Last night HoBiscuit and I went out to eat with some friends. We went to a restaurant we’ve never been to before, a restaurant that everyone but me has been wanting to go to for a while. The kind of place that’s more about the scene, and being seen, than it is about the food.

I ordered the crab cake appetizer and shell steak entree.

This morning I woke to find that after paying the stated menu price of the food we ate last night, I’m still paying for it this morning. In sweat, tears and intensely painful spasms of gastrointestinal convulsions, my body is being forced to pay a tax on every bite that I took of that horrid, horrid food and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll survive.

Oh, man. My lower intestines just fired another warning shot across my colon’s bow.

Things are happening inside my stomach right now that would cause a goat to send me a Hallmark card of sympathy. Disease-ridden New York City giant rats are stopping by the apartment to find out if I’m carrying the plague, only to leave shaking their little heads and saying, “Stupid Geek. Even I wouldn’t have eaten that.”

The representatives of my local chapter of the Bugmob are just laughing.

I don’t know if I’ll be alive on Monday, so if you don’t hear from me by then you’ll know why. Send well wishes, notes of sympathy and donations to the “Get HoBiscuit A Real Man Fund” to

(The soon to be) Widow HoBiscuit

C/O Asses to Ashes Funeral Parlor

666 El Stupido Street

New York, NY 12345

Oh, god. I may never eat again.

[begin phone call]

“Hello?”

“Hi grandma. It’s your grandson, GeekMan. How are you today?”

“Who? WeakMan?”

“No. GeekMan.”

“Oh! GeekMan. I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. I’m old.”

“Yes, grandma. I know you’re old. How are you feeling today?”

“What can I say? I’m alive, no thanks to your grandpa.”

“Ah. So, that’s good, I guess. How’s grandpa?”

“I hate him. He’s driving me crazy.”

“Well, at least he’s keeping busy.”

“GeekMan, when are we going to see you again? You never come to visit anymore.”

“I’ve been busy grandma, but I promise to come and visit you soon.”

“I have a steak for you, you know. It’s in the freezer.”

“Grandma, you don’t have to buy me anything. Just seeing you is enough.”

“I’ll make the steak any way you like. Just call me a few hours before you come over so I can defrost it.”

“Grandma, you really don’t have to…”

“I’ve been saving it for you for a long time now.”

“Well, that’s very nice but you really don’t… wait a minute. Grandma, when did you buy this steak?”

“It’s frozen, you know.”

“I know grandma, but how long has it been frozen?”

“Not long.”

“How long?”

“…”

“…”

“Do you want to talk to grandpa?”

“Not now, grandma.”

“He hates me, you know.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He’s trying to kill me.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No! Grandma, how long have you had this steak in the freezer?”

“…”

“Grandma…”

“April.”

“Oh. Well why didn’t you say so? April’s not that bad…”

“April 1999.”

“WHAT?!?”

“Well, I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

“And you haven’t had a special occasion for three years?”

“Not with your grandpa still alive.”

“Grandma!”

“It’s true.”

“Stop that and tell me about the steak.”

“I forgot I had it.”

“You forgot you had a steak? In the freezer?”

“It was hidden under the frozen peas. I never put steak under the frozen peas. I think your grandpa was hiding it.”

“Why would he hide the steak?”

“To drive me insane.”

“Grandma…”

“He hates me, you know.”

“No he doesn’t.”

“Yes he does.”

“Grandma…”

“He’s trying to drive me crazy.”

“Sigh. Grandma, you know the steak’s not good anymore. Just throw it away, ok?”

“It’s a good steak! I’m not throwing away good meat just because it’s been frozen for a little while.”

“Grandma! It’s been frozen for three years! It’s almost old enough to be mistaken for Wooly Mammoth meat, ferpetesake.”

“I don’t care. I paid $4.95 for it at MeatSavers so I could cook it for my grandson, and that’s just what I’m going to do.”

“I won’t eat it.”

“You won’t eat your grandmothers cooking? What kind of grandson are you?”

“It will make me sick.”

“My cooking will NOT make you sick. I’m a good cook.”

“I know you’re a good cook! It’s the steak that’ll make me sick, not your cooking.”

“I can’t believe you think my cooking will make you sick.”

“Grandma, I never said that your cooking would make me sick.”

“Yes you did. I don’t think you appreciate what a great grandmother you have.”

“I do appreciate you! I love you!”

“If you really loved me you wouldn’t say such mean things.”

“But the steak is three years old! It’s just not safe to eat anymore!”

“Are you saying you don’t want my steak?”

“No. I’m saying that I don’t want that steak. I’ll eat anything else you want to make for me, but not that.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. Just promise me you’ll throw out that steak, ok?”

“Ok, GeekMan. You know I love to cook for you.”

“I know. And I love your cooking.”

“So, you think I’m a good cook?”

“Yes grandma, I think you’re a fabulous cook.”

“You’re a good boy.”

“Thank you, grandma.”

“Do you want to talk to grandpa now?”

“Sure.”

“…”

“Hello?”

“Hi grandpa. How are you?”

“I’m old.”

“I know you’re old.”

“Your grandma hates me.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes she does. She wants to kill me.”

