a shot at the title VI: still shootin’

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?”

I responded, “Go home and take a shit.”

a shot at the title IV: shooting blanks

When Kathrine arrived on set, she was pissed.

“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!”

shot at the title II: shots fired

“Bob’s dead,” Pablo told me over the phone. “He was garroted in his garage. Cut his head clean off. Yakuza is suspected.”

“Holy shit!”

“Horrible ordeal. Anyways, a new producer has been assigned, Kathleen Kennedy. Not THAT Kathleen Kennedy. She wants to meet with you ASAP.”

So Pablo and me returned to Burbank to meet with this new hotshot producer. When we arrived, the guard stared blankly at us and said, “Elevator’s broken. You’ll have to climb up the old fireman’s pole.”

So we climbed up to the fourth floor where Mrs. Kennedy was waiting on us.

“Call me Kat,” she said. “Can I offer you a water or soda?”

“No thanks,” I replied. “I’ll take a scotch. Just started drinking again.”

She handed me the drink and sat down behind her desk.

“Let’s get down to business gentlemen,” Kat said. “Bob was a visionary. He knew what he wanted and went after it. I intend on carrying on that vision.”

Pablo and I nodded.

“The studio supports this project and will give us the resources necessary to see it through,” she continued. “That being said, we have some notes about your second draft.”

“What kind of notes?” I asked.

“The studio feels that we need to establish a plot, characters with motivation, sensible dialogue, and cut back on the violent gay sex,” she replied.

“So just make it regular gay sex then?”

“We’ll revisit that question when we see the third draft,” Kat said. “In the meantime, I want to meet one on one with you.”

Pablo looked over at me then exited the room. Kat poured a scotch for herself.

“So what took you so long?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a middle aged man. Divorcée. Never held a job for longer than 2 years. You’re balding, overweight, and heavy drinker. You’re probably a diabetic and won’t live to see 70. Now you’re in Hollywood. So why now?”

“I just put one foot in front of the other ma’am. Better late than never.”

“This is a tough business,” she said. “Everything’s changing and we need fresh minds to keep us one step ahead. And to me, you’re a dinosaur. So listen to me and listen good: stick with me and I’ll take you to heights you never thought possible. And if you stray one bit, you’ll be just another washout that litters this town.”

I just shrugged.

“All I want is booze money.”

a shot at the title

So I was crying in a corner, just minding my own business when the FedEx guy delivered a letter.

“Have a good day sir,” he said.

“Fuck off”

I opened the letter. It was from Bob Oglesby, Head of Productions at Trainwreck Studios. It read:

“Dear Mr. Less

We read your screenplay ‘The Virtues of Drinking Bleach’ and have a few notes. Please reach out to your agent Pablo Dunbar to set up a meeting. We are having trouble reaching him.

Best Regards,

Bill”

So I finished crying and called Pablo. When he answered the phone, I heard some screaming followed by gunshots. Then silence.

“This is Pablo,” he said.

“Hey! Bob Oglesby has been trying to reach you. Where the hell have you been?”

“Sorry I’ve been in Thailand on the set of the new Paul Schrader film. I’ll reach out to Bob soon.”

That week, Pablo and me drove out to Burbank. When we arrived at the studio, the doors were locked. Out of the third story window, Bob yelled: “Sorry, I’m the only one here. Everyone has COVID.”

Bob threw down a rope and we climbed up. Then he offered us a Bloody Mary.

“No thanks,” I said. “I just got my one month chip.”

Bob shrugged and downed the drink himself.

“Now boys,” Bob said as he sat down behind his desk. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. We all want to make money. A fuck ton of money. And the only way to do that is to give the audience what they want. And they want sex. They want violence. They want full on sexual penetration. They want erect penises. They want sopping wet vaginas. They want tits. They want ass. They want to see EVERYTHING.

Unfortunately we can’t give that to them. We have to abide by what they call ‘rules’. Plus we have to consider the Chinese market. So we looked at your screenplay and said that this is the next best thing. Therefore, after all the sexual harassment lawsuits are settled, we are fully prepared to give this thing the green light. What do you boys think about that?”

