There Is No Justice

My dad wasn’t terribly hard on me, just the obligatory, “If this news is true, I will be so disappointed,” and, “Can’t you see how your mother’s heart is breaking,” and of course/without a doubt, “Apply yourself to something greater, Pendel, because with God’s infusion of…” Hey dad, spare me the company line.

I had my meeting with Mr. Hanson the other night. My parents were with me, and they proved to be murderous traitors. I will never sleep well in my own home again, for fear of these two tactless pricks; I am sure now they will not be happy until I give up and die.

They basically cornered me, the three of them, and it was a set up all along—of this I have no doubt. My mom, dad, and I walk into Hanson’s office at like 4 PM or so, which already has things tense because my dad freaking HATES to miss a single, precious drop of the work day. I’ve often thought that work is where he feels the most at home; maybe my mom and I not being there is an extra added bonus for him, but who knows. Oh well. If it’s true, I can hardly blame him. Anyway, as soon as we get in the office, my beatific parents are shaking Hanson’s hand like they’re meeting a politician who just passed a law for them, or like he’s the cop who just busted the dirty thug that murdered their family. Very conspiratorial, as if they had been WORKING TOGETHER on something, is what I am trying to say.

I see this, and it seems to me that it would be ridiculous to pretend I didn’t sense some monkey business afoot, so I come right out with it and I say to them all, hey, would you guys mind introducing me to your friend? Everyone harrumphs, and looks at the floor, and then to each other with that “caught” look, and then Hanson gestures for everyone to sit, so we do. I sit last, because I guess I feel like this means something, but what, I don’t know. Then Hanson says, “Would you two like to start?” And he’s looking at the traitors with a smug mouth, his cock broom wiggling like mouse whiskers. They look trapped, but they go ahead and tell me that they know I am heading for trouble, it’s no surprise, and that they talked to Mr. Hanson because he was the one teacher they thought I must like, since it was my only very good grade. And that’s why Hanson asked me on the swim team. Like, so he can be some damned MENTOR or something. HA. As fucking if. Unbelievably, Hanson looks at me, and he says, “I thought we had something too, Pendel.”

Jaw dropping. Do the queer innuendos ever stop coming out of this freak’s mouth?

Then they are all off and running. It’s got nothing to do with being on the swim team; it’s just that my work has slipped. Being in an after-school activity will keep me out of trouble, they say, which I obviously need, since now the police are coming over to question me from time to time. I’m like, it was once! And they were like, well, that’s more than enough, and we don’t want repeat performances. Study with Hanson on weekends (!!) and talk more about college with him, and my future, and I am like, I am NOT going to college, and them my mom starts crying into a damned Kleenex cuz a horse is a horse of course OF COURSE. So then, they are talking about fucking CHURCH activities, like, fucking car washes and retreats and shit, but I put up my hand and say, hey, enough.

They look at me, and I drop a bomb. I’m like, if you want me to do something after school, I will join the golf team. Anything else and you can kiss my red ass. Now it was THEIR turn to drop jaw. But you see, I suspected this shit, and golf was my ace in the hole, suckers. They think I don’t plan…that I don’t think, but oh friends…I DO.

You see, Sugarbear plays on the golf team. He and a group of guys often drop acid and wander around the course a couple of times a week and he talked to me about joining. I thought to myself, now THERE is an after school activity I can fucking handle.

Well, what can they say? I just tell them I want to be with friends. My parents are so relieved to think I HAVE some that they just agree immediately, but I can tell Hanson isn’t so sure. He can burn in hell, for all I care. I am still damn-straight SURE he is a pervert.

I tell them we will have to reconvene on the weekend study buddy group (the thought of it makes me want to puke), and I think they know when to stop, not to push me, because they let it go. I will, too, I suppose. I have to think my way out. ASSHOLES.

Anyway, I have more news after talking to my shrink yesterday, I think I am fucked on the window thing. Someone else made a comment about it to, albeit RUDELY. Bite cock, Lana. But I have to save it. I have no time now.