“Sigh. Grandpa…”

“You hate me, too.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t visit.”

“I promise to visit soon, ok?”

“Ok. Soon is good because soon I’ll be dead.”

“Grandpa…”

“So, you’ll come and visit and we’ll be happy. Good.”

“I promise.”

“Ok. Then we’ll talk when I see you.”

“Sure.”

“One more thing. If your grandmother makes steak, don’t eat it. She’s trying to kill me.”

[end phone call]

It was the size of my big toe.

I’ve lived in my apartment for the last 5 years without a single sighting. Not once has my neat and clean home been soiled by their ugly, dirty, creepy-crawly presence. I am fanatical in my cleanliness and spare no expense in making my whole apartment proof against their intrusion.

And yet, there it was.

It was sitting there, in plain view, waiting patiently to be noticed. It was not trying to hide, it did not run away when I approached and it certainly didn’t appear to be frightened. In fact, if I were to believe my eyes, it was leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette and reading a teeny-tiny magazine.

PlayBug Magazine, to be exact.

Normally, when one walks into a dark room and turns on a very bright light, all the little nasties will run for the dark corners of the room like a wild herd of llamas for a watering hole in the desert. But not this bugger. It simply lowered the magazine, took a puff of its cigarette and gave me the finger.

I was shocked. Shocked!

“Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be scared?”

“Screw you.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘screw you’, Jackoff. You got a hearing problem?”

“I don’t believe this. A talking bug.”

“Believe it, human. Now shut your trap and listen up, cause I only want to say this once. I’m hungry. I’ve been running around this freaking apartment for the last 4 hours and haven’t found a damn thing to eat. I figure there’s got to be food around here somewhere and it’s up to you to give it to me. Or else.”

The last was said in the classic gangster movie, veiled threat voice.

“Or else, what?”

“Or else me and the boys are going to be paying you a visit. At night. Every night. In your bed.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Try not to think of it as a threat. Think of it more as, ‘gentile persuasion’.”

“Persuasion? Hey, you sound like the Bugmob!”

“Bugmob? Bugmob? I never said that, did I? Did you hear me mention a fictional organization of bugs with the power and ability to get what they want through the use of force, fear and coercion? Did you?”

“Uhhh…”

“Hey! Look at me. I axed you a question. Did you hear me say ‘Bugmob’?”

“Uhhhh, no. No, sir. You didn’t say Bugmob.”

“Damn right, I didn’t. And you better not mention it in my presence again, got me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, where’s that food you said you’d get for me?”

Thinking quickly, I looked around the room as carefully and inconspicuously as I could and realized that there weren’t any other bugs in evidence. This bastard was going it alone. I never had bugs before and I was moving into a new apartment in less than a month. No one would ever know. And by the time the other bugs figured out what happened, I’d be safe in a new apartment on the other side of the city. They’d never find me.

“Uh, you want food?”

“That’s right, Jackoff. Food, and make it quick.”

“You’re in luck, sir. It just so happens that I’ve got some food right here.”

“Where?”

“Right here, under my foot.”

“Really? Well? What are you waiting for, Jackoff? Let me have it!”

“Sure.”

Later on, as I wiped up his little buggy-guts from the floor, I replayed the sound he made as I stomped him to death over and over in my mind. For some reason, I truly love the sound those nasty bugs make as you squish their body between two hard and unyielding surfaces. It’s like… well, have you ever popped Bubble-wrap? If you have, then that’s exactly what it sounded like when I crushed that little bastard with my size 10’s and ground his horrid little body into the floorboards.

Damn, I just love Bubble-wrap. Don’t you?

It’s all my mothers fault.

I have an unfortunate affliction that causes me to fail miserably every time I attempt to be ‘cool’ and interesting at a social gathering. This horrible disease has no cure and I’m afraid that one day I’ll be as bad as my mentally addled mother.

You see, I can’t remember names.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t mean just the names of strangers I meet at a party and will never see again. No. I’m talking about the names of my extended family who I see at the GeekMan Family Gatherings once or twice a year. A typical conversation at one of those might sound like the following;

“GeekMan! It’s been too long. Why don’t you ever call me anymore?”

“Uh, hello?”

“GeekMan. Don’t you recognize me?”

“I’m sorry. The face is familiar but…?”

“I’m your mother, dammit! Your poor, ever-suffering mother!”

This is usually followed by a stinging slap and my banishment to the children’s table for the rest of dinner.

I can honestly blame this mental deficiency on my mother, who never, ever remembers my name. Whenever she’s introducing me to her friends it always goes something like this;

“Friend, this is my son, Fishman. Fishman, this is Friend.”

“Uh, mom. I’m not Fishman, I’m the older one.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Friend. This is Husband. No wait, Dog1. Dog2. GeekMan! Yes, that’s it. Friend, this is GeekMan.”

“I’m your son, dammit! Your poor, ever-suffering son!”

This is usually followed by a stinging slap and my banishment to the children’s table for the rest of dinner.

So, should you ever have the misfortune of meeting me and wonder why I don’t ever refer to you by your name, now you know. And, unless we meet in a very small group, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll remember who you are the next time we meet.

What? Oh, because I’m a fricken moron, that’s why.