoal bag that I was lighting on fire and then running around with, until Becky admonished us.

“Stop that! You’re making me nervous!” she said, stomping off in a huff.

Frog and I watched her walk away.

I held out the last piece of paper and gestured at the bottle of lighter fluid he was holding.

“Juice me” I said.

He juiced me. I lit the paper in the fire, the resulting fireball from the lighter fluid removing most of the hair from my hand. I hooted loudly and flapped my arm with the still-burning paper in it, jumping around. A very delighted Frog looked on.

We had cold beer, good friends, a hot grill, and a fuckton of food.

Summer is almost here.

We all came home from dinner and trickled through the house to our various rooms. Several of us went to Becky’s room. Her room is sort of the hangout.

I flopped on her bed, and J-Rock sat in her computer chair, smoking his cigarette, the picture of dour. Becky flopped on the bed too.

We all sort of sat there, full and happy, and giggled about this and that. I looked over at Becky lying there on her stomach, and on a whim, I rolled on top of her.

“Hrrrrrg!” she said. I lay on my back on top of her.

“Like that, do ya?” I said, wriggling around. J-Rock laughed.

“Unnnf! If you’re going to do that at least don’t wriggle!”

I laughed at her, and wriggled some more.

“Becky! Your ass is on my back!” I yelled.

“Your ass is on my legs!” she yelled back, muffled by the covers.

She tried to get up, but she couldn’t push me off. I smushed her.

“Ha HA!” I cackled with glee.

Eventually I let her up. She was complaining about being hot under me. I told her I had that effect on women I got on top of.

It was a monday night, we had nothing to do, so I squished my friend Becky.

I call him Curley Bob because his hair curled wildly off his head, and I don’t remember his name. People’s names drain out of my head like water out of a bathtub. This effect is only made worse if I don’t like you.

Curley Bob annoyed me.

Curley Bob blabbed on and on to me about his real estate business and how he would never hire a black man over a mexican. He was trying to kill me with his boozy talking. I was just there to grab a salad and a couple drinks, maybe flirt with the waitress.

She sat down next to me at the bar in her slinky black dress, and I could feel Curley Bob looking at me. I had a match in my mouth.

I was trying to hold it in my teeth and strike it on the box. I looked over at her.

“Does this make me look like Clint Eastwood?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.”

I finally succeeded in striking the match, but I had not calculated the size of the flame relative to the short length of the match. My face was on fire!

I spat the match out. “Jesus christ!”

She got up and ran away, laughing at me.

I watched her run off, and Curley Bob started talking at me again.

It’s really too late for me to be up.

I remember last night I had a dream about being at a restaurant with a bunch of people, and I saw a group of people I knew.

I ran over to the group just as another person ran up and we simultaneously asked the other folks what was going on, but in french.

What the hell is that about?

Also, have you noticed that comedians aren’t funny very much?

Also, I lost my cellphone today, and that gives me the shits. Now I have to go buy a new one and collect people’s numbers again. It’s kind of okay because I’m getting a lot less calls without it, but I liked to use the antenna to jab people in the ribs who crossed me, and now I’m down to my finger.

Make no mistake, though, I have one hell of a vicious finger.

My boss has one of those luxuy SUV’s.

I like to make him feel self conscious about it by going “Fancy!” every time he mentions it. I got to ride in it yesterday.

He was showing me the knobs and buttons and whatnot, and I said “Fancy!” after each one.

He probably paid almost 50,000 for the thing. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that. Sportscars I can understand, because they are fun, but a big enormous luxury SUV? Come on!

I had fun moving the seat around with the little buttons and whatnot, so I can’t say I didn’t enjoy riding in it, but 50,000 is a lot to pay for a thing that does exactly the same thing my $300 volvo does.