You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2007.
After Bev Binkus’s morning boob show yesterday, the big man and I left the Casa Binkus compound to go out in search of what he calls Chicken-Loving America.
“Ya know DP,” said Binkus as we walked out to the car. “Our President, who’s a very fine Texan I must say, calls us Americans freedom-lovers. I say first and foremost, Americans are chicken-lovers.”
“Is that so sir…”
“Hell yes it’s so, and I’m gonna show ya.”
The day went something like this. Binkus rolled us through every fast food drive-thru in a 10-mile radius. His big blue Cadillac towing my trailer is, even in Texas, a touch longer than these fine establishments anticipated. We got high-centered at Cluck’s, Binkus knocked over a pole at Burger Baron (no relation), and quite a few shrubs were ripped from their roots in the surrounding wood chips. But we plowed through every damn drive-thru and each time, Binkus would shout “Beef or Chicken, what’s more popular here?” into the loudspeaker near the big colorful menu and four times out of five, some pubescent voice would yell back, “Chicken.”
There you have it.
“Ya see DP? There’s a sea change going on in America. Hell, Texas is known for beef, not chicken but still, look what they’re ordering. It’s the chicken’s time now. People know it. I know it. And I just wanted to make sure you know it. Do you know it?
“I never doubted it sir.”
“Excellent. Now, let’s scoot home cause’ I got quite the chicken dinner in the makings… in your honor.”
Oh, chicken giblet. Look freaks, I don’t eat meat. I am meat. It’s the Donkey Pegasus dilemma, and I’ve been waiting for my herbivorous existence to stir up trouble with Binkus for awhile now. Looks like it’ll be another business dinner of hiding my meat in my mashed potatoes and gorging on the greens.
Binkus and I arrived home just as the deluge of the Binkus extended family washed in behind us through the gates in a caravan of giant cars. I can’t imagine one family having so many children. Christmas must be expensive, chaotic, and loud. My Christmases are more tame: nativity reenactments around San Francisco, a nice big salad, and watching the winter sun set behind the Golden Gate.
Bev seemed up to her old tricks. She was wearing a giraffe-print dress with gold sandals and clanky bangles climbing up her arms. She was holding her hands up in the air with her fingers spread on account of a fresh cotton candy manicure and she winked at me when I trotted in as she directed her hired cooks in the kitchen.
“Donkey Peggie, I sure do hope you like chicken.”
Oi.
Talk about getting high on your own supply. What type of savages eat a six-course dinner composed entirely of chicken? The Binkuses, that’s who. Bev read me off the menu:
Appetizers: Binkus Wings, spicy and original (how shameless)
Salad: Chinese chicken salad (how unsalad-like)
Soup: Chicken tortilla soup (how Tex-Mex)
Entree: Chicken Palliard (how French)
Cheese Course: Chicken-skin-wrapped cheddar melts on Ritz crackers (how on earth could this be considered a cheese course?)
Dessert: Caramel Egg Custards (how creative, they actually managed to get the chicken in there)
Luckily, because dinner was in my honor, Binkus had me sit opposite him at the other end of the table. Head of the table, t’s a strange human custom, but it works for me because eating at a table is always awkward. Bev Binkus sat right next to me and if I wasn’t standing, I bet her hands would’ve been all over my knees. The Binkus servants (a quiet crew who seem to be much more clever than the Binkuses themselves) brought out the first course.
Arms. Hundreds of them it seemed, clawed at the big silver trays holding piles of Binkus Wings (you can tell the spicy ones because they’re the color of Bev’s hair, bright orange). The nameless Binkus family members devoured them like locusts. Through the tangle of reaching, Binkus couldn’t see my empty plate. I moved my lips like I was chewing when he glanced at me. (He mostly looks at his own plate.) And Bev? Well, let’s just say with a steady flow of white zinfandel in front of her, she doesn’t notice much.
Second course: At least the chicken salad had lettuce. I crunched the small pieces of romaine and used the big endive leaf to cover up the chicken pieces like an upside down canoe hiding a sneaky child. Easy money, no problemo.
Third course: I slurped some broth, alright, I admit it. Chicken broth it certainly was, but the Binkuses like everything nice and processed in their house so the degree of separation between the chicken and whatever flavor granules were dissolved to make that chicken water, I’m sure is at least ten. I can live with that.
Fourth course: It’s tricky. Tricky, tricky, tricky Huh. With nothing but chicken on the plate, there’s not much I could do.
“DP, how’s that palliard treatin ya? You know my great-great-great-grandfather was French. No doubt where the Binkuses get their refinement.”
