Mer Rouge (Part 11)

Hutch’s dream was interrupted by a warm and repugnant stream trickling down his face. His eyes opened to see a penis shoved between two bars and dangling over him. It was releasing a heavy torrent of piss. Instinctively, Hutch reached up to grab the drooping pecker. But the pecker’s keeper, a lowly sheriff’s deputy, jumped backwards and left a trail of urine in front of him. Cackling, the backwater lawman placed his member back into his pants and waved his finger. “Goddamn. Almost got it buddy!”

From across the jail cell, Moses climbed out of his bunk to admonish the odious turnkey. “Why you always floodin us with your piss, man!?”

The deputy reached for his baton and banged it against the metal bars. “Cuz yous nuthin but a toilet!,” he cried. Then he reholstered the baton and screeched a number of slurs at the inmate. Moses returned the shouting with equal fervor. “Man, you disgusting! Get the fuck outta here!”. The deputy spat a tobacco stained loogie onto the grimy jail floor and then flashed his yellowed smile. “Yard duty at noon” he beamed. “Right in the thick of day.”

“Shit, man.”

The deputy chuckled and made an about face. His laughter intensified as his footsteps echoed down the corridor. Once out of earshot, Moses tossed Hutch a towel. “Man, don’t be grabbin no peckers around here! Folks might be gettin the wrong idea. And another thing. Don’t be sleepin with your head against the bars!”

Hutch took the towel and dried his face. Then he looked at the cloth and sat it beside him. “How long have I been here?”

“They threw you in here round midnight. And you was stinkin of some nasty ass shit. Luckily they hosed you down and put you in a jumpsuit.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Shit. At least a year.”

“For what?”

“Stealin some cigarettes.”

“They locked you up for a year for stealing cigarettes?”

Moses cocked his head. “Do you know where you at?”

“Louisiana.”

“That’s correct. I’m a black man in Louisiana.”

“But don’t  we have to go in front of a judge at some point?”

“You ain’t seeing this judge.”

“Why not?”

“You must not be from around here.”

“I’m from Utah.”

“Well that explains why you don’t know shit. The judge of this county is Judge Castor. He’ll see you when he’s damn well ready.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Evolution

I used to think that Substack was for pretentious assholes—an asylum for failed journos and pissy contrarians. But then it occurred to me; maybe I’m a pretentious asshole. Quite honestly I feel the weight of stagnation flowing through me. Like I’ve taken this webpage as far as it can go. Perhaps it’s time to make a leap forward and do something to challenge myself out of this mediocre pit I find myself in. Maybe it’s time to do the unthinkable—I should burden the internet with yet another Substack.

I entertained that thought for maybe four seconds before I remembered Blogger, Medium, Tumblr, Wix, and Squarepspace and thought “who gives a shit?”

So I’m staying right here

Have a good weekend folks 👋

Bobby Duvall by the numbers

Robert Duvall was in 9,047 movies. ALL of them good. To top it off, he was the best part of each one of them. Yes, ESPECIALLY The Godfather.

But I don’t think we’ve stopped and appreciated how good Bobby Duvall was. Was he the greatest screen actor of all time? The question is not as absurd as it may seem. But I’m gonna go out on a limb and say yes—yes he was the most competent film actor there ever was. And more importantly, there ever will be.

Let’s break it down. Duvall was in To Kill a Mockingbird, MASH, The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, Network, and Apocalypse Now. Notice anything about these movies? They’re all in the AFI Top 100 movies of all time. That’s six of them, which, to my reckoning, is the record for most appearances in the AFI Top 100 list. By comparison, he beats out contemporaries Robert De Niro (5), Harrison Ford (5), Jack Nicholson (3), and Dustin Hoffman (4). Duvall was on a generational run during the 1970s, hitting home run after home run, getting only narrowly beat out by John Cazale who went 5 for 5 during that glorious era. And that’s to say nothing of his roles in THX 1138, Tender Mercies (where he won an Academy Award for Best Actor), Lonesome Dove, Falling Down, and Sling Blade (which I think eventually makes the AFI Top 100, which will bring Duvall’s total up to 7).

