Don’t Call Him Icebox

His name is Icepack.

No that’s Iceman. He flys F14’s with non “dangerous” pilots because flying fighter jets is a safe profession.

He’s a volunteer self masochister.  Not scared of pain. He welcomes it.  With his face slightly tilted to one side as if to say punch my god damn face, please…just….do it. 

Every so often, you find someone who pleasantly surprises you like a firm ballbusting grab of the groin.

I had the pleasure of meeting Icepack through a mutual friend at “The Dead Poet” in NYC.  The first utterance out of his mouth was “Your brother is a beautiful fucking idiot.”  I knew then that this creature was special.

The rest of the night consisted of performing self castrations with each passing sentence.  He lives life without hope, dreams, or a vague indication that he will ever find glimpses of happiness.  No amount of money would be enough cause he couldn’t spend it.  A Porsche is just a nuisance pile of turd metal that needs to be moved of every other day to the correct side of the street.  When everyone else watches “Pays It Forward” he sees the albino from “The Da Vinci Code” flagellating himself.

I’m not gonn give up

The culminating moment of the illustrious 8 total hours mostly of listening to the man still referred to as Icepack was better than a pro-life next to an anti-life rally.

Bars packed with sucking on the teet of life post hurricane survivors.  Game time decisions were made and no one was spared.

  • Bottle of Seagrams: PURCHASED  
  • Apartment: FOUND
  • Mexican tortas (actually they were all out of bread but pizza): ORDERED
  • Skull shot glass and Icepack: INSTANT FRIENDS

Too soon? I mean…there still is water in Port Authority.

Over the course of the night, I sat and listened while Icepack commanded the room and all of its people.  Bucking, Joan of Arc, Genghis Khan, and Sylvester’s Stallone’s character from “Daylight” combined leadership couldn’t hold a 15$ pre storm price gouging candle to Icepack that night.
Stories from work, his girlfriend, fraternity members named Abraham for whatever reason was orated like a Jewish MLK Jr. on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  Icepack had a dream that night, his dream…to kick Kate’s ass in Wii baseball.  Rolling over in laugher over his egotiscasshole comments coupled with a disgusting ass kicking, describes what follows next.
At the end of the night, as I walked away from from the gypsy driver who was made to hear about how much Icepack hates everyone included every person inside the cab, I knew how special it is to have men a Godfather of a man.
And his name is Icepack.

About: Marahute

I'm a widower and mother of three wonderful recently born babies. My husband was killed by an Australian poacher and never got to see his offspring. For an uncertain amount of time I was in prison until rescued by a brave young man and his two rodent friends. I will always fly high in the sky to bring you gripping tales of rescuers down under and the inherent thrills that come with such adventures.

One single comment

  1. Esteban says:

    I violently endorse this essay.

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