‘The Internet Ruined Everything’s’ Interview with Beau Montana

Here at The Internet Ruined Everything (TIRE) we are always searching for new and interesting people to profile. While this isn’t the first time we’ve interviewed TIRE’s Founder/President/CEO/Creative Director/Lone Employee Beau Montana, this is the first time we’ve spoken to him since being the inaugural recipient of TIRE’s Big Bad Motherfucker Award for being all around mean son-of-a-bitch.

TIRE: Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to sit down with us, Beau. Congratulations on your award.

Beau: Of course! I was just telling my therapist that it’s about time someone gave me an award for being an asshole at AutoZone. But you gotta put people in their place these days, ya know? I ain’t paying $200 for a catalytic converter when I can just steal one off another vehicle!

TIRE: SO true. Now you’re a big advocate for mental health awareness. Why champion this cause?

Beau: Well, I grew up in a rough household. The only way to survive was to join the roaming street gangs of Manhattan (Kansas). And after performing the ‘Jet Song’ for the 900th time, I finally had enough of that shit. I knew there had to be a better life. So I enrolled in college and took courses in “psychology” where the professor taught some liberal propaganda about “mental disorders”. I told him there ain’t nothing wrong with my brain, then I dropped the textbook on the floor and took a shit on it in front of the entire class. So I’ve been railing against this nonsense ever since.

TIRE: Nevertheless, you’re a big proponent for therapy.

Beau: Correct. But I’m a man. So I don’t “talk” about my feelings. I once had a therapist tell me that I had undiagnosed “PTSD” and tried to prescribe me medication. But I grabbed that prescription pad and told him “this is where you can stick this,” then I dropped my pants and shoved it up my asshole. No man can tell me what I feel. Because I feel nothing; nothing but contempt for the human race. If I wanted to “feel better” about myself, I wouldn’t take pills. If god wanted us to take medication, he wouldn’t have given us Jim Beam. And no, I don’t have a drinking problem.

TIRE: So in lieu of traditional therapy, what do you recommend?

I’m a man of action. The only thing that calms me is taking apart and cleaning my Glock while blindfolded. I also make my own ammunition and scratch of serial numbers for my growing gun collection. “Paranoid Schizophrenia,” is another big word THEY like to throw at me. But God speaks to me daily. He tells me that the world will soon be made whole again and that I must be ready for when He calls my name.

TIRE: Thank you for an enlightening interview.

Beau: Thank you. And remember: God’s watching. And so are THEY.

Untitled (Full Story)

What a godawful story for the month of October.

BUT, that’s what AI told me to write:

A woman in her sixties, who can be quite compassionate.

A man in his early thirties, who can be quite aggressive.

The story begins in a nightclub.

Someone is driven out of their home.

It’s a story about greed.

I didn’t follow the prompt perfectly. But I’m not taking responsibility for writing this trash.

Enjoy.

“I don’t piss in public toilets,” Eric shouted above the music to Don Lemon. “The toilets are connected to the publicly funded municipal sewer system which then goes to a treatment facility. From there, hazardous chemicals and biologicals are removed from the water where it is then discharged into receiving waters like lakes and rivers. Downstream, other municipalities treat that same water so that it is safe for human consumption. That’s socialism. I’m a libertarian. I don’t believe in using such systems. Besides, REAL men piss outside.”

“Look,” Don replied, “I’m just saying that there’s no sense in holding your piss in! If you gotta go, GO!”

Eric and Don met in college. Despite their paths diverging after graduation, the two remained close. Now in their early 30s, Don was killing it selling Mazdas at the local dealership. Eric was still taking odd jobs stocking shelves and slinging pizzas.

“Mazda is a quality machine, Eric,” Don would always tell his friend, “I could get you a good job down at the dealership.”

This made Eric chuckle. “Don, you know I’m a Hyundai man.”

Don was happily married. But his friend Eric wasn’t blessed with the skill of communication. Or even empathy. He’d pity his friend as he watched him fumble around with women throughout their dorm days. But Don’s obligation to his best friend never wavered. Though knowing it was futile, he’d encourage Eric to mingle, hoping that some lucky lady would relieve him of his duty to his awkward friend. 

Now the two pals were batching it up at the club. Don sipped his cocktail, leaning against the bar. Eric was pounding the rum and cokes, ignoring the patrons. 

“She’s cute,” Don said, referring to the girl on the other end of the bar. As opposed to the other girls in the club, this one was closer to Eric’s age, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt. 

“She’s alright,” Eric replied. 

“Buy her a drink!”

Eric stumbled his way across the bar. After seven rum and cokes, he was easily able to overcome a vague sense of nervousness. “Hi, I’m Eric,” he slurred, “can I buy you a drink?”

The disinterested girl nodded. “Wh-what do you do?” Eric asked.

“I’m a graduate student.”

“What do you study.”

“Middle Eastern Studies.”

“I love the Middle East!” he exclaimed. “Did you know that since the US invasion of Iraq, the economies of various nations in the Persian, or Arabian, Gulf have exploded: the UAE, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, etc. And they did so without much help from public subsidies. A perfect example of the power of unbridled capitalism. This, as opposed to Iran, who, US sanctions notwithstanding, drove their economy into the ground by nationalizing most of their industries. What a shame.”

“Uh-huh.”

Moments later, the girl’s friends came to collect her. “Gotta go! Thanks for the drink,” she said. 

“Fuck this,” Eric thought. He signaled the bartender to close his tab. “Are you leaving?” asked Don.

“Let’s face it, Don,” Eric explained, “females just aren’t interested in an intelligent, nice guy like myself. They want bad boys to treat them like rag dolls and whores. I’m done with this shit.”

“At least let me drive you home,” Don pleaded to his friend.

“No! Those are public roads! I’m WALKING home.”

***

Across town, in a much quieter bar, Patricia was lamenting her 60th birthday. “To god for allowing me to live one more year on this godforsaken planet!” she toasted to her friend.

“Maybe you should stop drinking,” Debra replied. “If you get one more DUI, you’ll surely be fired from you VP job at the bank.”

