I’m over here now!


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20. The Sloppy Good-bye.

It’s a strange moment when you look back on a failed relationship with a tinge of happiness.  The bitter sweet moment when you see your ex with another.  And she sees you.  On one hand you feel the low grade burn of slight jealousy because you’re a controlling bastard with superficial needs.  “Hey!  That was my girl!  Just because I don’t want her anymore doesn’t mean she is free for you to slobber on!  I expect her to die in a closet while her eighteen cats slowly devour her and her self knitted poncho!”  Pathetic.

But on the other hand you realize you are happy she will leave you alone.  I’m not going to say some fondue dipped, “I just want happiness for her.”  Because I don’t really care.  I’m glad I can turn my back now and not have to worry about her finding me in a bar with four fingers in some old ladies mouth.  That’s the beauty of indifference.  And the beauty of mouths.  Four fingers is perfect because you need your thumb to really grab that jaw.

Anyway, we slap Roundoms on the ass and point to the door.  We will keep the pictures to insure she doesn’t say anything slanderous about us.  Remember the donkey and the beer enema?  That’s right.  I have it stored in my cloud along with all the other photos your grandma took.  So take it easy.  I will now go partake in the joy of chunky peanut butter and a small dog.  For optimal pleasure, you must first remove the teeth.  That’s right, little fluffy!  It’s gummy time!

For the travel log of Los Angeles’ fruits and failures, visit faarondouglas.com.

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19. Woop-De-F******-Do

19  Well, well, well.  Fancy seeing you here.  You sure have a load of balls showing your face around these parts after what you did to my dog.  Peanut butter?  Really!?!  If I would have known what you were up to, I would have brought the fuckin’ Smuckers!  What was that?  Yeah, I know I look like shit.  I bought some stock in Jack Daniels and I’m just making sure my investment is not going tits up.  Soooo, what do you want?  You want to… Really.  Well shit, let’s go have a seat and pretend this is going to be fun.  So, who starts this again?  Right.  Well, OK.  Start Up The Fuckin’ Generator!

One Breaking.

What is that supposed to mean?  Is that really how you are going to start?  Fine.  Let me explain something.  Sometimes you decide that there are places and people and things, nouns really, that you don’t want to deal with.  There are good nouns and there are vicious, angry, bleeding out of your ass crap nouns.  Well, what I’m trying to say is, um, you can’t live without nouns.  But sometimes certain nouns make me want to shove a snickers up my ass in hopes of reverse fermentation because my mouth will not open to utter the syllables.  Why are you laughing?!?!  I can stop talking whenever I want to!  Fine!  My mouth is the glory whole, bitch.  I can spin a tale like worms spin silk.  AND, I didnt’ break up with you, I just didn’t want to look at your needy face anymore.  This is a two-way street, darling.  Two breaking!  Two breaking!!

Suspect Least.

Are you saying I’m not trying?  I haven’t seen you in over a month.  AND, you’re wrong.  I was trying desperately not to see you.  I was trying extremely hard.  How did you even know I was at this bar?!?  You heard me from outside.  Funny.

Equation Tell.

I dunno.  What do you want.  Exactly… What are you.. the sum of our parts?  Are you fuckin’ kidding me?  The only sum I’m interested in is the ounces of whiskey on my tongue…  Yeah, I know I’m a smart ass…  Wait a minute.  Are you trying to get back together with me?  Really.  I’m not sure.  I definitely can’t do two a week anymore, if that’s your idea.  I have other interests now.  For one, I’m writing a couple of things a week for a different blog.  Yes!  No!  That’s not true!  Whatever.  Take it or leave it.  One a week.  And no podcast.  I can’t believe how narcissistic I became with that fucking thing.  Embarrassing.  “Let me let you in to my insanity!?”  What a fuckin’ douche bag.

Get Behind.

OK.  I guess.  With those previously mentioned stipulations, I can do it.  Sure…  Damn.  Just when you think you’re done, they pull you back in.  It’s like a false turd.  At one moment it feels like you’re crowning, and the next moment you discover it’s just a big pain in your ass.  Kind of like you.

Leach Jest.

Hey, hey, wait a minute.  Let’s not go too fast.  “Leach Jest?”  I’m like a beached whale over here.  My mind isn’t up for much more than peeing on myself and rubbing my back fat with more back fat.  Can we please take it slow?  Are you slobbering?  Wow.  OK.  Well, that’s enough for now.  Put your penis back in your pants, Padre.  We can do the full Roundoms next time.  Yes, OK.  A proper one.  A thousand words.  I promise.  I’ll even give you a reach around.  Sure.  Yesssss.  I promise to spit on my hand next time.  One dry rub and suddenly you’re Hitler.  OK.  I gotta go.  Are you happy now?

Dragging Grand.

Yep.  Woop-de-do.

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18. The Jerry Sandusky Spa And Inn

Whew!  Just finished polishing my beaver and, oh, is she shiny!  There is nothing I am more proud to show off than my mounted beaver!  That’s the first thing you see when I open up my giant doorway to the ever-expanding hallway that leads to my “Carrie” themed room where we prance around as a bloody prom queen in our custom-made Jovani in front of the fireplace where my hairless beaver is mounted!  Sometimes I take down my beaver and dance the room with it clenched to my dirty pillows.  “There called breasts, mama!  Every woman has them.”

