I Shall Name Him Ted

I need to start writing things down. Over the years I have had so many strange, weird and not-so-wonderful experiences that I am fairly sure not many people have had.

Gay stalker man who “thinks I’m gorgeous”, knob-shining Corolla guy with black stuff in his mouth, fetching a good beat down while butchering 1000 miles on karaoke. Stories of thieving cops, Tokyo drift done wrong, electric fence to the noggin, various alcohol induced retard moments, late night cat-naps on people’s front lawns, waking up cuddling Alsatians, or kaalgat in a suit jacket or selling myself for two flower pots.

There have been a number of these occurrences and each of them seem to lie dormant in my mind until somebody else tells a similar story. Yes, yes – then I am that guy with the more entertaining and outrageous story. It has been something I worked on because I am sure it must be annoying to other fellow storytellers. John goes onto telling us about the time he kissed two different girls on the dance floor one crae-crae night. Mine is similar, sure, however mine were sisters, they were into it but after a shooter showdown with the DJ I somehow ended up dating a really hot mad lesbian chick for 3 months who drove me to try Midnight condoms. My stories just always seem to cap it. Not because I am better or richer or more attractive, which even the Yeti would be able to agree with, but because my guardian angel is a bit of a nutter. I picture him being that dude from the Busta Rhymes music video – the dude with the big teeth banging his head up and down. Just mental.

So, before he packs his sense of humour up and buggers off to go taunt another innocent young male, I should write these stories down. Like most good exorcisms the taunter would take the memory with them. Post projectile chundah and “the power of Chris compels you”. That would suck… losing the memories – not the Power... Peace be with you.

It would be an odd morning. Waking up feeling drained from the emotional anguish. Head might be pounding from dehydration. Then I would zombie-walk to the mirror, dazed and confused – stare at the reflection for a moment and think: Eff! that’s a massive scar. Who cut my shoulder open? Ah shit – my ankle too. Why does my head feel like a lunar landscape (I imagine – I mean nobody really knows what it feels like right? How can you feel any texture when you in that suit? Also I mean how effing massive must your hand be to rub the entire surface to get that Lunar Landscape affect… probably a poor comparison). Why does my head feel like a massive golf ball (better)? Why won’t my shoulder stay in its socket? Why am I smuggling HTH capsules under the skin at the base of my spine?  Why am I shaped like a yield sign? While this entire realisation occurs I would expect Douglas Adams to walk in, quietly observe, take notes, nod in appreciation and go back to his time machine. I am that whale. I share his story – or does he share mine?

But that’s all in the future, if and when my Guardian angel packs in and calls it a day. He needs a name? One with reference but also unique? Anyway, for now- I have my memories and I will use this laptop as an opportunity to ensure my story gets told. Perhaps even back to me some day when I have lost my mind in my room somewhere. Could be used as a map for my aches and pains.

I shall name him: Ted.

None of the artwork is mine and any reference to anything ant anytime is anyones guess...Google it if you like it.