There’s just too much shit going on and I’ve never wanted to be a productive person. I like the idea of being lazy. But that, ironically, takes work. Between a family, starting a new career, having a book coming out, and managing my crippling gambling addiction, I’m just not feeling it anymore.
In times like these, I like to think back to the time when I was leaving a Halloween party somewhere in San Francisco…dressed as Captain Kirk…and a dude was tripping balls on a street corner. His arms were extended. “I just want to grow here, like a tree,” he proclaimed, “but they won’t let me.”
Infamous sex pervert Woody Allen once said “life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering. And it’s all over much too soon.”
He also said “80 percent of success is showing up.”
I’m a living testament of that.
The boss man tells me to show up at such n’ such time and I’m there. Suddenly I’m treated like a goddamn genius. When the boss man explains something absurdly complicated, I just nod and say “yes sir.” Nevermind that I’m undermining the Man at every opportunity, for in that moment I’m able to convince him I’m halfway competent.
So if you ever get that nagging sense of imposter syndrome, just know that that feeling is totally valid: You are an imposter; you totally got to where you are in life because you are a fake, a phony, and absolutely full of shit.
The good news is that’s the truth for every successful person that has ever walked the earth. We’re all lying and that’s okay. Because lies is what makes the world go round.
So go ahead and empty out your bank account, put it all in crypto, and watch it instantly lose value. Then you can live on the streets, smoke crack, and gain it all back by using your last $100 to buy a .45 to set the world right again.
Matthew McConaughey’s autobiography is the most deranged thing I’ve ever read. But it inspired me to write my own.
Here are some highlights:
Yellowlights by Beau Montana
This isn’t an autobiography in its usual sense. I don’t remember much of anything. And I’m not talking about a few instances here and there. I mean NOTHING.
I grew up in a family that always told each other “you’re the biggest disappointment of my life.” And we meant it.
My mother held my head under the waters of the Ohio River and said “this is all part of God’s plan.” She was later arrested for possession of illegal methadone.
I’m not a victim.
When I was 27, my therapist shoved tennis balls up my ass and I shit green fuzz for weeks
I’m an eternal optimist.
When I was 43, my brother pulled down my pants at the bowling alley and everyone laughed at my little penis.
I’m not in denial.
Everyone gets to choose their own past. All it takes is a few weeks in the Mojave Desert surviving on wild mushrooms and peyote. It doesn’t hurt to be stupidly good looking either.
You need to get over your trauma.
If I whined and cried about having crippling alcoholism, diabetes, dyslexia, dementia, delirium tremens, and diphtheria, I would have never had the courage to apply to Harvard, Stanford, MIT, and the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater (then get rejected by all of them).
This book serves as my love letter…and suicide note…to life….
Sometimes I wonder: “as a writer, have I lost a step?” Then I read my old stuff and conclude it’s an unambiguous “yes”.
When I started this blog, I initially posted random thoughts and stories about my literary alter ego “James”. Before I abandoned that project, this was how that story ended (without resolution, I might add).
Now the story you’re about to read may be a little confusing, so let me provide some clarity. “Dick” was my Scottish roommate who was also a private detective. Nicky Wallz was my “father”. Dale was a coworker and reoccurring character. And Randy was my comical arch nemesis (later revealed to be my real father).
I dunno, I thought it was pretty funny.
I was hopping up and down to the sounds of 80s pop phenom Human League when there was a pound on the door.
“Open up! It’s LAPD!”
It was Randy. I wasn’t fooled.
“What can I do for you Randy?” I asked.
“Can you believe they let me out on bail?! I mean, seven vehicular manslaughter charges!! That’s crazy!” Randy said.
He was flanked by his two female henchmen, Anthrax and Honda. As Randy hoot and hollered, the ladies just stood there, arms crossed.
“So Jimmy, wanna do some drugs? I gotta speedball here,” he asked.
“Gee, I don’t know Randy. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not at all! Everyone’s doing it.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice.
Eventually I found myself in a daze sitting in the backseat of Randy’s Pontiac between Anthrax and Honda. Randy was driving like a maniac down the streets of West Hollywood when he looked to the backseat. “You see! I told you everything will be alright!” he said.
I didn’t think anything was suspicious.