  OK.  So I’m juvenile and sick.  I knew that already.  Though, it seems as if you like staring at me as I insert my vintage Nintendo joystick into my rectum.  You keep shaking your head no, put the bulge in your Calvin Klein’s says “yes!”  Which is confusing because I thought you were a girl.  A girl with the loveliest adams apple.  Cute.

To get back into the flow of these Roundoms, the generator will fire out a handful of them as I swat them down one by one like I was Godzilla.  Or, as the Japanese say, Gahdzirrahh!

  Soooo, I guess that’s all there is to say except for, start up the generator!

Revenge Courtesy.

Yep.  Sometimes it is only right to extend the courtesy of revenge.  Some little pansy somewhere said, “An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind.”  But that’s total crap.  Serving up revenge has got to be one of those moments where we feel most alive.  The rush of blood. The sweat running down your neck. The clarity of focus on a single target with only one goal in mind like a hungry lion eyeing up the prize of a small Ethiopian.  Are there lions in Ethiopia?  Probably over caffeinated ones.  That’s why Ethiopians are so skinny.  There is only coffee and cigarettes there.  “Sorry, Nagasi, but you can’t live on coffee beans alone!  Though they will make you fast as lightning!  So put some of these coffee beans between your check and gums and fill out this marathon application!  You have been running for your life all this time, Nagasi!  Now you can run for gold!  No, you can’t eat that, will you please take that out of your mouth.  Oh.  A lip ring, you say?  Sure.  Why not.  Please don’t lick it.  OK.  Fine.  Whatever makes you happy.

  ANYWAY, as I see it, there are crimes that society will want you to pay for.  Cold blooded murder is revenged, in some states, for cold-blooded murder.  A calculated killing of a human being in reply of a calculated killing.  It seems  fair to me.  I’d actually like to see this done for more crimes against society.  If we arrested a pedophile in the act of his sick acts, we should be able to dress him up in a catholic school uniform and allow a seven-foot, three hundred and thirty pound man with a giant meat hammer for a penis drag that fucker into his van and drive him away for a weeks stay at The Jerry Sandusky Inn and Spa.  “We will wash away your sins one load at a time!”  Isn’t that a courtesy we owe to society?  Yep.  Your welcome, society.  Now let’s talk about you fucking all my friends.  Isn’t that your mother over there?  She sure looks lovely today.  I’m going to go over there and teach her “The Angry Dragon.”

Criticized Collecting.

Collecting items that are valuable to you doesn’t mean anything anymore, does it.  We no longer have impressive libraries to peruse because everything we read is now on our Kindles.  We no longer have the Jose Canseco rookie baseball card because the card isn’t in High Def.  We no longer have milk crates filled with records because Pandora and Spotify are essentially free and my iPod can fit in my pocket.  Eventually we will have a chip in our brain and that chip will clothe us in an ever-changing wardrobe applicable to the person we are standing next to.  You could appear in a suit and tie to your mother while you simultaneously appear to be wearing a gimp mask and a g-string to your gay lover.  All the while the soundtrack to Grease plays in your skull thanks to some satellite that hovers miles over your head.  Before you know it, we will own nothing but information.  But that will probably be free as well.

I just had an epiphany!  This is probably the catalyst for our overwhelming social narcissistic behavior!  There was once a time when you could have a visitor over to your pad and your personality would be represented by all of your collectibles.  What kind of music you liked would be on display on the corner shelf.  The books you read and the movies you watch and the art work you prefer and your style of design all the way down to the type of candles you might like to burn.  All you said was “Come on in” while a room full of your things would convey a certain something about your personality.  We don’t have that anymore, so now we try to convey the same shit by posting it somewhere on the web.  And now we stare at our various Tumblr and Facebook accounts to see who is looking back.  Our cool living rooms replaced by our sad laptops.  All of us sitting in giant rows of tiny rooms with small screens that softly illuminate our needy faces.  “Here is a picture of me playing with little Frumpy.  I rescued him last week.”  Then we quantify our self-worth based on “thumbs up” or insignificant comments.  “AWWWW.  So cute.”  No wonder we fucking suck.

  I had a small conversation with this nice enough guy the other day where he described his lifestyle as “analog.”  His point went something like this:  “I try really hard to read actual books that have paper pages and place actual vinyl albums on actual turntables and, though I realize I couldn’t survive entirely without a cell phone or my laptop, I live a life that isn’t dictated by my Facebook posts or trending tweets or viral YouTube videos.  Those are all cool, but I see them as mere tools to a more tactile life.”  Which I find to be an excellent practice.  Now I will go check on my blog numbers and upload my podcast and, undoubtably, stare at this computer screen to see if anyone noticed.

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17. Lighting A Bag Of Dogshit On Fire

Sometimes you feel like a nut, and sometimes you feel like a meth induced lunatic.  I don’t know what exactly happened in the last eight days, but it happened.  Let’s see.  Maybe I can Nancy Drew this shit for you.  Firstly I have a roommate.  She is a good roommate who doesn’t judge any aspect of my lifestyle.  Regardless if I am raping my guitar with the ghost of Darby Crash or spewing the answers to life out loud like some cranked out, not as funny, George Carlin.  Which I like.  But she decided she was going to visit her mom for a week in Hawaii.  Cool.  I have a free week to write and walk around the apartment free-balling my way to success.  I’ll do the dishes when I fucking want to and blast the new Bloc Party until my anus bleeds.  All good.  What i didn’t count on was the lack of supervision.  Or, at least, a lifeline.

