The Big Fitz

Tomorrow marks the anniversary of one of the most tragic days in American history. The name of the tragedy shall not even leave my fingertips as I know that just the words alone are a stab to the heart of mankind and will bring tears to the eyes to all persons not excluding the very young, the very old, the skinny, the fat, and the naked guy washing his testicles on the street corner with a spit-soaked paper towel.

Sometimes I pretend that I am Dr. Samuel Beckett (except a much prettier and smarter version with impeccably groomed eyebrows) and that I have gotten thrust into 1975 Wisconsin where I am happily wiggling under Captain McSorely (who looks exactly like Ryan but he is dressed like George Washington) before he departs in a few days when Al (who always kills my buzz) appears and tells me that Big Edmund was going to mysteriously sink in three days and I needed to make sure that Captain McSorely was not on the boat because in 15 years our severely retarded child would get the world record for eating 17 pieces of newsprint in under one minute. If the captain went down, then he could not impregnate me and our bastard child would never be born and that would mean that he would not make the world record and that would suck. So I try everything. I put on my cutest hip huggers and tie a scarf in a knot around my neck so it hangs down and draws attention to my small but firm breasts. I steal his white knee socks and hide them under the hamper. I send him to the store for some Summer’s Eve at 5:00 so he will hit traffic and then hopefully miss his launch. Apparently, they sell it at the gas station so he is back in 10 minutes. I ask him to look at a suspicious mole located on my left shoulder blade. He thinks it will be ok. I go to the bathroom to reapply my lip gloss and spend an inordinate amount of time staring into my own eyes and when I come out he is gone.