If I am good at golf I will be so fucking pumped on irony that it might kill me.

Trouble Now

OMG. Such BULLSHIT. The cops didn’t CALL my freaking parents, they CAME HERE. To my HOUSE. I can’t write it all now, because my dad is coming in here in about 15 minutes to talk to me. I guess if you stumble across this website today and you are completely confused, just read up on the last couple of posts to find out about how EVERYTHING SUCKS.

So this morning, I am choking down a bowl of Crunch Berries (it’s the only cereal I can tolerate lately, I don’t know why), and I’m thinking about the meeting my mom has set up with the EVIL MR. HANSON, scum of the earth, that I have to sit through later today so the four of us (me, mom, my dad, and The Scum) can talk about the “Allegation” I have made against Hanson and his punk ass move to lower my science grade because I refuse join his retarded swim team (shaved freaks, gross). Read about it here. Ugh. Why do people have to RUIN what I like by making it into a thing? A CHORE? I love swimming, so what, now we have to turn it into a goddamned competition?! Fucking people. I hate it all. What a stupid, retarded, dumb-ass, hateful, pissy, shitty, crappy world. I refuse to take part in it.

Sorry about the side track. I’m eating Crunch Berries. Doorbell rings. Everyone’s wandering around for like ten seconds with the obligatory, “who can it be at this hour?” nonsense. But my gut just dropped into my Ponies, cause I know what it’s about. I think, though, that it must be Camile’s lunatic father coming to accuse me, and THAT I can handle. I’d just look the guy right in his gorilla eyes and tell him he’s off his rocker. A liar. Stop coming here and causing trouble! And so forth. I brace for it, pushing my bowl aside, but instead of hearing angry ape cries from the doorway, I hear this low, mumbly voice I don’t recognize, and then my dad saying, “Officer, that sounds like hogwash.” And then, of course, “PENDEL!”

Officer?!? Oh no no no.

I pulled it together and I sauntered out, as cool as I can, cause I gotta play it like I KNOW NOTHING. First impressions are everything, right? The cops are already looking at me like I’m guilty (which is all so funny because I am, but FUCK IT), and my parents are watching me with complete panic, like this is it, the moment they’ve been dreading for like the last year or so, since I really started being a local downer, and we all sit around the living room, and the cops are like, “Son, do you know why we’re here?” and I play it ICE COLD. I must say, even I was impressed with me, and I am not easily impressed. I say, hell yes, I know why their here, and I told that lousy turncoat Camile yesterday when she came over to make BASELESS accusations that it wasn’t me, and her screwed-up simian father can kiss off forever, and how he knows I’m not the smartest kid on the block so he thinks he can pick on me, and how he and his low-end wife don’t like me playing with their precious little daughter, so here they see a chance to get me out of the picture for good. Man, I was on fire. I was BELIEVING it.

I had a hard moment when the cops told me they have several eye witnesses claiming they all saw a kid that matched my description, but suddenly INSPIRATION flooded my head and I said, yeah, and what time of night was that?

It was strange, though. The cops got really neutral about it all. The gleam in their eyes, the thing that made them seem like they were laughing at me, it went away, and they just closed up their little notebooks and said “We’ll be in touch.” And out they went, leaving me with my parents, who didn’t know what to think.

I think my mom is just sad. She doesn’t know what to make of it, but she’s trying hard to hate Camile’s parents for thinking so poorly of me. But I know she knows better. I am the bad seed. Matty is the pride of the past. Clare is the new hope for tomorrow. Pendel is the sad failure of today.

And dad, I know he’s not ready to buy anything yet. He’s not so sympathetic to my plight. He played baseball in high school, he debated, he had a job at night, he helped my widow grandma; he was a stand-up kid. I am a metal-loving loser.

He’s coming now. Gotta go.