“It’s breathtaking sir.” Breathtaking? How dramatic. That’s what red wine does to me. I’ve got a strict business dinner drinking policy. No Tanqueray. No Tomolives. And absolutely, No Tequila. I lost the Clorox account over tequila.
“Now that’s a good review!” exclaimed Binkus, delighted that I was savoring his family recipe. “Maria, come in here and give our guest DP another helpin of the palliard.”
Maria came in and slopped another layer on my plate, wincing, then looked me straight in the eyes as though she recognized me from her hometown or something. “Burro,” she said as she walked back to the kitchen shaking her head. “Ayayayi.”
I licked at the cream sauce for a bit then made a crafty tent from my paper napkin to block Binkus’s view of my plate. Things were going fine. Bev was dipping her tongue into her wine glass and fogging it up as she ogled, but otherwise things were moving along. I tried to summon Maria back through telepathy so she could retrieve my plate but no dice.
Ting ting ting ting ting ting.
Binkus rose, with a good deal of effor, from his seat, tinging his palliarded knife on his crystal wine glass. “Binkus family… I’ve gathered you here tonight because I’ve made a big decision about the future of Binkus Corp. and it involves this little donkey,” and here’s the part where Binkus started walking over to me, “who has proven to me this week that he truly understands the Binkus brand.”
Yesssss. Uh oh, here he comes. Nooo!
“And so, even though it’s a buttload of money, I’ve decided to award the Binkus account to—…, hey DP, you not hungry? That’s a big ole pile of palliard still on your plate.”
Oh God oh God oh God oh God.
“Thought you loved the palliard?”
Be cool. “I do sir, I love it. It’s just that Maria sort of loaded up my pla—”
“Big Papa, Donkey Pegasus hasn’t touched any of the chicken tonight!” Birky Binkus. Binkus’s grandson, blossoming ad guy, and royal pain in my ass. “It’s true. And I think I know why!”
“What?” asked Baron Binkus, shocked. “DP, you ain’t been eating the chicken?”
“No sir, that’s not true. I’ve definitely been enjoying all the chicken dishes tonight—”
“He hasn’t!” yelled Birky Binkus, standing now and pointing at me accusingly. “He don’t eat chicken cuz donkeys are vegetarians! Just like Chicken is (right, I forgot to tell you that Chicken is the family horse. Confusing, I know.)
“A vegetarian?” asked Binkus, deflated. “I can’t even start to believe it. Please, DP, tell me it’s not true!”
“It’s not true sir.”
“Well then prove it, now. I want to see you eat up some of that delicious chicken I’ve so generously served to you tonight.”
71 Binkus eyes watched me from around the table (Great Grandaddy Binkus lost an eye in the war). I looked up at Binkus and his eyes told me everything. Eat your chicken or get out. I nosed around my plate for a bit before I gave some dark meat a little lick, and finally picked it up in my mouth. I let the chicken rest on my tongue for a few minutes, hoping Binkus would be satisfied.
“Chew,” demanded Binkus, so I did what every other winged donkey whose about to lose the hottest account in US foodservice today would do. I chewed. Chomping my brother bird slowly, feeling the his cooked flesh in my mouth. Whatever God is out there… please forgive me. I had to do it. I’m not proud, but at least I’m honest. This is going to take seventeen straight sessions with Dr. Lynn to undo.
“That’s right DP, chew that chicken.” Mr. Binkus walked back to his seat. The room was as quiet as a funeral parlor. Birky Binkus snickered at me. Little asshole.
“So Mr. Binkus, you were saying?” I tried to get Binkus’s announcement back on track.
“Oh DP, it’s alright. I didn’t have anything important to say after all.” And he gave me a beady eyed look of scrutiny that said I’m watching you and went back to his plate. After all, the cheese course had arrived.
Binkus excused himself from the table shortly after the egg custards were served, which I devoured with publicized voracity (I’m no vegan) and in the early morning, Bev was the only Binkus who waved from the circular drive as I was loaded into my trailer and hauled back to the airport.
Binkus. Two steps forward, Texas two-step back. That kid is seriously on my shit list.
Holy shitkicker, I saw Bev Binkus’s boobs today. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even want to, but there she was sitting on a stool at the long kitchen counter, a shaft of morning light projecting onto her great tangerine mane, slurping coffee from a Binkus Wings mug and looking at the local section of the paper, presumably to see if she’d made the society page this week.
“Oh my darling Donkey Peggie,” she said when she heard my hooves on the Spanish tiles. Donkey Peggie? Peggie’s a girl’s name. A woman’s name. You don’t run into respectable non-human mammals named Peggie, unless of course they were named by humans. Great, gotta love it.
