A FUSH YU MANG TALE

I'm staring at the screen and for some reason I feel pissed and depressed so I turn off the tube. Quite a shame really as I was about to see Pacino get shot almost a million times in his mansion. It's 10:30 on this Friday evening and I have nothing to do. Cripes, what's this on the floor? I can't believe I still have her phone number on this cocktail napkin. Debbie. She's probably waiting for my call. Probably not. Who gives a flying shit? She's probably thinking of Flo. I can't stand it staring at the tattoo of her face over Deb's heart. Jesus, it just ain't right. I can't even look at her, much less give her a call tonight. What I'd really like to do is wear my beer goggles and meet up with my friends then get wasted with the barflies.

I call Greg and he says that he and Paul will meet up with me at Kevin's house. Poor Kev . That whiny neighbor of his convinced their landlord to give him the ol' heave-ho in thirty days. Come to think it, tomorrow is his 30th day. How could I have forgot that? Can they not see that he is a padrino? What happened to respect and decent courtesy? The poor guy just wants to play with his drums and what the hell is wrong with that? Would they rather have him nervous in the alley and become a festering pus in the butt of humanity?

Paul , on the other hand, has problems as well. Like me, it's women. Once I crashed over at his house I heard him mumble in his sleep, "You used to call me names too cute to repeat: like honey bunch, hairy bear, and piccolo peet." I even threw my pillow at him when his screeching screams of "X!" just got too much to handle. Once I figure out my own problems, I'll help him disconnect the dots.

Greg  is the poet in my group of friends. He's been writing songs and said that we should form a group. A dreamer as always. Whether I encourage or discourage his dreams, he would always say, "Fuck it, let's rock." I like Greg. He's like the Fonz. I wish I had that mentality. Problem is, I only have 60% of his mentality; unfortunately, it equals to "mental."

Ah, yes, me . I may be mental but it keeps me sane. Sometimes I just want to push those around me for no apparent reason; sometimes I just want to yell on top of a mountain: "Why can't we be friends?" Sometimes I feel the world is a hellish pit populated by whiny neighbors and unfaithful lovers. Sometimes I feel the world is a loving place where people is under a massive love attack and constantly singing in perfect harmony.

At Kevin's house, I see him packing his stuff. Greg is in the corner writing tunes while Paul is staring at the photo of his woman. In the corner of my eye, I see the whiny neighbor peeking out like a scared rat from its mousehole. I feel sorry for him. I wonder if I was gonna end up like him, working 9 to 5 at a job I hate.....

Then it hit me. The tattoo that constantly bothered me disappeared from my mind. As though my third eye is not blind anymore. It can see. Wearing beer goggles would now be useless as it can't fit with my newly-opened eye. I walk towards Greg and grab what he is composing.

"Fuck it, let's rock," I tell him.

"Let's rock, " he replies back.

And like an episode of a horrible after-school special, Paul tears his ex's photo up. He does not say anything, but Greg and I know what those three eyes are trying to say.

Kevin then throws his luggage out the open window, landing on the head of a sugar daddy pimp, and begins playing his drums. He plays a slow beat; to my pleasant surprise, Greg just happens to conveniently bust out his guitar while Paul take out his bass under the bed. I then begin singing the lyrics of this one song which was soon to become an integral part of "fush yu mang."

From here on out, our mouths shall forevermore never be smashed.
 
 
 

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disclaimer:this is a work of fiction, okay?