Papa D's Place
I’d Like To Tell You About My Friend With Hardwood Floors and Good Morals

I like to take my shoes off and have fun at my friend’s house. He is a good friend who has a nice hardwood floor that I love to slide my socks on. Sometimes I pretend I’m a cross country skier or a speed skater and sometimes we do the Risky Business slide after a wine! God, I LOVE that floor, so fun, oh my God, the memories made and all the memories to come! 

About the Risky Business slide, we never, and I want to emphasize NEVER do the slide in our underwear like they did in that raunchfest the critics called a film. I’m not comfortable seeing a man’s leg past the kneecap and luckily neither is my good good friend. We agree some stuff should stay behind closed doors. 

If I were to see my friends leg from the kneecap up, I don’t think that I could stand to be in the same room as him to tell you the flat earth truth and I don’t know how he could stand being in the same room as me knowing that I had seen him exposed like that. 

I know some of you reading this are like, Mr. Joshua C. Paulson, math teacher to a generation of future engineers and NASA big wigs, men see men like that everyday in locker rooms across this nation that was built on the blood of both the innocent and the guilty, it’s no big deal! 

Well, to those of you saying that, I say, How does it feel sucking poison milk morning, noon, and night from the endlessly dripping bared breast of the liberal media who wants you all to become so defiled that you’ll shill out all your hard earned dollars to buy the gum that will make your breath smell like you can provide security for the daughter of a dirt farmer who toiled forty years in a field of dirt during times both good and bad so that his daughter could go to the city with all the bright lights and bustling butts, shaking and shimmering down sidewalks in a desperate attempt to bless the world with her art, full well knowing that unless she made a way for herself, she’d have to marry a man like you or return to work the fields of dirt that are full of the sweat and blood of her father?

Everyday, I sit in a classroom full of kids that I know have been exposed to this ugliness and it breaks my heart and I can see on their faces the horror and I know that one day it will lead to our downfall. Do you know that in my dreams I see the Statue of Liberty melting and the Grand Canyon full of cockroaches? Do you know that I’ve rubbed the nose of the Lincoln statue in Springfield and begged forgiveness? I know there is no way to stop it. I’m the only one who knows the cure for the disease, but the people in Washington are to busy to listen, more focused on the fashions of the day to hear from a man who has looked into the future and has seen their capital castrated.

Sometimes it pains me so, but luckily I have one good friend. One good friend with hardwood floors, luckily I’ve never seen the top of his leg or I’d be so alone in a house with carpeted floors, writing manifestos about why menfolk should keep on their drawers! Truly blessed, I am (read in Yoda voice to make it fun!).

And to any of my students reading this: Pop Quiz Friday! Covers Chapter 6-7. See I told you it would pay to read my blog! Share it for extra credit!

That’s it for now,

Cecil Paulson+Celia Derrickandpaulasdaughterburgowitz=Me (Joshua C. Paulson)

Slick Stevens Rides the Train

He was on the train, because Slick Stevens wasn’t a bird or a fish and didn’t travel by air or sea, God Damn it. He was born on land and he was the kind of son-of-a-bitch who believed there wasn’t any reason to leave it. Sure, he’d been in the air before when a bull bucked him and sent him screaming across the sky, but never by choice. 

Slick would just as well leave the getting on some airbus to the pencil pushers and the snowbirds with their dreams of penuckle in some waiting for death camp in the sunlit streets of some god forsaken city in the hellhole know as Arizona land. That whole state should be a ghost town far as ol’ Slick was concerned. 

He didn’t like any form of transportation, but his medical issues had put him in what husbands who don’t tell it plain would call a finical bind. The bank had taken away his truck, the old S-10, away from him. It was the closet thing he ever had to a child and the only thing he would ever mutter was a friend to him. 

So he was on the train to El Paso where he was going to show the mopes that ran the rodeo that Slick Stevens, the man who made bulls weep and women squeal, could walk with his two boots on good as any son-of-a-bitch bastard roaming the earth. 

For now, he was getting looked at square by housewives and hopheads. Don’t these people know that a man in a cowboy hat ain’t the Grand Canyon? The near-death woman with the wrinkled skin opened up her probably ate hundreds of peaches mouth and started to make words. 

Are you a real cowboy? Said the near dead. 

Yes, one of the few left in this country full of flimflammers. 

