tim!: Cherry and Diesel 2002 Cherry and Diesel are related as Son and Mother. When you meet the two, the first thought is that they are not alike, and this is evident in their names. Cherry is really Cherry Slacklac, but his friends all call him Cherry. Diesel is Diesel.
You meet Cherry, and you might think right away that this name is wrong for him. Cherries are sweet you'd say. This is not a sweet boy at first glance. To hear Diesel tell it he was the sweetest child that ever walked the Earth. But what happened? It makes sense that Cherry is Cherry because it turns out that Diesel had an irresistible urge during her trilogy of trimesters for Cherry Popsicles. Diesel will tell you just as I will tell you that she only ever craves salt. One would not look twice if a salt lick were bolted to the wall of every room in her house, even though this is not the case.
Maybe the cravings of the mother during pregnancy are indicative of the personality of the unborn. Diesel's own mother craved coffee grounds during pregnancy. We'll call her Strudel. Used coffee grounds eaten over the sink in private, as I just found out. You see my point. But Cherry is deeper than just that. As you know, cherry fruit is sweet sometimes, and sometimes you get one that is tart. But more than that, at the center of cherries from the tree is a pit. Inside the pit is a tiny bit of cyanide, which in that quantity will not really harm you, but its taste is bitter. The sweet juicy outside covering the hard bitter inside. But still that's not it. Its really the opposite for Cherry. Cherry is hard and bitter on the outside and sweet and juicy on the inside, which is a much better way to be. Better to be sweet at the core, and let the outside wear off over time, or wash away, then to let the sweetness wash off and be left with the bitter core. Oh yeah. It could be then Reverse-Cherry, but this is too much to say, so Cherry will do - as long as we remember the Truth about Cherry.
At press time, Cherry owes me five dollars. I don't expect to ever get this back. You can't give someone named Cherry five dollars and expect to get it back.
Diesel is Diesel because you would expect diesel fuel to be salty tasting. Diesel fuel does not require a spark to ignite like gasoline does. The diesel engine does not have any spark plugs in it. It has what is called a glow plug, whose job it is warm the combustion chamber prior to starting the engine, so that first stroke will get the whole thing started. Diesel fuel combusts just by compressing it in the cylinder. Diesel, who is German and Italian, has a propensity for flying high on the drama trip, and really getting into the role I might add. In other words, no need for a real spark to set her off. She just combusts all by herself. This is no judgment, as a lot of people do this. It really does make life more interesting that they and their drama are around us.
Right now we have Cherry and Diesel living together. Every now and then Cherry gets an idea that he will take off and see the world, which he does, but always comes back. But Cherry is youth and should take the time to find all this out. Once I hung out in Diesel's basement with Cherry. He went on and on about this and that. Very passionate with grand ideas based only loosely in reality. He'll figure it out, or it will figure him out. The good news here is that Cherry has passion. This is one thing that Diesel has passed on to Cherry. Everything is still in black and white in his eyes, which is nice way to see the world sometimes. There is no compromise. There is no gray middle ground. There is only right and wrong. It is nice to have Cherry in the world to remind us that its good to take sides and to know where you stand. The thing is, if you don't have passion, you don't have anything. I'm not sure if all of us can have passion. Certainly not all the time. But my hope for humanity is that everyone will know passion at some time in their lives.
The thing I just thought of is can you have a head and passion at the same time? That is, can you have the brains and the brawn? There seems to be this constant battle between the heart and the head. It might be good that there is a battle. If one or the other always rules, what fun is that? I always like to do something that my head just knows will be a bad idea. Understanding this and doing it anyway is the way to have both maybe. Of course the other half of the time I guess should be spent talking yourself out of something that you just know is bad news.
Because that's the thing, that's the catch. Everything is happening all at once, at the same time, all around us and all the time. So, if you're going to do something, you have to jump into the fray and do it. There is no time for waiting until the time is right. The time will never be more right than it is right now. If it is worthwhile it will be bad timing and it will seem like if only I could wait until.... But you can't. It only seems like its bad timing because you chose to jump into the fray at that moment. When really, it is always bad timing, and it wouldn't matter when you jump in, it will seem like an isolated incident. And it takes balls to do this. Big hairy balls. The kind of balls that would certainly scare a small child if they accidentally saw them one day in the bathroom. Balls can be scary things, metaphorically and literally speaking.