  I dissed my Roundoms and she was not keen to hang out.  Which was fine with me.  I couldn’t imagine rubbing on her noun like nipples at all.  Bleck!  Fuck her!  Fuck that!  I’m not going down that road right now.  I thought about writing everyday, but dismissed it immediately for long sessions of Fifa 13 and giant bottles of Gentleman Jack.  I watched a load of movies like some neanderthal.  I inhaled a small bag of pita bread and an entire container of roasted garlic humus to the warm flickers of “I Love You, Man.”  I slurped up an entire pan of pasta Primavera with pesto and crushed red peppers over the three hours of “The Green Mile.”  I pounded a six-pack of Fat Tire to Ice T‘s hip hop documentary.  And all the while I slowly turned into a mix of Gollum and The Uni-Bomber covered in speckles of random food items and my own drool.  I occasionally took a peep outside, but it just depressed me more as I decided this place was a fine place to curl up to no one and hang out with myself.  Which, I now understand, is fucking difficult.  I just kept drinking more whiskey and ignored anything that was calling my name.  I was sinking pretty deep.

  The interesting thing you notice when you are drowning in the deep end of life’s pool is how serene it becomes.  You are well aware that you are heading south underneath the surface of reality, but you don’t flap your arms or kick your feet.  You look around at the diminishing light trying to break through the surface as you sink like there are huge boulders of regret tied to each ankle.  And all you do is watch it happen.  It’s almost like you are enjoying it.

  “You should try to swim to the surface, you know.”  “Yeah.  I know.  But the water is perfectly warm and there is no one around at the surface.  Who will see me break free?”  “You will see.  Isn’t that the important part?  Do you not want to swim to the surface?”  “I dunno.  I just kinda want to pee right now.  Ahhhhhh.  I’m peeing.  I don’t know why peeing in a body of water is so fantastic.  But I find great pleasure in it.”  “But, you realize, this is all a metaphor.  This isn’t actually a body of water at all.  You have passed out on the floor of your apartment and you are pissing your pants.”  “No I’m not! Am I?  Fuck!  God damn it!  Fuckin’ asshole!  Get up. Dickhead.  I’m glad we have wood floors.”

  I should probably apologize to my Roundoms.  I created her and then hurt her pretty much immediately.  Which sounds pretty familiar to me.  I’m sorry, ladies of the past.  I’m sorry I didn’t fuck you over sooner!  Hahahahahaha!  Sike!  You got what you deserved!  Hahahahaha.  Oh my god!  I’m sorry.  Just playing and shit.  Don’t cry.  You knew I was an asshole.  Didn’t you? Oh.  I guess you didn’t.  Well then what am I, some fucking old shack?!  You thought you could put in new floors and a gazebo in the backyard?!  Well fuck that!  That yard is reserved for all the dead hookers that came before you!  You better run, Sugar Tits, because I have the perfect plot for you!  Right next to dear old Aunt Olivia!  Hi, Olivia!  Remember when I looked up your skirt?  You should have kicked me right away instead of squatting down for a tinkle!  I might have enjoyed it if you hadn’t eaten so much fuckin’ asparagus!  That was disgusting!  Your dietary selections are very important if you want to play the water works game…  Uhhh.  Hmm.  I’m sorry.  Wasn’t I going to apologize to someone?

  Right.  Let’s go over and knock on her door.  “Hello?  Are you in there?  I haven’t seen you come out of your room for over a week.  Are you OK?”

Permitting Think.

Yeah, me too.  Listen, Roundoms, I’m sorry I publicly humiliated you last week.  You challenge me like no other and, on occasion, I’m not up to that challenge.  I’m sorry.  Can we try this again?  No promises.  Let’s just try to work on our relationship one Roundom at a time.  Is that something we can do?

Estimate Treat.

Well, whatever you want.  Anything your heart desires.

Preverified Necessitude.

Well, I can’t assure you of anything I will say at any given time.  This is still a wild endeavor that I don’t know we will survive.  Listen, I created you but I wont debate with you on any of my opinions.  You still have only one roll in this and that is serving up the words as I tear them down with my slanted and enchanted intellect.  You choose the vehicle, and I choose where we go.  That’s it.  Take it or leave it.

Set Magnitude.

I say we set the controls to stun!  Just you and me, babe!  We have a load of work to do.  Let’s light this bag of dog shit on fire and watch their nostril hairs burn down to the flesh!  Fuck ’em all!  Dead by dawn!  Get off my back, dad!  You are crushing my smokes!

Mastermind Duke.

Roundoms.  You’re just so fuckin’ cute.

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16. Unroundoms 1 (Rape The Rapist)

When my alarm goes off early in the morning, my first thought is, “I’m dying!”  There is this strange rigor mortis that sets in when I’m deep asleep as if my body has caught up with my emotional state.  I rise out of bed like a sorority girl from her rape table and try to ignore the pain that has locked up my muscles like an uneducated black man.  Hah!  Two similes in one sentence!  I’d pat myself on the back if I could only reach it.

  The last, say, ten days, this Roundoms concept has been weighing heavy on my shoulders.  I like the project, but it feels like my mind is caught in some vortex of transitive verbs and uncommon nouns.  I keep generating words, but all of them come with a snide grin and a bully’s demeanor.  I even flipped the audio version to start with The Roundom with me taking on the role of some custodian after a poo punching party.  How did I allow this to happen?  This battle hasn’t reached the second quarter and I’m already acting like Roberto Duran.  “No mas.  No mas.”

