Monthly Archives: August 2012

8. No, Coach. I’ve Never Played With Those Balls.

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Sometimes you look up from your masturbation comma completely shocked!  You stare down at the kung fu grip you have on your penis and notice the incredible scar tissue that has developed.  “OMG!”, you text yourself.  Days have passed and you haven’t any evidence of worked accomplished.  Fuck it.  That’s when we freestyle this bitch!  But, with a twist.  We are going to call this “The Speed Round!”  Multiple Roundoms until we reach our thousand word goal.  Let us shoot it on your hunchback!  Start up the generator!

Insufficient Incentive.

Damn, this could be my catch phrase.  My mission statement.  I should have this tattooed on my forehead.  For the times when someone says, “Would you like to join us at Poopers where the girls wear a diaper filled load of barbecue sauce and serve it in ramekins from little tubes that shoot from their nipples!  It’s happy hour!”  No thanks.  I have seen that before.  It’s amazing how progressive Tijuana was in the nineties.  Except I think they served Hepatitis C instead of BBQ sauce.  Insert all other invitations after “Would you like…”

Exploited All.

The amazingly succesful marketing theory for every corporation ever!  A lot of people think “exploitation” is a bad thing.  But it’s by far the force that turns the capitalistic wheel.  Just accept the fact the everything you love is solely based on some exploited fact that tugged at your heart-strings and pulled your choad.  “I love Three Doors Down!  They have a song about soldiers in battle far from their homes and families.  AND, I support our troops!”  Which I might ask in reply, “So, if I wrote a song about the love of Satan and had Three Doors Down Sing it, would you feel the same way? No!  Because the exploitation of American Patriotism has your brain so confused, I could pinch out a giant turd holding a small American flag, and you would say you loved it.  You would even die for it.  But, it’s just some shit.  Everything, these days, is exploitation.  Even your Jenna Jamieson replica pocket pussy.  But, let’s face it.  Sexploitation is the best!  Thanks perverted scientists!

Worn Childhood.

Oh, fuck you, watchout4snakes!  “Look, Mama!  We are all fucked up now!”  We should change “the innocence of youth” to “the innocence and gullibility of youth.”  There are too many broken people out there because of some ill adjusted adult who got a hold of them during, say, their tenth year on this planet.  “Is this OK.  I can’t quite decide if I am supposed to have the head of a coaches cock at the tip of my lips.”  OR, “I know your not my real dad, but is this allowed?  I’m supposed to obey your every word, but I really don’t understand what “sexy” is.  Or how to bring it back.  Are all Catwoman underoos sexy?  And what does “hide the salami” mean?”  AND NOW, you wonder why the youth of America doesn’t respect their elders.  Why there is no more “sir” or “ma’am.”  It’s because we don’t deserve it.  We are now all guilty of societies perversions.  I feel an awkward shame when I walk down the street as a young girl is walking in the opposite direction.  “Don’t look at her.  We don’t want her to feel like I’m trying to get her in the back seat of my window-tinted Prius.”  I need to make this t-shirt:  “Save the earth and fuck the children.”  Now I understand why all of the sexual moments I have had in the last, say, ten years resemble a cage match.  Life is not a rape fantasy, kids.  But how could you possibly know that.

Graduated Spiral.

This is what happens to every community college graduate who has had to take out a school loan.  Irony has punched you all in the billfold.  You tried to escape your life as a Forever 21 employee at $8 an hour and ended up being hijacked like a United flight as your school loan payments insure you of a career at Starbucks at $12 dollars an hour.  Dreams of Columbia turned to beans of Colombia.  “Hi (contrived, supper happy greeting)!  Would you also like to pretend this is the greatest place on Earth!”  BTW, don’t these “partners” understand that I haven’t had caffeine yet? A bullhorn of a greeting  paired with a Cheshire cat’s grin isn’t an appropriate reaction.  Pretend I’m hung over and I need a small dose of Pedialite.  Softly, please.  I’m still trying to come to grips with the deafening screams of the pre-teen I tricked last night.

Cheerful Forty.

This is the roughly sixty minutes between the moment when 18th-street-homie Casper cracks his Micky’s big mouth and the moment when he want’s to fight anybody who glances his way.  “The goldie-locks-zone.”  I know this one well because I grew up with guys named Casper, Baboon, Stimpy and Puppet.  Not their given names, of course, but the names they mostly resembled.  For instance, Puppet got his name because he was such a big dude that when he talked, it appeared as if his chin wasn’t connected to the rest of his huge face.  And Puppet wouldn’t turn down a forty.  Luckily for me, he was on my team.  because once that goldy-locks-zone had passed, he would take great pleasure teaching someone a lesson in violence they won’t soon forget.  Which I found fascinating.  Now matter how closely you paid attention to his expressions in these moments of amazing aggression, I could never differentiate happiness from anger.  I should have given him a Native-American moniker.  “This is my fiend, Smiles-With-Blood.  Don’t be afraid of the gentle giant.  Just don’t feed the animal a forty.”

Solved Hope.