“Poppycock!” Patricia yelled. “Without me, that bank wouldn’t run!”

“Just take it easy, you gotta be at work in the morning.”

Patricia looked down at her watch. “Oh fuck, you’re right. I better go.”

“Well let me drive you home,” Debra pleaded.

“Sit the fuck down bitch,” Patricia replied, “you’re acting like I never drove drunk before.”

Patricia pulled out her keys and revved up the engine to her red Porsche 718 Cayman GTS. She cranked up Def Leopard’s Hysteria album and sped out of the parking lot. 

On down the road, while walking home, Eric finally had to relive his bladder. With his deep-seated hatred for all public works, Eric pulled out his penis and began pissing on the street. Patricia, meanwhile, was singing at the top of her lungs to Animal as she burned down the road.

Suddenly, mid-piss, Patricia clipped Eric with her Porsche. He helicoptered into the air before landing on the pavement, unconscious, and covered in urine.

***

“Sorry about shattering both your legs, pelvis, 14 ribs, and rupturing your brain,” Patricia told Eric, “but I couldn’t take you to the hospital. I hope you understand. That would work out best for both of us: I wouldn’t get fired and you wouldn’t accumulate massive medical debt. But I’m rich, so I will pay you a lot of money to keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, no I agree,” Eric replied as he sipped on his tea. Patricia spent the previous few days nursing him back to health in her own home. “I don’t trust doctors anyway,” he continued, “I just hope you cauterized the head wound to facilitate a full cognitive recovery.”

Patricia shook her head. “I’m sorry but you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a trained physician.”

Eric was stunned. It never occurred to his half witted (and heavily damaged) brain that a woman could be more knowledgeable than him. “B-b-but, I thought you were a banker!” he stuttered. 

Patricia rubbed her temples. “It’s a long story,” she explained. “I have an MD and an MBA. The important thing is that I’m fully capable of healing you.” She then stood up at his bedside and slipped on a robe. “You should lie in bed for the next few days,” she continued, “don’t over exert yourself. I’ll compensate you for all your lost wages.”

“Shiiiit,” Eric said, “I’m making more money in this bed than I’ve ever made in my life. But my family’s gonna wonder where I’ve been. My mom’s probably gonna kick me out of the house for going missing.”

“Just make up something. Besides, aren’t you 33 years old? Why are you still living with your mom?”

“Living on my own? In this economy?! Yeah right!”

“Anyways!” Patricia said. “I’m going to work. Please stay in bed. And if you need anything, I’m at your mercy.”

Eric watched Patricia leave the guest room and close the door behind her. “Maybe I have a milf fetish,” he thought as he whiffed her lingering scent. The thought of her examining his body easily aroused him.

Meanwhile, Patricia returned to work after a week of tending to Eric’s needs. “So who’s the lucky fella?” the President and CEO of Fifth National Bank, Harvey Whinestine, asked as she walked into her office.

“Pardon?” she replied, fearing her secret has been discovered. 

Harvey laughed. “I just figured you escaped to the Caribbean with one of your boy toys. I didn’t think we’d see you again.”

“Oh,” Patricia said, drawing a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, I’ve been sick all week. I’ll get with Debra and we’ll get caught up on everything.”

Harvey stepped into her office and shut the door. “I do hope everything is alright,” he said. “If you ever need anything…”

“Harvey, I’m fine,” she interrupted. “I haven’t had a drink in two months. There’s no urge. You have nothing to worry about.”

Harvey shook his head. “I’m glad you’re hanging in there, kiddo,” he said. “Take all the time you need to get caught up.”

But Patricia instantly started answering emails after Harvey left the room. She opened the top drawer to her desk to find a notepad. Then she paused when she noticed what was inside: tucked away under a bunch of papers was a picture of her son. 

“I’m sorry Kenny,” she said to the photograph.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably as she closed the blinds to her office window.

***

“I’ve seen a million penises,” Patricia informed Eric. “I’m a trained doctor, remember? I just need to examine your pelvis to see if it’s fully healed for fuck’s sake!”

“But I’ve always had male doctors,” Eric replied. “If a female doctor looks at my junk, I might, uhh..”

“Get a boner?” Patricia asked. “Who gives a fuck? I’m just gonna lower your underwear and feel around a little.”

Eric laid in bed quietly as Patricia lowered his piss-stained tighty-whities. Despite flooding his mind with unpleasant thoughts, blood raged through his veins on down to his nether regions. Patricia focused diligently on her duties while her wrist and elbows occasionally brushed up against his pathetic, throbbing erection.

The two didn’t say a word for the duration of the examination. Patricia came to the conclusion that Eric did indeed make a full recovery and then looked back at his helplessly average wang. “Do you ever wash this thing?” she asked, “Jesus Christ.”

“Uhhh….,” Eric was at a loss for words while Patricia studied his appendage. Already four sheets to the wind, Patricia removed her rubber gloves and gripped Eric’s schlong. “Sometimes after pelvic and spinal injuries,” Patricia explained, “male patients can experience ejaculatory problems.”

After two, no more than three strokes, Eric busted all over Patricia’s hand and guest bed. “Hmm,” Patricia wondered aloud as she gazed upon her jizz stained hand, “based on the lack of stimulus applied to the glans, you may experience involuntary ejaculation from here on out.”

Patricia stood up to wash her hands while Eric remained laid out in a state of post-orgasmic euphoria. After drying her hands, she wrote out a seven figure check. “I hope this covers everything,” she said as she laid the check down on Eric’s bare chest while his arms were sprawled out, “I’m sorry for hitting you with my car. But you are fully healed. You’re free to leave whenever you wish.”

Eric came to his senses, pulled up his nasty ass underwear, and proceeded to dress. Patricia went back downstairs to pour herself a stiff drink. Eric joined her minutes later.

“These last few days,” he explained, “have been some of the best days of my life.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Patricia asked. “You’ve been bed-ridden for two weeks!”

“I know, I know,” Eric replied. He then lifted up the seven figure check, ripped it up, and let the shreds fall to the floor. “But damn it, Patricia,” he continued, “I think I’m falling for you.”

