The Magnificent Garlic Balls
John’s Brewery, Wednesday, 23:00
“… and that was when Richards rushed the left side on a sprint so maniacal…I have never seen such a sprint in my whole life.”
“It was pure luck.”
“Like the fact you got married before your brother.”
Clayton sprung out of his seat like a pop-out clown does after years of confinement.
With one swift motion he managed not only to form his right hand into a very menacing punch, but at the same time, showing superhuman capabilities only achieved in the most extreme of situations, he used his left hand to grab an empty bottle of beer. He was going for the old-time-classic “if my clenched fist doesn’t break your teeth, my bottle will surely fall on your head”.
A trusted strategy, but not very effective against a bar veteran.
Michaels anticipated his opponent’s dull choice of offensive combo, and with a swift left foot push he slid a few meters backwards.
You could feel a sense of excitement filling the bar.
Imagine it, if you will, as a slow motion action movie scene: As Michaels propelled himself on the opposite direction of Clayton’s trajectory course, the fine folks of John’s Brewery (seasoned in this kind of friendly brawls) had already anticipated the path Clayton’s face had unmistakably taken. With Clayton still in mid-air heading for an unmissable rendezvous with the polished wooden floor, they had already started preparations for a HI-HOOOO of customary proportions: Half of them had already lifted up from their seats, forming smiles, conjuring clever remarks, preparing words of triumph — or insults, depending on their allegiance.
And then, Clayton fell.
The people rejoiced.
Michaels rushed to his opponent and offered a helping hand. It takes more than a punch or two to end a friendship formed in John’s Brewery.
Everyone was happy.
Happy enough to take their eyes of the uninteresting conclusion to this fight and notice a weary man entering the bar: His eyes were as black as the night, his left cheek swollen and his nose bloody red. There was no doubt this brave warrior survived a huge fight, and there he was: still standing and ready to tell the story.
“Tyler!” shouted one of the most senior regulars of the establishment. He only had to turn half an eye to the barman to get a glass of beer ready and waiting.
They all gathered round the weary guest.
“How was the date?”
Tyler’s House, Wednesday, 16:00
Right. Left. Left. Left. Left. Left. Right.
Too short. Too tall. Too slutty. Too innocent. Where are the boobs.
Tyler was a master of multitasking.
He was the truest of proofs that humans are indeed capable of handling more than one task at the same time (despite the earnest, but clearly unreliable, scientific evidence to the opposite).
If someone could quietly observe the determination and mental prowess involved in Tyler’s posture, he would have remained speechless, frozen in awe: 120 kg of the right mixture of fats and muscles (probably 70%-30%), Tyler majestically occupied two seats of a three-seat leather couch.
His legs, two conical triangles resulting in a set of average feet (possibly quite smelly, judging from the green calluses), relaxed on a small resting table, clearly a set with the couch.
Tyler was a man of taste.
His left hand was firmly securing the all-seeing eye, his window to the world: the TV remote control. He was watching something profound on the MTv. Surprisingly enough, it had nothing to do with music.
His right hand was busy in what seemed as a constant and synchronically perfect spherical motion: from his mouth to a bowl full of not so freshly made Nachos and a lot of meatballs. Clearly, it was an action of mercy, since the poor nachos were drowning in a pool of melted cheese.
The meatballs were prepared exclusively for him by his dear mother. They were one of his favorite childhood memories. Famously known around the neighborhood as the “Ms. Tenessey’s Magnificent Garlic Balls”, for obvious reasons.
Tyler was benevolent.
An intelligent brain can only handle so much. The tasks were already more than enough to keep the most versatile of geniuses occupied.
But Tyler, clearly in control of his inhuman capabilities, went a step further: His tablet was resting comfortably on his round-as-an-oversized-watermelon belly, Tinder app open. Since both of his hands were already engaged in their own endeavors, Tyler used voice commands to go through the list of potential love interests:
Right. Right. Left. Left.
The occasional comment made the spectacle even more implausible to the common sense:
Blonde. I do not like blondes. Ahh, blonde with a nice ass. I like blondes with a nice ass.
His quest to find the most appropriate of companions was a noble one: It is not an easy task to find someone equal to your level of intellectual genius.
Still, Tyler had no intentions of giving up. He swiped and swiped and swiped until his tongue was dry from commands and comments alike.
But alas, there she was: A lady most suited to his honorable intentions.
OMG, LOOK AT THOSE TITS!
The name rang true to his heart: Lusty Stacey. Her achievements only enforced his enamor: Mom of two, wife to none. The lack of a proper photo only enhanced his curiosity.
THEY ARE HUUUUUGE!
He needed no face. This was a maiden of unparalleled virtues. No doubt about it.
The rules of Tinder courting were simple: If both participants swiped right, they were allowed to exchange formal inquires through the method of texting. A chance to awe the other with your words. A true test of wits and courtesy.
How r u sugar?