Listen, don’t pay attention to the dreams in the corner.  Those are merely aberrations of very tall tales.  The residue of comforting lies.  The trick that we fooled you with when you first opened your eyes.  There is no better place than this place.  There is no future arrival of some euphoric finish line.  There is no “free” time.  We are counting every second all the way down to zero.  Make the best of this day because you get only one per every 24 hours.  Tomorrow you will get a new day, so don’t waste this one.  Why don’t you grab the luggage that is your life and unpack it, please.  You have arrived at your destination.  Welcome to reality.

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7. Better For You Than Free Porn.

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  I have to learn to be more professional.  No more long-winded soliloquies about my baffling personality.  Nose to the grindstone and all that.  I hope there is some coke on that grindstone.  Right.  Start up the generator!

Inventive Resentment.

“Listen hear, Rosa Parks! If you don’t move to the back of the bus right now with the rest of the coloreds, I’m gonna call the authorities and remove you from this bus forever!”  “I’m not going back there!  That fat heffer Oprah Windfree has been letting off enough anal oxide to kill a horse!  No sir!  I’m not going anywhere near the back of this bus!”

  Everyone harbors resentment.  I don’t care who you are.  Even Gandhi had resentment.  “Everyone must respect everything and love all that is both good and bad.  Except Pakistan!  I hate those low life Pakis!  But everyone else is love.”  Perhaps your wife has gotten a promotion and she has a new business smart wardrobe.  And look at that!  She has lost a few pounds.  While you run in place at your crappy job with its glass ceiling.  Plus, she is probably sucking off her new boss, right?  You sad, depressing little man.  How long until your resentment ruins your marriage?  Which is typical resentment.  Not the good kind.  Oh yes, there is a good kind!  And I’m here to tell you it’s as great an invention as sliced bread and free porn!

  Most people are narcissistic pricks.  Like me.  So, they can’t see beyond their own bullshit at the inventive resentment.  Typically, your shallow self would be resentful of things like marriage, siblings, pregnancy, addictions, and the garden variety “She thinks her shit don’t stink” bullshit.  Which is the dangerous side of resentment.  I’m not saying you have to invent new things to resent, but to invent new things because of resentment.  Where would this world be if Johnny Rotten walked happily through life.  “Learn to enjoy every minute of your life.  Be happy now, you wanker.”  No!  He resented the upper class and the crappy music he was hearing on the radio and, perhaps, almost every aspect of a society of blind sheep herders, or something like that.  This resentment led to the invention of punk rock.  I’m not saying J.R. was the seed of a movement, but he and a group of equally resentful individuals led to some sort of social change.  A “wow” moment.  All thanks to the great and wonderful inventive resentment.

  My mind races to other inventive resenters that have had an effect on the world.  Like Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, The Unknown Rebel at Tiananmen Square, Nelson Mandela and Thich Quang Duc (The guy on fire on the Rage Against The Machine cover.)  Or writers like Poe and Bukowski and Baudelaire!  Or movies like Taxi Driver and A Clockwork Orange and SLC Punk!  Or bands like Public Enemy and Fugazi and Bikini Kill!  Shit, almost everything I associate myself with is born from a beautiful resentment!  And conversely, I take a great joy in despising the complete dregs of manufactured popularity!  Fuck you, Justin Bieber!  I hope you drown in the kiddie pool from the giant gold chain around your neck and that you’re discovered by a salivating TMZ reporter!  AND, Piss off, Glee!  You have homogenized homosexuality and now I hope my cross dressing beauty of a pal Frederick rips your anus clean open from his massive cock!  AND, fuck you Adam Sandler for making millions of dollars off the worst films to ever be called films!  The price is wrong, bitch? If only Carl Spackler ran out on the green and split your head wide open with a nine-iron, we could have been spared the embarrassment that is Grown Ups!  Woooooooo!  I feel great!!  I could do this all day!  I don’t know if this is comedy anymore, but I feel like laughing out loud!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahaha ha ha ha haaaaa.  God, that felt good.  Hehe…  woo.  I think I need a cigarette.

  Now, I know motivational speakers and posters and quotes help people along through their days, weeks, and lives.  I see them everywhere.  The “hang in there” kitty posters.  The Obama “Hope” t-shirts.  The “Collaborate and listen” stickers put on stop signs.  Perhaps there is a particular quote that stirs in you some profound meaning to life on the day you have discovered heartache.  Maybe it’s “Bitches aint shit but hoes and tricks.”  I dunno.  Whatever energizes you and moves you through your day.  My problem is this:  In this particular climate, people want their motivational moments to be positive.  A sugar-coated bitter pill.  Like, “If you want to lift  yourself up, lift up someone else.”  Or, “Don’t worry, be happy.”  Or, “All you need is love.”  “Aww, shut up, John!  Sometimes I need to squish a fuckin’ otter between my toes!  Maybe tomorrow, but I won’t fall in love today, ok?  God, you’re so annoying.”  Happiness, or at least, toleration is definitely necessary to our well-being.  Which, I must say,  is fine in small doses, but surely can’t be a day-to-day accomplishment.  We need emotional moderation!  We need to give a reach around to the dark side!  We need to rage against the dying light!  Sometimes, but not all the time, we need to rape and poison their pleasant designs.  Thanks, Baudelaire!