“Uhhh….”

***

“I fucking hate you,” Eric’s mom informed him. “You disappear for two weeks without letting me know where you were! How disrespectful of you, you piece of shit!”

“Mom, put down the booze and listen!” Eric replied. “Like I said, I got drunk at a bar, walked home, got HIT by a drunk driver, she nursed me back to health, and now we’re in love. Are you fucking stupid?”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“There’s nothing crazy about it at all. It happens everyday!”

Eric’s mom shook her head. “Your father would be disappointed in you if he were still alive.”

“He is still alive. He just lives in Indiana!”

“Get out!” she screamed. “You’re not welcome back in this house. You’ve been nothing but a burden to me. You sleep all day, you do nothing but clog the toilet and play Xbox. And I’ve even caught you wearing my underwear! You’re a disgusting pervert!”

“Ma, I’m a man goddamnit! A MAN!“ Eric shouted. “And as the man of this household, I will not be addressed in that tone! I’m a proud libertarian and I believe in working for everything I’ve got! You’re not kicking me out! I’m unplugging my Xbox and LEAVING!”

Eric yanked the plug out of the wall, kicked the door open, and stomped his way over to Don Lemon’s house a block away. He pounded on the door until Don’s pregnant wife, Stacy, answered.

“Don’s not here, sweetheart,” she said to him.

“Oh that’s okay, I’m just gonna play Xbox and crash in your basement for awhile. Don will be cool with it.”

“Uhh, I don’t think so,” she replied as she tried to block him from entering. “Don and I have to discuss this first.”

“Darling,” Eric said, “with all due respect, Don is the man of the house and I’ve known him longer than you. So please, step aside and let a grown ass man play some goddamn Minecraft!”

Right then, Don Lemon pulled up in his 4-cylinder Honda CR-V. “Don, can you believe this shit?” Eric said to him, “your wife won’t let me through the door. Who does she think she is?”

A puzzled Don looked over to Stacy. “What’s going on here?” he asked her.

“Eric wants to….”

“Let me explain, Don,” Eric interrupted, “Ma was being a bitch, so I told her to fuck off. I came over here to crash for awhile until I can talk my girlfriend into letting me move in with her. It’s not a big deal!”

“Your girlfriend? Move in? I don’t understand…”

“Yeah, my girlfriend dude, I told you! She’s like 60 years old, but still pretty hot, you know what I’m saying? Plus she’s rich. Anyways, I’m trying not to make things weird because we’ve only known each other for two weeks, so it’s probably too early to move in together. So I’m just gonna stay in your basement until enough time passes and I can move in with her. It’s quite simple.”

“I don’t think so, Eric,” Don replied, “Stacy’s due at any moment and we’ve got enough going on in this household…”

“I see, I see…,” Eric nodded, “so I guess our friendship means nothing to you. I should have known. Stacy’s totally domesticated you. You’ll never be Enkidu to my Gilgamesh, Robin to my Batman, or Spock to my Kirk. Oh well! A real man must forge his own path anyway.”

Eric straightened himself up, ran fingers through his hair, and with the Xbox in hand, he started marching proudly down the street. Then he stopped in his tracks. “Can you drive me to my girlfriends?” he asked Don.

***

Patricia put down her cocktail and slammed her hands on the table. “Goddamnit!” she yelled, “Who the hell is knocking on my door?!”

She swung the front door open to find Eric just standing around with his mouth agape like a fool. “Oh it’s you,” Patricia said, “I just woke up! What kind of jackass knocks on my door at this hour?!”

Eric looked at his watch. “It’s 2:30 pm,” he replied.

“You’re goddamn right it is! What the hell do you want?”

“Mom kicked me out of the house. I’m just gonna crash here.”

“Huh? What?!” exclaimed Patricia. She then leaned forward and barfed all over potted plants on the front porch.

“If this is a bad time, I can come back later,” said Eric.

“No no,” Patricia replied while wiping vomit from her mouth, “come inside, we’ll work this out.”

She was afraid Eric was going to return after he informed her of his feelings. Despite being 30 years old, he seemed to innocent in the ways of the world; she didn’t want him reading too much into their sexual encounter.

“Look,” she explained, “it was a mistake to give you that handjob. As a trained doctor, that was unprofessional of me. But I had to determine if your spinal injuries would cause you to have unprovoked ejaculation!”

“Oh god, I think you were right,” Eric squealed as he busted in his pants. “This has been happening all week!”

Patricia shook her head. “I’m sorry if you feel like you were taken advantage of,” she said.

“Taken advantage of?” he replied. “No woman has ever touched me that way. That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Patricia was puzzled. “You mean…”

“Oh sure, sure. I’ve DEFINITELY had sex before,” Eric explained, “but a visit to the truck stop glory hole in Rockford, IL just ain’t the same thing, ya know?” Eric put down the Xbox he was hauling around and ran his fingers through his hair. “Patricia, I’ve always been an angry man,” he said as he struggled to find the right words, “but something inside me has changed. I don’t know if it was you crashing into me with your car, or holding me captive for two weeks while I recovered, your attempt at bribery, or the aforementioned handjob. But I feel like I’ve become a better person since meeting you.”

Patricia exhaled as she considered her response. Eric was handsome in his own slobbish way, she thought. She didn’t know if it was the combination of Xanax, Ambien, and alcohol flowing through her, but she was slightly moved by his little speech. Yet the truth was, just as Eric was deprived sexually, she was deprived of any emotional connection. 

Plus, there was lingering guilt from the car crash.

“Alright,” Patricia said, “you can stay here. Just…”

“…anything Patricia! I’ll do anything!” happily cried Eric.

“…just stay away from my booze.”

***

You don’t have to wear a condom, Eric,” Patricia said after getting rammed into next Tuesday. “I’m 60 years old. I’ve had a hysterectomy. I won’t be getting pregnant anytime soon.”