  A wonderful thing about depression is it will completely lift if the right thought goes through your head.  I’m one of the lucky ones because I have a new thought every nano second.  They overlap one another, but if I pay close attention I can comprehend a thought or two.  So, yesterday as I had my lips around my early generation Glock 19, I had this epiphany:  “Why does Heineken smell like pee but taste like sweet honey?”  No, not that one.  This one:  “I don’t always have to cave to the generator’s words!  Sometimes I could just write about whatever crosses my demented mind!  If I wanted to write about head butting a twelve year old girl while I fingered a shitzu’s ass while it was being held by the approving smile of Ru Paul’s vagina, then I could take my fingers out of little fluffy and write it in blood on a Subway napkin. I don’t always have to cater you, Roundoms!  I have free will to do what I want!  Go ahead! Talk some shit, punk!

Stun Management.

I see!  You should be stunned! I’m in charge around here, you fucking manipulative bitch!  Watch how I stuff this square peg into my round butthole.  “Ouch.”  You see?  This act is a metaphor for our relationship.  I do what I want from now on.  Damn, that’s uncomfortable.  But I’m going to leave it in for the duration of this essay.  Just to prove a point.  So what do you have to say now?!

Skipping Trouser.

I knew it!  You just shit yourself!  Each corn kernel skipping right down your leg!  “When the cops are on your trail and you have a monkey trail.  Diarrhea, bum bum!  Diarrhea!”  You look pathetic, Roundom.  Am I being to harsh?  Are you gonna cwy now like a witlle baby?  What was that?

Small Brush.

I know.  I know.  You’re more sensitive than a little orphan girl.  Jesus.  OK.  Come over here and sit down between my legs and I’ll brush your hair.  This blood has completely tangled everything.  Hold still, this is going to hurt a little.  Stop crying, or I’ll feed you to the Nigga in the alley.  He’ll eat anything.

  We should take a moment to bring you a word from our sponsor.  “Have you ever turned on the kitchen light and… Uh Oh!  Yuck!  There they go scampering under the sink, refrigerators and any nook and cranny that is available.  MEXICANS!  Don’t leave that tortilla chip on the floor, little Peggy.  Those Mexicans travel in packs!  If you attract one, you will attract the whole barrio!  But now you can stop them with, Cholaway!  Cholaway deters unwanted mexicans by distributing education capsules all over the room.  Once a Mexican sees all of that education, they scamper away as fast as they can to their dish washing and nanny jobs!  Mexicans hate education, and you hate Mexicans.  Get rid of them with, Cholaway!”

  Good.  No, better than good!  It’s wicked gnarly, kid!  I feel like I’m driving the short bus to see a matinée of Grown Ups part 2.  Because that movie is bound to be retarded.  I’m sorry.  Excuse me for a moment.  Hey, billy, stop eating that chocolate!  Where did you get that?  “A doggie dropped it.”  Gross!  Why would you eat some shit that a dog unloaded onto the grass?  Oh wait.  It’s because you’re retarded!  You will never know love, Little Billy.  Never know what a hard nipple on an excitable woman feels like.  You will never know the well oiled, worn in catcher’s mitt that is a woman’s floppy ass vagina.  You won’t even know what vagina means.  You are doomed to a life of unending celibacy!  You want to know why, Little Billy?  It’s because you are retarded!  Now go sit the fuck down with all the other fuckin’ retards!  Jesus, you’re stupid.  OK.  Where was I?

  Right!  I feel like an Asian girl on her first white guy date.  “Oohhh.  I’m gonna get it leal good.”  I feel like a bunch of cock suckers on a cock ranch.  “There’s too many feathers!”  I feel like an alcoholic that has just woke up behind a dumpster having found out he pissed himself.  “Yeahhh!  No shit this time!”  I feel like a man who has just shared a flirtatious moment with an interesting woman that ended with a soft giggle, a slight touch on the arm, an intoxicating smile and exiting comment like,  “See you around, smart guy.”

  So, I guess this is acceptable.  I feel good about it.  The essays will continue, but they don’t always have to include you, Generator.  Tomorrow is a new day and I don’t necessarily want you around all the time.  On occasion, I might want to be alone with my cold Glock and a sweating temple.  On other occasions, I might try to fit entire sentences into my rectum, regardless of their shape.  The point is you don’t own me anymore, Roundoms.  I will always cherish the moments we have had in the past and the ones we will definitely share in the future.  With that being said, I must also add, all of this feels good again.

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15. Wait. Why Do I Give A F***?

Have you ever felt crazy?  Not the crazy where you are trying to stuff a 14 inch pizza in your ass one slice at a time, but the clear crazy.  The lucid crazy.  The outer body experience crazy.  “What the fuck am I supposed to be doing right now?  Should I reply to that Facebook message I need to go to the printer yes a nap sounds nice I need to call my brother should I tweet some more I should probably eat you need to write you need to write you need to write you need to write.  Right.”  I have tied my ankles to the table legs with wire.  I’m ready, you bastard!

Start Up The Generator!!!

Answer Editor.