  Wow, I feel alive right now.  And, I feel pretty happy.  I have told people on many occasions that I am emotionally dyslexic.  I can hear Slayer’s “Reign In Blood” in its entirety and feel nothing but calm, sweet elation.  And, I can get in an elevator and have my day ruined by the muzac version of “Right Here, Right Now.”  I guess it is important to ride on the knives’ edge of these two extremes.  You can’t make blanketed statements like, “Resentment is an obstacle at living a good life.”  Tell that to Che Guevara or to Abraham Lincoln.  Sometimes you need to slap that resentment back and forth with both hands, be careful to shape it perfectly, and throw that baby on the grill.  I like mine medium, please.  Just a little blood or the frenzy becomes unbearable!  Oh, and a cold Corona would be nice.  Yes, John.  Sometimes all you need is a cold beer.

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6. Hitler and The Urine Drowned Dodo.

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We have found a little sanity in the last few days.  Which will probably mean we can stop cutting ourselves.  Though I have to admire the Judas Priest logo carving i did on my arm.  It will make me special.  ANYWAY…  Start up the generator!!!

Flung Antagonist.

“Why are these Americans so pissed off at me?!”  Well, Hitler, you are killing off millions of Jews.”  “Yes, but they hate ze black people!  I hate ze black people!  Especially that bimbo Auslander, Jesse Owens!  Let’s see him run away from my riesen penis!  Don’t they see we have so much in common?!”  “Yes, my lord, but they are not stuffing them all in the ovens.  They keep some as slaves.  To do their laundry and cook their meals and even raise their children.”  “They are keeping them?!  Like some kind of pet?”  “Well, not all of them.  They get to kill some, but they do it as an oppressive example so none of the blacks think they have any self-worth.  But, my lord, Yes.  Kind of like pets.”  “I see.  Those Americans are very smart.  Maybe I should start keeping some Jews around to make my beloved apfelstrudel.  But, I’m afraid, it’s too late now.  The world will see them all as heroes, and they will see me like some insane antagonist!”  “You will always be a hero to me, my lord.”  Oh, Heinrich.  Your apfelstrudel will always be my favorite…”  

  Every hero must have his or her mountain to climb.  There will always be an antagonist standing in their way, or it’s simply not something worth being told.  People love a good struggle.  I couldn’t gather everyone around my mini keg and tell them of my impending thirst that I conquered earlier in the day.  “And then what did you do?”  “I crossed the street and bought a Big Gulp.”  There has to be a dramatic moment where the hero conquers their antagonist by flinging them down a well, or off a cliff, or from your finger.  “Bro!  Look at this honker of a booger!  I almost fuckin’ suffocated right now!”  

  The first ever flung antagonists was a direct result of “The War in Heaven.”  That was when the handsome and hairy werewolf named The Archangel Satan was cast down onto earth by the handsome and shiny vampire named The Archangel Michael.  All of Satan’s family had to take up residence in some gloomy town in Washington state while The Great and Powerful Bela Lugosi sat on his throne while he continued to pester Mary Magdalene.  “Listen, you bitch, I know it was Gabriel!  Well then prove your immaculate conception and show me your hymen!  What?!?  Did you just blame your broken hymen on a tampon?!  Fuck you!  I’m changing it to “The Slutty Mary.”  I’m sorry, Homer.  Nobody really remembers the Greeks for creating narratives anymore.  You can’t even afford a bible these days.  No, you can’t borrow a Euro.

  Disney loves flinging their Antagonists.  They drop more villains to their demise than I drop coins in the meter at “Sir Fister’s Peep Show.”  Here is a short list of descending Disney deaths.

1.  Snow White.  The queen slips off a cliff during a storm thanks to a panty fight with a bunch of dwarves.  She should have never agreed to eat the red apple acid at that orgy.

2.  Peter Pan.  Capt. Hook falls from the ship into the hostile waters below.  Disney doesn’t show his death, but implies it as The Capt. breaks the freestyle sprint record trying to swim away from an alligator.  That alligator will later be complemented on his newly shined shoes.  “Thanks.  I caught that critter myself.”

3.  Sleeping Beauty.  Maleficent has a major bitch moment and turns into The Dragon of Hell.  But the dick of death shoots it’s load onto her tits and good endures as she falls into the valley below like an ex’s house in your review mirror.  This gets my vote for best porn remake ever!

4.  Beauty and the Beast.  The conceited and narcissistic Gaston also falls from a fight to his death.  But his fight was with a giant pussy that most experts say was a symbol of his sex addiction to the free running gashes of France.  Which explains the characters original name, Gashton.

5.  The Lion King.  Another fight forced fall for Disney as Scar falls into the hungry, and angry, pack of hyenas.  This death is also implied as we don’t want children to see the actual death of an African.

