I was watching Bart Ehrman debate some dude, forgot who, and he mentioned the non-canonical early Christian text, Apocalypse of Peter (never read it). The text describes heaven and hell, with descriptions of hell being far more creative than those of heaven. Point being, as Ehrman explains (paraphrasing): “there are only so many ways to describe eternal bliss”, while the imagination on eternal damnation knows no bounds.
It’s not really a revolutionary observation, I know, but that’s true in all our storytelling: “heaven” is a place of temporary stability before “hell” comes along and propels the plot forward. Therefore much of the creative energy behind a story lies in the “hell” of it all.
In other words, story is conflict.
But I think Ehrman’s statement is also a reflection on the nature of language. I’ve always found that imaginative descriptions of dread, anger, depression, anxiety, etc. to be far more creative and rewarding than depictions of bliss. Heaven, beauty, bliss, etc lie in the realm of the sublime, and therefore transcend the possibilities of language.
However, that might just be a reflection of my own deranged mind.
WhiteCollar inspired me to come up with my own totally non-offensive crime procedural.
So Hollywood, if you’re reading, I present to you Fisher: Miami Cop, starring Rob Gronkowski as the Hawaiian shirt wearing, vaguely racist homicide detective with a penchant for hard drinking and always shooting first.
After coming off his suspension for domestic abuse and vehicular manslaughter, Fisher is given a partner: the saucy Latina Arianda Morales.
“But Chief,” Fisher says, “I don’t work with the Cubans OR the Chinese.”
But he quickly changes his mind when he sees that she’s hot.
Fisher and Morales come to a greater understanding of each other and their cultural differences. Every episode ends in playful banter, culminating in Fisher’s famous catchphrase: “get off my ass, bitch!”
Whoever came up with the laws of the physics needs to pull their head out their ass. Between being a dad and full time alcoholic, I just don’t have time for anything!
But what would really help me is if some genius would invent something that could read my mind and write down what I think. I don’t give a damn about things called “ethics” or “privacy”. I just hate writing.
But anyways, I’m getting sidetracked with other projects that will hopefully see the light of day (probably won’t). So if you think I’ve been phoning it in lately, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
Some jackass was pounding on my door at 10:30 in the morning. I opened up and a man stuck out his hand.
“I’m Gay,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Gayson Peters. I’m your new neighbor across the street.”
He was wearing an orange button up with khaki cargos and socks pulled all the way up to his knees.
“What do you want from me?” I asked. “Some money?”
“No. I’m inviting you to a barbecue that I’m having this afternoon.”
“Eh, I’m hungover,” I said. “Can’t make it”
“That’s okay, I’ll be serving free alcohol. Just come over and get drunk again.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
I threw on a clean pair of pants (no underwear) and flipped my shirt inside out. I grabbed a bag of pretzels so that I didn’t look like a complete asshole for not bringing anything.
When I arrived, my new neighbor handed me a plate. “No thank you, Gayson,” I said, “I’m just here for the booze.”
“Please, call me Gay.”
I got really drunk. As I was hanging out in the backyard trying not to barf, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Got a light sweetheart?” she asked.
I handed her my lighter. She was about 50 something. Blond hair. Definitely had a smoker’s voice.
“Have you known Gay for long?” she asked.
“Since this morning.”
“I’m his mom.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
I walked up to the hot tub and barfed my guts out. When I finished, I walked back to her.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “So you’re Gay’s mom. What’s that like?”
“He’s an asshole,” she replied. “Got any kids?”
“Probably.”
“How old are you?”
“I dunno. Somewhere between 28 and 74.”
She took one last drag from her cigarette then flicked it away. “Well this party is pretty lame,” she said. “Why don’t you come on over to my place and have some drinks? My name’s Lucinda.”
“Sure thing, Lucinda.”
Her apartment was a converted storage unit. It was littered with old Penthouse mags, newspapers, and an endless supply of glue. She stepped out of the shower and walked into the kitchen. In fact, the shower was in the kitchen.
“Sorry that my tits are flopping out,” Lucinda said. “I have no clean towels.”
“That’s okay. I haven’t had an erection in years. Too much prescription meds and internet pornography.”
She seemed to blow a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” she said. “I can’t have sex. Vag is all dried up.”
I poured a drink and raised a toast. “To my dead ass dick!” I said.