“Good Morning Bev,” I wished her, and asked permission to help myself to coffee. Bev fluttered up from her stool and told me to have a seat and that she’d be “pleased as pudding pie to get me a bowl of coffee and to butter my muffin.”
Uh oh.
Her chiffon zebra robe was sheer against the generous light from the window. She wore big pink bloomers but as for a brassiere, nuttin honey. Her back was to me as she carefully stirred cream into my coffee with a little purrr, and she glanced back a few times as she dipped the butter knife into a monster bucket of margarine and caked the stuff atop a giant bran muffin like frosting on a cake. Great, bran and coffee? Nearest bathroom check. Bingo.
When Bev Binkus walked towards me at the counter, one hand carrying my bowl of morning delight (coffee) and the other carrying a plate full of giant muffin, her zebra robe untied to reveal the most alarming—no, terrifying—of sights. Bev Binkus’s boobs. Both of em, just hanging there, swaying with her bouncy gait.
Wait a minute, she doesn’t realize that her robe is open. Here she comes! Coming straight at me, no time to do anything but turn away, run maybe. How on earth can she not feel the open air? Oh God, oh God, if Binkus catches me in the midst of a Texas Nip Slip with his dear Bevvie, I’m fucked. I mean, Game Over. Goodbye. Birky Binkus gets the job, not to mention the inheritance and glory.
“Yodeleeehoo! DP, you in here you honorary Texan?”
Of course. I mean, come on. It wouldn’t be life. It wouldn’t be my life if just at the precise moment that this red-headed, giant-breasted zebra that Binkus calls his ‘one and only true love outside of poultry’ is putting on a private mammary show just as the man himself strolls in. What to do, what to do.
“Bev, pssst,” I whispered quickly, nodding my head like a lunatic. “Your robe. Open. Boobs. Bad. Binkus.”
“Ohhhweee,” said Bev with a greedy giggle, “I… am soooo embarassed.” She said this as she ran her finger from the top of my head down to my nose from across the counter.
“Yodelayohoo, here I am! Ready for day two with my little donkey…”
Good thing Binkus is a large man whose walk is more side-to-side waddle than forward ambulation. Bev had just turned her back and retied her devious robe.
“Ah, just the two I was looking for. Bevvie, go put some clothes on. Get outta that animal suit or DP here might start sniffing at ya.”
More chuckling, minutes of it. This guy is a pig. The look of sheer delight on Bev’s face at the thought of me frisking me with my big nostrils was enough to make me lose my thirst for coffee, and just about enough to make me lose my appetite for the Binkus account.
This woman is pure Texas devil and I tell you, she wants me. She wants me like I want the Binkus account. Or maybe not. I can’t wrap my head around it. Regardless, I’m trapped here for a few more days. Dinner tonight should be interesting.
Binkus. That brute. He told me to jump on the next flight to Houston or ‘fly your ass over here with those fancy chicken wings,’ which was followed by at least three straight minutes of hard core laughter on the Binkus end of the line. That pig brain was laughing so hard that after a minute or so, he transitioned into a heavy wheeze, then broke into a chortle which disintegrated slowly into a chain of snorts and giggles. It was ugly, and it was at my expense. Chicken wings. That guy’s on my list.
No, I can’t fly to Texas with my wings. I fly short distances, like a sprinter. Like a drag racer. No, I’ve got to go to the airport like every other businessman, only airport security is a bit more complex for a donkey with wings. Remember Vegas? Same degrading experience as then only today, I was headed to Texas to rendezvous at Casa Binkus for three days and two nights with the big guy and his ginormous, well-fed family.
Texas, 9am
I was making my way to baggage claim when my Blackberry dinged out the text message, Big Blue Cadillac front and center little fella. I walked outside into the dry Texas air (great, I forgot my Flonase) and there it was, the biggest, bluest Cadillac in the world with the word BINKUS standing proud like a soldier from the license plate. It would have been a nice reception if the Cadillac wasn’t towing a horse trailer. Jump in the back DP, Binkus shouted from his window, and his driver helped me into the trailer and petted my back and patted my ass like I was some dumb pony. People.
Casa Binkus is like a beautiful, ornate picture frame showing off an awful painting. The house must have been designed by some happy Brazilian. Every corner is clad in warm terracotta tiles and waterfalls and peacocks. They’ve got peacocks (thought I’m not sure that’s at all Brazilian.) Inside though, it looks like a rainbow got sick.
