Being a parent has been the most rewarding experience of my life. My son’s a beautiful soul and it’s my responsibility to see him grow into a respectable adult.
The worst thing about parenting though? Other parents.
Kids are smarter than their parents. It’s true. I’ve become a complete fuckin’ moron since becoming a dad. You’re kids will grow up to be smarter than you.
So just remember that next time you get pissed at them: they’ll remember what you did, because you’re an idiot, and it’ll stay with them the rest of their lives.
Which is why it kinda annoys me to see parents get all giddy when they see an opportunity to beat the shit out of their kids. Actually, it pisses me off.
Of course, it’s done under the guise of “punishment” and “character building.” But in actuality, the parent is performing retribution or justification for what their parents did to them.
“Sometimes kids are little shits though” you might say.
So are you, but no one (usually) knocks you up the side of the head.
The justification I always hear is “that’s what’s wrong with this generation. Their parents don’t beat em anymore.” When I’ve heard this, it’s in reference to the prevalence of school shooters.
But show me a school shooter, and I’ll show you a kid that got their ass kicked by their parents.
But if you genuinely believe that there is something wrong with “this generation,” then it’s your fault. Or it’s your parents fault.
If you want a better generation, then don’t make the same mistakes your parents did, and have the humility to learn from your own.
“Oh, who are you? Mr. Perfect Dad of the Year?” you say.
I put a hurtin’ on the whisky bottle, hoping that it would clear my head. Nothing about this case made sense.
I met Mr. Leather at UC Irvine. He was sitting alone in an empty theater.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“Take a seat. I’m about to make your life a little easier,” he replied.
Two other people entered the theater. The lights dimmed and the curtains opened. Entering stage left was Isabella, all alone.
“I guess I owe you a refund,” I told Mr. Leather.
“Forget it,” he said.
Isabella began her solo performance with a vaguely racist monologue. Then she stripped to her underwear and two nude men flanked her on both sides and they began rolling around on the floor.
“The fuck is going on?” I asked Mr. Leather.
“It’s art.”
The two men then turned around, spread their ass cheeks, and took a squat while Isabella pissed all over the stage. The performance ended with her reciting the lyrics to Motownphilly. When the curtains lowered, no one clapped.
“That was godawful,” I said to Mr. Leather. “I’ve never seen anything more disgusting in my life.”
But when I looked over, Mr. Leather was nowhere to be found.
I went back stage. Isabella was in her dressing room removing the clown makeup.
“Keep trying kid,” I told her as I lit up a cigarette. “You’ll get em next time.”
“Did you enjoy it?” she asked.
“No, my mother was Canadian so I’m partly offended. But keep your head up.”
“Oh,” she replied and slumped back in her chair. I walked over to cheer her up.
“Look,” I said. “If you’ve got a passion, you gotta keep chasing it. Sure you’re gonna hit some potholes in the road, but keep going. You’ll get there eventually.”
“There’s just nothing that I’m good at.”
“That’s not true. You’ve got talent. It just needs some finessing,” I said.
“Yeah I guess,” Isabella said while she was packing her things. “Say, who are you mister?”
I took a big hit off the flask and offered it to Isabella. “I got some bad news kid,” I told her.
She took the flask and waited for the news.
“Your father is dead,” I said.
A blank look came over her face. Then she took a drink. “Was it Michaela?” she asked.
“I suspect it was.”
Isabella sat back down and looked at the floor. “I knew this would happen.”
“Your life is probably in danger,” I said. I took out the wad of cash that Mr. Leather paid me and I handed it over. “You need to get out of town.”
“But there is nowhere I can go where they can’t find me.”
I took out a pin and paper and wrote down an address. “This is my father’s old cabin up in Big Bear. Lay low there and I’ll come and get you in a few days.”
“But who are you?” Isabella asked.
“I’m James, Private Detective.” I handed her a business card. “Also, one other thing.” Then I handed her a .38 special.
“You may need it.”
She packed the items into her purse.
“Go now,” I said. “There’s some things I got to take care of here. I’ll see you in a couple of days when I have more information.”