So, maybe there is no better way.  A hero rises to glory while his antagonist falls to their demise.  One rises, the other falls.  We get it, Walt.  Disney has risen, and we all fall for it.  Great.  Can you just make another quest movie now.  How about this one:  Mickey Mouse falls from the enchanted kingdom into the evil public domain.  Then our heroes, seven short, fat, but lovable, Jewish lawyers dive in to save Mickey and the billions of dollars in the mouses pockets from the hands of the conniving, manipulative, big chested, fallen Italian angel named Intra Neto.  “Oh, Mickey.  You’re so fine.  You’re so fine you blow is almost gone. You need to get another eight ball!”  

   The sexist Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch said there are only seven different plots.  All of them involving a man vs. something.  Or, man vs. antagonist.  1. Man.  2. Nature.  3. Himself.  4. God.  5. Society.  6. Woman.  And, 7. Being caught in the middle.  Which is the reason most people will say that every story has been told multiple times before.  Originality is impossible.  You are stealing plot lines from those that came before you.  Not because your a thief, but because there are only seven fucking stories to tell.  This maybe true, but here are three plots I dare Hollywood to make.

1.  A well to do crack addict gets into a bizarre car crash where he loses every finger except for his two pinkies.  “Why won’t this lighter light?!  I have the crack.  I have the broken light bulb.  But I can’t even light a match!”  He eventually changes the lighter game by making fingerless lighters.  Winner!  “Good job, Harold!  Thumbs up!”  “Fuck you, you insensitive prick!”

2.  A urophiliac gets trapped on a deserted island where he slowly loses his grip on sanity, and his penis.  “Maybe if I lie down flat on the ground.  Ok.  If I calculate the strength of the breeze in relation to the angle of the stream…  This is ridiculous! It’s just not the same!  Damn it, God!  There is no-one to pee on me…”  But he becomes a false protagonist as a large flock of dodos is slowly drowned one by one by “The Urinator!”

3.  A round planet is being attacked by a cancer that is slowly multiplying year after year.  Through constant attacks of chemical warfare and general destruction, the planet is stoic through the difficult journey.  Ultimately, the planet prevails as the cancer kills itself as our hero pushes on into the dark realms of space.  I call this one, “Earth!”

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I Particularly Hate You! (Audio)

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I Particularly Hate You!

  Hey, boys and girls!  What happens when Uncle Aaron has been too drunk to do research and construct an outline?  “Freestyle!”  That’s right, you little shitty human beings!  We are going to freestyle this bitch!  Start up the generator!

Slam Particular.

“Oh, President Washington!  I do declare that you have found me wearing nothing but my particulars!”  “I can not tell a lie, Miss Pettycoat.  So, I would venture that I’m going to slam those particulars right off of your swelling bosom.  But first, go make me some Kool-Aid.”  Why are panties so unmentionable?  AND, when did they become “particulars?”  I tried to look it up right now and all I can say about that search is Macy’s has panties on sale.  Thanks internet.  Though I do enjoy your short films where a young college student suffers an “angry dragon.”  I’m just kidding, those girls don’t go to college!  All kidding aside, you have to look up “angry dragon!”  There is nothing so simultaneously hilarious and depressing.  I call it, “The Sick Laughter.”  I’ll wait…

  Back to this crappy Roundom.  It’s crappy because anything can be particular.  For example, “I wasn’t raped by the whole gang, but that particular handsome guy.”  OR, “Of all the hairs that hang off your balls, that particular follicle has a booger hanging from it.”  OR, “I didn’t cum on both her tits, but only on the real one.”  There!  Did you notice that?  I didn’t use the word particular and yet you understood the sentence.  Which begs this question.  WHY DOES THIS WORD EXIST!!!  We already have the word specific!  “I specifically remember her and the specifics of her bleached asshole.  Down to the specific sore that I first had mistaken for a mole.”  That works fine.  Or you could just point and grunt.  I will just have to guess at what particular you have chosen.  Just nod when I point at the specific doughnut you will stick up your fat ass because you just had oral surgery and can’t live without a doughnut inside you.  Which I find particularly sad, Officer Stadanko,  and now I feel a certain specific particular desire to cut off the front part of my head.  The front part because suicidal practices are so predictable. AND, I want to go out in a magical, particular way.

  I suppose you could say someone IS particular implying they partake in a very specific existence.  Like, “Joe has a particular girl he fancies.  Mostly, he likes them to be around twelve.  But he will also occasionally date an Asian.”  OR, “Don’t touch those figurines!  Mohammad has a particular way he likes his Jihad Super Heroes. I think they mostly point to Mecca.  Or was it Macon.  Georgia, Saudi Arabia, it’s pretty much the same place.”  But again, it’s just my wonderful imagination that is keeping this Roundom afloat, because there isn’t any meat in it.  Like a ninety year old woman in her particulars.  Except for her meatloaf vagina.  Which is mostly just breadcrumbs anyway.

  What if we flip the words.  “Are you ready for the most encroaching, the most pugnacious, the most militant energy drink since liquid napalm!  PARTICULAR SLAAAMMM!  Slam one of these down and you’re jugular will rupture from just a furrow of your unibrow!  Go over the top douche style!  PARTICULAR SLAAAMMM!  From the makers of Scooby Dew.”

