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I’m over here now!

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20. The Sloppy Good-bye.

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

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

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

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

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17. Lighting A Bag Of Dogshit On Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

Permitting Think.

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

Estimate Treat.

Well, whatever you want.  Anything your heart desires.

Preverified Necessitude.

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

Set Magnitude.

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

Mastermind Duke.

Roundoms.  You’re just so fuckin’ cute.

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6. Hitler and The Urine Drowned Dodo.

Listen along to the audio version!  We are on Stitcher Radio! Or go to either iTunes or listen on libsyn.

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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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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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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