September 17, 2004

And there's nothing I can do

If you are meticulously tracking the whereabouts of Chris Genoa on a big, fold-out map of the world, using multi-colored thumb tacks to mark his current location and recent movements (like so many of us do) you should be advised to place one of your tacks on the seaside town of Duck, North Carolina.

Yes, Chris is at the beach for the week, getting some much needed rest. And by rest I mean stuffing his face with all sorts of disgustingly fattening foods such as buffalo wings, North Carolina style pork barbeque, crabs and pasta, and pint after pint of Ben & Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk ice cream, drinking beer like an Irishman and wine like a Sicilian, sleeping until noon, stealthily farting in the hot tub, watching every sunset, going for long, introspective walks on the beach (while the song "All by Myself" plays in his head), kayaking in the sound, throwing a chair-throwing fit when he loses at Scrabble, and, with the aid of a flashlight and long stick, innocently tormenting sand crabs until the sun comes up.

Last night, while Chris giddily chased one of those crabs back into its hole, he came across a gentleman about the same age as himself, who was sitting on the beach next to a bucket full of sand crabs and a bucket full of bottle rockets.

"What's the game, friend?" asked Chris.

"The game is called Crustaceans in Space," said the man.

"Sounds totally rad." Chris gave the man a Fonzy-style, double thumbs-up as he said this. "How do you play?"

"It's easy. You take a sand crab." He held up a crab. "You take a bottle rocket." He held up a rocket. "You tie the crab securely to the rocket with some string." He did so. "Then you get ready for launch."

He set the rocket into an empty Coke bottle which was angled slightly out to sea. Chris knew what was going to happen next, didn't really approve of it, but hoped with all his heart that the man would let him light the rocket.

"I almost forgot," said the man. "We need to write a message on the crab. A message of peace, love, and understanding for other intelligent life forms to read so they'll know how super nice humans are. What should we write?"

"How about...'Go fuck yourself,'" suggested Chris.

"No, no, no," said the man, shaking his head, "You've got it all wrong. Something inspirational, like you'd see on a Hallmark card."

"Oh, oh, oh I get it. How about...'A contented ass enjoys a long life.'"

"Perfect!"

The man used a black sharpie to write their message on the back of the crab. When he finished he handed Chris a box of matches and said, "Will you do the honors?"

With a look of delight on his face, and a feeling of shame in his heart, Chris struck a match and lit the bottle rocket. While the fuse burned, the man began to softly sing David Bowie's Space Oddity.

Ground Control to Major Crab
Ground Control to Major Crab
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on
Ground Control to Major Crab
Commencing countdown, engines on
Check ignition and may God's love be with you
Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Liftoff

Chris sang along with the man, and, with perfect timing, just as they said "Liftoff," the rocket took off, streaming towards the heavens with its message of peace, love, and understanding for all intelligent life forms.

As the G-forces bared down on him and the stars whizzed by, the crab thought, "Those two guys back there aren't contented asses. They're contented assholes. There's a difference."

And he was right.

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