  What if this omnipresent word is god like to other words.  “…we are all within him and he is within all of us.  That was beautiful.  All right, congregation, please take a seat.  Now I know we all have family members who, shall we say, hang out on the wrong side of the commas.  A stray verb.  A lost adjective.  But I’m here to tell you there is always a way to get back in the good graces with The Particular.  I’m sorry, but are those n-words I see down in the audience?  Get those n-word bastards out of my church!  We all know numbers can’t be saved.”

  The truth of the matter is I am losing to this fucking word.  How much bullshit can I come up with?!?  The scope of such a word is too grand for this simple endeavor.  Never have I met a stronger adversary than you, particular.  I know I have been slamming you like a giant whore face first into the head post of this virtual bed, but you won’t stop laughing.  Or are you crying?  I can never tell.  Yet, I am still so far away from the word count I have assigned myself.  And there you sit, looking over you’re back fat with your sloppy face and your strange noises.  I swear it sounds like your laughing.  OK, I’ll drop it.  Let us kick you off the bed and come up with a noun that is particular in it’s definition.  And then we will slam it into submission.  Good bye, particular.  And fuck you very much.

  OK, generator.  Stop fucking around!

Slam Contract.

I’d like to take out a contract on “particular.”  “Yeah, I’m talking to you, you fucking prick!  I don’t want to see your fuckin ass around here ever again or I’m going to break that p right off your body an shove it up your ass!  God, I hate that guy.”  I just feel like this is cheating.  You work so hard at something and you get no reciprocity.  I know, I know.  But there is something about him I can’t get over.  I know he fucked luwonda, but he said he was drunk and that hoe molested him.  That triflin’ bitch!  If I ever see her around the 99 cent store, I’m gonna bust that bitch in the mouth!  Isn’t there anything I can do to get him back?  I just feel like I’m to emotional right now to make any intelligent decision.  Don’t touch me!  I’m not kidding, take your hands off..  I’M NOT KIDDING!  THAT’S IT! I’M GOING TO KILL MYSELF!  I’M GOING TO CUT OFF THE FRONT OF MY HEAD!  And, scene.  Thank you, thank you.  Oh, that’s very kind.  Thank you all very much.

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Sucking Off A Horse? (Audio)

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Sucking Off A Horse?

  It’s a fuckin’ hot here in LA.  Let’s do this so we can get to the bar where the Peroni’s are cold and the ladies are all, um, probably cold as well.  Start up the generator!!!

Swindle Soprano.

“Listen here, you fock!  If you don’t pay me the money today, I’m gonna give your horse head!”  “Joey!  Give your horse head?  What’s wrong with you?  You cut off the horse’s head, Joey.  You cut the fuckin’ head.  You don’t give the horse head.  You’re not going to suck his fuckin’ cotzo, you prick!”  “I’m sorry, Vinny, I’m sorry.  Jesus.  You don’t have to cut off my fuckin’ head about it.”  “Yes, Joey, I do!  I do have to cut off your fuckin’ head about it or you might try to suck my fuckin’ dick, ok?”  Oh, Italians.  So easy to stereotype.

  I would say, without actually being an Italian, I know them pretty well.  I used to manage a cafe in the Little Italy section of downtown San Diego.  A neighborhood where Italian fisherman and their families set up a community around 1906 to escape the earthquakes of San Francisco and to fish tuna from the plentiful Pacific ocean.  It was this time that I discovered that Italians were pretty diverse.  Of course there were guidos around, but not all Italians are guidos.  Take my friend Salvatore.  He despised this stereotype.  He especially thought The Sopranos were the worst at perpetuating this myth.  “That show has single-handedly shamed my entire race.  A curse on all of them.”  When The Sopranos became the topic of one of the many group conversations at the cafe, Sal would turn redder than his mama’s bolognese, let me tell you!  He would get hotter than his uncle’s pizza oven, forget about it!  Salvatore would get so upset that the clams in his linguine vongole would reattach to their shells!  It was fuckin’ unbelievable!  But, most of the time, that pizano was sweeter than a tiramisu stuffed canoli!  What a fuckin’ guy!  Your welcome, Sal.

  A slight diversion.  Let’s spend a few moment with my boss “Big Steve.”  He was 6’7″ and liked to spike his hair up to add a couple of extra inches like some Jersey Shore godfather.  AKA, The Italian Lurch.  A slight mix of both Italian and Boston accents,  he was mostly considered to be a heartless bastard.  At least among the staff.  For me, the first few months were difficult because he would get under my skin something terribly.  Until one day I said this:  “Hey!  I heard you, already!  It’s impossible not to hear you!  I can hear you in my fuckin’ dreams!  I could be standing on the banks of The Congo and still probably hear you!  Take it easy!  I promise I will do the inventory before I leave!”  He looked at me like he was going to kill me.  I immediately regretted it and was sure he was going to fire me.  “Ok, ok.  Don’t have a heart attack.  It’s good to see you care.”  And with that, he smiled and left.  It immediately dawned on me that Italians not only like to yell, but they love it when you yell back.  “I knew you hada some balls!  I wasa starting to doubt you, but you’re one of us now! Hey, everybody!  Looka over here at the big man of the house!  This fuckin’ guy.  Nowa get outta here, you!”  I ended up loving that guy.  An extremely driven individual whom I will always have a great respect for.  Salute, Big Steve.  You big fuckin’ Lurch.