“I know that,” replied Eric (actually he had never heard the word hysterectomy), “I only wear one to to numb the feeling a bit. Because of that spinal injury, a slight change in weather makes me bust my pants. Besides, it’s still good protection from STDs”

“Yeah, with you, I’m DEFINITELY not worried about that,” Patricia said.

After their romantic pillow talk, Patricia sat up nude in bed and pulled out a pint of vodka. “Care for some?” she asked Eric.

“No thanks, that stuff dulls the senses,” he replied. “I have to be in tip top shape when I go live for Fortnite.”

“You know that shit’s for babies, right?”

“I ain’t a baby! I’m 33!”

“Whatever dude,” Patricia said as she pounded the pint, “do you even have a job?”

“What’s the point?!” screamed Eric. “The government’s just gonna tax half my check anyway! Besides, are you ever SOBER?”

“How fucking dare you!”

Passion was instantly reignited in the pair as they flung their naked bodies at one another in a frenzied, sexual fury. “You’re a sick, pathetic, loser!” Patricia orgasmically screamed. “And you’re a drunken spinster!” replied an equally euphoric Eric. Finally this inexplicable fervor came to an explosive climax and the two laid in bed, covered from head to toe in each other’s bodily fluids. 

It was a disgusting sight.

“What just happened?” Patricia asked as she tried to catch her breath.

Eric had no answer.

Then, after several moments, a still befuddled Eric sat up. “I gotta get to the Xbox,” he said, then climbed out of bed.

Patricia just laid there in her own sweat, unable to make sense of anything. Then, while lost in her thoughts, there was a knock on the front door. She threw on her robe and took a quick glance in the mirror before rushing down stairs.

“What does this jackass want?” Patricia thought to herself. Then her jaw dropped when she opened the door.

“Hello Mom,” the visitor said.

***

Kenny’s enormous hands engulfed Eric’s as they greeted one another. “How do you know my mom?” asked Kenny.

Intimidated by such a fine male specimen, Eric began to stutter. “Uhh, uhh, I’m just here to fix the plumbing,” he replied.

“Eric is your cousin,” interrupted Patricia, “you know my sister that I haven’t spoken to in 40 years? Eric’s her son.”

“Is that so?” replied a skeptical Kenny. “Well it’s certainly nice of my mother to have taken her nephew in. She has shown you more compassion than she’s shown me these last few years.”

“Eric, will you excuse us?” asked Patricia.

“Certainly,” said Eric after sensing the awkwardness. He speedily left the room. “You have a lot of goddamn nerve,” Patricia told her son.

“I HAVE a lot of nerve?” said Kenny. “YOU’RE the drunk doctor that somehow killed a patient during a routine colonoscopy. YOU’RE the alcoholic wife that sucked and fucked the entire neighborhood. And it doesn’t appear that you’ve changed your ways either! Empty vodka bottles are everywhere and now it seems like you’re into going to GameStop and picking up younger guys!”

“Don’t give me that shit!” replied Patricia. “Your father was just as guilty as me, yet you chose to side with him!”

“You burned the goddamn house down MOM! What did you expect me to do after you tried to kill us?!”

Patricia covered her face with her hands. “You know that was an accident, Kenny,” she said. “How many times do you want me to say sorry?”

“Jesus Christ,” replied Kenny. He grabbed one of the numerous liquor bottles from the cabinet and poured a drink.

After several moments of silence, Patricia spoke up. “So what do you want from me?”

Kenny looked down at his glass. “I’ve been let go from another job,” he said. “Camila left me and now I can’t pay rent. So I’m coming home, Ma.”

***

That night, after another nasty fuck session, Patricia rolled over alone while Eric laid there in bed staring at the ceiling. Then a strange thought occurred to him: something was bothering her. Should he try to actually talk to her?

Eric tapped her on the shoulder. “Kenny seems like a pretty cool guy. Is he moving in?” he asked.

Though slightly annoyed, Patricia realized that this was Eric’s awkward attempt at conversation. She rolled over to look him in the eye. “Yes,” she said, “he’s fallen into hard times and I’m helping him out.”

“I guess you two haven’t always gotten along, huh?”

“No.”

“Do you care to talk about it?”

“No really.”

“Should I leave?”

Patricia didn’t know what it was about this stupid idiot lying in bed with her. From the outside, it would appear that they had nothing in common. But for this brief moment, this odd couple both knew there was something, however intangible, between them. 

She placed her hand on Eric’s cheek to comfort him. “Just stay out of the way,” she said.

***

“Wake the fuck up!” Kenny yelled to Eric, still laying naked and alone in bed.

“What’s bothering you, Kenneth?” a befuddled Eric asked.

“I know mom has given you money, where is it?!”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just your long lost cousin that has a very close relationship to your mother.”

“Obviously!” Kenny retorted. “But you ain’t my cousin. You’re just a fuck toy.”

“Alright,” Eric admitted, “yes I’ve been absolutely tearing your mom up from one end of the room to the other. But she hasn’t given me any money. It’s not like that.”

“Huh?” Kenny struggled to find the right words. “But…but you look like a guy that’s been kicked out of Chucky Cheese’s a few times while my mom is a wealthy cougar! This just doesn’t make sense!”

“You better believe it bucko,” Eric replied, “your mom and me have something special going on. I can’t explain it to you. You would never understand.”

“Oh I can understand it alright. I don’t care what you do with my mom. But don’t play stupid with me. You’re with her for her money.”

Kenny stormed out of the bedroom. Eric then climbed out of bed and put his pants on. After brushing his teeth, he went out to the living room to resume his Xbox duties. When he opened the cabinet to turn the system on, he noticed it was missing.

“That son of a bitch,” Eric uttered to himself. He looked to the front door and noticed it was cracked open. He rushed outside shirtless to tackle Kenny, who was carrying the Xbox out to his car.

“I will murder you!” Eric yelled while on top of Kenny. “Don’t ever touch my Xbox!”

Yet Kenny greatly outsized Eric and quickly overpowered him. “Listen here, fuck toy,” Kenny said, “I know you’re up to something. You AND my mom are up to something. She’s always conspired against me and I’m going to get to the bottom of this! And since you won’t let me pawn your Xbox off for drug money, no one can have this Xbox!

