You need a newer browser.

01/9/25   
Terrifyingly adequate

Mousey Men

by Beck Steinman
bio/email
December 13, 2004
The sun descriptively climbed under the clouds, playing peek-a-boo with California as it squatted behind the distant hills, to take a cosmic dump. Joe and Britches came to a cool glen, which is not slang for a guy named Glen who is "holding," but instead a lake area with a refreshing pond. They washed their muddy hands and laughed loudly. Then they drank the water they had just washed their muddy hands in, which is gross.

"We're sure living the high life now, ain't we Joe?" said Britches.

Laughing even louder, Joe agreed. "We sure are, Britches. I got a good feeling about California. The fruits on the trees is so ripe they fall right into yer hands, just like everyone done told us. Yep, I can't see ever running into any miserable irony in a land so gosh-darned bee-yoo-ti-ful."

"I loves it when you speak phonetically, Joe," grinned Britches. He was an idiot man-child, but don't tell him I said so, if he ever asks you. I'm not trying to sound mean, it's just a fair description. A big old dipshit, dumb as a bag of Quayles, but with a kinder heart than you ever laid eyes on, assuming you're in the business of going around ripping kind hearts out of people's chests.

His partner, traveling partner, nothing funny going on, Joe, was a short man, who blamed his height on account of his legs being so close to the ground. Joe was the brains of their little group, of course, since the idea of very big men with brains is offensive to short men everywhere, like my publisher. He and Britches had been traveling together for months, and they found it a good partnership. Joe was always there to count Britches' money, so the bosses didn't short-change him anything, as well as help him with difficult tasks like putting his shoes on his feet, instead of his hands, which had helped Britches double his work output. In exchange, Britches was big and muscular, and good for getting Joe out of jams, like all the times he got into fights in bars loudly mouthing off about girl scouts.

Things had gotten tight, though, in the place they were from—Hawaii. So they headed east, to California, where they heard stories about all the beauty and pastoral, untouched nature, except for the dense smog. A fellow could get work there, too, people promised them. Joe and Britches loved to listen to liars, which was probably a fault they should have worried about. But for now, the worries were gone—they had made it to California, and could hardly wait to find work picking fruit. They'd pick anything, for the right price—apples, grapes, peaches, noses, what the hell.

Joe splashed the water on his grimy skin. He laughed even harder, nearly passing out. "Golly, Britches, if that water don't feel good after all that train dust. We should wash up good, 'fore we go looking for work. You smell like something crawled up your armpits and died."

"Just the one," said Britches, and he took a dead bird from his armpit.

Joe's smile dramatically vanished. "Now, Britches—what did I tell you?"

"Just because a man has sex with another man, it don't mean he's gay."

"No, the thing about pets," shouted Joe, pointing with anger.

Britches slunk guiltily as he sat against a log, the dead bird in his hands. "I know… I can't have no pets. 'Cause I'm too big, and not all that intelligent. But I swear it, Joe, I was only trying to hug it! I wanted to hug it hard so I could show the baby bird how much I loves it! I did!"

"And hugging it killed that bird?"

"Well, it may have been moving a bit while I was trying to shove it up my behind, but judging by the way it felt, it was mostly dead already," said Britches.

Joe joined his traveling buddy on the log, putting an arm around one of his shoulders—he was too big for a two-shouldered consolation. It wasn't his fault, Joe told himself. If great books had taught him anything, it was that it's never the fault of the idiot man-child.


For more of this great story, buy Beck Steinman's novel
Mousey Men


Quote of the Day
“Yes, madam, I may be drunk, but you are ugly and in the morning I shall still be drunk! Wait a minute… Okay, I've got a match for you: your butt and my face. TouchĂ©.”

-Quentin Hillchurch
Fortune 500 Cookie
Happiness is indeed a warm gun, but you're not supposed to warm it in your ass like that. If your life is lacking direction this week, we've got one word for you: North. As you have long suspected, recreational drugs are the answer. This week's lucky charms: taupe meatballs, turquoise speculums, puce gallstones, gold bullets.


Try again later.
Top Rejected Cars
1.Honda Pfffttpp
2.Chevy Crack Ho
3.Chrysler on the Cross
4.Ford Theater
5.He Ain't Chevy He's My Brother
Archives
A Fistful of Tannenbaum Chapter 8: Unpleasant Entry
Editor's Note: Escaping from Surprise Truck by the sacrifice of his longtime friend Reilly, intrepid hero Jed Foster and sexy love interest Paulette Standiford motorcycle to the headquarters of government organization N.O.R.T.O.N., where... (11/29/04)

The Secrets of Michelangelo
A ruggedly-handsome, sensitively masculine, manly-beautiful pseudo-archaeologist in his mid-30s, Professor Couth Banger walked right past the Italian police tape and into the Sistine Chapel. He had been here plenty of times, but he never failed to... (11/1/04)

A Fistful of Tannenbaum Chapter 7: Bomb of Ages
Editor's Note: Cornered by Surprise Truck, and put to a moment of truth, intrepid hero Jed Foster experiences guilt when his longtime non-gay friend, Reilly, volunteers for the suicide mission of trying to shut down the truck, while love interest... (10/4/04)

The King of the Road (Part 3)
Author's note: In preceding chapters, King Luthor of Kuntnose leads a valiant hodgepodge of near-warriors in a quest to defeat the evil dark enemy Rupert, by way of discovering the source of his dark power in the castle of Oogh. After narrowly... (9/6/04)

A Fistful of Tannenbaum Chapter 6: Wheel of Shame
Editor's Note: Just before now, Jed Foster and Middleschmertz Reilly are beared down upon by Surprise Truck. That's all you need. "I'll be a son of a bitch!" exclaimed Jed Foster, proposing what many others had already suggested.... (8/9/04)

more