I remember the first time I saw a cowboy, the woman who’s family would be convening in a cathedral to mourn her within weeks started to say, I’m not a native of Texas, you see. I’m actually from Maryland, you know the state with the goofy flag? Anyway, not exactly cowboy country, but some of those fisherman were just as rowdy as any buckaroo, I tell ya that! Anyway the first time I saw a man with a black hat and boots on was when Pa took me to the…

Slick raised his hand and placed it sternly over the woman who shouldn’t be wasting what little time she has on this earth’s yap. 

Listen, lady, I don’t care when you saw a cowboy. I don’t care where your life starts or where it ends, but for this short blessed time we have together I’d enjoy not hearing anything you have to say. Your time on this earth is as meaningless to me as a death of some foreigner I ain’t never met. 

Slick took his hand off the woman’s mouth and she began to flow tears. He looked out the window at the desolate Texas landscape which he wished he was out raising some sort of hell on. 

A member of the train staff who was walking the aisle stopped at their seats. 

Is everything okay here?

The old lady turned her running faucet eyes to the plump man and her trembling mouth moved in attempt to verbalize her hurt, but her tongue betrayed her like Judas from the good book that she’d worn out thumping over the years and she made no noise. 

However, Slick’s tongue was a true disciple who was eager to preach his gospel. 

No, everything is not okay. This old-timer can’t keep stuff inside her. First, her boring blather, then her tears. My guess is for what’s next to secrete from this senior is a blessing from her bowels. My recommendation would be to put her down like a cancerous mutt at the next stop. 

The plump man who worked for the train blinked. Slick did not and turned his seen it all eyes back to Texas, the untamable beast he couldn’t help but provoke. He was a  rodeo clown after all, God Damn it.

I Live for the Weekend

Monday is the first day of the week to me, I know officially it’s Sunday, but for me it’s Monday. Anything is possible when the sun rises on Monday morning. What will the next seven days bring? Love? Magic? New Friends? Death? Tragedy? Finding new food trucks? Sweat rash? BBQ invite? Who knows? But, starting off on the right foot Monday will get the stone rolling down Mt. Good Week. Look out mountain goats! 

Tuesday is the second day of the week for me. A day to make up for Monday’s mistakes or to keep the momentum going. Getting invited to a BBQ on Tuesday is great, but if I don’t get invited to any Tuesday, I don’t freak, I just get out there more and start asking people what they are doing on the weekend. I plant the seed that I’m available on the weekend to sit outside and pretend to have fun. Sometimes I’ll pretend to have fun on Tuesday (sounds crazy, but trust me) so people will say, That guy looks like he’d be fun to pretend with. 

Wednesday aka Hump Day is a pivotal day that sets the tone for the weekend. Rip it up Wednesday and odds are I’ll rip it up on the weekend. Hopefully, I have secured an invite to a BBQ, so I can take my mind off work and start thinking about if I want to wear a button-up unbuttoned or no shirt at all to the BBQ. Either way, I will expose enough skin to leave the possibility of sauce spilling on my chest. There is just something about sauce sliding down my chest that makes me feel like I’m everyone’s favorite chicken wing. I start texting, Any plans this weekend, to tan friends if I still have not secured a spot to a BBQ, but still not freaking!

Thursday is one day before Friday and two before potential BBQ Saturday. At this point I’m focused on finding a squirt gun that matches my shoes or wondering what it is about me that makes me so bad that I can’t get one lousy invite to a BBQ. Is it that one time I skipped a Jack Johnson song at a pool party that got me blacklisted? 

Friday is the day that I crumple up work and throw it in the trash. I’m either going to get real drunk so I can be in a perfect loopy mood the next morning to be a hit at the BBQ or get real drunk and drive on curvy roads with lots of trees because no one cares about me anyway. 

Saturday I’ll either be hopping out of bed and into the shower and then off to the BBQ that’s full of high-fives, splashing (both ice in mixed drinks and into the pool), good smoke (both from the grill and illicit drugs, I’m also open to good snort, which could be anything. I snorted Hot Wing sauce one time! I’ll snort anything if it will make people like me), babes, buns, burgers, brats and most importantly, beers. I love beer, man. However, if I did not get an invite to a BBQ I will be either dead, in critical condition, or binging on Netflix and cold syrup and it’s always possible that at night I’ll pretend I’m homeless and hit the town begging for change. 

Sunday is my day. I might just rest or walk down to one of my favorite boutiques and look at the sales section and if I have enough change from the night before I may treat myself to an ice cream cone. But no matter what I do, I know that Sunday night I will be rubbing ice all over my bare skin to either cool myself down from all the hot memories of the BBQ or to numb the pain. 