Lusty Stacey begun the exchange of courtesies. She was clearly interested in Tyler’s profile. Every woman would have been, if they had the chance to interact with his profile. Tyler was so sure of that. Why wouldn’t they?
He had a steady income as the owner of two apartment complexes in downtown New York and made a hell lots of dough. Or, as this story would prefer to put it, his riches were only surpassed by his golden heart.
He recently bought one of those incredibly cool Mercedes-Benz that the advertisement had reassuringly informed him were “made for success”.
He was clearly good-looking (he was reminded every day by his tenants and his mother, with no clear indication that the latter was threatening the former in doing so), and his eloquent speeches had earned him the nick “The Screaming Whale” among his friends and colleagues.
Quite a fitting title for a person of his magnitude: He was huge.
Are they real?, he asked.
Such a direct approach would have been otherwise impossible, if not for his subtle manner.
Of course. You wanna touch them? Just so you know, I do not let anyone do that. You got to show me you are a true man, first. I am looking for something serious.
It was evident. The chemistry. The unbiased exchange of compliments. They were made for each other.
Sure thing. I am looking for something serious too. Like a relationship or something. How about going out for a bite before I smash your pussy hard?
Love was in the air and Tyler had stopped eating nachos and watching MTv.
You are such a funny guy! Let’s meet.
She was right. He was funny. He was awesome. He was the master of his universe. Soon, he would be hers as well.
19:00 at Barney’s. How will I know it is you?
I will be waiting outside. Red bag, black dress.
I knooooooow, right?
Tyler’s House, Wednesday, 17:30
Tyler felt an unprecedented heat overwhelming his body. A kind of desire he had never sensed before. His cheeks glowed red and his crotch bloated with pride and anticipation.
He was ready for this. He has always been ready for this. His body was ready; his mind was ready; his closet was ready.
He moved slowly, almost narcissistically, towards the double-leaf wooden antique he used for clothes storage. He opened the heavy doors and smiled a kind of smile only certain winners dared to adorn.
He texted his buddies that he was not going to meet them for the customary Wednesday’s beer at John’s. He made sure to include the reason.
He ate the remaining twenty meatballs. He decided against a shower; his natural odor was a most potent aphrodisiac. A wise move by a wise man.
It was time to go.
At Barneys, Wednesday, 19:15
Some say that a picture is worth a thousand words.
In this case, we do not have a thousand words and neither have we a picture. A shame, really, since a picture would have made justice to a spectacle otherwise unjustifiable.
There he was, Tyler, standing on one side of Fifth Avenue, just opposite of Barney’s bar. Black ballroom shoes, rainbow colored socks. His long disco blue jeans were held in place by a uniquely suited Superman belt and his “I am sexy and I know it” blue t-shirt was carefully tucked in and covered by an eloquent black dinner jacket.
He was standing just below the traffic light, his bald top shining either red or green. He adjusted his leopard glasses and took a look at the woman standing on the other side of the road.
It was unmistakably, her.
And there she was, Lusty Stacey (for this was certainly her real name), waiting outside the bar for her prince on a white burger.
A maiden in her mid-forties, if anyone could judge from her choice of face paint. A keener observer could count the similarities to the Japanese Geisha: red lips, white face, blue-black eyelashes; a modern approach to a past classic. A tight black bitch-dress adorned in a thousand stars (commonly known as cheap glitter) hugged her divine body: a wrinkled neck lead to an abyssal décolleté and her round tummy struggled to match her enormous breasts in reach. Her dress was long enough to cover her colossal buttocks and not an inch longer. She was dressed to kill. Literally.
If people knew better, they would have stopped moving, talking, even breathing, as the universe was laying witness to this moment of awesomeness.
Tyler crossed the road in the most confident of ways. He brought himself in front of her, shadowing her in his presence, not a single ray of light able to escape his black-hole presence.
I am Tyler.
Your breath stinks of garlic.
You are disgusting.
You look like a slut.
Act 3.5 aka The Last Act
John’s Brewery, (Yes, still) Wednesday, 23:10
Tyler grabbed the glass of beer and, in one swift move, drank it white bottom. His audience grew impatient and demanded an explanation.
He was speechless. He had meatballs. He was still horny. And he was in lack of the proper word for what has happened.
It was a… one…. That… you know…
It was a:
Physingoomai (fiz-in-goo-OH-mie) — Ancient Greek
Traditionally, sexual excitement as a result of eating garlic; but in a modern sense, the use of inappropriate adornments to enhance sexual attraction
What do you call a writer who doesn’t write?
What do you call a painter who doesn’t paint?
What do you call a boogie-wooger who knows it’s in him, but he doesn’t boogie-woogie?
“There is a Word for That” is a desperate try to boogie-woogie my way out of self-doubt. I will write one random story/week, based on a word taken from Andrew Taylor’s “The Greeks had a Word for it”.
Be gentle. I have cookies.