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.

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?”

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!”

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.

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?

11. Bombs, Pot, and An Angry Bush.

It’s been very clear that these essays have become a bit academic.  Which is fine, but I don’t feel   like breaking open a web search page and looking anything up.  I am going to take the clothes off of my brain and go sans brain sack!  Who needs to keep their brain in a cellophane zip bag when I could let it fall right out of my nasal cavity and onto this blog?  Me.  That’s who.  So, without further ado… Start Up The Generator!

“Divorce Cellulose.”

Well, shit.  I guess I will have to give up my bomb making and pot smoking class at the adult learning annex.  Let’s define these two foes before we get on with it.  I guess we all know what “divorce” is.  Half of all of our parents have been divorced.  Or is it half of all the married couples?  Which half? And what parent?  For me, the bottom half of my dad was divorced from the top half of my mom.  My dad used to sit and eat dinner at the dinner table, but his bottom half had remarried and was living in Barstow, or some crappy place like that.   My poor mom’s bottom half just stood there.  “Hey, Ma!  Say something!”  But not a word.  Though, on occasion, she would do The River Dance.  She was half Irish.  Apparently, it was her bottom half.

  So on to the divorcee.  Cellulose:  “An insoluble substance that is the main constituent of plant cell walls and of vegetable fibers such as cotton.  Paint or lacquer consisting principally of cellulose acetate or nitrate in solution.”  OK.  So, its essentially everything but metal and plastics.  Though I used to own a load of Heavy Metal shirts that were made of cotton, so that’s a hybrid I guess.  BTW, I’m always amazed at the aggression of plant life.  At my apartment there is this Bougainvillea bush that is attacking our garden and has decided it wants the other side of the walkway.  Just a couple of days ago a single branch broke free and now hangs out eye level in a sudden reach for the grassy part of the front yard.  This branch has inch long thorns and dares anyone to try to dissuade it’s plans.  The branch is pretty thick and you can’t just grab it and break it off unless you want some interesting stigmata marks.  I stop and look at the whole bush, which has definitely doubled in size in the last six months.  “Look at you, you greedy bastard.  All this space, but it’s still not enough for you.  You’re killing the birds of paradise!  Don’t you like birds?  Me neither.  Especially Pigeons. Man, I hate those flying rats.  If people weren’t always looking, I’d kick the shit of them with my steel toed pigeon mangler!  Those aren’t songs they’re singing, you know.  Those are battle cries.  Warnings from the sky.  Death from above. And furthermore… Hey.  Aw, God damn it.  You got me monologuing!  That’s it, Bougainvillea.  I’m grabbing the biggest knife I can find with a serrated blade!  I hope you bleed more than that teenager I had last night”  Oh. Hi, there.  I’m sorry.  Where were we?

  So, let’s divorce some cellulose, shall we?  Let’s start with this:  “I don’t eat vegetables, bro.  I don’t eat fruits either.  I’m a strict meatatarian.  It doesn’t matter what it is either.  I’ll eat a baby lamb, an old horse, or a small beaver.  I ate your sisters beaver last night! Hahaha. JK, bro.  Listen, you shouldn’t have brought your kid over here.  This is a porn ready bachelor pad, bro.  This is no place for a child.  Plus, he is starting to look delicious.”

  OR, we could divorce marijuana.  “Listen, Mary.  I’m done with this relationship.  All we do is hang out at home.  We never go out anymore.  I hate Funyuns.  No, I do.  I just ate them because you liked them.  And Captain Crunch?  Bella, you are a grown woman.  You shouldn’t be eating Captain Crunch on a daily basis.  Look, Mary, it pains me to say this but you have gotten huuuge.  Have you seen the indention in our bed?  I have to anchor myself to the corner  by white knukling the edge of the mattress or I risk losing another limb.  Remember my right arm?  I certainly do!  AND, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen your vagina in months.  No!  I just throw my penis down there and hope I find a crease!  The other day I found a midget down there, Mary!  A midget!  No, it wasn’t just a quiff!  It was a full-sized, half of a full human.  Wait a minute, was that your ex-husband?”