Bev Binkus is no decorator. She’s got the taste level of a JC Penny sale rack and her hair is the most riveting color of opalescent rust. Her teeth are as white as a new toilet and she floats around her kingdom in large animal prints that are typically trimmed with some fuzzy feather that makes my nostrils burn. Binkus thinks she is a vision.
Have you ever seen such a woman DP? My Bevvie was Miss Little Texas four years straight. She’s alllll woman! and as he says this, his big right ham of a hand grabs Bev’s bottom and squeezes it like a sponge. Are you there God? It’s me, Donkey Pegasus. Help.
I guess Binkus has me on a tight schedule today. I get to be loaded back into my trailer so we can go for a day-long tour of the chicken farm, of the factory, and of the corporate offices where I’ve been promised a buffet lunch of fine Texas BBQ. I don’t know how to tell the guy that I don’t eat meat. If Binkus knew I was a vegetarian, my chances for the Binkus account will dry up like a flower in the hot Texas heat.
Good thing it’s still springtime.
I left my nest, my island, chipper,
The day seemed bright with promise.
I hee-hawed to a passing clipper,
whose stern proclaimed Adonis.
O’er wind whipped swirls I pumped my wings,
O’er sea lions barking at the birds.
My hooves hit pier with slightest ping,
My joy just then, I’ve not the words.
A latte this day I deserve,
So I trotted to Trieste.
Coffee, biscuits neatly served,
My Tuesday must be blessed.
But what is this? Oh foul event,
This grubby fax awaiting me?
Binkus shant send me ‘One Red Cent!’
Till a visit to Texas I grant to he.
Sometimes when news so bad comes chasing after Donkey Pegasus, the only way I can adequately express myself is through verse. If perhaps this format throws you, let me be quite clear: Binkus wants me to giddy-up on the next flight to Houston so I can ‘learn a bit more about the Binkus way of life.’
Oh cruel gods, oh demon world you send me to… this isn’t the last of me!
Oh I can smell it.
Saturday was a dismal, drizzling day spent hungover in my nest, replaying the last hours of my Friday folly over and over in my swollen head. God, Donkey Pegasus, you can be such an idiot sometimes. I admitted this my first day to Dr. Lynn so don’t go giving that head twister all the credit. Sunday though was the sort of day that gives the weatherman a stiffy.
The sun hung in the sky like a juicy orange on the tree, and my head and wing (which I clipped on the top of Coit Tower on my clumsy flight home Fri. night) were each feeling operable. So obviously, it was the perfect time to work in my vegetable garden. What? Didn’t know I gardened? Well friend, let me tell you. There’s plenty you don’t know.
There’s nothing like a fresh, ripe bell pepper, its skin red like an… like a… like a tomato! Mmm, tomatoes.
I’m an herbivore. What, you think I’m some freak of a donkey that eats meat? What the hell am I supposed to eat out here on Alcatraz, pigeons? Sicko. I know some of you delusional humans think squab is some squeaky clean word that stretches a respectable distance between the roasted bird on your plate and the dirty pigeon eating dirty bread that the dirty man threw on the dirty ground. No psycho, I don’t eat pigeons. I eat things that don’t cry. Jesus, you’ve got me worked up.
Anyway, so I was tending my garden. The tomatoes and beans are coming up perfectly, and the melons are just where they should be, and the jalapeños (I like it spicy) and the walla walla onions I bought online are going to be perfect. The arugula is tricky but I think it’ll make it. Some amateur horticulturists don’t have the experience to tell you this, but these summer veggies love that sea air. Alcatraz is the perfect place for my nest. Perfect flowers throughout the year. Perfect views of the city; millions couldn’t buy my panorama. Perfect, except one thing.
One giant vexing ugly Birkenstock-wearing, photograph-taking, hoo-hawing (which is very different from hee-hawing, let me be clear), clam chowder-in-a-bread-bowl-eating, cheap San Francisco sweatshirt-wearing because Doi, I’m not a savvy traveler and so I failed to realize that summer is actually quite chilly in San Francisco, despite its California location, oh but when I get home from my trip—whatever butthole of a place that might be—I’ll remark to my so-called friends (once they take my baited remark) that Oh, you didn’t know it was cold in San Fran in the summer? Surely you must have heard Twain’s famous quote about Frisco, “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.” This isn’t me talking people. No, not me at all. That meatball of a human was a Tourist. I’m talking about tourists! And Lord Jesus in Drag if it’s not that season again. (BTW, my man Jesus doesn’t mind my mention of him because, in a way, I was there when he was born. Were you? Didn’t think so sucker.) Tourists, they smell like canned ham and they wreak havoc at my home.