Things That Are Supposed To Be Good Are Just Embarrassing

I don’t understand how all these older people get all stupid and glassy-eyed when they think about their so-called ‘glory days’ and call this shit the best times of their lives. Man, if that is true, then they are a bunch of sorry, sad-sack assholes. So much is going on that I hope I NEVER remember. If this is as good as it gets, fucking kill me.

So, my dad caught wind of my science grade dropping to a B- after Mr. Hanson screwed me ROYALLY last week. If you didn’t hear about it already, I told the whole retarded tale here: http://hellisforchildren.wordpress.com/2008/04/21/a-science-teacher-and-a-dick/. He started to come down hard on me, so I told him my side of things—about Hanson being a freaking scurvy douche bag just coaching a swim team to look at teenage boys with waxed chests—but he just looked at me like my head was a grapefruit or something. And then, to my overall AMAZEMENT, he says to me, “Would it kill you to get involved in something worthwhile like a swim team?” I was floored. I asked him if it would make him feel better to know I was shaving my legs and armpits like some kind of goddamned chick and wearing a mother-fucking SPEEDO of all things and being stared at by a mustached, crazy-eyed pedophile with a constant half-mast tent-pole rocking his Dockers, and my dad looks at me, right in the eye he looks at me, and without even smiling he says, “He doesn’t have crazy-eyes, Pendel.”

I wish I could have drop-kicked my brain at him.

I didn’t even bother to argue. I balled up my grade report and threw it in the fake fireplace and very handicappedly said that if it had been a REAL fireplace, the report card would be all gone—then I ran out of the house. I had nowhere to go, so I biked over to Camile’s house so HER dad could glare at me for a while.

As it turned out, they weren’t even there. No cars in the driveway. Awesome. She was alone watching TV and talking to her bitchy friend Patrice on the phone—Patrice drives me batshit but always rubs her butt on my dick at dances so I tolerate her well enough. I tell Camile through the screen door to get the fuck off the phone and let me in—didn’t she see my text that I was coming? She’s probably still pissed at me because of the whole church thing but I don’t care. The house is all kinds of dark except of the TV glow and I can see she’s just in her nightgown and it’s all giving me a boner. I bang on the door some more until she tells Patrice “see ya” and stomps over, pissed. “Why are you banging like that?” I tell her I’ll show her banging as soon as she opens the door, and that makes her blush and forget she’s ticked at me. The thing you have to remember with Camile is this: yes, she’s got some zits on her forehead. Yes, she’s kind of clumsy-looking around the eyes. But her ass is banging and her titties pop, and when I talk even the slightest bit sexy to her she gets all flustered and starts tugging at my belt.

So I get in the door and I’m like immediately tugging at HER. I want to get her into her room cause she still hasn’t let me tap that ass, and it’s all I’m really looking to do before I graduate and blow town. I ask her why she’s gotta leave me at the door like that when I NEED her like I do, and she’s like, “What do you want? I had Patrice on the phone.” And then she says, “She’s always rubbing against you. I know she likes you. I hate her.” I ask her what the hell she’s doing talking to Patrice on the phone then if that’s the way she feels—leaving me at the door that way—and she’s like, “Well, she’s nice.” Fucking chicks. I swear to god.

So she’s like why are you here, and I tell her the whole deal with my dad and Mr. Sleezeball Hanson and my grades and the fake fireplace and how she’s all I’ve got tonight (nice, yes?) and then she’s like, “Oh no, let me rub your back then.” And so I know I can at least get her shirt off tonight, and I’m hoping I can do more, but you never know. Camile has a tendency to get me to the verge of testicle meltdown, but then before I know it she’ll be halfway down the block, arms folded over her chest and acting all violated.