  Technology is our biggest home wrecker in these modern times.  When was the last time you wrote a letter, a check, or an essay, for that matter.  Writing is putting pen or pencil to cellulose and then licking the sticky cellulose on the edge of an envelope.  OR, binding cellulose to cellulose with some colored cellulose on a thicker cellulose that ancient people call books.  There is no need for cellulose as we read our Kindles and thumb our iPhones and flip open our laptops.  We all go (ironically) green  as we are emailed our bank statements and porn subscription bills and notifications that we have a new follower on Twitter.  Which, I guess, we where all trying to do anyway.  Paper companies were destroying the rain forest, but now, they can’t even destroy their unemployment papers with a few tear drops.  Sorry, Herman, but cellulose isn’t water-soluble.  And no matter how disgusting your crying is, those papers are not going to disappear anytime soon.

  All right.  So we have divorced cellulose, as dumb as that sounds.  Cellulose is a derivative of “cell.”  I mean how do you divorce something that is pretty much ubiquitous.   You can make fuel out of cellulose.  You can make a bomb out of cellulose.  You can smoke, cook, and wear cellulose.  You can even paint your body on game day with cellulose.  Yada yada yada, cellulose.  Now let me take off my cellulose and pull back the cellulose covers and get on my cellulose mattress and light another cellulose butt.  Hopefully I will fall asleep to the sound of cellulose swaying in the wind.  Except for you, Bougainvillea bush.  Tomorrow, I will introduce you to steel.

10. Hey! Stop S***ting On Me!

Click here for the audio version to Roundoms 10!  ITUNES  or  STITCHER  or  LIBSYN.

  It’s time to kill the king!  Long live the king!  Start up the generator!

Usurp Rectum.

There are many assholes in the world.  I would argue there are more assholes than dicks and gashes combined.  AND, there have been a lot of them in power.  That is to say they have taken a shit on their brothers and sisters and exiled the soft and cuddly Charmin bear from their fantastically elite outhouses .  One thing that our young history has told us is the shit stains don’t last forever.  It’s only a matter of time before the great enema bag comes knocking on gold plated bathroom doors to wash clean the filthy intestines of the crapiest people that have ever walked our tiny planet.

  Let us make a list to discover a little bit about the Usurped Rectums of the world.  Bring the incense because we are about to chip the porcelain with a mustard cloud afterbirth that should oppress the people in the adjoining countries.  Let’s start with our most recent dump.  AND, let’s do it Playboy centerfold style!

  Muammar Gaddafi.  

Favorite activities:  “I love having over women visitors so I can rape them.  I also like when black slaves, I mean African leaders, come to visit.  And I love listening to Prince.  He also has a fantastic wardrobe.”  Good first date idea:  “Well, I first take them out to see our oil fields and then show them the 20′ high barb wired fence.  There is no escape from a date with me, no matter how hard they try.  And then I rape them quickly and finish them off with a dutch oven.  Then I have dinner alone.  Because who wants to hear all that crying.”  Unfortunately for Gaddafi, all the men he dressed as women during his rape parties found him on a sunny day in late October 2011 and ran a train on him while on the top of a tank and released the video for all the world to see on Youporn.  He ruled for 47 years before he was what?!  “Usurped!”  That’s right, kids.  Bye bye, MG.  And take your Lebron headband with you.  Who is our next lovely rectum.

  Saddam Hussein.  Your favorite book:  “My favorite book is “The Autobiography of Joseph Stalin.”  He was much crueler than Hitler and killed thousands of people every day.  He was my Un-American Idol.”  Your favorite activities:  “I like to write poems.  I will recite one for you now.  “Roses are red, Kurds are blue, Mustard gas looks pretty, and fuck the Jews.”  Myself also likes to take photos of myself standing against murals of myself on streets named after myself holding up money that depicts myself.  If myself could afford it, myself would force all Iraqi people to get face reconstruction so they all looked like myself.  Could you imagine a nation of Saddams running around fucking our sheep, I mean women!  And while we are at it, the sheep will also look like myself.”  Well, you can only shit on yourself so many times before the rope around your neck summons the final shit.  So long, So Damn Insane and say hello to your greatest role.  Being Satan’s pimp on South Park.  But he did lead Iraq in one capacity or another for 27 years until he was was what?!  “Usurped!”  Enjoy Hades and say hi to your kids for me.  OK, who is the next beautiful rectum?