Kenny lifted the console over his head then slammed it on the ground. It shattered into a million pieces right in the driveway. Eric stood there in stunned silence while Kenny sped away in his 93 Honda Del Sol. 

As white hot hate pumped through his veins, Eric gazed at the Del Sol as it disappeared past the horizon. He knew Kenny would be back.

***

“Everybody freeze! This is a robbery,” Kenny yelled in the lobby of his mother’s bank. Old ladies dropped their purses while the security guard pissed himself.

“Nah, I’m just kidding,” he said, “I’m just here to talk to my mom. Her name’s Patricia and she’s the vice-president of this place.”

Patricia stepped out of her office to find her strung out son flirting with a terrified teller who was only seconds away from calling the police. She tapped him on the shoulder while she choked back her rage. “What the hell is going on here?” Patricia asked.

“I’ve been looking for you!” Kenny replied. “I went into your bedroom but I only found that Jeffrey Dahmer-lookin dude sniffing your panties. I wouldn’t go home if I were you, that guy’s PISSED!”

“Get into my office RIGHT NOW!”

Kenny picked his nose and scratched his ass as he waddled into his mother’s office while she followed behind. He plopped down on the leather sofa when Patricia slammed the door behind her. “What the fuck do you want now?!” she asked.

“I need money, alright! The price of Benzos and quaaludes are outrageous these days!”

“You need rehab!”

“Fine. I’ll agree to do rehab again, just one more bender and you can send me anywhere you like.”

“Not a chance! You go now or I’m cutting you off for good!”

Kenny slapped his hands against the leather sofa in protest. “That does it mom!” he said, then stood up began wagging his finger. “You’ve crossed me for the last time. If you think you can bring me down, you’ve got another thing coming!”

After Kenny stormed out of the bank, Patricia tried to calm herself with a stout shot of vodka. She buried the bottle back into her desk drawer and began to meditate while the warming sensation spread throughout her body. Then Harvey Whinestine interrupted her. 

“What was all that commotion about?” he asked as he peaked his head through the doorway.

“Nothing. I got it taken care of.”

Harvey stepped into her office uninvited and took a seat in front of her desk. “You know, we can’t have another distraction like that,” he said. “You’ve already had five DUIs in the last year. If something else happens like that, the board will probably want you out. Unless…”

He reached across the desk and placed his hand on top of hers. “…unless you and me can work something out and maybe I can smooth it over,”Harvey continued.

Patricia felt like she didn’t have a leg to stand on. She knew her career was in jeopardy and had little choice but to play along. “Okay Harvey,” she said, “what do you suggest?”

***

“Settle down, Eric,” Don Lemon kept telling his friend. Eric kept pacing back and forth, still shirtless, and wielding a knife. “I’m gonna kill him. I’M GONNA KILL HIM!” he kept saying.

“It’s just a goddamn Xbox!” Don replied. “It can be replaced!”

“You don’t get it! People have been fucking with me my whole life! I’m setting my foot down this time! I’m the alpha male. I’M THE ALPHA MALE!”

“You might have a point,” Don said. “You are fucking his mom. But Kenny might have done you a favor. I hate to be the one to tell you Eric, but it’s time to grow up.”

“I didn’t invite you to my home only to lecture me!”

“This isn’t your home! This is your sugar momma’s home!”

“How fucking dare you!” an irate Eric replied. “I thought you were gonna help me plot my revenge. But between “having a full time job” and a “family”, I guess you’re too good for that. What a shitty friend you are!”

“I won’t be spoken to in this way,” Don said as he stood up. “I’m done helping you. You’ve been nothing but a drag.”

Eric went into a blind rage and chased Don out of the house, threatening to slit his friend’s throat. While the two rushed out to the driveway, Kenny was burning down the road blasting Smash Mouth’s Wanna Be Like You on repeat. When Don reached the street, the crack pipe fell out of Kenny’s mouth as he tried to slam on the breaks. The Honda Del Sol crashed into Don, but instead of flying into the air, the tires went over and crushed every bone in his body…including his skull.

Eric screamed in horror as he watched his former friend’s violent death. “You killed him!” he yelled to Kenny through the window. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Kenny got out of the car in a daze. “That guy came out of nowhere,” he kept repeating. “Wh-wh-what’s with the knife?”

“You killed my friend,” Eric replied, “now I’m gonna kill you!”

But once again, Kenny easily overpowered Eric and wrestled the knife out of his hands. “Look!” Kenny said while he held a belligerent Eric on the ground, “I don’t know who this guy is, but it appears as though you were trying to kill him! Now we can continue to roll around on the road waiting for the cops to arrive, OR we can hide this body. So what’s it gonna be?!”

***

“Excuse me, sweetheart, while I pop my Cialis,” Harvey Whinestine said to Patricia. “They say that you’re not supposed to mix alcohol and medication. But I say that’s poppycock.”

The two were sharing a daiquiri and a plate of nachos at Chili’s before they went back to her place. Harvey’s wife was at home, so naturally they couldn’t go there. “I should probably pop a Beano too,” he continued, “don’t want to be bustin ass while we’re boinking.”

“Bartender, can I get a bourbon?” Patricia asked. Harvey disappeared to the bathroom while she pounded the drinks at the bar.

He reappeared minutes later in a panic. “I clogged the toilet,” Harvey said, “we better dash. Oh, by the way, I forgot my wallet. Can you pay?”

Instead of calling an Uber, or riding together in the same car, the two drove drunk to Patricia’s place in their respective vehicles. She arrived first.

The late Don Lemon’s 4 cylinder Honda CRV was still parked in the driveway, as was Kenny’s Del Sol.

Patricia rushed into the house to give warning to Eric. She found him still shirtless and cackling with Kenny. The two were covered in blood.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said, “but Harvey Whinestine is on his way. Unfortunately I have to fuck him to keep my job. So you two keep it down.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, for putting you into this situation,” Kenny said. “But Eric and me have been talking and we both agree: it’s time for us to grow up. So Eric’s getting a job, and I’m quitting the drugs. That is, if we get away with killing a guy.”