But hey, tonight it’s all good. She like, tells me to take off my shirt so she can rub my back better, and I’m like, oh you know it, and she just takes off hers, too! And just seeing her bra, which has like this lacy stuff on it like I’ve never seen her wear before, it totally kills me. The whole night rocks Mayhem style now that I can see just a touch of nipple, and I can’t get my eyes off of them, and it must show cause she totally blushes and smiles, and I’m so shocked at how easy it was to get her out of her shirt that I blurt out, “Why did you do that?” And she’s like, “I’ll put it back on if you want.” NOT BLOODY LIKELY. I hate the fact that she makes me turn over so she can, in freaking fact, rub my back, but I know that if I’m going to see more of her I’ve got to play it cool. I mean, she’s jerked me off tons of times, I think, or at least a few, and it’s all good, but I want IN THERE, YO. I have done my time, and now I want my PAYDAY. So I will be patient. I am the sex ninja, and I am poised for the kill, even if I must lurk in shadows all night.

It turns out I can only wait for like five minutes, and then I flip over so she can feel my boner on her, so she knows what she’s doing to me, and I don’t know why tonight is different, but it is, and the next thing you know we are both down to just about nothing, just our bottoms, and then THOSE are gone, and my brain is FRYING because to be honest, it’s not like I get this far every day. Then she’s jerking me again, and I’m like, let me get these boxers off, cause it will be easier, and she’s like, “Easier to what?” Fucking A. I get mine off, and while I do, she’s taking HER’S off, and I don’t even know what to make of it all, like I am totally going to blow my wad just watching her do it, cause I’ve fingered her plenty but I’ve never SEEN it, and now THERE IT IS, and it’s dark so I can’t see it plainly but I can sense it. And now she’s all like “I want to, I want to…” And I’m wondering what the fuck were she and Patrice talking about on the phone? And I’m wondering where the hell her asshole dad is, because he works down at the auto yard and he will fucking KILL me if he catches us, but she insists they are out for hours at the Do Drop In. But would I even care if they were coming up the driveway at that very moment? NOPE. So we assume what I assume is the position, and maybe I’m giving too much away here, but I’m not sure how to get it in her, I’m not HUGELY experienced, but I am COMPLETELY willing, and so I just go for it. No guts no glory, Major Woody.

Now Camile is like, “Kiss me, kiss me…” But hell man, I am trying to CONCENTRATE, you know? And I know she gets wetter than this, but I’m not sure I’m feeling it, and it all seems tighter than I would have expected, and I know Camile is a virgin, but COME ON. And she’s like, “I don’t think you’re in the spot, that’s not my spot.” And I’m like, spot? What spot?! And she’s like breathing and she’s saying, “You know, my spot…that’s not my hole.” And in my head, I’m like, what the fuck, how do I mess this up? My head is swimming, and shit is quickly building to an EVENT down there, and I look down, and I guess I’m basically, much to the chagrin of all involved, screwing her in the crease between her thigh and pelvis, and I realize she doesn’t even really have her legs open, but it’s too freaking late and I literally blow it.

What a mess.

Camile’s laughing, which pisses me off, and she’s like “Ha ha, oh Pendel, it’s ok.” And I’m just like oh great. Fuck THIS. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t even see straight, and I’m so disappointed in myself for being such a dimwit, such a wuss, so I just have to get out of there. I’m angry at Camile too, but who the hell knows why. Why didn’t she open her legs? Why didn’t she tell me sooner that I was screwing it all up? Fucking Mr. Hanson. That asshole has me all freaked out about being weird and messing with my ONLY good grade and has thrown EVERYTHING off. I will KILL him if I see him on the way home.

Camile is all crying because I’m angry during such a SPECIAL MOMENT and she doesn’t know why I’m angry, but then she must be dumber than I thought, because isn’t SHE angry? At me? For messing things up for HER? Oh well. Another rite of passage blown to shit. I feel a little bad about ditching Camile, but fuck it. If I would have stuck around I would have just been the ultimate dick anyway. In a couple of months I’ll graduate (I think) and disappear forever and she can get some other idiot to hang out with while she paints her stupid nails.

On the way home I saw her old man’s Ford Focus in the parking lot of the Do Drop In. Just looking at it pissed me off so bad that I threw a chunk of asphalt through the windshield. The alarm went off and it was fucking LOUD, and I ran all the way home. I was in bed when I remembered that I left my bike over at Camile’s. Just perfect.