So on Sunday, I’m enjoying my garden’s bounty, chomping a carrot and watching sailboats glide past, when the first boatload of dumb fatsos (fine, they’re not all fat) start moving up the long ramp, following their assigned Park Ranger like birds to a baker. I don’t really feel like going into any details because frankly, any small little dropping of relayed comments or tourist’s ridonkulous outfit will be far outshined by the ones who’ll inevitably show up in about a month. June is like a social house of horrors here on Alcatraz. Come one, come all! The terribly stupid! The horribly ugly! Litterers! Amateur photographers who have big fancy cameras! The ones with such powerful zoom that I actually have to hide down in my nest as they pass unless I don’t want to be the subject of gawking and incredulous shouts of What can that be? Is it real? Is it magical?
Hell yes I’m magical. I’m the most magical four-legged ad executive donkey with wings who ever barfed on the hot brunette’s white pants Friday night at 111 Minna. Dammit! I didn’t mean to tell you that.
Binkused.
You know that smooth upward flow to a mighty fine weekend feeling you get on Friday morning? Maybe there’s a party, or a crab feed, or a lawn bowling tournament that you’re looking forward to, and all you need to do is get through Friday? And you don’t even suspect that some evil brute might sneak into your office, throwing spears or coffee mugs or Chinese stars at you, distorting your smooth flow into turbulence, dismantling your optimism with swift strokes of the sledgehammer, and delivering that heavy gray blanket of negativity that makes you say horse piss, it might as well be Monday. You know that feeling? I do. Donkey Pegasus walked that trail just today in fact and then, out of nowhere, Binkus.
It came through the telephone.
Binkus: Well hey hey hey DP. Thought I might catch you at your desk.
Donkey Pegasus: Mr. Binkus! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. Did you already review the 2008 marketing plan I sent?
Binkus: Now DP, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Baron? Nevermind on that hefty document you sent over. I’m having my cleaning lady read it over. She’s good with details. What I’m calling about is something my little Birky did on his new computer. I wanted to see what you thought.
Me: Birky. That’s your grandson?
Binkus: Righteeo DP, the 12-year old. My daughter Shirley’s fifth. Anyhow, he’s a real creative kid. A true talent, and when I told him that I was thinking of paying a big fancy agency to design me some advertisements, Birky said that he could probably do it for half the price. He’s a savvy little player, lemme tell ya.
Me (poor inconsolable me): Well sir that’s very cute but—
Binkus: Cute? Hell! This boy does good work! I gotta tell you DP, I’m thinking of going with him. He really understands that Binkus is a family brand.
Me: (inaudible weeping)
Binkus: DP? Did I lose ya?
Me: No sir, I’m here. Well let’s see it.
Binkus: Hold on, I’m having Birky send it over on the email right now. He says his screen name is badassbinkus@aol.com. So look out for it.
Me: badassbinkus at A O L dot com? He is creative. Alright, nothing yet… okay, something’s coming in, this might be it… yes, here it is.
Silence fell over me at this point like an anvil might fall over a cricket. This. This is what I’m up against:
Binkus: Well? Whattaya think DP? Little guy’s got some talent, don’t he?
Me: Uhgh.
Binkus: Don’t he?
Me: Mr. Binkus, what exactly is this supposed to be? In advertising terms.
Binkus: Well Donkey Pegasus, you’re the expert. You tell me! It could be in a magazine, it could on a billboard… Hell, it could even be part of that new packaging you’re always pushing for.
Me: No. No it couldn’t. Sir, this is all done in ClipArt. Did he use PowerPoint for this?
Binkus: How the hell should I know? I’m sure he used the same computer gizmos your high priced people in Frisco would use, don’t you think?
Me: No sir, I don’t.
Binkus: Look… he even worked in all the messages we talked about. Got the name of the company… Got the nutritional message about chicken… He talks about the flavors.
Me: No Baron, No. He does not talk about the flavors. He says All The Flavors You Desire. Now, is that true? Baron, last time I checked Binkus Wings doesn’t do requests.
Binkus: How about you call me Mr. Binkus from now on?
Me: Right, sorry sir. It’s just that you tell me all the time to call you—
Binkus: Things move fast around here Donkey Pegasus, keep up. Look, he’s even made up a new slogan. It’s good too! Wings are for Kings. Now that’s the type of thing that might make a man pick these up in the freezer aisle. Don’t you think?
Me: It’s… Wait, is that one chicken eating the egg that the other chicken’s laying?
Binkus: What? Where?
Me: Lower left sir.
Binkus: Well I’ll be, it sure looks like it. That’s sorta weird.
