Flash Friday 8/9/13 - If I'm lying, I'm dying. in Prompted Writings

Look, there are rules for everything, even things when they say there are no rules, because the rule then is, "No rules." Men especially love the no rules thing. It gives them the illusion of freedom. Men are the least free creatures on the face of the earth. They are tied down by jobs and their mamas, but mostly by pussy. As much as they'd like to stray about, reliable pussy is hard to beat, but they do love to dream and brag about what they'd do if they weren't tied down.

Anywho, Kent, tells his buddies to come on over and they'd have a drink or two or three from his new batch of home brewed beer. Kent has these "No Rules Saturdays" on occasion whenever he's brewed up more of that vile stuff he's named "This Is The Shit" or TITS for short. You gotta give it to him for gutter imagination. Whenever there's a new batch of TITS, Kent invites all his buddies over to drink because they're all a bunch of drunks and they're all cheap bastards. The crap tastes vaguely like beer, maybe brewed with used condoms and strained through a pair of old gym socks. But all the good ol' boys show up and drink it anyway. They probably think it is a test of their manhood to drink that crap, kind of like being able to eat hot peppers without sweating and, like I said, they're drunks and cheap.

There's usually five or six of them, but this time the new guy showed up, all gathering on the front porch where various seating arrangements could be had. An overturned bucket, two old folding chairs, more rust than metal, and a beat up couch that made its way from the dump to the front porch one day when I wasn't looking. I'm watching from the kitchen like I like to do because watching these guys playing at being men is more fun than watching a cage full of monkeys. The only thing they don't do is pick shit out of their butts and throw it at each other. If I'm lying, I'm dying! These knuckle-draggers are pretty much swinging from the rafters and picking fleas off each other by sundown.

The new guy has only been in town about three months. He works over at the dollar store, mostly stocking and clean-up, but he says they promised to train him on the register after he's been there for six months. I don't know. He's sweet, but kind of dumb. I doubt he could find his ass with both hands or walk and chew gum at the same time, but that's what he says is going to happen. I just nod and say, "Okay, that's good. Good for you." The new guy has kind of puppy dog eyes and I feel sort of sorry for him knowing that he's in for a shock when he tastes TITS also, because he's kind of naive like, I'm not sure how well he'll mix in with the knuckle draggers, but it's going to be amusing to find out.

Kent poured everyone a Tall glass of TITS and handed one to the New Guy. The brew looks like regular beer. New Guy holds the glass up, looks at it admiringly and says, "No shit, you made this yourself?"

"Yep," says Kent like a proud father, holding his glass out and looking around at the guys waiting for him to give to the signal. "Here's to TITS, may they always be perky!"

They all take a big swig. New Guy immediately spews Kent's precious brew out, spraying all of them with foam, bringing all of them to a stunned silence. Yeah, it was No Rules Saturday, but this wasn't a rule, it was a standard and you don't break a standard. During a TITSathon, no spilling the beer. No way, no how. Five other guys got up in unison, grabbed various parts of New Guy's body and tossed him off the front porch.

END

Ran out of time.