I Will.

I will play the game.

I will do the dance.

 I will kiss up and glad hand and move up the corporate ladder. 

I will wear a tie to the fundraiser. 

I will present my girlfriend, Sasha, to the company President, Stu Paulson, to show him that I like women and belong in the boys club. 

I will say, I plan to, when Stu says, that I better marry Sasha before she joins the circus. 

I will tell Sasha that I don’t think Stu meant anything by the circus thing full well knowing that the country club bastard sure as hell did mean something by it because he is a prick and Sasha is freakishly tall. People ask her if she plays in the WNBA all the time. At the store, at the bar, at the Motel 6 in Shreveport, everywhere. So what if she’s tall? She has a kind heart and lets me eat bread pudding with my shoes and socks off and that’s a triple treat. 

I will mingle with other guests as Stu’s comments slowly eat at me. 

I will listen to fishing and golfing stories as I track Stu’s movements waiting for all the booze he’s drinking to trigger his urethra to alert him that he must preform the ancient act of taking a whizz and that is when I will preform the ancient act of killing a man for saying something he probably shouldn’t have said.

I will tap him on the shoulder so he knows the identity of his killer before I leave him bleeding on the floor. 

I will listen to the speeches smiling at Sasha, my beauty, waiting for someone to find Stu.

I will pay for my crimes even though in the eyes of true ancient law my crimes are none. 

I will skip the fundraiser. 

I will tell Stu that I’m sorry I missed it, but I was sick and overflowing the toilet with vomit. 

I will tell Sasha that it isn’t working and it’s not because of her height it’s because uh, well, I’m a in need of a little time to find out, um, why I feel like I want to choke birds, ya, I just don’t think it’s right to be in a relationship with someone while I’m constantly fantasizing of choking birds. You remember that time in Shreveport? The whole time I was thinking of choking birds, never of you, don’t cry, I’m the sick one. You’ll find a man who wears pressed pants and never thinks of murdering those flying beauties via choke, I promise. Someday you’ll see me on the TV, maybe on a TV in Best Buy when you are buying DVDs out of a Bin. Bird Murder, the man will say and you’ll be happy I did this.

I will find a woman who will make Stu say, Better put a ring on her finger before I leave my wife for her! I mean, hubba, hubba, hubba, meow, woof, woof, woof, coyote howl, wolf howl, bear growl, what a knockout! I’d like her to take a ride in my Range Rover fully loaded with Bose speakers sometime!

I will make Stu pay for that.

8 Ways You’re Doing Spaghetti Wrong

I’ve had spaghetti made for me many times and often it’s horrible. We’ve all had a friend ask us over for pasta and once it’s in the mouth the only option is to spit it out, get up from the table, and leave because they’ve done spaghetti wrong. So for everyone’s sake I put together a list of 8 things people do to screw up spaghetti.

1. Using whole wheat pasta.

2. Not talking to mother about Brady while stirring the sauce.

3. Forgot to wear a hair net.

4. Used sauce bought at the store instead of using sauce stolen from that epic house party at Lisa’s where Kevin punched Brady for saying a rude thing to a minority.

5. Didn’t test the meatballs for human.

6. Thinking about the good times with Brady while forgiving Brady for the bad times while straining the noodles. Never forget/forgive Brady for Santa Fe.

7. Didn’t invite a priest with a discomforting love for Under the Tuscan Sun over.

8. Forgetting that onions gotta be sliced real thin.

What the Man Behind Me Thought Before He Extended His Arm and Gave Me A Tap

Finally, a guy I can talk to. Thank God, because I need to get this stuff of my chest…if I don’t say it now,  I’m going to punch a get well card…walking around this Target, man…seeing what I’ve been seeing… this shit is making my skin shout for a scratch. The itch is all over like the animals that crawl around this city…I’m going to scratch myself bloody if I don’t let it out.

I know he’s feeling the same way…he itched his behind his ear…his forearm…his nose…we’re brothers in this shit swap. First, I’ll start off with something like, “It’s like a zoo in here, bro, these people are animals” and then I’ll let him know how I feel about Latino mothers. I think the left shoulder looks the juiciest to tap. Here I go.

I’m Iron Like A Lion in Scion

He drove the Scion to the park. He drove the Scion to the top of the hill. He had trouble on his mind. He had to go some place he could think, so he put his keys in the ignition and drove the Scion to the arts park at the top of the hill where it was peaceful. 