Me: Sir, to be honest, the whole thing is weird. Do you see your competition putting out work of this quality? You see Hooters using clip art? Binkus doesn’t have boobs sir, so you’re gonna need to excel in other areas. And I’m sorry to tell you, this is just not good.
Binkus: I’m just trying to give the kid a chance here DP, don’t get all uppity about it.
Me: Well I appreciate that Birky wanted to help sir, and I’m sure he’s very talented and creative. But you can’t have your 12-year-old grandson design your ads. You’ll be a laughing stock.
Binkus: You people out west sure don’t understand the rest of us DP. I’m gonna have to think this over. The family’s coming over this Sunday for a pig roast and I think I’ll do some—what did you call it?—market testing, and I’ll get back to you next week on it. A good business man just doesn’t jump into something this big DP. Your asking me for a lot of money! You gotta understand that.
Me: I do sir, I do.
Binkus: Good then. You have yourself a nice weekend DP. Hope there ain’t too much fog in Frisco for ya.
Me: Thank you Mr. Binkus.
Binkus: Please, call me Baron…
Me: Right. Oh, one more thing Baron… Baron?
Line went dead. Binkus.
This week’s session wasn’t so hot.
Janice, Dr. Lynn’s assistant with the wandering eye, told me that Dr. Lynn had run out for a spinach salad and asked if I would wait. Now, when I say wandering eye, I don’t mean that Janice visually gropes men in the presence of her boyfriend, or that she’s prone to adultery. I mean that her right eye literally embarks on its own nomadic journey towards her ear each time we converse face to face. It’s incredibly distracting, so much so that her words are usually muted to my donkey ears once that crazy eye starts sliding sideways. I mean, come on woman. Get that thing under control. Although today, I heard what she was saying loud and clear.
Janice (eye in place, behaving itself): Oh hi Donkey Pegasus. Dr. Lynn ran out for a quick spinach salad so she’ll be a few minutes. That okay?
Donkey Pegasus (eyes straight forward, hooves planted firmly in place despite the fact I’m instantly pissed that Dr. Lynn has no problem thwarting my time but man, when that clock of hers hits 50 minutes her time is spent): No, that’s fine Janice.
Janice (right eye beginning to jiggle and unhinge): So how are you? Dr. Lynn said that you started a blog.
Donkey Pegasus (1, 2, 3, 4, 5,): She did now? Oh, I get it. Now I’m really starting to figure her out. Dr. Lynn likes spinach salad and she doesn’t like doctor/patient confidentiality. Not much heed paid to Hippocrates in these parts, eh?
Janice (right eye looking out window, left eye looking at me): Wha?
(By the way, that counting thing is something Dr. Lynn taught me. She said that counting to ten when I feel instant anger will diffuse and buffer my initial reactions. Likely story.)
Donkey Pegasus (6, 7, 8, 9, 10): Nothing, forget it.
And just then, as though these small encounters with Janice are staged to test me, as though Janice’s wandering eye is some devious test of tolerance, Dr. Lynn comes gallivanting into the office. Her hair was in some quasi-bouffant and she had a giant splotch of vinaigrette on her yellow suit. She’s tall, and the suit makes her look like Big Bird (and oh how I hate Big Bird) or a big stupid banana with a brown spot.
Dr. Lynn (noticing me noticing the stain on her jacket then acknowledging the stain by rubbing it with her hand, as though her hand is some magic laundry wand): Oh, hi Donkey Pegasus. Thanks so much for waiting, come on in.
I plop down on Dr. Lynn’s black leather settee as she gets herself a Pellegrino.
Dr. Lynn: Care for one?
Me: Not unless it’s a Tanqueray martini with six tomolives.
Dr. Lynn: What?
Me: Nothing, forget it.
Dr. Lynn (Getting serious now, leafing through my ‘file’ and straightening her severe, chunky eyeglasses): So. I’ve been reading your blog.
Me: So I’ve heard. Young Janice nearly made it seem like you two gals kicked up your heels, popped some corn, and treated it like Sex in the City night in the Castro.
Dr. Lynn: I hardly believe that.
Me: Welll…Uh. Ripley’s Believe it or Not!
(Great. I’ll be replaying that lemon of a comeback for at least a week, constantly reinventing and improving it, chipping away at it, smoothing it curves like Michaelangelo would, until I’ve sculpted the best comeback ever. I mean, it will be tight and lean and graceful and witty. Just perfect, really. But what for? The moment has passed… nobody’s listening. What’s it all about Donkey Pegasus? Then comes the remorse, then pure shame, followed by the ordering of two large Round Table pepperoni, onion, mushroom, and jalapeno pizzas and eating them all, gorging myself, until I can fit no more loathsome carbohydrates into my empty soul. Then the tsunami of regret rolls in under the Golden Gate and washes over me until I’m catatonic in my nest, gulls circling overhead with pity in their calls. And donkeys are lactose intolerant, so I’ll have bad gas too. Jesus God, what a stupid comeback.)