  Pol Pot.  Your biggest dislikes:  “I hate smart people.  But you can’t call them that or the world gets upset.  So we called them “new” people.  Because we all know old people are dumb as fuck.  I also hate unemployment.  If you look at the four year rule we had on Cambodia, we had zero percent unemployment.  Everybody had their own killing field.  The “new” people called it that, but the “old” people referred to it as “Detroit.”  Your favorite song:  “The Dead Kennedy’s “Holliday in Cambodia” of course.  I play it every morning from massive speakers that point out to the fields.  Feel good music to die, I mean, work to.”  Pol Pot ended up killing a quarter of Cambodia’s population in four short years.  China had tried to tell him “The Great Leap Forward” into communism should be done in increments.  But Pol Pot’s biggest problem was impatience as he was quickly pushed into the fields himself by the Vietnamese army.  Oh great enema bag of the sky, take the dysentery waters of the Mekong and wash out this rotten cabbage of an anus from the extremely peaceful lands of Southeast Asia.  (Snicker.)  AND, please use a hollowed out bamboo shot.  I’m glad to say, Pol Pot, you have been what?!  “Usurped!”  That’s right, my little finger puppets.  Though I do believe or time is up.  “Do one more!  Do one more!”  Whoa, don’t we sound like a communist regime. But, OK!  Serve up another rectum!

  Mel, um, Gibson?  Your likes:  “I like those cuckold films.  Have you ever seen those?  It’s when a white guy pays a nigger to fuck his wife.  There is no date involved.  They don’t go eat at El Torito where all the wetbacks work and have a fucking chimichunga.  Just a good old fashion raping of a lying bitch.  Like my ex-wife.  I also like seeing Jews getting punched in the face.  Especially in the nose.  Which might as well be the same thing.  Have you seen a Jews nose?  It’s impossible to stand next to them and still breathe because that giant fucking schnoz  is stealing all the fucking oxygen!”  Your favorite ice cream:  “Vanilla.  Pristine.  Virgin like.  It’s so much better when you don’t have all those foreigners in there.  No dark chocholate bits or salty, tasty nuts as the fags call them.  BTW, This (points at rectum) isn’t for dicks.  Assholes are for shitting.”  And you, Mr. Gibson, ran your diarrhea mouth right off the thrown of Hollywood.  This man is a two time academy award winner for Braveheart and was voted “The Sexiest Man Alive” by People Magazine in 1985.  But now, nobody went to see your beaver.  (Sorry, Jodie Foster, but that’s on you.)  Make way for the new assholes of Hollywood beacause Mel Gibson was what?  “Usurped!”  Correct, ginger crotches, correct you are.  The Germans have a saying that goes something like this:  “Once you have ruined your reputation, you can live your life quite freely.”  So roam, you rectums, roam!  You are now as free as a gigantic turd flowing from the L.A. river into the great Pacific ocean.

9. Go F*** Yourself!

Click the link to listen to the audio version!  Stitcher or iTunes or Libsyn.

It’s a Sunday morning here in Los Angeles.  I think God is at the beach, because there is no bigger congregation.  “O’ mighty Pacific!  Let your sewage wash over me!  Praise my third eye because it burns like Hell’s fire!”  Start up the generator!

Dueled Push.

I must be infatuated with Hermaphrodites.  I seem to reference this nature documentary weekly where Hermaphroditic sea slugs have a penis joust to see who gets to be the dude.  A fascinating pants off dance off where the loser gets to crawl around the sea floor as someone’s baby’s mama.  “Oh! You got me!  Now where is my welfare check!”  I wish I had both genitalia.  I would never leave the apartment.  Though, I guess that would get old at some point.  “So, you’re saying you’ve never had a job?”  “Not one.  But I guess it’s probably time to get out there and make something of myself.  You know, accomplish my dreams and what not.”  “Yes, Mr. Douglas, but your eighty-four years old.  Excuse me, but could you please take your hands out of your pants.”  “I can’t!  I’m a hermaphrodite!  You need both hands.”  On my tombstone it will read, “Here lies Aaron Douglas.  He had to go to heaven because his hands were never idle.”