He was pretty sure Melinda was going to dump him. She’d quit making him cupcakes a couple weeks ago, which was around the same time she started taking an adult pottery class at the arts park at the top of the hill. That’s how he found out about the park at the top of the hill.

You see, Melinda needed a ride after class, so he drove his Scion to the top of the hill to pick her up. He waited for her with his windows rolled down. He wore shades and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked pretty cool, like maybe a web designer with a rad record collection or maybe a young dad who watched zombie movies with his kid. 

When Melinda’s class let out, he observed the rest of the class. Many of them were twenty years her elder and at least two of them were handsome with great jawlines and the swagger of a person who had a sailboat waiting for them somewhere. Melinda said goodbye to them with a giggle. 

When Melinda entered the Scion he remarked that there sure were some handsome men in the class. She said she hadn’t noticed. 

He couldn’t believe that someone could sit in his Scion and lie to him like that. It seemed a cruel thing to do to a person you had told that you could see yourself loving someday, maybe. So maybe Melinda hadn’t told him that she loved him, she’d made him cupcakes everyday for a month. Isn’t that love? Isn’t that saying hey stick with me and this is what life will be like?

On the drive to park at the top of the hill he thought of many things in his Scion. He left the radio off because he didn’t want to be distracted by the beautiful sound that comes factory in every Scion.

He wasn’t distracted by the bumps in the road. The Scion ran smooth, much smoother than his old Honda. The Scion’s shock absorber’s made every road feel like it had just been paved.

He wasn’t distracted by the prices of gas at the stations he passed. The Scion got 36 mpg city. 37 highway. He could drive for weeks without filling his tank. 

The only distracting thing about the Scion was its smooth interior. Had it been his first day of driving this beautiful silver Scion iQ he would have been to distracted by its interior beauty to focus, but he’d been driving it for a while, so he just marveled at it for a few moments and went back to thinking.

If he hadn’t leased this Scion from Sam Smith Scion at such a reasonable rate, he wouldn’t have been able to focus on Melinda. 

He was sitting cross-legged in the park looking at the Heavens now. Surely, the creator and curator of all things big and small would be able to tell him what to do with this whole Melinda situation. He saw a bald eagle fly across the sun. 

He started thinking of bald eagles. He thought of a bald eagle crossing the Delaware. He thought of a bald eagle wearing wood teeth. Basically, he thought of a bald eagle doing all the things George Washington did and while that was fun and maybe a good idea for an animated series of web shorts it wasn’t what he came to the arts park at the top of the hill think about. 

He went back to the Scion. It was in the Scion that the solution to his Melinda problem came clear and he felt an inner peace he’d never felt in any of the Hondas, Chevys, Plymouths, Chryslers, Fords, BMWs, Mercedes, Volkswagens, Audis, Subarus, Volvos, Hyundais, Saturns, Dodges, Fiats, Studebakers, or Datsuns he’d driven. He looked to the sky through the fun sun-roof and thanked the Lord above for every person and all the events in human history that had led to the creation and manufacturing of the beautiful piece of machinery he was sitting in.

I Finally Met The One

I knew he was the one when he walked through the doors of the coffee shop. His clothes were smart but not fancy. His hair looked like he knew that a person doesn’t need to shampoo everyday. He carried a Nalgene water bottle. His frame was slight, his eyes were blue, and his goatee assured me that he knew what translators best brought Japanese poetry to life. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I watched his every move as he waited in line. I knew he would come to my register. He just had to. The overwhelming sense of destiny made me feel that I was floating. 

I took orders from the other customers in a daze. Every fiber of my being was focused on this man of fate. Finally, he came to me. 

What would you like? I asked. 

First, two things. Is your coffee really fair trade or is that just some sticker you place on your products to fool people? Secondly, where do you get your milk? It better not be from the Kraft Corporation, I swear to God. 

I was right. He was the one…the one prick that was going to push me over the edge. 

I spit in his face and was fired by my manager, Marci, with cause. 

So, I’m looking for work. Hit me up on DM if you know of any job openings! I’d appreciate it!

meganpicturetaker:

Dan and DavidPhotographed at Loud Village Comedy NightBest Fish TacoLos Feliz, Los Angeles, California

Pals

meganpicturetaker:

Dan and David
Photographed at Loud Village Comedy Night
Best Fish Taco
Los Feliz, Los Angeles, California

Pals

April 13th Lineup

powerviolencecomedy:

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By Evan Mays