Pablo and me looked at each other.

“Sounds good?”

“Good,” Bob said. “But we have a few notes for you. First, gay sex. There’s a lot of it.”

“I assure you that it’s all in service to the plot,” I replied.

“Oh yes, I noticed,” Bob said. “What I mean is that I want more of it.”

“For the film?”

“Yes”

“So you want more gay sex in a martial arts film set in outer space?”

“Yes”

“Anything else?” I asked.

Bob stood up from his desk and looked out the window. “Boys,” he said, “Hollywood is dying. Too many kids on YouTube drinking cat piss for a laugh. Too much internet pornography. Too much competition from the streaming services. The days of good storytelling, of compelling performances, of sweeping scores, of looking at the silver screen in awe and wonder…they are coming to a close.”

Bob paused and looked me in the eye.

“I’m counting on you to save my job,” he said.

I looked over to Pablo, then back at Bob.

“In that case,” I said. “I’ll have that Bloody Mary.”

put an end to my misery

I’m always tired.

So, so tired.

I was playing skee ball at Chuck E Cheese when Ed started hootin and hollerin.

“Don’t make me drop your ass kid! I’m packing my 9mm,” he said. Ed was getting the tables ran on him by a 2nd grader.

“Pipe down Ed,” I said.

“This is bullshit!”

I went back to minding my own business when a father confronted Ed.

“I will shove this skee ball right up your ass if you talk to me like that again!” Ed said to the man.

“Say, let’s settle down and have another beer Ed,” I said.

So we went back to our table, enjoyed some pizza, and watched the animatronics. Then Ed pulled out a pipe.

“Wanna do some crack?”

I reluctantly agreed, but it turned me into a beast at air hockey.

“Aren’t you guys too old to be at a Chuck E Cheese?” some mom asked us.

“Shut the fuck up bitch!” Ed replied as he threw the hockey pusher at her face.

The manager told us to leave.

“The problem with today’s kids is that no one beats the shit out of them anymore!” Ed yelled at the top of his lungs.

He then went on stage and pissed all over Munch’s Make Believe Band.

“Fuck this place!” Ed said. “We’re going to Dave & Busters!”

Randy Returns II: Returning Again: Part 2: Returning With A Vengeance

While sitting around the fire, Dale was free style rapping like a shitty 90s PSA.

Then the first explosions went off. A booby trap was tripped. Dale and I threw on our bandoliers, our machetes, and our AKs.

I tossed an AR-15 over to Nicky. “When in doubt, just spray bullets indiscriminately across that tree line,” I told him. “If they catch you, go ahead and use the weapon on yourself.”

Both Dale and I penetrated deep into the woods, deep into the cold of night. Another explosive went off. Someone, somewhere was close.

“Drop your weapons,” we heard.

We dropped them.

We obviously made shitty commandos.

Dale and I were surrounded by men in black uniforms and state of the art technology. They patted us down and escorted us through the dense woods to a large, portable, tank-like structure that resembled something out of Avatar.

How this structure moved undetected through Southern California is a mystery.

We were brought up to the bridge of this mega tank, and just like when Dale and I faced Honda, we were placed on our knees and presented with a series of theatrics that culminated in a villain presenting himself.

“Cut the bullshit, Randy,” I said. “We know it’s you.”

“Damn,” he replied. “But this tank is pretty cool, huh?”

“What are you and the dumb syndicate up to now?” I asked. “Poison the world’s food supply? Creating a race of super humans for world domination?”

“How did you know?” Randy replied.

“Just leave me out of it,” I said.

Then the black shirts brought in Nicky and placed him in front of Randy.

“We found this asshole with a rifle in his mouth. He didn’t even put up a fight,” one of the soldiers said.

“Damn it dad!” I said. “You were supposed to at least get off ONE shot before you offed yourself!”

“Sorry son,” Nicky replied. “I’m just not very good in firefights.”

Randy spoke up.

“Son? Dad? What’s this about?” he asked.