A Science Teacher and a Dick

Mr. Hanson is a dried-up prick and I hate him with everything I’ve got. His fucking hair is like some sad-ass page boy, he’s got a crumb-filled cock broom on his nasty lip, and he’s ruining the only thing that’s cool about school, which is my science class, which I like because (1) I get to kill things and cut them up, and (2) I keep finding out how weird and endless everything is, and that makes me feel good because it reminds me that the big assholes who keep fucking up my life are really very small in the scheme of things.

I guess I should give some background. So it’s no big secret that I like to swim. I pretty much try to spend like the WHOLE SUMMER in the water because I get to forget about all the bullshit and just get washed away in bubbles and be in a different world and it’s great. Whatever. I like to swim. So what. Me and everybody else on the goddamned planet, right? My dad likes to think he’s doing humanity a favor by keeping me from exploding, so he gets me this yearly thing to the YMCA so he can say he’s keeping me interested in crap I like when it’s really just a great way to keep my stupid mopey ass out of the house and to keep me from reading up on pipe bombs.

Anyway, Mr. Hanson is the swim team coach at school. I guess he must go to the Y to swim too, or to take exercise classes, or maybe his dumb loser ass teaches something there. I don’t know. I hear if you can’t get your shit together you can always live at the Y, so maybe that’s it. My dad was dropping me off cause he was totally sick of me blasting Mayhem (who completely fucking rock balls and are so evil, I love them), and I run into Queer Hanson who says to me, “Hey Pendel, I’ve been seeing you in the pool lately and you’re pretty good, so let’s talk Monday about the swim team.”

OK. First of all, GROSS. This prick’s been watching me at the pool? WTF?!? He’s got to be hard up as shit, then, cause I don’t even wear those little fucking trunk things—fucking speedos or whatever you assholes out there call them—I wear the big baggy shit and this douche bomb’s still looking at me? I am skeeved +1000 forever.

So I’m like, whatever. But then that Monday comes and I am sitting in Science listening to Manson Hanson drone on ENDLESSLY about molecular bonds and then out of nowhere he’s like, “So maybe Mr. Haight, the swim team’s newest star, can answer our question. Pendel?” I must have sat there for like 10 seconds until what he said finally soaked in, and then I was like, is there another Pendel Haight in here, cause that sure as hell doesn’t sound like ME. And then he was all like, “Well, we’ll have to talk about that after class.” And then I was all like, yeah, whatever, Corporal Cock.

And then after the bell, I tried to slink out under the radar, but he nabs me and is all in my shit. He’s all, “Hey, what gives?” I just told him it’s cool he thinks I swim well and everything, but it creeps me out to think anyone is watching me do it, and maybe he needs new hobbies. Then this square-ass bozo proceeds to talk to me about how I am DRIFTING, and that maybe getting INVOLVED in something BIGGER than myself might HELP ME become more GROUNDED (I am capitalizing the ‘barf’ words). I said, “Hey, that’s great stuff, you should write a book.” Then he wonders why I’m being so resistive to the ‘life-line’ he’s throwing me. HA. I said, yeah, you’re throwing me a fucking LINE alright, you pervert. Wow. He got super, super-pissed at that, and started ranting about carelessness, and reputations, and all sorts of shit, so I was like, “Hey man, truly, I am just not interested in helping out, ok?” I mean, I am just not a team player. I hate my high school, I hate the people who think they run it, I hate the teachers that beat their heads against the walls inside of it, and I TRULY, TRULY DESPISE any of the dick weed students who feed off the culture and thrive on it. Sleeping with the enemy, bubba.

Long story short, I get my grades for the semester a couple of days later, and my grade in science drops from an A (the ONLY goddamned A that I have EVER gotten, by the way) to a B-. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. You are on my list, Hanson. Make book on it.

Is it me? Did I do something so fucking wrong here? What am I supposed to do now? Fuck.