by Jen Ashton
TURDS
IN THE
PUNCH BOWL
by
Jen Ashton
Turds in the Punch Bowl
Copyright © 2011 by Jen Ashton
Cover by Jen Ashton
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously for dramatic purposes. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the original vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Dedication
For my best friend, Joe, who says he wants a girl who will pee on his foot in the shower and look at him like it’s his fault. I hope you find her.
Author’s Note
This is a book about friendship. Albeit unconventional, it is the kind of friendship that anyone would be lucky to have. There are friends that help you move, and then there are friends who help you move bodies. And once in a lifetime, you may come across a friend that would move the body before you even ask.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
FOREWORD
JOE
JOEY GOT LAID
STUPID CUPID
FEAST OR FAMINE
SHORT LANES AND NICKNAMES
NOT YOUR FATHER’S FIELD TRIP
JACKASSES IN THE DESERT
FINGER-BANGING JANE
JOSEPH IN WONDERLAND
GOOGLE GOGGLES
A LITTLE RELIEF
CAPTAIN COCK-BLOCK
Roger Roger
The Ex Factor
Poop
T-Jax
Sleestack Steve
T-Rev
EPILOGUE
TURDS IN THE PUNCH BOWL:
FOREWORD
I owe you an apology and some money.
That's what the email in my inbox said. I sat back in my office chair and took a deep breath. It wasn't often someone manned up enough to admit their own faults, let alone made an attempt to right the wrongs of their past. Recognizing this rare occasion staring me in the face on my glowing computer screen in the middle of the night, I felt I had no choice but to acknowledge the sentiment and see where that might take me. It never occurred to me that my response would lead to the greatest friendship of my adult life, as well as the wild adventures and gut-busting laughs we would have as a result of the that camaraderie.
I think that's pretty honorable, Joe. I've always liked you as a person. Maybe we should meet for dinner and catch up.
Two days later, I walked into the restaurant and noticed him sitting at the sushi bar. He looked the same. Well, in all actuality, it had only been a year and a half since I had seen him last, but still, he was easy to identify. Other than a fresh haircut and an upgraded wardrobe, he still looked like plain old Joe underneath. This makeover was no doubt a result of his recent divorce. The new and improved Joe 2.0 waved me over and pointed to the barstool to his left.
Joe was the ex-husband of my ex best friend. To clear that up, there had been a falling out with Joe and his wife a while back over money and a failed attempt to remain friends with a completely unstable train wreck with a borderline personality disorder named Jules. Jules had been both of our nightmares; his more than mine, I could only assume, since he was married to her. We hadn’t been able to overcome the fiasco and I had written them both off, (Joe merely guilty by association) counted my losses and moved on with my life. I never imagined I would speak to, or hear from, them again. Apparently, I underestimated Joe's integrity and wisdom. Somewhere in the time that had elapsed since going our separate ways, Joe had matured, harvested a heart and wised up to the fact that his wife was a total bitch. And now, I was about to sit down for dinner with a recently divorced man, broken and lost, but searching to make amends where mending was needed in his life. Cue my entrance into Monkey-dom. (Don’t worry, I will explain the reference shortly.)
“How goes it?” I said as I pulled out the seat next to him at the bar.
We hugged briefly to break the ice. He must've had a speech prepared because he wasted no time getting started with his monologue; an ability that Joe is both impressively gifted and cursed with.
“I'm in a place in my life where I'm trying to right all my wrongs, and you were one of the best friends we ever had...”
He continued forever, but to be honest that was all I needed to hear. We spent the evening talking about old times, catching up and building the foundation of a friendship we never really had the opportunity to embark upon due to the bipolar mess that we had previously shared in common.
This was only the first of many a night to come for Joe and me. In the months and years following that night, Joe became my closest and dearest friend. He moved into my house, supported my eating habits and handled my breakups for me. We conquered the town, created memories and inadvertently messed up almost every single one of our conquests together. He was my confidant, my cockblock, my kid brother; Joseph my broseph. And I was simply just a girl that he called Monkey.
JOE
This is my best friend, Joe. He may look mildly retarded, but he is not technically a retard; although he does a mean impression of one at parties. On the contrary, Joe is a pretty sharp guy. You wouldn’t know it by the weird shit he says all the time, but I can assure you it’s due more to his lack of filtration than a low IQ. His knack for speaking before he thinks is a rare quality, one that I both adore and detest, depending on the situation.
Joseph has the innate ability to clear a room with one word, or as I like to call it, the turd in the punch bowl. It’s usually that one remark that was unnecessarily added for humorous affect, but sent the audience packing. As a result, either everyone leaves, or they ask us to leave. For some strange reason, I admire him for preserving this skill; which is why when he does it, I stand by his side like the loyal best friend I am and slowly back out of the room with him.