“Nicky’s my dad,” I replied. “I may die today, but at least I’ll die knowing who my family is.”

“Nicky’s not your dad,” Randy said. “I am your dad.”

“Bullshit,” I replied.

“It’s true! I thought I told you. Guess I forgot 🤷‍♂️. Anyhow, your mom and me were partners in another syndicate before we joined TOILET (Terrorism Or the International League that Engages in Terrorism). Unfortunately it was the 80s, so we were coked up and fucked, then you were born. So she left the syndicate.

Years later, the syndicate wanted to cover up its tracks, so I deployed my other son, Nicky, to kill you and your mother. But then the FBI shot the fuck out that strip club and Nicky got amnesia. After realizing that you were just some loser, the syndicate decided it wasn’t worth spending resources to kill you.

So Nicky, I’m also your father.”

I felt the world disappear beneath my feet. My heart sunk. I knew it was true.

“So what do we do now?” I asked. “I know the truth.”

“Excellent question,” Randy said.

Out of the shadows appeared Anthrax in full battle rattle. “I say we finish the job,” she said.

“Great idea!” Randy said.

“Traitor,” I said to Anthrax.

The soldiers grabbed Dale and placed him up against the wall. Randy took out his flame thrower and began taunting us.

“This has been quite a reunion,” Randy said. “You thought that Anthrax was your friend. You thought that you could stop me. But your plans just went up in flames.”

Randy then unleashed the full wrath of hell onto Dale. There were no screams. Dale just danced around as a gigantic flame before falling to the ground. What was once a man was now just charred, smoldering, remains.

“Was that supposed to scare me? Because I just shit my pants,” I said.

Just then the structure began to violently shake. Then there was a massive explosion and soldiers began to man their stations.

Honda launched her attack.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Randy Returns II: Returning Again: Part I: Returning Harder

*Sorry. Forgot* *that this was an ongoing saga.*

“You know, I lost a testicle too in a savage kidnapping plot,” Dale said to me while we were setting up C-4 explosives.

“Did you get it back?” I asked.

Dale and I were putting up booby traps around his cabin outside of Norco. We knew Honda was going to strike again so we wanted to establish home field advantage.

Nicky (my alleged father) was sitting around the campfire staring down the barrel of his .44.

“No no dad,” I said as I took the gun out of his hands.

All three of us sat around the campfire under the Norco moonlight. The air reeked of cow shit.

“What a god forsaken place,” I said.

Dale took in a deep breath of shit stained air.

“I was born here. I grew up here. I lost my virginity here. I got married here. I got divorced here. Got married again. Got divorced again. Lost everything I had. And never gained it back. I’ll probably die here,” Dale said.

“Probably so,” I replied.

Nicky spoke up. “You know, I’m just glad that you boys are out here to protect me. When the FBI shot up that strip joint, I remember that I completely blew out my pants. Shit got everywhere. When they arrested me, they made me sit in my shitty underwear. Then I cried.”

“Don’t worry about it dad,” I said. “Dale and I have faced Honda before. We know what to expect.”

“By the way,” Dale chimed in. “Who the fuck is Honda and why are we in this mess?”

We all looked at each other and shrugged.

“It’s important to not think too much on this,” I said. “The important thing is that we are family, except for Dale, and that we are all going to help each other out this train wreck we find ourselves in.”

We nodded and started to enjoy the campfire.

Finally I asked Nicky, “So what do you remember about mom?”

He smiled and said, “what a lovely woman. Legs, ass, tits. The whole package. Eyes as blue as the sky. But a warm heart. She knew how to brighten up my day.”

I looked back at the fire and thought that doesn’t describe mom at all.

Finally Dick called.

“Aye lad, I’ve been tailin’ Anthrax all dee. I’m watching her outside a trap hoose n Pasadena,” Dick said. “I donnae think you’ll like who she’s with mate.”

“Randy,” I said.

“Aye”

That bitch, I thought. I knew she was going to double cross me and I fell into her trap. Instead of a battle, we were now facing a war on two fronts.