It’s a run we may never see again.

RIP to the legend

Oil up!

Amy Adams Strunk has done the unthinkable and followed my advice. The Tennessee Titans are seemingly returning to their roots by restoring the Houston Oilers-era colors. While many of you might think I would chalk this up as a victory, it’s not as simple as that. This is a hallowed victory—one that I had hoped would never happen.

According to various reports, which I won’t cite here, the Titans are abandoning the “Greek mythology” themes by ditching the sword and flames and making the Tennessee stars of the state flag its main logo. I should say for the record that I never had a problem with the “Titans” theme. I didn’t have an issue with the theory. It was the execution that I took umbrage over. Since the news broke, many have come to the defense of the so-called “flaming thumbtack” and its “2000s maximalist” design. I will simply say that they’re wrong. That era of design sucked ass. But I will agree that the new logo is underwhelming. While I have stated repeatedly that I prefer simplicity with uniform design, I don’t feel that way about logo design. Had the Titans/Oilers always resided in Tennessee, then the new logo would have been perfectly serviceable. It’s clean and simple, just like the Steelers, Cowboys, and Green Bay for example. The difference is those teams have been historically good and never relocated. Simplicity works for them. It’s recognizable. It harkens back to the classical days of the NFL.

Which leads us to a big problem. It appears that the Titans wish to link its history in Houston with its history in Tennessee. But as any Tennessean will tell you, they don’t give a shit about its Houston era. And why should they? The Titans might as well be an expansion franchise. So in short, Bud Adams made a critical mistake in renaming the Oilers. At the very least, keeping the name in place might have resulted in the team retaining some fans in Texas. Now the Adams family wish to remedy that mistake nearly 30 years later? It’s too late. Houston has a new franchise now, the Texans, and they’re currently in a much better spot than the Titans. And btw, the Texans and Titans are divisional rivals. Restoring the old Oilers colors would only give the Texans added ammunition which they don’t need. So to me, this seems like a bad, BAD idea.

Additionally, something makes me SICK about seeing Cam Ward wear #1 in Oilers colors. Yes, I know that Warren Moon let him do it, but it doesn’t make it right. But if this is the path that the Titans wish to go down, then go all the way. Restore the Oilers name. I know that the “Tennessee Oilers” doesn’t make much sense, but as I’ve said time and time again: no one gives a shit.

Harrison ford

I’ve had a headache since Wednesday. My back’s blown out. My eyes are bleeding. I’m pissing green. I’ve grown four inches. My scrotum sags. My ass is chapped. I’m wanted by the IRS. My kids hate me. My penis is average. And I’m functionally illiterate.

So I’m sorry. I don’t have time to watch Shrinking.

Mer Rouge (part 10)

Rubber soles clanked on the pavement. The sheriff approached the overturned Honcho and kneeled down. Inside the cab, Oren was unconscious and dangling in place from the seatbelt. Blood was streaming down his face. The sheriff stood up and noticed the river of gasoline gushing from the lacerated tank. He reached into his leather vest and pulled out a pack of Camels. There was a small matchbook. He took one out, struck it, and lit his cigarette. Then he dropped the match onto the torrent of gasoline and the truck went up in flames. 

With the glowing heat rising above him, the sheriff nonchalantly marched back to his Harley and flicked the depleted Camel into the marsh. The deputy approached.

“We couldn’t find the priest,” he informed him.

The sheriff looked out over the illuminated bayou and shrugged. “The crawdads will get him,” he said. 

The army of motorbikes roared back into the dark—back towards Mer Rouge. The priest was dripping with marshy water. He rushed up to the flaming Honcho and reached inside and undid Oren’s seatbelt and pulled the unconscious man out. Laying on the pavement, the priest slapped his cheeks to bring him to. “Come on,” he urged Oren. “We gotta get outta here.” Oren lifted his head from the daze and saw his truck overturned and on fire.

“What the fuck?!”

The priest helped him to his feet. “Run!” he ordered. The two men sprinted as the Honcho exploded and launched into the air. They turned around to see the truck momentarily suspended in the air before it landed right side up on all four tires. The flames were completely extinguished.

