I grew up on a lobster farm on the windiest corner of Maine's coast. Well, its not exactly a windy corner. It's just that my lighthouse is planted at the water's edge. Well, not quite at the water's edge, but close to it. You know, I don't think the water has an authentic edge. And can corners be windy? Anyways, I was raised by my Great Grandpa Garret, a radical fisherman who was widely recognized for winning staring contests with Maine's most fearsome sea creatures.After his victories, he would frequent The Mermaid's Chowder Hole, a cozy bar owned by the Norwegian mafia. I never did need an alarm clock, for Grandpa would waltz in just as the sun skimmed the horizon, his fly half zipped, whistling Irish favorites like "My Pants Aren't On For a Reason" and "I'm Gay For You, Bonnie" with his favorite tranie Felix holding him steady. After our ritual bowl of corn pops and a swig of cocktail sauce, we took to the docks and removed the helpless oysters from the tangled soggy net. Only three more to go and Grandpa's string of pearls for Felix would be complete. After the docks, I would power walk to the school yard where I spent most of my time hurling rocks at Miguel Garcia, the illiterate Dominican boy with a premature mustache. I still hold a torch for him. At night, we'd feast on herring, crab, and the naked oysters stripped of their pearls and I would slip into slumber, full bellied, my slowing breath complimenting the ocean's waves.Life was breezy and predictable until that fateful October eve. I was surprised to see Great Grandpa back so early from the bars, considering that afternoon he had taken on a family of shrimp and beat them all in what he calls "The worlds greatest staring showdown." He crawled into bed, fly zipped and released a gasp of defeat. "She wasn't there," he confessed, more to himself than to me, and he pulled the sheets of disappointment over his head. It was a well known fact that Felix earned her living topless tap dancing for sailors, but it was her insatiable appetite for other elderly men that made Great Grandpa's bisque boil. He stayed in bed that morning with 'The Crying Game' on repeat, singing along in mumbled agony. "Did you see Boy George's behind the music," calling from his romantic-death bed. I didn't answer. "That man defines humility," he proclaimed. I quietly consumed my breakfast and made my way to the docks. The net looked in particular disarray, and I bolted full speed ahead to collect the oysters, thinking surely there are pearls to snatch. With my undeveloped breasts pressed against the shakey dock, I gripped my hands around the slippery rope and with all my might, pulled up the unsually heavy net, craddling the body of Felix. There she was, wearing only a saturated Sex Pistols top, crimson smudged lipstick, her testicles tangled in seaweed, releasing the stench of whiskey and rotten fish. She looked beautiful. The unexpected sound of a man's voice caused me to drop the net, her body crashing into the chilling darkness. "Fucking whore, I knew she wanted those pearls", he yelled. I didn't say a word. I knew it was easier for him to assume she was stealing and hate her for it, than accept that she drowned, and miss her because of it. It's been years since I went to that dock.After I joined the marines, Grandpa Garret headed down south, partially because I was gone but mostly to escape Felix. Though he insists upon his hatred for that "tittyless wench", he honors their love by wearing colored pearls and stuffing seaweed in his pupic hair, wandering the streets of New Orleans, still whistling a tune. ..This profile was edited with MySpace Profile Editor MySpace Profile Editor
Birthday Bear
You are the partier of the bunch! No matter what's going on, you can find a reason to throw a big bash. You're extremely outgoing and love to show others how to have a good time.
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