“Then you might get your M2s, M4s, AKs, AR-15s, 44s, 94, and 22s,” I told Dick. “We’re headed for a Mexican standoff.”

unstoppable II: stoppable

So I packed too much Copenhagen into my lip and started throwing up profusely.

A woman knocked on the bathroom door and asked “are you alright?”

I said “who the fuck are you?”

She said “I’m your wife, I haven’t seen you in four years and I need child support.”

I said “क्षमा करें मुझे अंग्रेजी नहीं आती”

She said “your son’s here. He wants to talk to you.”

“Which son?” I asked.

She said “Flavio Briatore Alexandro McFinny.”

So I put my ear up to the door and asked “Flavio, is that you?”

“Yes dad,” he answered. “Why don’t you come home? It’s been too long. I miss our time together. You’ve missed too much. I’m getting married this summer. You have a beautiful grandchild on the way.”

“Flavio, I wish it were that easy,” I replied.

“We forgive you,” he said. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be a family. I want you to know your grandchildren. I want us to get to know one another, to make up for lost time. There’s nothing in your past that can’t be forgiven. You just need to forgive yourself.”

Could it be true? Have I been too selfish? Have I been wallowing in my self-loathing for far too long that I’ve missed the important things in life?

“Flavio?” I asked. “What are you going to name your child?”

“Arianna Francesca”

I emptied out all the contents in my pockets: the uppers, the downers, the benzodiazepines, the methamphetamines, the methylenedioxymethamphetamines, the oxycodones, the lysergic acid diethyliamides, the sildenafils, the simvastatins, and my trusty Derringer. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“You’re under arrest for the possession of narcotics, solicitation, and public indecency. You have the right to remain silent….” the officer said.

THE END 🤷‍♂️

i’ll never drink with ed again

So Ed and me were getting tore up at an Applebee’s when the waitress asked “can I get you anything else?”

“Just keep the mai tais coming you dumb bitch!” Ed said.

“Keep it down, Ed,” I said.

“You can’t stop me! I’m an animal. An ANIMAL!” he replied.

So finally karaoke started and I sang “Don’t You Want Me”. Ed was at the bar, striking out with every elderly woman he talked to.

“Fuck this place,” Ed said. “A mojito for the road!”

Then some jackass walked in with his trophy wife. “Hey baby, nice pooter!” Ed yelled.

“Sir don’t talk to my wife like that. We’re Mormons.”

Ed later shagged his wife on the toilet. When he came out, he grabbed me by the arm and said “let’s go. I clogged the shitter.”

The manager came out and told us that if we didn’t leave now, he was calling the police.

“You can’t tell me to leave! This is a public place!”. Ed then sat down at the bar.

“All lives matter! And vaccines aren’t real!”

When the cops arrived, Ed told them “I’ve read the Declaration of Independence. I don’t have to carry a permit for this Remington .45!”

The cops drew their weapons and ordered him to drop it. “This is bullshit!” he said. He took one last sip of his Vegas Bomb and said “I guess this is as good of place as any” then almost opened fire.

An officer shot him in the ass and Ed groaned with pain and pleasure. “Can I get one more mimosa?” he asked before falling to the ground.

Ed was charged a misdemeanor for being a public nuisance.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d expect something like that to happen at an Olive Garden, but not at Applebee’s.

The Only Constant in Life is Change

It’s true.

A couple of punks were yelling at me the other day, saying “get the fuck outta here old man!”. I was about to pull out my .22 when the police escorted me out. I received a lifetime ban from the roller rink.

Of course this upset me. Apparently it’s no longer socially acceptable to “be intoxicated and yell obscenities at children in family establishments.”

But times are a-changin.

As a homeless Chinese man once told me: “The only constant in life is change.” And boy, don’t we know it…

Can’t even smoke at a gas pump anymore without someone bitching at me. And sexual harassment? My boss used to grope me all the time!

But those days are gone.

Perhaps there’s no such thing as “the good ole days” anyhow. Things don’t improve or get worse…they just change.

As I was told in Alcoholics Anonymous one time “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the courage to change the things I can”