Patricia would have been moved by her son and lover’s revelations had she of not been so drunk and in a rush. “That’s such a relief…” she said, “but what’s this about killing a guy?”

At that moment, there was a loud crash outside and Harvey came stumbling into the house with tears streaming down his face. “I just smashed my Bentley Continental GT into a 4-cylinder Honda CRV,” he cried, “I just killed a guy!”

Eric and Kenny both smiled and gave each other a high five.

***

“So you guys accidentally killed Don Lemon, placed his body in his 4-cylinder Honda CRV with the intention of sinking it in the river to hide his body? But before you two could do that, Harvey Whinestine rammed into the Honda and made it look like vehicular manslaughter?” Patricia asked Eric after court.

“Sure did!” he said.

After Harvey Whinestine was found guilty of killing Don Lemon, Eric and Patricia immediately asked the same judge to marry them in the courthouse. Along with Kenny, the three of them returned to Patricia’s house to celebrate.

“Man we got lucky,” Eric said.

“Damn right buddy!” Kenny replied.

“I think you mean ‘Dad’”

“Ah shit, you’re right…Dad!”

Despite being three years younger than Kenny and a half a foot shorter, Eric playfully put his stepson in a headlock and gave him a noogie. While the two men horsed around, Patricia came downstairs to join in the festivities.

“Mom,” Kenny said, “I finally feel like we’re a family again. I love you.”

“I love you too, son,” Patricia replied. “I just want to say that I’m thankful for the two men in my life. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance at life, so I’m proud to announce that I am two weeks sober.”

“But why?” Eric asked. “With Harvey Whinestine going to prison, you’re now a bank president. We’re also married, Kenny and I started a car detailing business, and we just got away with murder! So Fuck that sobriety shit, we’re untouchable!”

“Hmm, I didn’t think of it that way,” she replied, then went to the bar and started drinking directly from the tequila bottle.

***

Harvey Whinestine was later sentenced to 20 years in prison. Months later, he was released on appeal due to a shoddy police investigation. All evidence was later incinerated.

Eric and Kenny were never regarded as suspects for their role in Don Lemon’s death.

Patricia and Eric divorced three months later.

The grieving, pregnant widow of Don Lemon was left a single parent and never remarried. 

THE END

A Quiet Life (Full Story)

So I was going through some old stuff when I came across this doozy from earlier in the year.

It’s a classic. One of the best I’ve ever written.

My guts were boiling. 

I climbed out of bed, dropped my pants, and evacuated my bowels. It was a good shit.

Afterwards, I shaved my balls. And ass. I climbed in the shower and measured my penis: 3.5 inches soft, 5in hard (5 1/4in from the taint). 

I shoved some eggs and toast down my throat and grabbed a coffee. As I was walking out to the driveway, my neighbor confronted me.

“If you blast your radio at 2am again, I am calling the cops!” he said.

I pulled out my Glock. “Look buddy,” I replied, “you’re on my property. That means I have the right to unleash holy hell right into your skull. So don’t fuck with me!”

Then I got into my car and turned up the radio. I bounced up and down all the way to work to the sound of ‘Big Fat Funky Booty’ by the Spin Doctors on repeat.

When I arrived, I walked into the office. “Hey baby,” I said to the receptionist, “when are you gonna give me a shot at those titties?”

“I’ve already reported you to Human Resources,” she replied. “Please don’t speak to me.”

“You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart,” I said.

I went to my desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “A little early in the morning for that, isn’t it Bill?” my boss asked.

“You know I’m never sober before 8am, Dick,” I replied.

“Damn it Bill! I should fire you but you always do your best work drunk.”

“Thanks Dick. Say, when am I getting that raise?”

“Once when we get those lawsuits settled from all the faulty products you designed, you’ll get a 20% raise.”

“Fuckin snowflakes,” I said. “A little cancer never hurt anyone.”

“I think the judge will agree,” Dick replied. “He should. We paid him enough money.”

“Thanks Dick. You’re the best.” 

Dick went back to his office and I pulled up porn on my work computer. It was a productive day.

***

So my Audi was doing 95 through a school zone when I went around a flashing red bus. An officer pulled me over.

“License and registration please.”

“Sorry Officer, I’m driving on a suspended license due to numerous DUI arrests,” I said. “Also, this vehicle is registered to my ex-wife. I stole it from her because she accused me of domestic abuse.”

“Well slow down,” he replied. And I was on my merry way.

When I pulled into the driveway, my neighbor was waiting on me. “Don’t ever pull a gun on my husband again!” she yelled.

“Bitch! This is America!” I replied. Then I fired an entire clip into the air.

Later that night, my girlfriend gave me oral. When she asked me to return the favor, I said, “Heh, no thanks. I gotta kiss my mother with this mouth.” 

Then I went to sleep.

***

“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.

“Nah,” he finally said. 

“You’re probably right.”

Then we picked up some hookers off skid row.

***

After returning home from my weekly STD checkup, there was a package on my doorstep. It was addressed to my neighbor, but I took inside and opened it anyway.

In the box was a stuffed teddy bear and a letter from someone named “grandma”. I thought that was a stupid name but continued reading anyway. The letter said:

Dear Mikey,

Grandma and grandpa love you very much. We hope that you feel better soon.

Love,

Grandma and Grandpa 

I put the contents back into the box and poured a drink. I was supposed to start taking medication for something called “syphilis” but I threw that shit into the trash.

“Maybe I should return the box,” I thought. But I wasn’t so sure. I lit up a cigarette, shot up heroin, took a bump of coke, played a round of Russian Roulette, then taped up the box.

As I was laying the box on their doorstep, my neighbor opened the door. “Get the fuck off my porch,” he said.

“This is YOUR package asshole!” I replied. “UPS wrongly dropped it off at my house.”

“Why should I believe you?” he asked after he pulled out his .38. “You’ve played your drums, lit off fireworks, and engaged in target practice with your shotgun at ungodly hours of the night. You’ve also ding dong ditched my ass, stole my WiFi, and played peeping Tom on my wife. Well guess what PAL! You’re now on MY property and am well within MY right to blast YOUR ass!”