  But, wait a minute.  In the vast landscape of Italian role models, Big Steve doesn’t really count.  We need world-renowned Italians.  Someone a proud Italian father can point to, and then say to his young son, “See that fuckin’ guy over there?  That’s someone that makes our Italian heritage very proud.  Italians are the best, son.  Don’t you forget it”  But who…

For me, the first Italian I thought was cool was Chachi Arcola.  Every day after school I would watch Happy Days and, I guess, he could have been a role model to other boys my age who were Italian.  Some say Fonzi, but Henry Winkler doesn’t count because his parents were Germanic Jews that migrated over to the states.  “Luckily for my dad, my mother saved him from the Nazis when she found out he was trying to put himself in the oven.  Eehhhh.”  So, Scott Baio was it.  Though he was a watered down version of a machismo Italian man.  Or was he.  “I’m sorry, Joni.  I know you love the Chachi, but I have this strange feeling I have to go somewhere and do “The Thing.”  You know, “The Thing.”  “What are you talking about?  What thing?”  “I have no fuckin’ idea what it is, but I have to go do it.  I’m Italian!”  Let’s face it, Scott Baio became Charles In Charge, and no self-respecting Italian could be a “Charles.”  So, we put Chuck in the bathroom…

  Sylvester Stallone is Italian!  He was Rocky!  He was Rambo!  He likes to fight and shoot bugs dead and sleeps with crazy tall women and, maybe this isn’t a good example.  Fuck it, put Sly in the bathroom!

  What about this guy.  This is Silvio Berlusconi.  Former Prime Minister of Italy and all around Italian role model, right?  Wow, Silvio.  I had heard about you sneaking women around in the dark Roma nights, but holy fuck!  After a little research, every possible scandalous Italian stereotype has you as a major character!  “Let’s see.  I am a corrupt politician who has ties with The Cosa Nostra.  I pay prostitutes for a reverse cowboy because I don’t like them looking at my face!  All my phones are tapped and I’m being filmed at every moment of my waking existence.  I guess you could sum it up like this:  I’m a fuckin’ celebrity!  There is no Italian more Italian than me!  Go ahead, cut my arm open!  See?!?  It’s a combination of marinara and the disappointment of every woman in Italy!  I’m the Italian Godfather!  To the Italian people, that is a very religious, sacred, close relationship.  Now if you excuse me, I have to go to the tanning salon.  GTL, baby!”

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A title change to make my mom proud!

Roundoms!

  Knuckles cracked.  Loosen shoulders.  Ready for battle!  Start up the generator!!!

Personalize Quicksand.

Oh no!  It’s The Evil Quicksand!  I remember brief snapshots of many television episodes and movie scenes where our beloved hero, or his loooove interest, has fallen into the unforgiving embrace of quicksand.  A slow decent into the dark soil as we see a single bubble rise and pop from the surface of this camouflaged killer.  “Come on Tarzan!  Please save the beautiful Jane from the pit of despair!”  Well, I probably wasn’t that eloquent as a young boy, but it’s hard to type out the girly screech that I’m sure escaped from my mouth.

  Personally, quicksand was just another reason to never go camping.  Why would I want to run screaming through the forest as an angry black bear chases me and my honey soaked chin.  AND, deer ticks strategically parachuting down onto my…

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Quicksand. Nature’s AIDS.

  Knuckles cracked.  Loosen shoulders.  Ready for battle!  Start up the generator!!!

Personalize Quicksand.

Oh no!  It’s The Evil Quicksand!  I remember brief snapshots of many television episodes and movie scenes where our beloved hero, or his loooove interest, has fallen into the unforgiving embrace of quicksand.  A slow decent into the dark soil as we see a single bubble rise and pop from the surface of this camouflaged killer.  “Come on Tarzan!  Please save the beautiful Jane from the pit of despair!”  Well, I probably wasn’t that eloquent as a young boy, but it’s hard to type out the girly screech that I’m sure escaped from my mouth.

  Personally, quicksand was just another reason to never go camping.  Why would I want to run screaming through the forest as an angry black bear chases me and my honey soaked chin.  AND, deer ticks strategically parachuting down onto my nether regions infecting me with lyme disease bite after tiny, itchy bite.  AND, just when I look over my shoulder at my inevitable death, “plop!”  Nooooo!  Quicksand!  At that moment three buzzards start circling over head and a pack of wolves cry and sing of my demise to the full moon in the sky.  Fuck you, mother nature.  I’ll take my chances with the insects in my alley.  “What’s up, Spider?”

  After a little research, I discovered that 3% of all the films released in the 60s had a scene involving quicksand.  I was born in 1970, but I watched all those movies and now kind of understand my intimate nightmares of the wonderful wild.  It’s been ingrained in me to fear the jungles of something like, um, Yosemite Park.  I personalized that fear of nature and, consequently, fell into a deep need for amenities.  “Oh, happy hot water.  Meet Mr. Soap.  You two loooove each other, don’t you?  Look at the mess you guys are making!  Not on the face!  NOT ON THE FACE!  Oohhh, you got me.”