I drove back to the office for the night. The apartment was still burned to shit. I walked in the office, removed my coat and holster, turned on the light, and there was Michaela and Luigi.
“Sorry, business hours are over,” I said.
Luigi picked up a phone book and ripped it in half. Michaela stood up from the couch, again with a glass of brandy in her hand, and walked towards me in her form fitting gown.
“But darling,” she said. “We’re just here to check in on a case.”
When she got close, Michaela head butted me and I fell backwards into the filing cabinets. While dazed, I tried to stand up and reach for my holster. Luigi grabbed my hand and threw me over the desk.
“Couldn’t this have waited until morning?” I asked.
“You need to tell us where Isabella is going,” Michaela said.
Luigi picked me up by the shirt and held me to the wall. I thought that this was the end until Mr. Leather busted in with his Tommy Gun.
“Let him go,” he said to Luigi. “Or I’ll blow you ten new assholes.”
I woke up in Vito’s guest house. I was alone. Except for the large bald man standing over me.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked
“Luigi. Michaela wants to talk to you.”
“Can you give me a minute? I still got morning wood.”
“Now”
Luigi escorted me through the garden to the large chateau. There, standing in the kitchen, was Michaela holding a glass of brandy.
“Vito died”, she said.
Luigi punched me in the stomach and I fell to the ground. While on my knees, I tried to catch my breath.
“My condolences, Mrs. Stararo,” I said.
“Don’t give me that shit. What happened to Vito? Where were you?” She asked.
“I think you know where I was.”
Luigi then socked me in the face. I got up and wiped the blood from my nose.
“Does it look like foul play? The man was 90 years old and drunk as hell last night,” I said.
Michaela downed the brandy.
“No,” she replied. “I need to know if I can trust you.”
For good measure, Luigi kicked me in the dick.
“I don’t know who any of you are! I was just hired by some man with a leather briefcase to find Isabella!” I said.
She waved Luigi out of the room and handed me a towel.
“Is this how you treat all your guests?” I asked.
“Sorry, a lot of people have wanted Vito dead for a long time. With him gone, I don’t know if they will come after me,” she said.
Michaela grabbed an ice pack and put it over my eye. “I’m going to need protection,” she said longingly.
“I just got my ass kicked. Are you sure you’re asking the right person?” I replied.
“Don’t go back to LA. Stay here with me.”
“I gotta find Isabella.”
“I don’t know where she is. But as long as she stays away from here, she’ll be safe.”
“I can’t take that chance.”
I grabbed my bowler hat and coat. “I’ll check on you soon. If things get tough, come to LA,” I said.
I took a shot of brandy and departed.
It was clear that Michaela was behind the death of Vito. I’ve seen these cases hundreds of times: wife gets jealous of husband, wife kills husband, wife takes husband’s place as head of a crime family. It’s a tale as old as time.
But one thing was clear: Isabella was certainly in trouble.
I arrived at the LA office. The secretary said that the strange man looking for Isabella was sitting in my office. I walked in and hung up my coat.
“Well well well Mr. Italian Leather, perhaps you have answers for me,” I said.
“That’s what we’re paying you for Jimmy,” he replied.
I sat down at the desk and put my feet up. “Who’s ‘we’? Vito’s dead,” I said.
“I know. I see that Luigi paid you a visit,” Mr. Leather said referring to my bruises. “She’s dangerous you know?”
“You don’t say?” I said sarcastically. “Do you really think this is my first rodeo?”
“I know that you’re a busy man, so I don’t want to take up too much of your time. But I want you to meet me on the campus of UC Irvine on Thursday,” Mr. Leather told me.
“You could have told me this by email,” I replied.
“I just wanted to make sure you got the message.”
Mr. Leather stood up and as he was walking towards the door, I said: “if you’re gonna make me drive all over SoCal, I’m gonna start charging by the mile.”
“Keep sending me the bill,” he said. Then he shut the door.
I told the secretary that I didn’t want any interruptions. I popped open a beer and a Vicodin and took a nap.
I took the Sunday drive up to San Luis Obispo in my Chevy SSR to visit Isabella’s father, the mafioso Roberto Benigni Vittorio Stararo. Or “Vito”.