We sat down on the couch and I began flipping through the channels.
“Sorry,” Lucinda said. “But the only thing this TV picks up is Designing Women.”
I turned my head and looked deep into her eyes. “I love Designing Women,” I said.
There was some energy between us. We shared a moment.
When Major Dad came on, I had to take a shit. “Do you need any toilet paper?” she asked.
“Nope. Never used it.”
As I blew up the toilet behind paper thin walls, I though that I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.
“I clogged the toilet,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t going nowhere.”
I sat back down on the couch. As we laughed at Gerald McRaney’s shenanigans, I reached out to hold her hand. She rested her head on my shoulder. Then she let out the most disgusting fart.
Then she kicked me in the nuts with her pointed toe stilettos.
As I writhing in pain on the floor, Susan stood over me and said “I’m getting that job you limp dick bastard! Not you, not the board, not anyone can stand in my way!”
Susan stormed off and all my coworkers stood around. “I’m fine,” I said. “She barely knicked my ball sack.”
I crawled back to my office and shut the door. I took the bottle of vodka out of the refrigerator and placed it on my crotch. Bob Dickenburg came in laughing.
“Susan’s a firecracker isn’t she!” he said.
“To put it mildly,” I replied.
“Look, don’t worry about her,” Bob continued. “The board loves your work. You’re definitely getting that job.”
“I better. I’m gonna have to pay for scrotal surgery soon,” I said. I then lifted the bottle of vodka to my mouth.
“Well, we’re gonna announce the promotion on Monday. Go home, enjoy your weekend, and don’t worry yourself over it.”
I nodded to Bob as I swallowed the vodka. I didn’t get much work done that Friday afternoon. I got too drunk.
As I roared my Ferrari back home, almost hitting several motorists, I accidentally plowed my vehicle into a hooded figure. I grabbed my beer and exited the car to check on the person.
The figure laid on the ground, body parts were completely mangled. I kicked his side.
“Hey buddy, are you alright?” I asked.
The figure sat up and snapped his limbs back together. It was disgusting. Finally he stood up and removed the hood.
The man appeared to be blind. I figured that’s why he was standing in the middle of the road. He was ancient, like a warlock.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive,” the man said.
“Oh it’s okay, I’m rich.”
He then lifted his hands to my face and began chanting something in Latin, Greek, or some bullshit I didn’t understand. After standing there for a few moments, he lowered his hands and slowly wondered off.
“You don’t want any money out of my wallet?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
I finished driving home. I stripped off my clothes, climbed in between the sheets, and fell fast asleep.
When I awoke the next morning, I wasn’t hungover. I also didn’t have rock hard morning wood. Something was amiss.
I sat up in bed and didn’t recognize the room. It was a woman’s room.
A nude man with a rubber mask came crawling in on all fours. He stood up, his partially erect penis inches from my face, and he handed over a cock cage.
“I’ve been a bad boy mommy,” he said.
“Mommy?”
I stood up and looked in the mirror. And there she was: her tall slender frame, small perky breast, and that stern resting bitch face.
I was Susan.
Or, more precisely, I was in Susan’s body. And presumably she was in mine.
“That fucking warlock,” I thought. “I hope Susan doesn’t look at my penis.”
I looked over to the nude man. “Sorry bro, I ain’t gay,” I said. I then threw on some clothes and sped over to my own apartment, expecting to find Susan in my body.
I stormed into my room, and there was me, or rather Susan as me, sitting prim and proper and drinking coffee.
“Look Susan,” I said, “I know that all of this is weird. But we can undo this. There’s a warlock I know that can put us back into our own bodies. Let’s go!”
“Why would I want to do that?” she, as me, asked.
“Well you’re me. I’m you. You know….”
“But I know that you’re the one getting that promotion. Or rather…I’M the one getting that promotion.”
“Susan, we don’t have time for this shit. We need to be looking for this warlock.”
(S)he took a drink of the coffee and slowly put the cup down. “I’ll cut you a deal,” (s)he said. “I’ll help you find this warlock, but first we should take time to appreciate this situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve done fellatio before, sure. But I’ve never had MY dick sucked…” (s)he said.
My heart began to sink.
“Will you suck my dick?” (s)he asked. “Or rather…will you suck YOUR dick?
The Internet Ruined Everything 