inexplicable five & ten gymnastics

Cesar could be found nightly, reclining in his easy chair, quietly observing the spectacle through the bending of the fishbowl glass (he could tolerate only the most docile of animal companionship), content to suffer the mental gymnastics that are the price of admission to watching one’s mother recreate Mary Lou Retton’s bronze medal effort on a set of shower curtain rods. From his armchair turret, no adult beverage – no matter its country of origin, no matter how stiff, could give explanation to the inexplicable. He often wondered aloud what he had done to incur such wrath from the Penates, forced to cohabit these 42 years with a woman who’s mental chassis was, at best, long overdue for a good oil-lube-and-filter service. It was nights like this that had him literally on his knees, begging for the 210 Bus Line out of Yardley to veer wildly out of control, suddenly (and of course permanently) putting an end to her next stoop ball match.

Cauterizing his reproductive tubules the previous night guaranteed his lack of offspring, but the five-and-ten utensils he used to do so guaranteed his decree of vigilance over his scarred and festering rasher-like male organ of copulation. It’s true, the new smell that now rose from his nether regions was quite offensive, but some would say the same about heroic verse, or pickled cabbage, or his “collection” of amputee hookers that littered the basement of mother’s house.

Speaking of such, Cesar longed for the days when he’d doff his urine-soaked stetson, roll a j, and quench his parch-laced throat at the Martin’s Nest before trolling the side streets of Auburn Hills and Pontiac proper – his wrist-sized four-hundred-day clock providing a steady backbeat to one seriously fucked up night of recreational drug use and sex-for-hire. On the nights that his “foreign diplomat” ruse proved too transparent, he’d end up balling the mannequin he kept in the trunk of his 1975 Renault. And on the nights that the mannequin was far too incinerated for great, golden copulations, he’d dry dock his love boat and perform a manual jerk off ala el duderino (for those of the anti-brevity persuasion).

Some things you should know about the solemn Cesar and his wolf pack mentality work habits:
- He once used a corn stalk to increase the noise factor in his powerpoint training seminar
- He attempted to interpose banana daquiris between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. as a legitimate “alternative-to-coffee” coffee break because "he heard it was all the rage" in the Eternal City

Speaking of Rome, if you’re ever in that hamlet, be sure to visit Vicolo Uomo Selvatico, named in honor of Cesar’s prowess with a Cypress bough (non-composite cypress, mind you).

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