Finally Anthrax and Honda carried me out of the car and into the back of an abandoned warehouse. I recognized the place. I survived a stabbing there a month earlier. They laid me down in a tub of ice and an overweight German doctor wearing a lab coat and nipple piercings tried to load me up with barbiturates.
However the joke was on them. I was always loaded up on barbiturates.
But then it occurred to me.
“Fuck, they’re gonna harvest my organs.” I thought.
Now, like most people, I’ve had to talk my way out of an organ harvesting attempt before. But this one was different.
It was going to take some skill.
“You know, there’s other ways of making a quick buck,” I said to Anthrax. “You can humiliate yourself in front of complete strangers on the internet like I do.”
But she stood there motionless. So I tried a different tactic: the art of seduction.
“It’s a shame I’m about to die. I wish we’ve gotten to know one another more. But, I guess I should count myself lucky. At least the last thing I’ll ever see is your beautiful face,” I said.
Finally Anthrax uncrossed her arms and adjusted her posture. Clearly she was responding to what I was saying.
“I have a confession to make. That time when you and Randy cornered me behind Dick’s Sporting Goods, pulled down my pants and shoved golf balls up my ass, I thought: ‘I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.’ Well it appears I’ll get that chance,” I told her.
Finally she removed her black Gargoyle sunglasses so I could see her eyes.
“I believe it’s customary to grant a dying man his last request,” I said.
“What’s that?” Anthrax replied. “A kiss? How lame.”
“No. I just want to cop a feel.”
She stood there and thought for a second. Finally she moved in closer, removed the handcuffs from my left wrist and placed my hand down her low cut tank. I then grasped as hard as I could on to her tit.
“Ow my titty!” Anthrax screamed.
I then leapt out of the bathtub and kicked Honda in the coot as she moved in closer. I grabbed her nickel plated .45 and pistol whipped Anthrax unconscious. With both henchwomen neutralized, I moved over to the doctor.
“Nein nein nein!” the man screamed. “Ich spreche kein Englisch. Ich weiß nicht wo ich bin!”
“I don’t want to hear that shit!” I yelled while he stared down my .45. “Where’s Randy?!”
I took the doctor by gunpoint into Randy’s lair. There were computer monitors everywhere with live feeds from CCTV cameras all over the world. Mostly in women’s bathrooms.
There were also scientists everywhere and a shit ton of beakers.
“Well well well,” Randy said menacingly. “It appears that you foiled my plan.”
“This ends now, Randy.”
“No, you can’t stop me. The LAPD can’t stop me. INTERPOL can’t stop me. Not even unadulterated black tar heroin can stop me! You will never catch me Jimmy, so help me GOD!”
At that moment, men in black shirts began pouring out of every dark corner, firing their AK-47s indiscriminately at me. I used the doctor as a shield while I fired back.
In the mayhem, Randy disappeared while a timer began a countdown to 0 before 200 tons of dynamite exploded. As the clock ticked down, I jumped through the glass window, falling 14 stories into a dumpster while the warehouse exploded into a magnificent fireball, lighting up the Los Angeles skyline.
When the police and fire department arrived, I chastised the New York police officer with the LAPD for releasing Randy on bail.
“We didn’t let Randy out on bail. Dat man is dangerous! He escaped weeks ago!” the officer said while shoveling a hot dog into his mouth.
Then a junior officer came running out of the wreckage, claiming they didn’t find the bodies of Randy or anyone else.
“Say, are you sure that you were kidnapped and held against your will and did not just blow up 16 square blocks of West Hollywood because you were high on methamphetamine?” the New York officer asked.
I knew it.
We faced off once. But I knew that he’d come back for vengeance.
Dick was a Hall of Fame stalker.
Or “private eye”, as he called himself.
I shot up on some ‘roids to help with my low T when I got pissed off.
“That mother fucker,” I though. “He borrowed $15 from me ten years ago and never paid me back.”
I was of course thinking of Nicky Wallz, a bouncer at a strip club I once frequented. I lost touch with him after the joint got shot up in a disastrous FBI raid.
“I’m gonna beat his ass,” I thought. But I didn’t know where to find him.
Dick was sitting there, cutting away a slice of deer meat with his sawtooth Bowie, when I asked him: “I need you to find me a Nicky Wallz.”