“Hello, everyone.  I’m Bubba McBubba.  Is your relationship going down the shitter because you have forgotten how to respond to your better half?  Does it feel like you are being questioned by a mercenary?  Is your body one big red button that your spouse is constantly driving their bony fingers into?  I’m hear to help.  I’m your “Answer Editor!”  Let’s give a demonstration, shall we?  This is John and Mary.  They have been married for twenty five years of sheer torment.  Until they hired me!  “Do you always have to eat with your fucking mouth open like that?! It’s disgusting, John.”  (John leans over and whispers his answer into the Answer Editors ear.)  “It’s because your food is so repugnant, I have to breath through my mouth to keep from smelling this god damn abortion of a meal!”  I’m sorry, dear.  I didn’t realize I was doing that.  I’ll refrain at once.  “Do you always have to wear those god damn pearls on a daily basis?  You look like a stuck up bitch!”  (Mary leans over to whisper.)  It’s what I get for marrying an alcoholic loser like you.  I don’t have anything else to wear because you can’t afford it!”  But they are my all time favorite gift, dear.  It reminds me of the love we share.  See?!  They are living in perfect harmony!  If you need a little help, call me!  Bubba McBubba!  I’m your answer editor!

  To edit your answers, one must know the questions.  Everything we do is based off a series of questions.  Some are big questions and some are small.  But it’s all we do all day long, every day of our life.  For instance: “Do I wan’t to get up right now?  Do I wan’t to hit the snooze button?  Should I make coffee before I take a dump?  Do I have time to masturbate?  Should I bring out the candles and sandpaper?”  And then we react with an answer.  “Fuck no, I don’t want to get up.  Hell yes I’m hitting snooze.  Coffee will help loosen up that extra pound of rump roast I ate last night.  I have plenty of time to rub one out.  No candles, but I will partake in a good bloody stump.  Maybe I should use a cheese grater this time?”  

  Of course, Philosophers ponder bigger questions than masturbation.  The “Who am I” and “Is there a purpose to the universe” and “What is imagination?”  These questions don’t really have a clear cut answer.  That’s why  modern philosophers are still asking the same questions.  Which seems to be a huge waste of time.  How am I supposed to know who the fuck I am when I change on a daily basis.  On one day I love slutty girls and on another day I might wonder what it would be like to have a hard cock in my mouth.  Maybe the question should be, “Who am I today?”  “Today I will be a Jew hating black man with eight kids by nine women.  Two of them couldn’t afford a full pregnancy so they had to split it.  I will be jaded in isolation and I will beat thirty percent of my ex-wives.  And then I will convert to being muslim.  Hey, Chris Brown!  It’s legal in the middle east.”

  Sometimes people have answers they want to hear from your mouth.  This is where it gets tricky.  Someone, say a date, want’s to get to know you.  AND, say she is pushing forty and she still doesn’t have kids.  AND, she wants some fuckin’ kids yesterday already.  So, how will her desperate questions influence how you will edit your answers?  “Are you afraid of ghosts?”  “Um, I don’t really believe in ghosts.”  “Are you afraid of heights?”  “Why, is this date going to make me want to jump from a bridge?”  “Are you afraid of commitment?”  “Are you serious?  Isn’t it a little early to ask that question?  “Do you love children?”  “Not your children, if that’s what your asking.”  “Do you see your father as the head of your family.”  “My father? No.  Why? Do you know where he is?”  “Have you ever gone to therapy?”  “As soon as this dates over?  “How many lovers have you had?”  “Are we including your mom?”  “Do you like me?!”  “Yeah, sure. You’re ok I guess.”  “YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND NOW!”

  I once had a high school counselor say to me, “So, you think you have all the answers, huh?”  Which is a ridiculous concept because everyone has all the answers.  They are just not always the right answers. But deep thinking was not as important as rebellion back then, so I think my answer was, “No!  I don’t have all the answers.  I just don’t want to be like you. Is that so hard to understand?”  If I remember correctly, it was hard for him to understand because he knocked over his coffee in a huff to make it around his desk to grab me buy my Slayer t-shirt and pull me right up nose to nose.  It was a different time back then and this kinda stuff wasn’t as shocking as it is now.  I mean some of the institutions leaders had fucking ass paddles on display in their offices.  He continued, “Listen, asshole.  You are never going to be like me.  I’ve been guiding the youth of America for over twenty years now.  And you are just some burnout that will end up dead or in jail.  Now get out of my office because you make me sick.”  

  Why was I always making adults sick?  How come I never ended up in jail?  Was this “death” thing literal or emotional?  How many times have I had such great advice?  How many shots of whiskey does it take to get to the center of the whiskey pop?  Why do Nordic women sound retarded during sex?  Is ambition always this hard?   I might have to answer these tomorrow.  Because today’s question is, Why do I give a fuck?”

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14. The Adventures of Squash Kardashian

The thing about having a mindless job is how massively mindless you become.  Many hours of work later, I have noticed my deadline is nipping me in the ass.  How did it come some fast?  And why do I feel like an empty plastic bag floating on the wind?  Well, please be kind, Generator, because I feel as burnt out as the coals at the bottom of the grill.

Start Up The Generator!

Formulating Awe.