  I asked my roommate Michele, “How many deaths, do you think, are caused by drowning in quicksand?”  “Per year?  I dunno, a hundred?”  “Nope. zero.”  It turns out it is impossible to drown in quicksand.  I know!  According to physics, the human body is more buoyant in quicksand than water.  Once you get half way down, say to your waist, quicksand will start to push the other way until, I guess hours or days later, you will float to the top.  You could still die from , say, hypothermia or sun stroke or the honey badger, but you wouldn’t drown.  Not even close.  Which makes quicksand the AIDS of mother nature.  It won’t kill you, but it’s friends will.

  Strangely enough, I found an online community of quicksand enthusiasts.  They call themselves “sinkers.”  But as I tried to click on the links from the search list, their sites were either gone, or in one case, just the old HTML like some distant village that decided to go on vacation with the Mayans.  “These are the lost artifacts of the great civilization known as, The Sinkers.  Oddly, the entire village is surrounded by a moat of quicksand around two feet deep.  Hey! There is one now!  No, you don’t see me.  I am at the bottom of the quicksand. At the bottom?!? It’s only a few feet deep!  That’s not true.  I’m definitely lying lifeless at the bottom.  I’m sorry, viewers.  But it seems that all this time, this has been one elaborate Hollywood hoax.  Will you please get up.  I can’t hear yoooou.”  I suppose I would have abandoned this ridiculous community as well.  Maybe for one a bit more risqué.  Like the Euro Gay Police Network.  Serving lesbian, gay, bisexual and transsexual police.  Which is real.

  So, I guess, quicksand gets a downgrade.  You are essentially stuck.  There are a few tricks to get unstuck, like gently moving your leg in a circular motion to allow water to trickle back into the super compacted soil that has a grip on your Air Jordan.  But still, not drowning.  I immediately start thinking of all the ways one could get “stuck” and how you could personalize it.  My first thought is every cubicle I’ve ever seen.  A wasteland of connecting particle board where slaves toil away at whatever their supervisors have fastened to them as they try to justify their thankless job by putting pictures of those that are counting on them on every possible surface.  “Here is a picture of my little Joey.  He is selling candy bars at the gas station to fund his little league trip to Yucaipa.  I had his mom take this picture because I haven’t actually seen him since I took this job.  But he has medical coverage now. Oww!  Sorry, my left arm just went numb.”

  Sometimes getting stuck isn’t a bad thing.  I will occasionally get “stuck” at my local bar.  I will personalize my slow decent into my bar stool with multiple rounds of Bodingtons and Jamisons as roots slowly attach to the hard wood floor beneath.  Or the day in which you have a list of pressing business that you have to attend to, but you can’t remove yourself from the warm sheets of the woman you met a week ago.  Sometimes there isn’t any reason in the world to remove yourself from the soft flesh of a welcoming bosom.  Yep, I was stuck in the quicksand of her cleavage.  If I would have only known this info earlier, I would have referred to many things in my life as quicksand.  “Have you met my friend, Quicksand?  We met over at Quicksands.  She is studying over at LMU, but currently works as an assistant at Quicksand, Ashkenazic, and Quicksand.  Sorry I didn’t go to your party last week, but I was stuck in quicksand.  That’s where that honey badger bit me.”

  In hindsight, I feel a bit ashamed of believing in such a ruse.  It just goes to show you how ridiculous some folklore can be.  I probably would have avoided a candy store if I saw the 1960s underground classic, “The Vines of Death!”  Where rogue licorice attacks an unsuspecting community of Mormons.  “Watch out, little Mitt!  But here comes some black licorice now!”  And to think, I pulled for a guy named “Jaguar Paw” in Apocalypto.  He too almost drowned in quicksand.  You tricked me, Mel Gibson!  As punishment, here is your role in “The Vines of Death!”  “Who is my co-star?  Noooo!  Not the BLACK licorice!  Dear white, creamy, milky God!  Help me!  Scotland is freeeeeee…”

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Farting Into A Swirling Wind.

…and the generator says…

Anticipate Culture.

How does one anticipate culture?  That’s the billion dollar question.  But no matter how many magic eight balls you have, this is just as unattainable as predicting where you might wake up after a drunken night out on the town.  “Hey.  I have to go.  Last night was fun, um, I’m so sorry.  What was your name again?  Magdalena Jo!  Oh shit.”  If you could anticipate culture, then you would be a gazillionaire.  You would be able to foresee what high heel shoes are going to sell.  The action movie that will break all the box office records.  The shameless porn star that society will accept.  “I love Cherry Blossom!  She is like a starving frog, man!  No load goes astray!”  But this is the world we live in as we are bombarded with trailers, billboards, magazine adds, commercials and any other suggestion that would make our lives more culturally interesting.  A world where I’m judged not by individual interests, but one where I blindly follow the blind into the Batman premier.  Trust me.  Christian Bale doesn’t need your hard-earned money, but Bobcat Goldthwait does.