“Goddamn,” said the priest. “That is one indestructible truck.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Destroyer of worlds.

I’m becoming way too powerful. And it has nothing to do with my undiagnosed bipolar and megalomaniacal personality disorder. Every shit that I had to give is gone. I shit them all out. The toilet bowl overfloweth with clogged shit. And that makes me powerful. Perhaps too powerful. I can’t be stopped. I’ve reached heights that Buddha himself couldn’t have imagined. I’m at the tippy top, the zenith—the summit of Everest—of not giving a fuck.

Hair plugs? Got em

Dodge Ram 2500 WITH tinted windows? Signed the lease.

Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum? Wouldn’t issue a permit.

Cocaine? Haven’t slept since Tuesday.

I can’t be stopped. Not by you. Not by god. Not by the law. Not by the laws of physics. I’m a behemoth—a monster of Homeric proportions. The fate of this world and the next rest in my hands. Think you can stop me? Wanna piece of this? Meet me at the Denny’s parking lot in Bismarck, North Dakota at 4:02pm on Friday. If I’m not there, come back next week! Bitch!

Jeff Epstein

The cultural landscape has been irrevocably changed by the Epstein revelations. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. While I’ve been following the news like everyone else, I’ve only loosely discussed it here because the shit that’s being alleged is so cartoonishly evil that it would push the boundaries of what any writer could conceive. I mean, Jeffery Epstein might’ve been behind QAnon? It sounds too stupid to be true. But more shockingly, apparently there really was a cabal of sex criminals running the world. Hell, they STILL are in charge. And those that initially alleged its existence and dismissed as cranks were behind it the entire time! I mean, Alex Jones might be the most vindicated man in history but in an absurd plot twist, he is now running PR for the cabal!

But I don’t want us to lose sight of the true depravity of the situation. There are real victims here. And because of the collective sense of helplessness we all feel, I hope we don’t compartmentalize this saga into another internet meme.

Yet the reason I bring this up is because these file releases feel like a nuclear bomb was dropped on the contemporary culture war. Leveling accusations of “virtue signaling” and “identity politics” sound almost meaningless. The left/right distinctions that have defined political thinking since the 20th century are nearly obsolete. With outing of this cabal, even the term “culture war” is a misnomer. The file releases have confirmed our worst fears. The eternal struggle has been, and maybe always will be, rich vs. poor.

Of course, the dead carcass of old world thinking will continue to fester in the minds of these so called “cultural warriors”. One doesn’t easily ween themselves off the propaganda which nourished them for so long. Or, in other words, “fascistic” thinking will carry on. But its nakedness has been exposed.

But just to conclude this thought, while there are no shortage of definitions for fascism, I like to keep things very simple. In my mind, fascism transcends being merely a material or political movement, but it’s a psychological movement as well. It’s well documented that fascist movements take advantage of an individual’s insecurities and loneliness by enrapturing them in the spectacle of power over the Other. So fascism is not only the fetishization of power, but also the fetishization of the aesthetics of power.

Mer Rouge (Part 9)

The priest fired a few more rounds at the gang of bikers before looking over his shoulder. “There it is!” he shouted to Oren. Oren’s eyes squinted to see the uneven dirt road less than a hundred yards ahead. He understood immediately what the priest was getting at. While the ninety degree turn would be easy for the Honcho, the gaggle of Harley’s would have to slow down to make the sharp right. The marshy farmland on both sides also meant the bikes would have to stay on the pot marked dirt path to maintain their pursuit. This was the perfect opportunity to put some distance between them and the Mad Max mafia.

They were closing in on Kurtzy Road fast. “Hang on!” Oren shouted. He swerved right into the shallow marsh and nearly flung out the two passengers in the bed. While Hutch and the priest hung on for dear life, a wave of green and brownish water washed over them. They were covered in shit and leaches and all the muck Louisiana had to offer. When the Honcho was squared up on the dirt road, the priest raised up to look behind them. Through the clouds of dirt and dust, the pursuing lights were dimming. Relieved by this, he threw his arms around a shit covered Hutch. “By god, perhaps there’s a god afterall!” he beamed. 