The county sheriff pulled me over.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into James,” the sheriff said.
“Just hand me the ticket so that I can be on my way,” I replied.
The sheriff wrote up the ticket and gave me another warning: “I better not see you or this piece of shit vehicle in my county again.”
Asshole.
I pulled up to Stararo’s estate. His wife came out to greet me.
“I’m Michaela Sabine Stararo,” she said. “Vito is fox hunting. He’ll be joining us shortly.”
She was wearing a white blouse tucked into her equestrian pants with boots. Her figure could make a man wish he wore roomier trousers.
Michaela invited me in and offered a Chardonnay.
“Are you Isabella’s mother?” I asked.
“Her step-mother. Poor girl. She never got to know her real mother,” she replied.
I took a sip of the Chardonnay. It was Laguiche, ‘09.
“It must be rough being an LA detective,” Michaela said.
“If people quit disappearing and fucking around on their spouses, I’d be out of a job.”
Vito walked in with his Winchester. “È questo il detective idiota assunto dal mio socio?” he said.
“The fuck did he say?” I asked Michaela.
“Vito welcomes you into his home,” she replied.
Vito had to of been 90 if he was a day. Michaela was clearly a distraction from that fact. Still, tough old man. He pulled out a cigar and poured a Chardonnay.
“Quindi questo perdente pensa di poter trovare mia figlia?” he asked.
I looked over to Michaela.
“Vito is prepared to give you all the information you need to find his daughter,” she said.
“I need to know her entire background. Who her friends are. Her lovers. Her enemies. And any enemies that you might have, Mr. Stararo,” I said.
“Chiamami Vito,” he replied.
We talked for hours discussing the case. We went through the bottle of Chardonnay. Then another. Then came the brandy.
As I prepared to leave, Michaela came up to me. “LA is a long drive,” she said. “Why don’t you stay in the guest house. I’ll have the servants prepare it.”
Why not, I thought. It sure beats sleeping in a burned down apartment building.
As I was laying in bed, Michaela came in wearing a silk robe. She slowly walked towards the bedside.
I burned the apartment complex down while making nachos. After the court cases were settled and 20 people were made homeless, I needed the money.
A strange man walked into my office. He laid his briefcase on the desk and pulled out his revolver.
“I’m here to offer you a shot at redemption,” he told me.
“What’s the case?” I asked.
“You’re the worst private dick in town,” he said. “I need a moron, a dipshit, a loser, a complete piece of shit that would be willing to take the fall when things go south.”
I took out a cigarette and thought for a moment. Fuck it, I thought. I needed the paycheck.
“Give it to me,” I said.
“A mafiosos daughter has gone missing. She was last seen in San Diego. Here’s her picture.”
She looked like a woman that could eat your heart out and save room for dessert.
“What’s the dame’s name,” I ask.
“Isabella Maria,” he replied. “She was a spoiled brat. She dropped out of law school to pursue a career in phlebotomy but got caught up in the wrong crowd if you know what I mean.”
“Drugs?”
“No, improv comedy. She was terrible.”
“Well,” I said. “I’ll need a $5,000 deposit and a list of references.”
“Just send me the bill. Everything you need to know is in this briefcase.”
The briefcase was a Boccio. Italian leather. Not sure why he bothered. A Manila folder would have worked just fine.
“I didn’t get your name sir,” I said.
“My name’s not important. But what I represent is.”
Fuckin weirdo.
The man left and I told my secretary to not take any calls. I went back into the office and pulled out a handle of Everclear. After popping my Zeldox and Zoloft, I lifted the glass up to a picture of my dead mother.
“Welp, things are shit and they ain’t getting any better,” I said.
I don’t like doing these kinds of posts. Just posting a video seems lazy to me, although I have done it before.
But there’s something about this performance that I want to discuss.
Everyone knows The Human League and their songs “Don’t You Want Me” and the one above, “Human.” Some know Human from those insurance commercials a few years ago (if you’re in the US), so there’s a tendency to dismiss it as just another cheesy 80s song.
And that’s where everyone is wrong.
I mean, it sounds alright in the studio recording. But live, it becomes something else.