An addendum to the previous tale is something Diesel confided in me recently concerning the behavior of her son, Cherry. Nine out of ten times I will hold tight to a secret. Ok, eight out of ten. But this one is so choice, it won't even make it to that distinction. For the benefit of the reputation of the young man, we will call this next part fiction, thereby absolving me of any ill will, and freeing the boy of any guilt.
We'll do this with dialogue.
Setting: Dinner at a moderately upscale restaurant in WorkingTown, USA.
The scene opens in the annex of the restaurant, where they put people who have no reservation, people like us, who just walk in to this so-so WorkingTown place and expect to sit with the reservists. The temperature in the annex is 10 degrees colder that in the main restaurant. Diesel and FGL are drinking a $20 bottle of red as if it were water, having just gotten back from a walking tour of the Mojave. There is some chit chat, and then we get to the heart of the matter.
Diesel: "You'll never guess what my delinquent son has done now."
FGL: "What."
Diesel: "Ok. The other night I discover that Cherry has been masturbating into the two feather pillows that are on the couch."
As I try and picture how this would play out, I think back to all of the ways I personally have relieved myself, and what soft inanimate object du jour took the brunt of my abuse.
FGL: "How do you know that he used the pillows?"
Diesel: "Well, I was laying there, and I smelled it in the pillows. Plus they were sticky. You believe that?"
FGL: "You smelled it?"
Diesel: "That's right. And then I took the pillow covers off and saw the stains."
FGL: "That's absurd."
Diesel: "Yes it is. I'm pissed. There was one stain on each pillow."
The pillows in question are apparently Ralph Lauren style and are very fine. The detail which seemed to be lost in the wine somewhere is how did he get inside the pillow w/o tearing it or is the outside of the pillow also feather. These kinds of things. Then I recall that I have not personally seen the pillow, and maybe this is why I am having difficulty picturing this scene - even with the extensive foray of similar experience in the realm of teen, pre-teen and post-teen ejaculations that I possess.
Diesel: "So then I write him a note on the chalkboard that says, 'Please - Respect the pillows and you mother!'"
FGL: "And what did he say to that?"
Diesel: "He erased the message."
The waitress (aka Bette Midler) didn't really play a key role in this scene, save the delivery of the wine, and requisite food. I still say she didn't look anything like Bette Midler, but Diesel went on and on. I thought I'd mention it in an attempt to preserve the moment. That, and I have a fear/loathing thing going on with Ms. Midler and any chance I get to try and work this out has to be good fortune. We should have asked her to sing.
And this is how it goes. I consider confiding in my friend that once there was a rabbit pelt from somewhere, that made the rounds down at the docks... I reconsider. This in an effort to ease her tension on the subject of the pillows. The difference here being that the pelt belonged to me personally, and was never the property of my Mother. The Oedipal implications here would surely be overwhelming and put a damper on the mood being already difficult to fathom, what with the encapsulation of the erection with not one, but two pink feather Ralph Lauren pillows. Unless this is an act of pure defiance as the pink RL feather pillow set represents the attitudes of a Bourgeois society that needs to be corrected through creative defamation. Personally speaking, I've never been into politics, and have never had the foresight to plan out such an attack for any other reasons than the first one that comes to mind.
The most likely scenario is that pink RL feather pillows get a B for decoration style, and an A- for comfort. After all, they are stuffed with feathers. But they will get an A+ from the teacher for this most ingenious use, one that RL surely used some distant childhood memory in conceiving their design. The human female may be surprised what the 12-19 year old human male mind can come up with - creatively speaking - in a time like this.
You know when you ask us what it is we're thinking? The reason we don't say anything and pretend like we have this blank slate of a thought process is because we're thinking about things like this, and we don't want to freak you out all at once. If you're going to freak someone out, you have to kind of ease them into it, like getting into a tub of hot water. Eventually you get used to it, and later on it's so comfortable you don't want to get out.
