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suicidal tendencies
that's what brothers are for
by robert a. melos

"My dilemma is," he would say. He always had to shop in the two dollar word section, when he could've talked like the rest of us. Like me, I would've said my problem is, or the thing of it is, or here's the thing of it. But not him. He always had to use the bigger words. Anyway, "My dilemma is," he would say, "I want to succeed, but I just don't see where it's worth the effort."

"I mean, we are all supposed to want success, but unless success is going to bring me untold riches and fame, to the level where I'll never have to work again, it just isn't worth it to me to succeed. You know what I mean?" He would ask.

Hell, no one knew what he meant, but that didn't stop him from talking. So anyway, he would go on about his job. "Man, if the success of making it through one day to the next is the only success I'm ever going to have, then I just don't see the point. I mean, getting paid every Thursday is nice and all, but if my only life success is to have made it from one paycheck milestone to the next paycheck milestone, without having murdered my boss, then where's the success in that, I ask you?"

"Having not murdered my boss, and not getting the recognition I deserve for having not committed murder during the course of the week isn't really a great success, if you ask me? I mean, I practically run the freaking shop, and each week Mr. College-shit-for-brains tosses me my paycheck with some snide remark about how I shouldn't piss it all away over the weekend on booze and drugs. And he follows it up with a comment on how I'd better be in early Friday, because he's going to be late, again. Like I care if he's going to be late. It's not as if the shop will stop running if he doesn't show up."

"Hell, I practically run the freaking shop. If I didn't remind Mr. College-shit-for-brains to place orders, and fill orders, and call for shipments, customers wouldn't be calling him to tell him what a wonderful job he does for them, and how he makes their day by being so efficient. Fuck man! I do it all, and Mr. College-shit-for-brains is getting all the glory. So I ask you, where's the success in that?"

There is none, I would tell him.

"Exactly," he would say. "I strive to get through the day without choking the living shit out of Mr. College-shit-for-brains, and on Thursdays I get my reward of three hundred sixty-two dollars and eighteen cents, after withholding, and I just want to come home and blow my brains outs. I mean, what's so wonderful about average success? What's so great about getting through the day without really shining? Do you know what I mean?"

Hell, I never knew what he meant, but I understood what he was saying, underneath it all.

"Man, I just feel like it's all so hopeless," he would say. "I just want to have the highs, and skip the lows. I've got more ability in my middle finger than Mr. College-shit-for-brains has in his entire body. Yet my only real successes are completing each paycheck milestone without having killed my boss or myself. You know what I mean?"

I finally knew what he meant. I figured he was going to snap eventually. He said it himself, the shop wouldn't cease to exist if his boss didn't show up for work. I figured it wouldn't cease to exist if he didn't show up either, but I wasn't going to tell him that. If his greatest success was going to be not killing his boss or himself, I figured he just didn't have the balls for real success.

Now me, on the other hand. I didn't have any problem offing his shitheaded boss, or him. He didn't have the balls for success, but I did. I just got tired of hearing him whine about his life, and I figured I'd do him the favor of snuffing him and his boss. I did his boss as a favor to him, sort of a going away present. I really didn't see where saving him the trouble of suicide was such a big favor, because I know he didn't have the balls for it.

Hell, you should've see him crying when I blasted Mr. College-shit-for-brains brains all over the wall behind the counter. You'd of thought he actually liked the turd. Heck, blowing him away was as much for my sanity as it was for his relief. Now he doesn't have to go on about how much he hates his job anymore, and I get to relax in peace. So that's why I did it. You guys have any other questions?


Robert is the author of the novels Cool Mint Blue, Melba Ridge, and the recently released The Adventures of Homosexual Man and Lesbian Lad; and the creator of the on-line comix Impure Thoughts found at his web site Inside R.A. Melos, as well as having been an on-line staff writer for QBliss where he had a monthly humor column, Maybe A Yip, Maybe A Yap. In his non-writing time, when he's not studying the metaphysical or creating a tarot deck, he sells real estate in Middlesex County New Jersey, hangs out with his dog Zeus, and spends time at the Pride Center of New Jersey in Highland Park, NJ, where he is on the Board of Trustees.

more about robert a. melos


a father, a son, a drink
american gothic redux chapter 17
by robert a. melos
topic: writing
published: 9.16.05

do you want fries with that?
let freedom fries ring
by robert a. melos
topic: writing
published: 3.12.03


wendy p
8.14.02 @ 2:14p

Is there a competition for creepy now? Yikes!

mike julianelle
8.14.02 @ 2:24p

I love shit about people snapping.

daniel castro
8.14.02 @ 2:26p

Good story. Now I just got reminded to go and listen to Suicidal Tendencies, the band.

mike julianelle
8.14.02 @ 2:53p

Oh, the band?

daniel castro
8.14.02 @ 5:27p

Yes, THE band!

mike julianelle
8.14.02 @ 6:55p

Oh, The Band? They ARE great. Anyone see The Last Waltz DVD? It's fantastic!

jael mchenry
8.14.02 @ 7:33p

We could start up a really sick anthology with you people. Really.

Clever, though, this.

robert melos
8.14.02 @ 10:45p

Sometimes I have very sick thoughts which make for fun little stories such as this. This one wasn't even the sickest. I'm saving those for something really special.

Laughs maniacally and wrings hands.

mike julianelle
8.14.02 @ 10:51p

Let's have a contest.

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