At least during this live performance, the song’s subject, the regret of infidelity and the simultaneously true yet stupid excuses to justify it (“I’m only human”) becomes much more potent.
The performers don’t do much. Nothing really. But as the song comes to a close, watching Phil Oakey meander to the back of the stage, get uncomfortably close to the drummer, and gaze at the crap flashing across the background like he’s having a mental breakdown on stage is a subtle piece of performance art.
He has no words.
He knows what he’s done, and has to live with it.
This is done to the soundtrack of a haunting keyboard and a drum beat that absolutely slaps. I don’t know if it’s the acoustics of the room, but there’s a dimension to the bass keys that, well…it just hits you.
There’s something about this video that just hits.
At the premier, Pablo, Pee-Wee, and Dick Earnhardt were all decked out in their tuxedos. Kathrine was wearing her Louis Vuttoin gown, smiling and waving to the cameras. Even Dillon made an appearance.
I just threw on a clean shirt and cologne and called it a day.
At the press junket, I was asked “how would you describe this film?”, I said:
“Well it’s got some tits, dick, goblins, and swords. It’s alright I guess.”
We all sat down in our seats. When the title This Tastes Like Ass appeared on the screen, I fell asleep.
Pee-Wee nudged me when the end credits were rolling. The audience was walking out and wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
I went home and cracked open a beer. “Take that Hollywood!” I said. Then went to bed.
The next morning, critics presented their reviews:
“A cinematic experience that can’t be matched. It’s literally impossible,” read the Fort Worth Telegram.
“The filmmakers were clearly drugged out of their minds, but damn it, it works. It’ll make you horny. It’ll make you laugh. It’ll make you depressed to the point of insanity. But there’s something there that transcends the capabilities of human language,” read the Des Moines Register.
The reviews were unanimous: the gratuitous nudity, the unsimulated sex from A-list stars, the excessive violence, the absurd and almost non-existent plot…it was unique in the history of film. Nothing could compare.
When I accepted my Academy Awards (not THOSE Academy Awards) for Best Actor, Best Director, and Best Screenplay, I said:
“All you mother fuckers doubted me. You said I was too old, too stupid, and too ugly to make it in this town. Well now look at me. I’m up here and you’re down there. You’re all sick and pathetic.”
Kathrine received her accolades as well. As producer, she was awarded the Best Picture Oscar (again, not THOSE Oscars). She later succeeded Dick Earnhardt as CEO after his untimely death from viagra poisoning. She became the toast of the town.
But my point was made.
A reporter later came to me and asked, “Now that you’ve conquered Hollywood, what are you going to do now?”
Kathrine and I screened the raw, unedited cut with Dick Earnhardt, CEO of Trainwreck Productions. After the 14 hour version was finished, silence fell over the room.
“Sir, I can explain,” Kathrine said.
“Kathy, please leave the room,” Mr. Earnhardt said.
She pushed her chair away from the table and left in frustration. I sat there eating my crackers.
“Pretty good shit, huh?” I said.
Mr. Earnhardt stood up and paced across the room. He took one shot of whisky. Then another. He sat back down at the table facing me.
“I’ve spent $900 million on this production,” he said. “I’ve given you every possible resource, every possible opportunity to see your vision realized.”
Mr. Earnhardt paused.
“Bob Oglesby was a great man. He’s a legend in this town. He believed in you and your talents. He thought that you were going to save this industry,” he continued.
“Damn,” I said as I munched.
“And Kathy has done everything she can to fuck that up,” Dick concluded.
I dropped my crackers.
“Really?” I asked.
“Son, this is my last hoorah. I’ve made so much money that I could bankrupt this county, and have. I’ve banged every prostitute, male and female, from here to Denver. I’ve done every drug that can be taken. I was popping viagra before it was cool to do so. I haven’t done an honest day’s work in 20 years and hope to never do so again. In short: I do not give a shit.”
“So, what are you telling me?” I asked.
“The board wants me out, they say Kathy is the future. This is her production, but I’m in control of the money. So I am giving you a blank check to complete this film in the way you see fit,” Dick stated.