  I love the starving artist.  That includes every single form of creativity.  I try to partake in those endeavors that fly beneath the radar.  I even fancied myself a prophet of good culture and tried to turn people onto the “correct” things they should be listening to, watching, reading, and, ultimately, supporting financially.  “You went to see Duran Duran last night?  Why!?!  Sunny Day Real Estate also played last night, but you thought D & D was a better investment?  That’s it!  Give me back the mix tape I made for you!  AND, you can forget about the jazz festival at UCLA!  I don’t even know you anymore.  And to think, I invited you to our “Taxi Driver” theme party.  Now get the fuck outta my face.”  And then I would shed one single tear and pour a little of my forty on the curb for the soul of my friend that was murdered by the live rendition of “Union of the Snake.”  See you in hell, you poor bastard.

  Little I was to know that my cultural battle was a doomed cause.  How could I anticipate Justin Bieber?  The ill-fitting, hang from the boxer, skinny jeans.  Baseball hats wore like a pirates eye patch.  American Idol.  Fuckin’ American Idol!  How many cookie cutter, generically trained voices are those Hitler lovers going to churn out?  Just because you sing in key and sort of sound like a poor man’s Christina Aguilera, it doesn’t make you super talented.  I hope you choke on your crappy cover song.

  I want identifiable singers.  I want to say, “That’s Bowie, or Petty, or Prince.”  I like it when I can identify the traveled roads of unmistakable pipes.  Here is a short list:  Macy Gray, Phil Lynott, Isaac Brock, and Bob Mould.  But those kind of singers wouldn’t make it.  Which sucks.  I guess it’s safe to say I hate you very much, American Idol.  I hate you like a pedophile hates adults.  Now get out of my windowless van and give me back my Laffy Taffy!

  As far as Hollywood is concerned, those people haven’t a clue how to anticipate culture.  No matter how many test episodes or demographic research they do, they miss the mark horribly.  I read somewhere they lose money on 90% of their releases and survive on the 10% that are successful.  That’s a horrible average.  AND, I would venture that success rate is dwindling quickly.  I believe they are so shell shocked by their failures they are turning to old successes in an attempt to revive the industry.  Maybe they are not familiar with the concept of diminishing returns.  For example, if I told the same hilarious joke over and over again, eventually you would roll your eyes and, perhaps, even get angry at my attempts at laughter.  You might even tell me to shut up mid joke.  I think it’s time to tell Hollywood to shut up.  Here is a list of upcoming Hollywood remakes.  Ready?  (Deep inhale.)  Red Dawn, Carrie, Evil Dead, Robocop, Pet Sematary, Point Break, The Crow, American Werewolf in London, Barbarella, Child’s Play, Dirty Dancing, The Never Ending Story, War Games, Time Bandits, The Birds, Death Wish, Lethal Weapon, etc and etc and on and on into infinity.  This is the asteroid age of Hollywood.  Enjoy your sunless death as you accidentally fall into an unforgiving tar pit.  We will exhume your bones and place them into a museum no one will ever go to.  Well done.

  The great equalizer is modern technology.  The internet is single-handedly destroying the great oppressive monarchies and placing the powers in all of our hands.  Think of all the creative outlets we have today.  Podcasts, Youtube, Soundcloud, Tumblr, Word Press, Facebook, Pinterest, and even Instagram.  Though, I might try to remove my head with a butter knife if I see another picture of clouds, or painted finger nails, or someone’s new offspring.  “I just posted a picture of my new baby in a sepia toned Instagram.”  “Good, because a new baby in color is fuckin’ disgusting.”

  We have reached a point where everyone thinks they are talented and they get the opportunity to prove it by uploading whatever they do onto the net.  Which is great!  All though most of it (around 99%) is total crap, the cream is rising to the top.  Perhaps it’s cream that would have spilled from the bucket before, but today it get’s a chance to be sumptuous, beautiful butter.  Mmm, butter.  I have discovered more fantastically creative things currently as an unmotivated alcoholic slob in these modern times than I ever did as an active cultural snob.  Which tells me two things: 1. It eliminates any one person from making a billion dollars. and 2.  It allows us all a chance to make a creative living on a modest level.  So, good-bye big companies and say hello to the bastards.  BTW, have you seen my new YouTube video?  I strangle a homeless prostitute behind a Chick-fil-a.  It has one million views.

  Trying to anticipate culture is like farting into a swirling wind.  I can’t predict who is going to get the brunt of my “Curry House” special.  I can say I don’t want to be forced into your advertisement elevator as you shut the door and release last nights whiskey double bean and cheese burrito.  “What if we invent shirts that play our “Spiderman” trailer on an endless loop?  We can place people all over the city and really push this remake!”  “How much are these shirts?”  “We can probably make a thousand for, say, around five million dollars.”  “That’s interesting, Matthews.”  “OR, we can use that money to make a small, independent film that has some fresh, clever, and poignant ideas!”  “We can’t afford to try anything with new ideas.”  “Green light the shirts.”

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