“Dear diary.  It’s been three whole days since I have taken a dump.  I’ve been saving it up for my mothers return.  She has said there is nothing in me that is inspirational.  That I have nothing tangible to offer.  Well, diary, I have been going to Senor’s Spicy Donkey Truck three times a day to grow within me the most awe inspiring concoction the world has ever known!  I will kill all the indoor plants with the most gut wrenching flatulence to ever storm nostrils.  I will crush the porcelain with such sheer force that the broken pipes will wash me cleaner than Howie Mandle at a Purell factory.  The pains have been great, but it will be worth it.  Never again shall my dearest mother ever utter those words again!  This will make giving birth feel like I simply popped a pimple!  Look out Japan!  Here comes the Earth crusher!!!”

  How does one formulate awe?  Isn’t awe something you both fear and admire?  When I first saw these words, I thought about doing an entire piece on The Kardashians.  What the hell do they do?  And why are people so interested in them?  I have never seen one of their shows, smelt one of their farts, waxed one of their nipples, or held their hair back as they shoved their fists down their throats to expell their fatty ahi tuna salads.  I am only vaguely aware of their existance, but they have formulated a shocking amount of press that people find super bedazzling.  One of my friends said, “It’s because they don’t do anything.  And that’s what most people want to do.  Nothing at all.  People live vicariously through them because those bitches don’t have to work, or do laundry, or cook for their twelve kids, none of that.”  “Do you really think that’s true?  People don’t have any other ambition to do anything other than applying makeup, cruising in Bentley’s, eating seaweed and filming their vaginal cavities in 3d?”  “Nope.  That’s the Armenian, I mean, American dream.  Doing absolutely fuck-all!”  Hmm.  That’s sounds fucking stupid.  They might have duped a nation of teenage girls with angel spaced panties, but that’s not awe inspiring.  There is no fear involved.  If one ran across my kitchen counter tops, I wouldn’t freak out or anything.  I’d just crush that insect with an open handed bitch hammer.  Bam!  Done, son!

  I guess as you get older you find less and less that’s awe inspiring.  You become this jaded fuckhead that isn’t moved by much more than a shot of espresso.  Which is sad.  All of my moments of awe happened as a child.  I would venture that would be true for most of us with any substantial time on this planet.  We are like an old whore at a frat party.  “So, baby face, what would like for me to do to ya?  Speak up, darlin’.  You want the pogo stick?  Or maybe the London Bridge.  I am an expert in The Headspinner, The Anvil, The Backdoor Cartwheel… or how about The Backbreaker!  I haven’t done that since Tuesday!”  “Can you shoot a beer bottle from your ass?”  “Like a marine from a clock tower.  Who do you want me take out?”

  I have to search the corners of my mind for any memory that was breathtaking.  Let’s look back in the youth department, shall we?  Yep.  There they are.  This one is good!  I was thirteen years old and sporting my Sony walkman while walking through a six foot deep trench of a coming apartment building.  I had broken through the perimeter’s fence to have a look at the construction that was happening next door to the apartments where my mom and I had lived.  I had just purchased Iron Maiden’s “Number of the Beast” with the lunch money I had saved up through out the week.  I can almost feel the goose bumps now as the verse gave way to the anthemic chorus of “Run to the Hills!”  It felt like a thousand tiny fingers running up and down my spine as the walkman’s volume was thumbed up as high as she would go.  How would I ever be good enough to create this euphoric musical transition?  Is it possible I can replicate this moment for another thirsty listener?  It was simultaneously scary and wonderful.  The moon shed down the illuminating sun like a stadium spotlight on a giant stage while I fantasized it was me that had formulated this wonderful gift.  I played the best air guitar I could muster and when it was over, I opened my eyes in a ditch deep enough to realize that I was even further from the stars than I was when I pushed play on my shitty little walkman.  A powerful moment, indeed!  Thanks, Steve Harris and your curly lady hair.

  How about this one.  A small living room filled with me and around eight other ten year old kids.  All of us gathered around the television as we placed a VHS tape my friend Jose found under his parents bed into the VCR.  Jose had already seen it and had summoned all of us over for an experience we were guaranteed to never forget.  I didn’t know what to expect as I wasn’t privy to the world’s perversions.  Until I saw this woman sitting on a couch with her legs completely spread and a fully clothed guy talking to her.   The film was overdubbed into spanish so whatever they were saying didn’t sync with what their mouths were doing.  The man grabs this massive zucchini and holds up for the woman’s approval.  She laughs through closed lips and then moves her mouth in silent shapes.  What the fuck is going on?  Are we supposed to be seeing this?  I glance at the door and then go over to double check the lock.  As I look back, the man is inserting the entire zucchini into that thing where the penis should be to the point where we only see the very tip of the green squash monster.  All of us simultaneously exhale some variation of “whoa” as this woman sits calmly on her couch with the biggest smile.  And then the moment of awe.  She pulls her legs up and open and proceeds to shoot the zucchini across the room.  I was frozen with horror and captivated by this unknown.  My mind filled with anxious questions.  Am I supposed to invest in vegetables?  Do I have to learn to speak spanish?  Do all women do this?  From that point on, I saw girls in a different light.  A light attached to a camera. “Acción, señoras! This time let’s try the pumpkin!”

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13. Just Kill Ourselves Already.