“Aye mate,” he replied. “The price es steep though lad. Ya donnae have a penny to yur name. I just a might be callin n a favour from ya.”
“Just find him.”
Weeks went by. In my restlessness, I began bulking and sculpting. I fought every shit heel in the bar that wanted some, smashing glass and busting heads…all in preparation for my showdown with Nicky Wallz. But Dick was dragging his ass.
“Hey Dick!” I yelled. “What’s the word on Nicky? I told you to find him seven weeks ago. You better not be cruising the the rest stops again.”
“Oy mate, I see ya lookin’ fit lad. But donnae talk to me like tha again. Or else I’ll stab ya in the scrote,” he replied.
“Oh you want some of this?”
“Aye I do.”
We both removed our shirts, displaying our perfectly sculpted abs and chest. Before we fought, we rubbed each other in oil…down our arms, down our legs…before removing our underwear, where I used the oil to rub his magnificent c—…..
Anyways, after venting my frustrations, Dick asked me, “Aye mate, why you bein such a snoot lately? What is it with this Nicky fella?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
“Perhaps I just haven’t noticed how the time has passed,” I said. “I’m getting older. I’m losing friends, acquaintances. Maybe they’ve moved on and I haven’t. I just feel like I’ve learned nothing. Nothing of importance. Nothing about myself.”
We sat in silence for a few moments.
Dick spoke up. “Well lad, I found him weeks ago but didnae wanna tell ya. Maybe let sleepin’ dogs lie yeah?”
Maybe he was right. Nevertheless…
“Where is he?” I asked.
Dick and I went down to the Los Angeles County Hospital, Psych Ward B. The doctor warned us to handle Nicky with utmost care. The nurses were handing out meals to the patients when I walked up to Nicky and slapped the trey out of his hands.
“Recognize me asshole!” I said.
Amazed, Nicky said, “James, you’re alive old friend?”
“Still?! Old friend?!” I said. “Where’s my $15 you piece of shit?”
“Is that what this is about? Money? Nothing else?” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“James, when I was 15, I was homeless and sleeping under a car. An older woman found me and took me in. She fed me. Clothed me. And gave me an education. We were close. Too close. We began a forbidden love affair. It was wrong, we both knew that. We tried to hide it, but the authorities found out. They took her away but not before we sired a child. That woman was Jenny, your mother.”
“Horseshit,” I said.
“Not horseshit. My only regret is never having the heart to tell you. After that strip club got shot up to absolute shreds, I never recovered. That’s why I’m here, because I just can’t bear the guilt of knowing who I am.”
Dick and me left the hospital in quiet contemplation. Could it be true? How could my mother have hid this from me?
We wandered back to the car then I pulled out a cigarette. I said to Dick:
“Damn, I should have asked for more than $15.”
I’m gonna slap those chilli fries right out your mouth,” Jenny, my mother, said.
“Jenny, I’m just asking you if Nicky Wallz is my father,” I replied.
“I don’t know who da fuck dis Nicky is, but he can suck my lef nut,” she said. My mother never explained how she got a Brooklyn accent.
“Ma, did you ever take in a homeless kid 30 some years ago?”
“It was da 80s, everybody was doin wacky shit then,” Jenny replied as she took a drag off her cigarette through her stoma.
I couldn’t stand to be around her when she was like this. I started to walk away.
“Where are you goin?” she asked.
“I gotta take a shit Ma!”
Later I was browsing the porno mags in Safeway when a strange woman bumped her cart into me.
“Watch it lady!” I yelled.
It was Anthrax. I haven’t seen her since I escaped from that exploding warehouse.
“Hello James,” she said.
“I just thought I should tell you that I am three months sober. I am attending AA and I am currently seeking to make amends to those I have harmed. Therefore, I apologize for drugging and kidnapping you, and putting objects up your rectum.”
I was shocked.
“Well, you are forgiven. And I am sorry for squeezing your tit and pistol whipping you unconscious,” I replied.
“I forgive you as well,” she said.
We both stood there in awkward silence. Finally I spoke up.
“Say, can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Yes. I would like that,” Anthrax replied stoically.
We didn’t have much to say at the coffee shop. I was still hyped up on the MDMA I took earlier, so I just drank water.