Joe’s talents stretch further than his tactlessness. He is one of the most creative and innovative people I know. Wherever there is room for improvement, Joe is right there with a pencil and paper, ready to sketch up a solution. It’s just his own problems that he has trouble solving. Like the time he lost his car, or the time after that. He’s lost a lot of other things too; the most notable was his dignity. After searching high and low for it following one memorable Sin City eve, we chalked it up to lost forever.
Without his dignity, Joe is still a pretty good catch. He is boyishly handsome and has the personality of a bratty kid brother that pesters you until you love him. So if you don’t love his looks, you’ll end up loving him by way of torture anyway. He doesn’t let
up easily. He’s used to winning. He’s actually pretty good at it. He often harasses me until I give in; which is usually too late to avoid some form of public embarrassment. Sure, he can be super annoying, and he can take things an inch past too far ninety-nine out of one hundred times, but that’s what makes him Joe. I wouldn’t have him any other way.
Despite his fits for attention and his odd sense of humor, which can best be described as Monty Python meets Young Frankenstein with a side of Jerry Lewis, Joe’s also a funny guy. He never misses a beat when quick wit is needed to dig us out of a hole, or when a slapstick comeback is required to shut someone up. His best comedic attribute, though, would have to be his self deprecation. He is always the first to point out his own flaws, I assume, so he doesn’t have to feel rejected if someone else does. Joe doesn’t do rejection very well. He once bought a one-eyed cat and named him Wink to fill a void left by a girl who told him he was too short. I wasn’t sure of the correlation, but I knew he was taller than the cat, so it made him feel good.
Joe loved that cat more than anything in the world. I got to see a whole new side of him when Wink was around. Somehow, that little white ball of fur melted Joe’s heart and softened even his roughest calluses. He talked to him like a baby which, to be honest, didn’t veer too far from the retard lingo he practiced at parties. In fact, once we started hosting soirees at our house, the cat became a party favor in his retard show. The one-eye thing kind of worked out for the two of them. They were a good team. Joe loved Wink. Wink loved Joe. At least until the day that Wink didn’t come home. Poor Joe, I think he cried for months and still slams his breaks when he sees a white cat dart under a parked car. It’s been five years and Joe lives in a different state now, but that doesn’t stop him from hoping.
Joe’s heart is a bit jaded, and probably never developed properly in the first place, along with his brain, but it is a good heart. He uses it when it’s completely necessary. Though he is the one who constantly beats me down with little jabs and sarcasm, he is also the first to pick me up when I finally fall on my ass. I’ve never had a friend like him before. He is more like family to me than my own family members. He’s been through so many of my ups and downs with me over the last decade. And somehow, he still loves me just the same. I’m like his cat. He saw me through my wigger days when I thought I was black, or colored rather, because of my tattoos. He was there when I 'went back', as they say, to dating white boys. He was there when I was an actress on TV and all over the tabloids, when I recorded my first rap song, when I got married, had my son and pursued my career as a painter. Joe attended my first art show. He was there when I got the keys to my first home and helped me celebrate my divorce. He has seen me through every relationship, both good and bad, and even broken up with people for me. To be completely honest, he did a lot of my dirty work in that department.
I’ve always had this problem with guys. They seem to think because we had lunch or dinner together, that we’re dating. I’m not sure how most people view this particular event, but I am pretty much in agreement that if we have dinner together, we are eating, not dating. If we’re having breakfast, on the other hand, we are probably dating, or at least sleeping together. Joe understands my pain and, bless his heart, he backs me up and handles my business for me. He has broken up with more guys that I’ve never dated, than men that I have. He’s been doing it for years. So often actually, that the girls who worked the bar down the street all thought he was gay.
On any given week you could find Joe at the bar with a teary-eyed guy, talking over drinks or lunch. Well, Joe would be talking, they would be crying. Joe had a heart, but not for these guys. He felt no pity, no empathy, and showed no shame in his multi-level let down. His approach was flawless, practiced and prepared. He used carefully rehearsed tiers of rejection ranging from something subtle like It’s not you, it’s her to the full blown Dude, get a clue! Over the years, these break-up luncheons led to so many greats stories to tell our grandchildren that we had to start giving the boys nick-names to keep track of all the Brad’s and Eric’s, none of which I ever actually dated.