In most beach communities there isn’t any centralized air to speak of because you live next to the fuckin’ beach.  But, on rare occasions, the dizzying heat of the city will reach out and over these seaside towns like some unwanted electric blanket.  We try to kick off the suffocating sheets, the cotton underwear, the layers of skin.  But there is nothing you can do but sweat your pillows down and hope your wet bed will eventually cool you off.  Last night, I slept with a twelve-inch fan sitting on my bed two inches from the top of my head.  I sleep on my side, so, the fan reverberated into the layers  of cellulose and into my cochlea giving it the sensation of a turbine on a runway.  Sleep came surprisingly fast.  I dreamt I wore a deafening hat of spinning propellers. I just kept yelling out, “I can’t hear you!  I’m wearing a fan!  What?! I can’t hear you because I’m wearing this fan!?  I said I’m wearing this fan!  What?!? Listen!  I can’t hear a fucking word you are saying!  This fan is too loud!  I SAID THIS FAN IS TOO LOUD!  WHAT!?!?  DID YOU SAY, “START UP THE GENERATOR!!!!!!!!!”

Battalion Babbled.

There are lines drawn all over our society that we rarely cross.  We have pigeon holed ourselves into small groups of like-minded thinkers because we love to hear our own words come out of another’s mouth.  That is how narcissistic we have become. “I can’t believe they didn’t mention God in their speech!  How could they?!”  “I agree! They didn’t mention it once.”  “I know! Not once did they mention God.”  “I know! How could they?”  “You have to mention God!”  “Yep! God has to be mentioned!”  “God.” “God.”  “God.”  “God.”  “God.”  “How could they?”  “I know!”

No longer listening to other opinions, we regurgitate our own thoughts onto the faces of our silly shit talking cliques.  We have become poop shooting soldiers that have had our ear drums crushed by the deafening dookie bombs that fly from our ever expanding mouths.  How did this battle field become so god damn rancid?  AND, why isn’t anybody really saying anything?

  As children, we were essentially blank canvases with very simple needs and ambitions.  I just wanted to play outside with other kids.  Pick my nose with impunity and try to rub it on the nearest girl on the playground.  Pretend I was O.J. Simpson (The amazing football player.  Not the shrub jumping human butcher).  And, to become the greatest nap hater the world would ever know!  “OK, everybody!  It’s nap time!”  “Nooooo! I’m not tired!”  “Aaron Douglas, you pull out your mat and lay down!”  “But, I’M NOT TIRED!”  “Listen, mister, you will take a nap along with everyone else!”  “NOOOO! You’re not my mommy!”  “AARON!  GET OFF THE BOOK SHELF!”  “NOT – MY – MAHHHHMMEEEEE!”  BTW, where did the aggressive “mister” come from.  What did you think, I was going to morph into some guy with a suit and 2.5 kids and a mortgage and a sense of shame for watching bestiality videos while making your life difficult?  Listen, you bitch!  Take your Paxil during recess and leave me to my Dr. Seuss books.  Except for you, Miss Techovsky.  You and your librarian frames can pull out the mat anytime you want.

  But the uniformity of youth changed at some point.  Culture stepped in and divided us into small battalions.  My high school became a petri dish of burgeoning definitions.  Let’s see.  We became cheerleaders, jocks, trend setters and preppies.  We slunk into groups of geeks, nerds, goths and emo kids.  We joined the ASB and the Color Guard and the drama department.  We found other secretive homosexuals to hold our hands in tiny closets and hid under football stadium bleachers with all the other Zeppelin loving  stoners.  Some became loners while others didn’t fit in at all.  And then we discovered that hating every other group with a passion was more comforting than trying to understand them.  We looked across the quads and the cafeterias with disdain and began our career as soiled soldiers.  “Look at those burnouts over there.  With their Black Sabbath shirts and their long greasy hair.  I hear they go out to the woods and perform devil worship.  They kill little defenseless kittens and rub the blood all over each other’s faces.  It’s only a matter of time before they come for us and try to kill one of our virgins.”  “Bro, you know some virgins?”  “Well, not on the cheerleading squad, but there are few tasty freshmen that need a cock in their ass.”  “Like those fuckin’ faggots over there.  I hear they go in the band room during lunch and paint flowers on each other’s balls.  And then they talk shit about God after they blow one another.  I heard that they go out on Friday night and suck on horse cocks.  I’m serious.”

  Sadly, this was just the beginning of our misunderstandings.  We are on an evolutionary slippery slope where our ears will eventually close up and our entire face will be one big mouth.  Different social military divisions shooting sharpened verbs and explosive nouns.  We slowly morph into giant sects separated by skin color, tax groups and political affiliation.  For me, this is as ridiculous as a political rap battle debate. I don’t think this is going to be pretty.

Will the Democratic representative please step up to the mic.

Look at that tie.  Look at that suit.  Talking so much shit like you’re a poop shoot.  You’re like a ball sack that will never have fun again.  No one’s at your party ‘cuz you’re a Republican!

And now the Republican representative.

It’s all so very simple.  Where do I start?  Wasting all you’re time with your bleeding Democratic heart.  My bank account’s snow balling, getting bigger.  But you’re just another lazy broke ass (nigga!).

HEY!  Take it easy!  What’s wrong with you?!  I can’t believe that this shit still goes on!  “Sorry.”  No.  I’m sorry.

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12. The Genocide of Crotch Whiskers.