  Let’s talk about the amazing Clownfish.  They live a life referred to as “Sequential Hermaproditism.”  This is what happens:  There will be a group of, say, four Clownfish that live in a sea anemone.  The biggest one is the female with the second biggest one the male.  The rest are deemed to be ball-less.  That is to say, they have no gonads.  Scientific term, people.  Now, if the female dies, the male will grow bigger and become the female and the biggest ball-less Clownfish will grow a pair.  Which completely fuckin’ ruins “Finding Nemo” for me.  So, Albert Brooks part should have been played by Monique and Nemo should have been played by Pee Wee Herman.  And, eventually, they should have got it on!  “Now I see why the call you Pee Wee!  Well, get that tiny thing over here and let’s do this!”  “Yes, Large Marge.”  I’m disappointed in you, Pixar.  You could have made a real classic.

  Plants will do this as well.  Usually when there isn’t a partner around for miles.  For instance, Marijuana growers will plant a female-only field.  They do this because the females will grow more smokable material.  The female plant will start to “stress” because it isn’t being pollinated and produce a shit load of pistils, which is the smokable part.  But, because of the lack of males around, a female will turn to a male like a butch lesbian at a Brownie camp.  “Oh, Gawd, Margaret.  All of our reproductive clocks are running out of time!  What are we gonna do?!”  “I have an idea.  Everybody stand back!  This might get messy!”  “What are you doing?  Do you have to fart?”  “Shut up, and let me concentrate!  Eerrrrrrggrghghhhhrrhhghhdooosshhh!  “Hey, everybody!  Margaret pushed out a penis!  Yeaaaa!”  “Shut up, bitch!  Now go make me a sandwich.”  Where there is a will, there is a gay woman who really wants a penis.  Hey, Chaz Bono.

  Check out this quote I found on the interweb:  “Have you ever wondered why he takes on the form of a woman?  According to several sources, Saturnus slash Satan is a hermaphrodite being – taking on the forms of both male and female.”  Yes!  Satan the shapeshifter has both a ding and a dong!  Where was this information when the fear of Satan was hammered into my head by feeble-minded boy lickers!  Imagine the different nightmares I could have had!  AND, imagine how hard I would have tried to obey the word of God with the knowledge that not only could I burn in hell for stealing a Snickers bar from the corner store, but Satan himself would fuck me in the ass while suffocating me with his gigantic knockers!  No wonder priests don’t like Satan.  He has a vagina.

  And what about the mythological creature Hemaphroditus?  According to the Greeks, he was a strikingly handsome young boy who was attacked by a nymph named Salmacis.  Salmacis was so lustful for Hermaphroditus that, during her unwanted attack, she asked the gods to never let them part.  So they became one and the first Hermaphrodite ever was born.  How much wine did the Greeks have to drink to come up with this one.  Amazingly creative.  I only wish couples would have to truly join themselves on their wedding day.  For one, divorce would go down, and two, suicides would go up.  So we kill overpopulation at the same time I save on my christmas shopping.  “Here is your christmas gift.  Go ahead and open it.  Yep, it’s a rape whistle/ beer mug.  Enjoy!”

  It turns out there is no human that is a true hermaphrodite.  These people are referred to as “intersexed.”  They are ambiguous in their gender and are unable to reproduce, unlike the sea slugs.  Which is disappointing.  But, it’s probably best because that would be a psychological train wreck for anyone who had the power to both seed and by seeded.  You would have twice the stress and pressure from both sides of the gender lollipop.  “Wait, are you pregnant?  You bitch/bastard!  I’m pregnant!  Oh, how could you, Pat.  You pig/slut!”  Actually, they could be asexual.  The ultimate case of incest.  “Wow, Robin.  Your child would look just like you if it wasn’t for the extra hand growing from its cheek.  High five, little Satan!”

  I don’t know why, exactly, but I feel little off now.  Maybe this is all a bit much for us to take in.  Of course, I have spent around four hours in the hermaphrodite zone, researching and writing this thing, and you will spend around ten minutes reading or listening to it.  You’re welcome.  Everything I do, I do it for you.  Thanks, Bryan Adams and your vagina of a song.