Dr. Lynn: All I said to Janice is that I’m suggesting a blog to some of my computer savvy patients as a healthy outlet for their expressions. She asked me if anybody had taken on the challenge and I told her yes, but only one: Donkey Pegasus. I was proud of you and that’s why I told her. I did not, however, tell her the content of the blog but let me remind you that www.donkeypegasus.com is publicly available.
(Great, bring on the guilt.)
You know what? Let’s skip the rest of this part. I don’t really think this part is all that interesting. Let’s jump to the part where Dr. Lynn tells me that she thinks I have a drinking problem! As if!
Dr. Lynn: Donkey Pegasus, I think you have a drinking problem.
Me: What? Me? You’re crazy. Drinking problem? Me? Naw, really? I mean, Dr. Lynn, I hardly think I have a drinking problem.
Dr. Lynn: Donkey Pegasus, can I read you the list of alcoholic beverages I’ve either heard you mention or read on your blog just this week?
Me: If that’s something that would satisfy you, sure.
Dr. Lynn (clearing her throat, sitting back in her chair): Seven gin martinis with a total of 42 tomolives in one night. While I’m most concerned about the alcohol, I do feel compelled to mention that there’s enough sodium in 42 tomolives to be of concern to a donkey. I’m just saying. Anyway, I went on to count an egregious consumption record during your trip to Las Vegas. Something like 27 margaritas, 39 beers, a box of wine, not to mention anything you didn’t mention or drank while you were blacked out. Donkey Pegasus, donkeys aren’t supposed to drink this much.
Me: I’m not a donkey. I’m a donkey pegasus, alright? There’s a difference.
Dr. Lynn: I don’t think your wings make it okay to binge to this intensity. I’m only saying this out of concern.
Me: Fine, so I overindulge a bit. But only in party settings.
Dr. Lynn: You don’t drink in your nest at night when you don’t go out?
Me: Dr. Lynn, do you think I have a refrigerator in my nest?
Dr. Lynn: I really have no way of knowing.
Me: Cocktail shaker? Jigger? Ice cubes?
Dr. Lynn: I was just asking.
Me: Martini glass? Tomolives? Cocktail picks? I mean, come on Lynn. That’s a lot of gear.
Dr. Lynn: What do you eat then?
Me: I get takeout.
Dr. Lynn: Do you really think that’s a healthy diet?
Me: Jeez Dr. Lynn, who are you? My mother?
Dr. Lynn: No, I’m not. But now that you bring her up, I wish we could talk about her. I’m sure she’s somehow at the root of these issues.
Me: Alright, time’s up.
Dr. Lynn: Actually, we started late today. We still have five minutes.
Me: How about you take the extra five and go work on that stain.
Dr. Lynn: (Speechless.)
I tell ya. This woman is giving me an ulcer.
This is officially the bad time. I’m not willing to go into how I might have been able to hitch a ride with a crazy bearded biker named Beef up to Yosemite, but let me just say that I wish I was out on the road with Vook and Pepé. Armadillos and roaches… salt of the earth.
Their postcard came by way of Lisa as I was pacing my office listening to Mr. Binkus on speakerphone telling me about his 2-ton granddaughter’s ballet recital. “Graceful as an elephant in the water,” is how he described it. Right, unless it was water ballet I think we can safely assume elephant is the only thing accurate here. I’ve seen this kid. She sports the gut the size of Santa Clause and no matter what pretty, frilly dress she’s got on there’s always a barbecue sauce stain or a piece of bacon dangling from a button. She must eat Binkus Wings for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Believe me, I know what’s in those things…not exactly ballerina kibble. But I must do what I must do in terms of Binkus. I’m so close I can taste my commission.
Here’s Vook and Pepé’s postcard…
Now go back to whatever mindless thing you were doing.
Um… soo… I suppose my Vegas trip wasn’t the fantastic spectacle of ass-kicking poker awesomeness and freakishly beautiful female escortedness that I intimated it might be on Friday. Which sucks.
Dr. Lynn warned me about expectations. She said that I “build my expectations for every scenario to such mythic, extravagant proportions that the actual outcome, no matter how good, will never be good enough.” But Vegas wasn’t even good Dr. Lynn, so take that.