I raised my hands. “Now calm down John,” I said. “We’re both sensible adults. We can talk this out.”

“No,” he replied. “I’M the sensible adult. You’re an asshole.”

John then fired his .38 into my gut and I laid there bleeding out in his front yard. He picked up the package and opened it.

“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said, “you finally did something right in your life.”

I lifted my head up while holding my guts in. “Please call an ambulance John,” I said.

“Sure, I’ll get right on that.” John then looked up into the sky and smiled. “It’s nice finally getting some peace and quiet around here,” he said. 

He went back inside and shut the door.

THE END 

“Untitled” (part v)

Patricia put down her cocktail and slammed her hands on the table. “Goddamnit!” she yelled, “Who the hell is knocking on my door?!”

She swung the front door open to find Eric just standing around with his mouth agape like a fool. “Oh it’s you,” Patricia said, “I just woke up! What kind of jackass knocks on my door at this hour?!”

Eric looked at his watch. “It’s 2:30 pm,” he replied.

“You’re goddamn right it is! What the hell do you want?”

“Mom kicked me out of the house. I’m just gonna crash here.”

“Huh? What?!” exclaimed Patricia. She then leaned forward and barfed all over potted plants on the front porch.

“If this is a bad time, I can come back later,” said Eric.

“No no,” Patricia replied while wiping vomit from her mouth, “come inside, we’ll work this out.”

She was afraid Eric was going to return after he informed her of his feelings. Despite being 30 years old, he seemed to innocent in the ways of the world; she didn’t want him reading too much into their sexual encounter.

“Look,” she explained, “it was a mistake to give you that handjob. As a trained doctor, that was unprofessional of me. But I had to determine if your spinal injuries would cause you to have unprovoked ejaculation!”

“Oh god, I think you were right,” Eric squealed as he busted in his pants. “This has been happening all week!”

Patricia shook her head. “I’m sorry if you feel like you were taken advantage of,” she said.

“Taken advantage of?” he replied. “No woman has ever touched me that way. That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Patricia was puzzled. “You mean…”

“Oh sure, sure. I’ve DEFINITELY had sex before,” Eric explained, “but a visit to the truck stop glory hole in Rockford, IL just ain’t the same thing, ya know?” Eric put down the Xbox he was hauling around and ran his fingers through his hair. “Patricia, I’ve always been an angry man,” he said as he struggled to find the right words, “but something inside me has changed. I don’t know if it was you crashing into me with your car, or holding me captive for two weeks while I recovered, your attempt at bribery, or the aforementioned handjob. But I feel like I’ve become a better person since meeting you.”

Patricia exhaled as she considered her response. Eric was handsome in his own slobbish way, she thought. She didn’t know if it was the combination of Xanax, Ambien, and alcohol flowing through her, but she was slightly moved by his little speech. Yet the truth was, just as Eric was deprived sexually, she was deprived of any emotional connection.

Plus, there was lingering guilt from the car crash.

“Alright,” Patricia said, “you can stay here. Just…”

“…anything Patricia! I’ll do anything!” happily cried Eric.

“…just stay away from my booze.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

“untitled” (part II)

“Sorry about shattering both your legs, pelvis, 14 ribs, and rupturing your brain,” Patricia told Eric, “but I couldn’t take you to the hospital. I hope you understand. That would work out best for both of us: I wouldn’t get fired and you wouldn’t accumulate massive medical debt. But I’m rich, so I will pay you a lot of money to keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, no I agree,” Eric replied as he sipped on his tea. Patricia spent the previous few days nursing him back to health in her own home. “I don’t trust doctors anyway,” he continued, “I just hope you cauterized the head wound to facilitate a full cognitive recovery.”

Patricia shook her head. “I’m sorry but you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a trained physician.”

Eric was stunned. It never occurred to his half witted (and heavily damaged) brain that a woman could be more knowledgeable than him. “B-b-but, I thought you were a banker!” he stuttered.

Patricia rubbed her temples. “It’s a long story,” she explained. “I have an MD and an MBA. The important thing is that I’m fully capable of healing you.” She then stood up at his bedside and slipped on a robe. “You should lie in bed for the next few days,” she continued, “don’t over exert yourself. I’ll compensate you for all your lost wages.”

“Shiiiit,” Eric said, “I’m making more money in this bed than I’ve ever made in my life. But my family’s gonna wonder where I’ve been. My mom’s probably gonna kick me out of the house for going missing.”

“Just make up something. Besides, aren’t you 33 years old? Why are you still living with your mom?”

“Living on my own? In this economy?! Yeah right!”

“Anyways!” Patricia said. “I’m going to work. Please stay in bed. And if you need anything, I’m at your mercy.”

Eric watched Patricia leave the guest room and close the door behind her. “Maybe I have a milf fetish,” he thought as he whiffed her lingering scent. The thought of her examining his body easily aroused him.

Meanwhile, Patricia returned to work after a week of tending to Eric’s needs. “So who’s the lucky fella?” the President and CEO of Fifth National Bank, Harvey Whinestine, asked as she walked into her office.

“Pardon?” she replied, fearing her secret has been discovered.

Harvey laughed. “I just figured you escaped to the Caribbean with one of your boy toys. I didn’t think we’d see you again.”

“Oh,” Patricia said, drawing a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, I’ve been sick all week. I’ll get with Debra and we’ll get caught up on everything.”

Harvey stepped into her office and shut the door. “I do hope everything is alright,” he said. “If you ever need anything…”

“Harvey, I’m fine,” she interrupted. “I haven’t had a drink in two months. There’s no urge. You have nothing to worry about.”

Harvey shook his head. “I’m glad you’re hanging in there, kiddo,” he said. “Take all the time you need to get caught up.”

But Patricia instantly started answering emails after Harvey left the room. She opened the top drawer to her desk to find a notepad. Then she paused when she noticed what was inside: tucked away under a bunch of papers was a picture of her son.