“So what happened to Honda after that deadly explosion that nearly destroyed West Hollywood? Is she okay?” I asked.
“Her face was ripped off and her arms and legs were mangled beyond repair. She survived though, whisked off by the black shirt men to an undisclosed location,” Anthrax replied.
“Well that sucks. Weren’t you two close?”
“Yes. We were sisters in the crime syndicate known as TOILET: Terrorism Or the International League that Engages in Terrorism. Honda rescued me as a small child off the streets of Stockholm and trained me in the ways thievery, extortion, and deception. I owe her my life. I would do anything to find her.”
“But how did you survive that explosion?” I asked.
“I have my ways”
Anthrax continued to sip on her coffee. I took one last gulp of my water.
“Welp, care to have sex?” I asked.
“Yes. I’d like that.”
“Dick, you’re gonna have to hide your Ruger collection until dad’s suicidal tendencies go away,” I told my roommate.
Nicky Wallz was recently released from the psych ward. To help get him back on his feet, I agreed to let him stay with Dick and me.
“Aye lad are you sure Nicky’s yer da and wasn’t just trying to get out of paying you $15?” Dick asked.
“I’ve never known Nicky to lie.”
There was a knock on the door. Nicky waddled in completely disheveled and reeking of skid row.
“It’s swell of you guys to take me in. I sure do appreciate it. I’ll try not to be a burden,” Nicky said.
“You just let us know if you need anything.”
Dick called for me into the kitchen. “Aye mate, how long is he gonna be stayin’ with us? The man’s still walkin aroond in his shittee underwear,” he said.
I turned around and Nicky was pissing into an air vent.
“No no dad, the bathroom’s over here.”
Dick was right. I had to find another option.
So I went back to work at the toilet factory and in walked Dale, fresh out of the hospital after taking a sniper round to the leg during a hostage situation weeks earlier.
“Dale how’ve you been you lunatic bastard! Long time, no see,” I tell him.
He was all smiles.
“Boy I tell ya,” Dale said. “This new medication is working out great! I have absolutely no urge to walk in here with my Mossberg 12 Gauge and shoot the place up. Life’s been great!”
“I’m happy for you Dale. But how are you doing living out in the woods all by yourself?Without your family? Without friends?Completely ostracized from society? Not permitted to be within 500 yards of any school or church due to your shameful, shameful deeds?”
“Come to think of it, it is quite lonely out there,” Dale said.
“Well shit Dale, why didn’t you say something?! My father is looking for a place to stay. You two would get along great!”
I’m always happy to play matchmaker.
So I had that problem solved. Now I just had to take my dad out to Riverside County
I haven’t been to Norco since I was mugged behind that high school in 95.
But I was taking Nicky, my dad, to Dale’s house in my mom’s Saturn Ion. It was a pleasant drive down I-10.
“You know,” Nicky said. “I haven’t been to Norco since I mugged a guy behind that high school in 95.”
“Well hopefully this will be your first steps towards a new beginning,” I said. “Say, when was the last time you’ve seen Jenny?”
“Not since you were born. I’m sure your mother is as beautiful as the day I met her.”
I didn’t reply.
Nicky looked out the window, taking all the sights that Riverside County had to offer. After several minutes of silence, Nicky said:
“You know, I’ve fucked everything up. I’m just a total disaster, a loser, a piece of shit, totally worthless, absolute garbage, just trash, deserve to be castrated, impaled, burned alive, and dumped into the sea. But if I’ve done one thing right in this life, it’s having a son like you. It’s made it all worthwhile.”
We continued to enjoy our drive as father and son.
We arrived at Dale’s cabin outside of town. Dale was outside, firing his rifle aimlessly into the air.
“Now Dale,” I said. “Dad gets depressed and suicidal frequently. So you might have to give him some of your unused medications from time to time.”
Dad went inside to take a nap while I went to the car to get his bags. Something glistened across the horizon out of the corner of my eye. I looked again at the eerie apparition.
“Fuckin Norco,” I thought.
Then the howling of hell echoed across the valley. A legion of bikers, renegades, outcasts, mohawks, and cenobites filled the prairie, ripping up the fields with their choppers, dirt bikes, and jacked up Dodges. Their storm cloud of dirt and smoke moved ever closer.