Where do I begin? Airport security for Donkey Pegasus is, let’s just say, a bit more stringent compared to your average dirty bipedal human pushing his backpack through the x-ray and taking off his stinky Pumas. First off, some heavy-around-the-middle, polyester-suited mutant named Darren puts a harness around my trim middle, which doesn’t fit because I’m special and have wings, and a sash around my neck that reads LIVE ANIMAL CARGO, Gate 27. I don’t know if you can relate, but it’s degrading to be paraded around like dumb livestock at some perverted 4-H convention where the people, ironically, are the ones who smell like animals. I told Darren he smelled like an old pork burrito festering on the sidewalk and he kicked my flank and tightened my harness and called me an Ass, which is fair I suppose.
The plane was delayed 42 minutes most likely because of some slice of stupidity served up by a 19-year old with a dented brain at Denver International. (That’s just me speculating.)
After personally speaking to Captain John I was able to stand in the back galley of the plane and gorge myself on snack mix and ginger ale for the short flight instead of being stuffed into the pressurized albeit inhumane live cargo hold somewhere in the belly of the plane. “Ever heard of PETA Captain John?” I shouted from the gangway. Oh yeah, I can play it both ways when I need to. Donkey Pegasus ain’t no dummy.
Okay, okay: Vegas. Well, the boys rolled in from all directions of the country and that crazy Norwegian was the first one there, even though he came the furthest, and he brought two bottles of Hjemmebrent —some outlawed 186-proof devil water that I took two shots of when we first checked into our penthouse. The party got started immediately, oh yes. There’s no doubt. Only thing is, I remember only a pinch of it:
Hjemmebrent, taquitos, 6-foot-three topless bachelorette barfing in the bathroom, torn down curtains, midget parade, carrot bloody mary, ATM, roulette, ATM, roulette, ATM, black jack, ATM, rejected from high stakes room, ATM, double bacon bbq cheeseburger at 5:30am, gas, terrible gas, margaritas by the pool, six slices of sausage and onion pizza, more gas, being blamed for pooping in the Lazy River at Mandalay Bay, fighting some dad to defend my innocence, margarita, margarita, ATM, margarita, roulette, stretch Hummer limousine headed to SCORE’s, on-stage with some nasty stripper, four shots of tequila, blackness, the searing Las Vegas sun tearing open my world the next day, missing my plane home, 7 agonizing hours in the airport waiting for the next, 1 agonizing hour in the plane, 30 agonizing minutes on BART, exhausted flying against a headwind to my nest on Alcatraz, being spotted by tourists, barfing over the side and hitting some fat old guy on the shoulder, him shouted obscenities, me taking them to heart because of my weakened emotional state, possible tearing, passing out in the cool evening mist, the shock of the alarm at 7am Monday morning, heartache, thirst, regret.
You happy?
Look people. Do you think I’ve got time to check my email, make all my calls, and submit an updated proposal with revised numbers to Mr. Binkus, all by noon today, so I can write my blog so you losers can read it, gripping your weak fingers onto each little morsel that I disclose about my excellent life? No. The answer is no.
Why must all this be done by noon you ask? Oh, good question. Only because I’m headed to the most awesome place on earth today for a bachelor party (no, I’m not the entertainment you jerk-off). I’ve been to Tijuana, I know what you’re thinking.
Look, they even changed the sign to hark the herald of my welcome:
(Yes, I stole this picture. But donkeys can’t afford stock photos. You, however, can buy it in 3D here.)
Oh yeaahh, I can see it now. I’m at a high stakes poker table in the Bellagio while two, no—three luscious beautiful model/Cirque du Soleil contortionist/cocktail waitresses mix me Tanqueray martinis with six tomolives and cheer me onto victory over the fat Persian guy with diamond rings all over his fat fingers and his pet cobra curled around his neck like some sick scarf, hissing terribly. But I win—five aces baby—or four, to be realistic, and I assume his entire fortune, which is vast. Then, glitter and confetti and Gino’s Pizza Rolls start raining down onto the happy crowd who is shouting my name—Donkey Pegasus! Donkey Pegasus!—as they push the fat Persian and his snake and his skinny, devious entourage out the door. “Go hump each other at Circus Circus!” they’ll shout at him, my fans, as he snorts out the door, giving his diamond rings, now sparkling at the tips of my ears, one last mournful look.
And then comes the party! I mean, it’s going to be totally off the hook. Wish you could be there. No wait, actually, I don’t. Sorry kids, I run with a pretty exclusive group. You think I’d invite some malorkus like you to dampen my gambling chi and salt my luck with the ladies? Think again chili dog.
But I’ll tell you all about it Monday morning. Will that satisfy your insatiable need to be part of my life?
The People Say: