29 Jan 2014

What would Fatboy do?

Fat Jesus: Turns water into chocolate shake
Fatboy is always telling me to go easy on myself. And cigarettes. And coke. He's also the only person in the world who has consistently and blindly held onto the notion that there is some amount- however small- of goodness in me. Anyway, because Fatboy is always chanting self-help platitudes around my person - "you gotta learn to forgive yourself, man" or "dude, if you must cut yourself, at least use a blade that's not all rusty!"- I'm always looking for ways to prove him wrong. I mean I've managed to wriggle free of 29 years-worth of pent up expectations of everyone that matters- family, friends, lovers- burnt every bridge possible and walked away in spectacular slow-mo with the flames licking the sky behind me, only to find that my best friend still has faith in me. Clearly, I haven't done a very good job of the only thing I've been repeatedly assured I have a natural talent for.

So when Fatboy came over the other day, out of sorts and clearly in need of bro-time, I decided to put a little theory of mine to test. My theory is a vague conviction that Fatboy only thinks I can forgive myself because he can. Other than not showing up to a movie on time (or forgetting about it altogether), Fatboy and I have had few occasions to disagree. We're both self-loathing, egoistic, lonely man-children; we're so good together it amazes me that we haven't given it a shot in bed (we've certainly been fucked up often enough to not know an arsehole from a nail clipper). So if I were to do something that Fatboy couldn't forgive, went my line of reasoning, it'd be unlikely he'd keep insisting that I learn to love myself or pleasure myself to the psychedelic sounds of the Humpback Whale or whatever.

I started as soon as Fatboy sat down with his beer.
"Coaster dude," I said.
"Kosher?"
"No,use a coaster," I said, "What is this, a hotel?"
Fatboy shrugged and deposited his beer on a copy of RSJ magazine he found under the sofa. My heart nearly broke. This must be what Abraham felt like, I thought. "So what's up," I said.
"It's just Kristy, man," he said, "she has me all confused."
Kristy was Fatboy's new girlfriend and his longest relationship to date, clocking in at a solid three and a half weeks and several hours of sexting.
"Oh it's the ex again, isn't it?" I said.

Kristy had a clingy ex. He was only clingy to the extent that Kristy seemed to cling right back at whatever sordid little relationship they were in for many many more years than either Fatboy or I were in any position to offer any woman, but we unanimously agreed that it was his fault. Usually.

"What is it with you and exes, dude?" I found myself saying, "you're a hypocrite, you know that? You want 'em to dress and talk like Courtney Love but if they're anything more than a Zooey Deschanel in bed, you panic. And you immediately assume it makes the ex some kind of sex-God."
"Ok first of all," said Fatboy, "that's you. Secondly, you're way too old for that many pop culture references in the space of nineteen-odd words. And thirdly, it's not the ex."
"I've said this before," I replied, "and I'll say it again: There's NO such thing as nineteen-odd. Nineteen is odd."
"Ok fine," he said, "it is the ex. But it's not what you think."
"See, if you had said twenty-odd, that would have made sense."
"You know I'm always stalking him on Facebook. And Twitter. The dude has a Pinterest, but that was too low, even for me," he paused, "Anyway, I see all these pictures of them when they were together, you know, hosting parties and traveling and having conversations and watching fucking dolphins somewhere, and it's clear I can never be that guy."
"And you rightly feel intimidated," I nodded, "well, he is rich."
"Well no," he said, "I was thinking to myself that I'd really like to have all that stuff they had, you know? And it's clear none of those things are really in my skill set, so I asked myself: well, how can I have that? Anyway, long story short, I think I'm kind of attracted to him."

"OK what?" I said, "Dude, I was kidding. He's a douchebag. I've seen him put people in a coma deeper in a coma. He drains the life out of every single conversation he's involved in. They call him the coma patient-whisperer."
"I just think maybe I'd rather be shown a good time than be pressurized to put one on for somebody."
"That's great, but you're NOT gay!"
"I could be gay."
"Look, no, you're gay if you're gay. You can't just switch sides because your girlfriend can drink you under the table and doesn't cry watching the Golden Globes."
"Hey, Michael Douglas is an inspiration," he started, "anyway, I just think I should give it a shot."

This was my opportunity. Stick it in. Twist it. Make him bleed.  
"They'll smoke you out, man," I said, "it's all pastels and salads out there. And besides, if one of us was going to be gay, it'd have to be me. I'm the face of this thing we have going. Gay people are all about the face, man. You'd just end up as some banker's booty call."
"Jesus, how do you sleep at night?" he said.
It's finally happened. He's broken now. I'm sorry, Fatboy. It had to be done.
"Quite comfortably, thank you," I managed, "And if you'd just given up on me when you should have..."
"No, turn around man," he said, "that's actually Jesus, right behind you."

So I turned around, and what do you know, there's ol' JC, large as life, and not Caucasian in the least.
"Oh, so you've decided you're not too good for my little corner of the world, have you?" I asked.
Jesus shrugged. "Fatboy needed me", he said.
I turned around again and sure enough, Fatboy lay spread-eagled on the couch, out like a light and snoring up a gentle storm.
"He just needs a little nap," said Jesus, "he'll wake up with no recollection of this evening and the two of you boys will be just fine."
"He won't remember?" I was furious, "do you know how hard it was for me to go all Old Testament on him?"
Jesus smiled, and helped himself to a sip of Fatboy's beer. "And you take it easy on yourself, young man," was all he would say.






8 comments:

thebritishasianblog said...

I think you both are two peas in a pod, the only difference is, he is fed more than you hence why he has the title of Fatboy, but I realise you both are the same. Like two legs on a body (or shit example but you know what I mean).

Reading this post reminds me of the relationship I have with my friends. The same friends who I've been in boarding school with, eat boiled rice with toast for months back at University when money wasn't around.

Ah brings back memories.

icyHighs said...

I'm glad I evoked that feeling in you. Exactly what Fatboy does for me. Cheers for reading, TBAB.

Revacious said...

It's weird, but it seems we do have something to redeem us douchebags, IH. And such combination of guilt-shame-anger does one a lot of good, judging from my fav killer, Dexter. (sorry, is that reference too young for you?)
:P

icyHighs said...

Haha I'm never too old for a TV show reference. Thanks for reading, Revacious.

Sanjana said...

Somehow Fight Club comes to mind.
This Fatboy is for real right? :D

Icy Highs said...

Depends. Are you assuming I'm for real, too? :)

goatman said...


I always thought Jesus was not white!


You wield a tricky story my friend.
Tickled my funny bone ,which is I am not sure where.

Icy Highs said...

He's not; he's wack!