“Why are there elves, knights, zombies, elephants, strippers, piñatas, ghosts, conquistadors, clowns, aliens, hot air balloons, ninjas, and Mel Gibson here? What happened to the Nazi storm troopers and decaying dead bodies? I thought that this was a film about the atrocities of World War II?” she asked.
“We wrote another draft,” I said. “It’s now a fantasy film set in the Middle Ages. I thought Dillon told you.”
“That’s it!” she replied. “I’m pulling the plug on this project.”
“But you already spent $430 million on advertising costs alone. The studio will be pissed.”
“James, you listen here,” Kathrine continued. “Do not go behind my back again. I will put you back on the streets.”
She stormed off. I walked up to Pee-Wee.
“What’s on the schedule for today Pee-Wee?” I asked.
“Today we’re shooting the scene where the hero and villain are jousting to save the princess…with their penises.”
So I grabbed a coffee before I started the morning meeting with the cast and crew. Dillon showed up strung out and agitated.
“I got to talk to you about the script,” he told me.
“What’s up?”
“When the princess says ‘you saved me’, the hero has to blast ropes all over her right then, or else he’s just blowing his wad too soon.”
“Dillon,” I said. “We talked about this. The hero has to blast ropes all over the villain. That’s how he defeats him. Or else the script just doesn’t make sense!”
“Well I can’t direct this film if you’re not giving me the creative freedom to do my job?”
“So are you walking?”
“I’m walking.”
And just like that, Dillon was out of the picture. The cast and crew stood around, waiting for direction.
I looked over to the two male leads.
“Welp, Bill (Shatner) and Chris (Pratt),” (But not THOSE Bill Shatner and Chris Pratt). “Whip them dicks out! We’re behind schedule!”
“I’m Dillon J Dudenburg. I’ve directed softcore porn. I’ve directed hardcore porn. I’ve also directed episodes of Dharma and Greg. I’ve studied under David A. Pryor, Andy Sidaris, and Godfrey Ho. I’m ready for the Big Screen. However I have some concerns with the script.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I think we need to make the lead a heterosexual. I don’t think the Chinese market is ready for that sort of thing. But we can keep in all the gay sex,” Dillon replied.
“So the main character is straight, he just has sex with men?”
“Correct”
“I think that’s an excellent idea Dillon,” Kat interjected. “James, you need to prepare a fourth draft.”
“Very well,” I replied. I called over my production assistant, Pee-Wee.
“Pee-Wee, take note: make the main character less gay.”
“I think this has been a very productive meeting,” Kat said. “Dillon, thank you for your input. We’ll be reaching out to you shortly.”
We shook hands and Dillon exited the room.
“What do you think?” Kat asked.
“I enjoyed Take Me To Pound Town IX as much as the next guy. But he’s an asshole. I don’t think he understands my work at all,” I replied.
“Come on, James. Making films is a collaborative effort. Dillon has style, a creative flair. He is the best director for the job.”
“Or the best one we can afford,” I said.
Kat walked away when Pablo, my agent, called.
“Great news!” he said. “Kat and I have finalized your contract.”
“Oh wonderful! What did you get?”
“Well, now hear me out…”
“Pablo, what did you do?”
“Your contract is 15….“
“15..?”
“….hundred dollars. Which, of course, 45% of that goes to commission.”
“Pablo, you shit the bed on this one.”
“BUT BUT BUT you get sole screenwriting credit and 100% of the merchandising rights!”
“Pablo, the script is no longer an action romp in outer space! It’s now a melodrama in 1942 Stalingrad! What merchandising rights could there be?!”
I hung up the phone and looked for Kathrine. She was back in her office. So I climbed up the fireman pole and stormed in.
“So what am I? Your slave?!” I asked.
“First rule of Hollywood: you’re only as good as your agent,” she replied.
“The only way I can profit off this film is if we sell Nazi SS action figures! You think you can push me around? Well you got another thing coming sister!”
I slid back down the pole and found Pee-Wee.
“Pee-Wee,” I said. “When do the sets go up?”
“Uhh, Tuesday I think.”
“Load up on crank and call Dillon. We’ve got work to do.”
The Internet Ruined Everything 