Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.
My alimony payment was late again. When would I learn to do something with my paycheck aside from gambling it away on payday behind the laundromat shooting dice? I used the ritualistic chant “baby needs a new pair of shoes” when I rolled the bones, brimming with hope and meting with despair. I hardly ever made my point without crapping out. “Seven” was heaven and hell—what mattered was when you rolled it. On the first roll, you won. Anywhere else, you lost your ass. I shot craps so many times I could fill a septic tank.
I was playing against this guy “Zagger Lee” and a few of his cronies from Philly. Zagger Lee took his nickname from the Zig-Zag papers he used to roll his joints. My name is Willy. Some people say I make mountains out of molehills, but actually, I make bird houses for a living out of plastic sand buckets, like you give your kid to play with at the shore.
After Zagger Lee rolled six successive sevens, I decided the dice were loaded. I had an honest pair in my pocket and pulled them out. I offered to switch them out with Zagger Lee’s dice without saying anything about hm cheating. Zagger-Lee said, “What? You don’t trust me mother-f*ker?” He pulled my money out of my hand, and scooped up all the bets. His cronies had their gun drawn, all aimed at my head. “I guess this is quits then?” I asked sarcastically. “Fu*kin’ A,” said Zagger Lee.
I took a picture with my cellphone of him and his cronies with guns drawn. I ran like holy hell out of the alley. They chased me down the street until I turned into “Peppy’s,” a pizza place owned by my former best friend. He was called “Peppy” because he was hooked on amphetamines in high school. He was my “former friend” because my former wife was his former wife too. She had run away with me, but we had never gotten out of town. Then we had a divorce. I got jailed for burning her clothes in the driveway.
Peppy asked, “What do you want rat dick?” Just to piss him off, I told him I wanted a slice with just pineapple on it—no cheese, no ham. He swung his pizza paddle at me and his sister Squeegee pushed me out the door and kicked me in the ass and said “Let’s meet again down by the railroad tracks at 11:30. I’ll give all the pineapple you want.” I thought to myself as I flew out the door and hit the pavement, “Fu*k.” Not again. Damn.” I can’t begin to describe what we did the last time by the tracks. Suffice it to say it was “indescribable.” I rolled over and nodded, got up, and headed down the street to my ex-wife’s to make some new excuses. She lived alone in an abandoned A&W Rootbeer stand on the edge of town,
She bought it for next to nothing and fixed it up nicely with my money. As usual, she would be unhappy, even angry, to see me. I walked up to one of the outside call boxes and said “Ding-Dong Avon calling.” She said, “Ok rat dick, come in with your hands up and kiss my ass.” I followed her commands.
She was sitting in her BarcaLounger watching “Jeopardy” on her jumbo plasma screen TV that I had paid for. “What do you want Fu*k face? I want m fu*king alimony” I told her I didn’t have the alimony. She went into the kitchen and came back out holding a shish-kabob skewer. “See this? I’m gonna stick this up your ass on Main Street if you don’t pay me by Friday.” I knew she wouldn’t make good on her promise—she threw up once when she came into the bathroom and saw that I had cut myself shaving. But, people change, and I wasn’t taking any chances.
The next day I sold my car to make the payment. I was a loser. I lost at marriage and I lost at dice. What else could I lose at? Two days later I lost my watch. Now, I didn’t know what time it was and I was late for work at “Bluebird Bucket Bird Houses.” Yup. I lost my job. Mr. Bird had a zero tolerance policy for “late bastards.” So, I lost at marriage, I lost at dice, I lost my watch, and now, I lost my job.
I decided to kill myself.
I got a piece of rope and headed down to the railroad tracks. I planned on tying myself to the tracks and being run over by a train. When I got down to the tracks, I saw a suitcase in the bushes by the tracks that somebody must’ve thrown off a train. Out of curiosity, I pulled it out of the bushes and opened it. It was filled with neatly bundled $100 bills.
I wasn’t a loser any more! I was going to call my ex-wife and tell her, but I had forgotten my cellphone. Then, somebody yelled, “FBI! Stop where you are. Put the suitcase down. Put your hands behind your head. Get down on your knees!”
I was still a loser.
The Daily Trope 