No one ever got a terribly nice nickname either. Names were typically given out based on a physical deformity or character flaw. For instance, a boyfriend of mine, T-Rex Popsicle, was named for his short arms and his willingness to allow me to practice blowjobs on him (clearly, more my character flaw). Tissue got his name because he cried a lot. DHL was given to a neighbor who tried to deliver a slow grind to my backside one afternoon in my garage. His name started with the letter L, preceded by DH for Dry Humper. Sleestack Steve got his name because he had no eyelashes. You get the idea. We weren’t very vague with our descriptive words. It didn’t differ much with Joe’s girls either. There was White Trash Julie, Underage Rachel, and Halfer, some girl who only shaved half her bush; the wrong half, according to Joe.
We’ve also had our fair share of friends that have earned nicknames. Every few years, we find ourselves in a new circle. I’m not sure if it’s because Joe’s malfunctioning filtration system wears them out, they tire of our inside jokes or whether it’s because they’re getting older and we haven’t matured, but they seem to come and go routinely. There was Hoodie Ass, who got her name from a guy in our group that she screwed who said her ass was so saggy it felt like the hoodie of his sweatshirt. Emo Chris possessed more feminine qualities than I did. Babylegs had skinny legs. Token James was our only Asian friend and Finger Bangin’ Jane was our favorite waitress. No one was safe from a nickname and we gave them out fast and freely.
Joe and I aren’t immune to name-calling either. Though he calls me Monkey, I’ve also been referred to as Stupid, Dork and Princess Little Butt (my Indian name). My friendship with Joe has never been ordinary. We are like two peas in a pod, or rather a kernel of corn and a baby carrot, who found each other in the produce department and decided to venture out into the rest of the grocery store to see what exciting adventures await us before someone comes along to buy us and take us home.
See, Joe is not the man I am to spend my life with, but he will be standing next to me when I walk down the aisle. I’ve promised him to be my Man of Honor, even if he does wear the peach taffeta and Chuck Taylors he threatens me with repeatedly. He is the only person I would trust with the details of my wedding, my bachelorette party and my bridal shower. He is the person I would want closest to me, aside from my groom, on my special day. He is the friend I expect to give the best speech at my reception, which, if I have it my way, will be more like a roast than a reception. He knows everything about me and he can tell my stories well. I, on the other hand, hope to someday give him away to a woman even half as good as me. Joe has low standards. That’s no secret. But damn, do I love him...like a brother, like a friend, like the Dumb to my Dumber.
And though he is my Lloyd Christmas for now, I realize that sharing Joe with the world will inevitably mean I have to let him go. So, for any ladies that may be reading this and still think he sounds attractive despite what you’ve read so far, I’ll share a few more of his winning stats.
Joe is a Taurus with a Scorpio rising. He likes long walks on the beach and orange creamsicles. He has a good job and likes to shop. He loves kittens, but not babies. And his idea of a romantic date is a picnic under the stars with a five foot blonde who loves mopeds.
Yes, even as I am writing this book, I will honor my oath as Joe’s Monkey. I know my place. I know what I am good for. I know why he needs me. No matter what I do, my first and only agenda is always to help him get laid. What are best friend’s for?
JOEY GOT LAID
I woke up to the unfamiliar sound of thumping against my bedroom wall. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I rolled over to check the time on the digital alarm clock glowing from my nightstand.
“5:03? Are you kidding me?” I thought to myself as I refocused my attention to the sounds coming from Joe's bedroom. What the heck is he building now?
My best friend Joe was notorious for building things. Things
and stuff, as I always referred to them. They were never necessarily useful things; however it was typically clever and innovative stuff. He would often get a wild hair up his ass to construct some off-the-wall idea that he dreamt of or saw on TV. Just never at this hour.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I laid there in the waning darkness of the in-between. Moments ago it had been pitch black in my room, a symbol of the night. And now as I lay there tossing and turning under my cool sheets, the sun was peeking its head over the mountains of the east, slowly brightening my room like someone in the sky was turning on the dimmer switch. Ugh. I rolled over and covered my ears with the pillow.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
It was then that I heard something peculiar between the thuds echoing through my drywall. Did my ears deceive me? I lifted the pillow off my head for a better listen. No, it couldn't be. But it was. True enough, the thumping from the other room was in fact Joe’s headboard banging against the wall, followed by tantric moans escaping the lips of a woman.
A woman? Joe brought home a woman?
This was a rare feat for the rather tactless and desperate Joe. We had spent the greater part of the last year trying to get him laid, and to no avail. After his divorce, Joe had been enduring a rather painfully long dry spell. We tried countless tactics and rehearsed hundreds of opening lines, night after night, with little to no success. It seemed the scars of his marriage had left a lasting impression on his confidence, rendering him completely useless in the dating pool. No matter how well I prepped him before I sent him out there into the endless abyss of blonde Vegas bimbos, somehow Joe had a talent for effortlessly torpedoing into an embarrassing nosedive. Crash and burn every time.
