Safety Net

It was Conference. The race I had been looking forward to all year. I spent the day psyching myself up with punk rock music and teenage angst. Our team looked the part of the winners, with new uniforms and matching knee high socks placed strategically on one leg. Sure the shorts were still short, but they were comfortable.

The gun went off. 3.2 miles to go. The course wound through a wooded area with narrow trails. I started out at the back of the lead pack. My plan was to attack the hills and sharp turns of the course where the packs would likely spread out and then count on the narrowness of the trails to make it difficult for people to pass me. It was a good plan, but I got tired too quickly attacking the toughest parts of the course.

On the second lap I was approaching the narrowest and steepest part of the race. I heard cheering ahead of me- girls from another team encouraging their male counterparts.

"Come on, Irondale!"

I felt awful, and knowing that our rival team was ahead demoralized me even further. When I turned the corner I saw the girls still cheering. They watched me trudge my way up the sharp incline. The bright cheering faces soon contorted into looks of disgust and horror.

I thought to myself, "What the hell was their problem?"

I finally reached the top of the hill and knowing I was falling behind the pack, I dropped my head and watched the ground. I noticed something. It was an unmistakable pattern. Rhythmic. Hypnotic. Exposing.

It was my penis.

Every time I strode forward with my left leg, my penis. That fleshy winnebago, popping out of the bottom of my shorts with no net. My old shorts used to have a net.

My head was hanging, pun backhandedly intended, and with less than a mile to go I had pretty much given up. This season was a disaster. I wasn't going to post my worst time, but I definitely wasn't my best. With my penis safely tucked away where it could no longer frighten any 16 year old girls, I crossed the finish line.

Charlie Work

It was a crisp fall day when it happened. Leaves were turning various shades of yellow, red, and brown. Birds could be seen silhouetted against the burnt orange of the October sky, heading south. And Charlie, our 19 year old 1k pound horse, meandered the pasture grazing on whatever remnants of green grass he could find. My father and I watched as he lazily swatted his tail at invisible bugs. Yes, I thought to myself, it's going to be a great day to kill Charlie.

It really was a perfect day for manual labor. The cool air breathed life into every strained movement. Our shovels seemed to plunge into the ground with ease as we recklessly tossed dirt over our shoulders.

When the hole was deep enough we picked up a couple buckets filled with grain and began shaking them. Charlie was some distance away, but his head popped up and his ears perked when he heard the sound. He sauntered towards us, deducing that delicious corn was in his future. Lucky for us, but unfortunate for him, he was unable to deduce what the combination of grain near a horse sized hole meant.

Positioning Charlie was a challenge, and in this sort of work position is very important. Having a horse perpendicular to it's grave is foolish. Horses tend to fall best either to the right or left, rather than forwards or backwards. Having the horse stand parallel to it's intended target is best because it allows for added surface area on which to push the soon to be swaying half ton animal.

As Charlie stood feverishly devouring the last bits of grain my father revealed a large syringe filled with a pink liquid. He placed a reassuring hand on Charlie and knelt down to deliver the injection as I prepared to push Charlie into the hole. Soon, a tell tale drowsiness over took Charlie and we began to push.

He fell into the hole without much effort, but in a peculiar way- with his hooves facing the sky. Still twitching, but with the sunlight quickly fading, we began to throw dirt on my dying childhood friend. It's sad when I think about it, having a horse as a friend.

The Magic Kingdom of Lust

The kissing was awkward at first. I'm not sure if it was her or me, but it's hard to blame a six year old girl for being sub par in the make-out department. It could have been the cramped space underneath the giant symbolic wooden spire of the playground that made the situation so uncomfortable. It could have been her inexperience, or my zealous use of tongue. It could have been the grotesque reflections of our contorted faces in the fun house mirror. Who knows, really?

After several minutes of pecks and licks the insanity stopped, and I decided to let my obese friend Joel kiss her for awhile. Actually, to be truthful, there was a line of guys waiting and I had already taken up more than my share of the time.

Her name was Erica Moon, and she was the slut of our 1st grade class. When we were kids she was the hottest girl in grammar school, but she ran into problems with acne and poverty during puberty. It's funny how class divisions can make someone less attractive. Still, she was a slut. She'd kiss any boy, anywhere, anytime. At least, anytime during recess.

That day on the playground was my first kiss, and as long as I remember I'll never forget it.