But a cool fog was descending upon the dirt road and visibility was quickly deteriorating. “I can’t see shit!” Oren screamed to the back. 

“Don’t worry, there ain’t nuthin on this road! Just drive as fast as you can!” the priest assured him.

“That’s easy for you to say, pal!” the driver argued back. But while Oren had his eyes momentarily looking over his shoulder, road construction signs abruptly appeared. With little time to react, the Honcho crashed through a barricade and barreled toward a seemingly pointless ramp bolstered by a pile of rubble. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkk!” Oren shouted. Failing to hit the brakes, the Honcho went up the ramp at speeds reaching 90mph. Hutch and the priest were flung out from the bed while Oren had little choice but to accept his fate. The truck flew through the air for several yards before crashing face first into the newly cemented pavement. Then it hung vertically for a moment or two before landing upside down and nearly crushing its occupant. 

There was silence. Even the crickets and creatures of the night ceased their chanting. But this calm after calamity was interrupted by the roars of Harley’s and hell wagons riding up to the scene. First was the sheriff. He slowed and stopped then lowered the kickstand and dismounted. He looked to the left side of the road. Hutch was laying face down in a drainage ditch. Then he looked to the right. The priest was nowhere to be found. Far ahead was the wreckage of that 81 Honcho. The sheriff presumed its driver to be dead. As the other bikers dismounted, the sheriff issued his orders. First, he pointed at Hutch’s unconscious body. “Grab him,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 8)

A single Harley roared in front of the others and the biker slammed his chain against the Honcho taillight. Millions of pieces of red plastic bits scattered across the two lane blacktop and the priest fired the opening volley of the counter assault. Through the storm of roaring engines, the .38 barely registered a sound. But a single shot lodged itself into the chest of the marauding biker and the resulting explosion of red mist was apparent even under the piercing blackness of night. While the biker clutched his chest, the wheels beneath him bobbled before collapsing bare onto the asphalt and skidding for several seconds. While the Harleys behind him attempted a dodge, they were too close. Sparks, blood, and indiscernible body parts were left in the wake of the skidding Harley and other bikers plowed into the wreckage which left a meshed pile of broken bodies and motorbikes. Stunned by the calamity, Hutch would have vomited had the certainty of an unpleasant death wasn’t upon him.

“Goddamn! That was one hell of a shot!” he shouted to the priest.

“It ain’t over yet!”

The dozen or so remaining bikes scurried around the wreckage, and once they cleared it, the tangled mess of Harley’s inexplicably erupted into a brilliant fireball which casted a hellish orange glow over the bayou. Oren was floored while watching the spectacle in the rearview mirror. Then, like a bat out of hell, another Harley tore its way in front of the pack and emptied a barrage of bullets into the Honcho. Hutch and the priest flattened themselves in the bed as the rounds whizzed above them. From inside the cab, glass rained down on Oren as the rear window shattered. But before the priest could return fire, the speeding Harley was already running apace with the Honcho on the driver’s side. The biker emptied a clip from a semiautomatic and the bullets tattered and ricocheted inside the cab and barely missed the driver. “Jesus Christ!” Oren screamed. Then the priest leapt up from the bed and fired a shot. He missed entirely but sensing gunfire behind him, the biker sped up to outrun the truck. This was a critical miscalculation. While outgaining the Honcho, Oren thought quickly and swerved into the rear of the Harley. The bike swiftly turned right and smashed against the front of the truck. With his right leg shattered, the biker screamed in agony before the Harley fell underneath the runaway Honcho. The vehicle lifted slightly to climb the meager wreckage before the rear passenger tire landed on the biker’s head and smashed it like a bloody meat melon. 

Seeing the carnage behind him illuminated by the lights of pursuing Harley’s, Hutch did manage to vomit. Then the priest poked his head in through the broken rear window glass. “Kurtzy Road is coming up!” he told Oren. “Be prepared!”

TO BE CONTINUED…