“Could it be?” I thought.
Dale stood in awe of the ungodly sight, paralyzed by fear.
“Dale,” I said. “Grab your G36.”
But it was too late. The ragtag army had us surrounded. The leather cladded gang bound both Dale and me and took us to an undisclosed desert location.
We were forced to our knees and the shrouds were lifted from our faces. A hooded figure, decked in black robes appeared before us. The figure slowly began to remove their coverings, revealing a face that neither resembled man nor earthly creature.
I instantly recognized this devilish being.
“Honda,” I gasped. Her face was no longer human. She was more machine than man.
She walked up to Dale and looked him up and down. “You. I don’t know you,” she said.
“But you, I never forget a face. James.”
“Honda,” I said. “What’s the meaning of this attack? If it’s money you want, then I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“SILENCE!” she yelled. She moved closer to us. “You know how I got this face. You know that you kicked my uterus into sterility. You’ve cursed me to wonder this earth as a nomad, as a castoff. Unwanted by the syndicate. Unwanted by society. This crew you see, we seek not money, or acts of deception, or extortion. We have one aim that unites us all: Revenge.”
“Okay, I’m sorry for kicking your poonan beyond repair,” I said. “But it wasn’t me that detonated all that dynamite. Randy did that. He was trying to cover his tracks. He never cared about you and Anthrax. You were both cannon fodder to whatever his deranged plan was. Come on, Honda! You know that’s true! It’s Randy you want, not me!”
Honda turned around in contemplation. After a long pause, she slammed her hands into the table in front of her, smashing it to bits. After standing over the wreckage, she directed her attention towards me.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “But you and I have some unfinished business.”
Honda then slowly lifted me off the ground, gazing into my eyes, and kneed me square in the dong.
“Your dick don’t work,” the doctor said.
“Thank you doctor,” I replied.
Dale and I were found outside of Palm Springs buck naked. We were bound together and gagged. It took awhile for the police to realize we were victims and not nudists.
We were taken to the hospital where I was treated for massive scrotal damage. Dale was alright.
“Aye, don’t worry lad. We’ll get your wee workin again. You watch,” Dick (my Scottish roommate) said.
“Never mind that. I need you to find Honda. It isn’t over between us,” I instructed Dick.
Dick quickly left the hospital room to begin work. Dale spoke up.
“I’m just glad that we all made it out alive,” he said.
“No one asked you anything,” I said.
Anthrax also came to visit. After Dale and Dick exited, she came to my bedside.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about Honda,” she inquired.
“She seems to possess extraordinary strength. I don’t think she’s human anymore, Anthrax. I think she’s a cyborg. Who the fuck would do that to her? Randy’s a dumbass, there’s no way he could’ve done something like that,” I told her.
“I think I know who.”
“Who? That stupid ass crime syndicate? Honda said that they didn’t want her anymore. That’s why she’s riding around with those dorks like she’s Peter fuckin Fonda,” I replied.
“It’s not Randy. It’s not the syndicate,” Anthrax said.
“Alright. This is getting too complicated and contrived. But if you or Dick find Honda, tell her I’m coming after her,” I said.
“I’ll find her. But please, before you do anything, I need to know if there’s at least an ounce of humanity in her. If there is, I know that I can save her. Please James.”
As Anthrax began to leave, I grabbed her by the hand.
“I learned from a James Bond movie that before one seeks vengeance, they must first dig two graves,” I said.
“But I’m not seeking vengeance,” Anthrax replied.
“Oh yeah, I am. I mean….please be careful.”
Anthrax gave a faint smile then departed. I laid in the hospital bed bored and feeling awkward for not feeling like I have to compulsively masturbate.
“Your mother is on the phone,” a nurse told me.
I reluctantly took the call.
“Ohh my poor Tony,” mom said. “I heard that you were in the hospital!”
“This is James, ma. Who the hell is Tony?”
“What do you mean? I don’t have dementia,” she said. “How’s my sweetheart doing?”
“I’m alright. Is something wrong? I’ve been to the hospital hundreds of times and you’ve never called.”
“I’m just checking up on my favorite son. What are you, a moron?”
“I’m your only son Ma,” I said. “Anyway, are you sure Nicky is not my father?”