It’s nice to take a few days off from all ambition.  A moment where we can forget about dreams,  needs, love, and personal grooming.  With each passing day I start to resemble a psychotic uni- bomber.  Random hairs from unfamiliar places start to mat from the mixture of city soot and  alcohol sweats.  The lovely aroma from my rotting body is starting to stew like a 48 hour pot roast.  Lunch is ready, Grandma!  What did you bring to the stench picnic?  Oh, fantastic!  That’s a lovely colostomy bag.  Well, sit your old, raggedy bones down, Grandma, because it’s time to Start Up The Generator!

Pursued Clearing.

“Billy.  I have a surprise for you.  Come into the bedroom.”  “What is it, babe.”  “I went to the beauty salon to get a wax.  Guess what I got?”  “You got a Brazilian?”  “Almost.  This one’s called “The Jon Bennet.”  They don’t temporarily remove all the hair, but they make it disappear forever!”

  The trials and tribulations of the unwanted follicle.  How did it become this ridiculous?  I understand the sculpting of the dead that grows from our cranium.  It’s part of “Team First Impression.”  Plus, It’s how we advertise that we are the best sheep in a land of bleating.  If you want to be included in, say, “The Jewish American Princess Club”, you better call Antwan, your gay, black hairdresser for the latest, but still acceptable, hair do-do.  So grab your keys to your Beemer, and don’t forget your Xanax.  After two hours in Antwan’s chair, you will all look essentially the same.  Just like you once looked to Hitler.  “No, sweetie.  This is not a good style to wear.  This is much too long for the ovens, I mean for the heat treatment.  What you need is a style I call “The Boy/Girl.”  Because who gives a fuck what you look like!”  Unfortunately for the world, Hitler’s “German Perm and Cut” was not a rousing success.

  Now we not only worry about the head of hair, but every other part of your  body has to be concerned.  For example:  “Hey! Welcome back to Lust Line.  We are talking to Winona in Wyoming.  So, Winona, you are concerned with unwanted hair, right?”  “Yes.”  “Do you have hair on your upper lip?”  “Yes.”  “You are a woman, right?”  “Yes.”  “Do you smile much, Winona?”  “No.”  “You wouldn’t happen to be a lesbian?”  “Yes.”  “Well then you’re fine!  Grow that shit like a hippie on Rogaine!  All right!  Next caller!”
For most women, hair is as unwanted as a carnie boyfriend.  Crotch whiskers are not sexy and who needs a muffroom growing from their forbidden forest?  The hair down there needs to be a representation of how tart your sexual hair pie preferences are.  For instance, if we were to dribble off your Bobby Brooks and saw you liked a uniform peach fuzz trim, we would assume you are sexually conservative and you are not going to ask us to shit on you and your welding mask.  Sporting a “Flame-hawk?”  Perhaps you might want us to flip you over while we lube or penis with jalapeno juice until it hurt so good.  If we notice no hair at all, we would just assume you were raped when you were a pre-teen and would cover you in quart of liquid offspring.  Fucking a woman who tries to replicate an eleven year old’s vagina is both sad and disgusting.  But the sexual green light that goes off when we notice that scorched earth, well, you might as well start calling us Daddy Nine Fingers.  That leaves one finger for us to give a thumbs up to our beloved ma.  “Don’t worry, Ma!  This bloody scarecrow will never run one of our plows!”  Thanks, John Cougar!  I wish I could go to your camp of melons.

  For some cultures, the pursued clearing has been written in the ancient rule books.  For example:  In the Philippines, if you want to be part of a decent and moral society, you don’t bring even a tweezer to your secret garden.  Which I like to call “Mom Style.”  Any woman who trims the short and curlies is considered a felatious, loose woman.  Apparently, there is no grey area when dealing with matters of the pink.  “Did you see the crotch bulge of the lovely Nikita?  That’s a woman I could be proud in asking her hand in  marriage.”  “Keanu.  That’s not a girl.  That’s a fuckin’ dog.”  “It is?!  Well, then let’s eat that furry bitch after we make a delicious gravy from its blood!”  Yeah, I’m a quarter Filipino, but no blood for me, thanks.  BTW, is that a pube on my pork belly?  Great.  Way to prioritize, Manny.

  Lately, even the guys have taken a liking to the hair genocide.  We shave beard chin straps onto our face while we use frikin’ lasers to remove our nipple hair permanently.  We shape our eyebrows like some Italian Sasquatch while we trim our crotched to resemble a teenage Vietnamese transvestite.  Mostly, men trim away the shrubs to give their little guy a longer appearance.  Plus, most women will not place your piss top cock in their mouths unless you present it in a good, clean Christian way like some militant Marine with an incredibly starched hat.  Unless you’re a gay man, of course.  because gay men walk around like baby birds in the rain forest swallowing bugs and leaves and anything that will fit down their mighty throats.  Which I find both admirable and sad.  Keep trying, little Billy!  Someone, somewhere will eventually love you for more than your cum sponge of a body.

  So, no longer does the evil serpent lie in the tall grass awaiting its next furry meal.  No longer do we accept our lovers short, soft baby hair that grows on the back of her swan-like neck.  No longer do we walk through cold winter nights comforted by the thin layer of insulation that grows down our long, slender legs.  AND, no longer do we stand behind grizzled, manly men as they protect our families like a wolverine that’s been backed into a corner.  We thumb our noses at Darwin with our surgeons kits filled with razors, scissors, tweezers, and napalm like creams.  We have created a perfectly exposed specimen for the world’s carnivores to have a go at.  Now, if you will please excuse me, I  have to go lay out in the sun.  Where is my SPF 150?


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