“Did you not read your birth certificate?”
“You put down Lou Diamond Phillips. Is there anything you can tell me about my father?”
“He was a tall glass of water. He could send shivers up and down my body with one touch. He was smooth, suave, with a voice of gold like Sinatra in a younger day. You don’t remind me of him at all,” Ma replied.
That definitely didn’t sound like Nicky.
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.
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.”
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.
For the month of September, I want to write something nice for a short story. I’m always writing about shitty people doing shitty things. How about this time, I write about good people trying to make the world a nicer place?
OR, How about I try to write an actual goddamn story and not shit post the entire thing?
Ya know, I enjoy fine art. In fact, I wish that I could’ve been a painter. Seriously.
I love Claude Monet. Impression, Sunrise might be the most profound thing I’ve ever seen. It really stirs the poetry in my heart. That being said, I just wish the fisherman was pissing over the edge of the boat. 🤷♂️
Or consider the serene scene in Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Would it have killed Seurat to have added a dude taking a shit in the water?
Unfortunately, God didn’t bless me with the skill of the brush. Instead, he made me barely literate enough to string together sentences that are adequately coherent. But words are to a writer what color is the painter.
“What the hell are you talking about?” you might ask.
I’m trying to explain how I view the world. I always try to find the absurd and the vulgar, even where most find profundity.
It’s like that time when I got REALLY high and started thinking about 90s/00s Oscar-bait films. Specifically the westerns: Dances With Wolves, The Horse Whisperer, Legends of the Fall, Brokeback Mountain, etc. And then I created a trailer in my head: Brokeback Wolf Whisperer, which was directed by Ang Lee, written by Paul Haggis, and starring Kevin Coster, Robert Redford, Morgan Freeman, Jodie Foster, Brad Pitt, Richard Gere, George Clooney, Nicole Kidman, and Paul Reubens.
I don’t remember what it was about, but I think it was mostly Morgan Freeman talking sense into a wheelchair-bound Richard Gere:
“Why are you always whispering to wolves, Silas? They don’t understand a damn word you saying!”
“Because of my broken back, Ennis!!!”
So I want to do a story like that: something sappy, something heartwarming, something that’s barely above the quality of a Hallmark movie. That’s my challenge for the month of September.
And don’t do drugs 👍
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Therefore I am holding you personally responsible for everything I write henceforth.
“You can’t use racial slurs in conference calls!” the Human Resource officer told me.
“Susan, stop,” I said, “you know how much you turn me on when you’re angry.”
“I’m afraid that you will be suspended without pay until the Board decides what to do with you,” she responded.
“I’m not racist!” I declared. “I was simply stating what the Papa John’s guy said in HIS racist phone call!”
“You are hereby suspended. Please vacate the premise.”
“Bitch,” I said as I stood up.
I was so upset that I got drunk and drove to a cockfight. As I was placing a bet, my friend Don noticed something was wrong.
“What’s on your mind Bill?” Don asked as we were sharing a crack pipe.
“I don’t know anymore Don,” I said. “I feel like I’m stalling. All I’m doing is filling my time with sex, drugs, and absurd behavior. It’s gotten me nowhere. I don’t ask for much. All I really want is a quiet life. Sounds simple enough but I can’t seem to get out of my own way. I’m lost and the walls are crumbling all around me. Is it possible Don? Is it possible that I am the problem?”
Don took a hit off the pipe and thought for a moment.
So I was dropping acid at a Hoobastank concert when I got punched in the face.
“What the hell man!” I yelled.
“Oh, sorry sir, I thought you were my wife.”
Unfortunately it was at that moment when the acid kicked in. By the time band played “Naked Jock Man”, I was on an intergalactic journey with Carl Sagan.
I woke up in the ICU and the lady doctor told me that I had a “concussion and picked up an STD.” After I was discharged, I went up to the doctor and asked:
“Hey, wanna get a drink?”
“I don’t date patients,” she replied.
“Who said that this was a date? It’s just two people getting together over drinks.“
“Sir, you have hepatitis A, B, and C. You’re on the verge of both kidney and liver failure. You obviously have a massive pill addiction. AND you have crippling diabetes. If you don’t change your lifestyle right now, you will be dead in four years,” she told me.