“I’m sorry Carson,” she said to the photograph.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably as she closed the blinds to her office window.

TO BE CONTINUED…

untitled (part I)

Remember, for the month of October, this is the story that AI told me to write:

A woman in her sixties, who can be quite compassionate.

A man in his early thirties, who can be quite aggressive.

The story begins in a nightclub.

Someone is driven out of their home.

It’s a story about greed.

Your character reluctantly becomes involved

So here’s the story. I don’t know what to call it.

“I don’t piss in public toilets,” Eric shouted above the music to Don Lemon. “The toilets are connected to the publicly funded municipal sewer system which then goes to a treatment facility. From there, hazardous chemicals and biologicals are removed from the water where it is then discharged into receiving waters like lakes and rivers. Downstream, other municipalities treat that same water so that it is safe for human consumption. That’s socialism. I’m a libertarian. I don’t believe in using such systems. Besides, REAL men piss outside.”

“Look,” Don replied, “I’m just saying that there’s no sense in holding your piss in! If you gotta go, GO!”

Eric and Don met in college. Despite their paths diverging after graduation, the two remained close. Now in their early 30s, Don was killing it selling Mazdas at the local dealership. Eric was still taking odd jobs stocking shelves and slinging pizzas.

“Mazda is a quality machine, Eric,” Don would always tell his friend, “I could get you a good job down at the dealership.”

This made Eric chuckle. “Don, you know I’m a Hyundai man.”

Don was happily married. But his friend Eric wasn’t blessed with the skill of communication. Or even empathy. He’d pity his friend as he watched him fumble around with women throughout their dorm days. But Don’s obligation to his best friend never wavered. Though knowing it was futile, he’d encourage Eric to mingle, hoping that some lucky lady would relieve him of his duty to his awkward friend.

Now the two pals were batching it up at the club. Don sipped his cocktail, leaning against the bar. Eric was pounding the rum and cokes, ignoring the patrons.

“She’s cute,” Don said, referring to the girl on the other end of the bar. As opposed to the other girls in the club, this one was closer to Eric’s age, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt.

“She’s alright,” Eric replied.

“Buy her a drink!”

Eric stumbled his way across the bar. After seven rum and cokes, he was easily able to overcome a vague sense of nervousness. “Hi, I’m Eric,” he slurred, “can I buy you a drink?”

The disinterested girl nodded. “Wh-what do you do?” Eric asked.

“I’m a graduate student.”

“What do you study.”

“Middle Eastern Studies.”

“I love the Middle East!” he exclaimed. “Did you know that since the US invasion of Iraq, the economies of various nations in the Persian, or Arabian, Gulf have exploded: the UAE, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, etc. And they did so without much help from public subsidies. A perfect example of the power of unbridled capitalism. This, as opposed to Iran, who, US sanctions notwithstanding, drove their economy into the ground by nationalizing most of their industries. What a shame.”

“Uh-huh.”

Moments later, the girl’s friends came to collect her. “Gotta go! Thanks for the drink,” she said.

“Fuck this,” Eric thought. He signaled the bartender to close his tab. “Are you leaving?” asked Don.

“Let’s face it, Don,” Eric explained, “females just aren’t interested in an intelligent, nice guy like myself. They want bad boys to treat them like rag dolls and whores. I’m done with this shit.”

“At least let me drive you home,” Don pleaded to his friend.

“No! Those are public roads! I’m WALKING home.”

***

Across town, in a much quieter bar, Patricia was lamenting her 60th birthday. “To god for allowing me to live one more year on this godforsaken planet!” she toasted to her friend.

“Maybe you should stop drinking,” Debra replied. “If you get one more DUI, you’ll surely be fired from you VP job at the bank.”

“Poppycock!” Patricia yelled. “Without me, that bank wouldn’t run!”

“Just take it easy, you gotta be at work in the morning.”

Patricia looked down at her watch. “Oh fuck, you’re right. I better go.”

“Well let me drive you home,” Debra pleaded.

“Sit the fuck down bitch,” Patricia replied, “you’re acting like I never drove drunk before.”

Patricia pulled out her keys and revved up the engine to her red Porsche 718 Cayman GTS. She cranked up Def Leopard’s Hysteria album and sped out of the parking lot.

On down the road, while walking home, Eric finally had to relive his bladder. With his deep-seated hatred for all public works, Eric pulled out his penis and began pissing on the street. Patricia, meanwhile, was singing at the top of her lungs to Animal as she burned down the road.

Suddenly, mid-piss, Patricia clipped Eric with her Porsche. He helicoptered into the air before landing on the pavement, unconscious, and covered in urine.

TO BE CONTINUED…

paris tx

There are few scenes in the history of film that hit me harder than the Super 8 sequence in Paris, Texas.

Rarely do films like this get made. Especially now. Not without a dose of heavy handed social commentary and violence.

That’s not the case with Paris, Texas. It’s subject is simple: one man’s inability to face his problems. All of this juxtaposed against the vast American landscape that’s both empty and crowded…dead and alive. Wim Wenders’ vision of America is embodied by the character Travis, played by the enigmatic Harry Dean Stanton.

The first time I watched this, it was almost like a religious experience. I was 10 or 11 years old and stayed up late while watching cable to see some tities. Fortunately, nothing was on Cinemax so I switched over to HBO. Paris, Texas was playing.

I don’t know why I kept watching it (probably because you see some Aurore Clement side boob), but next thing I know, I was fully engrossed in the story. It was the first movie where, when it ended, I didn’t know what hit me.

It was probably at that moment when it occurred to me: THIS is why people love movies.

Some people hate Paris, Texas. Some say it’s too slow. Some don’t like Travis because he abandoned his family.

I personally like movies that take their time. And if you don’t like Travis’ decisions, it’s not like the movie presents him as mensch.

In fact, Travis…along with his wife Jane…are presented as two VERY troubled people. From the perspective of Travis, he had to leave at the end because he was utterly broken. I would go as far as to say that Travis’ entire existence consists of (unintentionally) ruining people’s lives.

This film is not only about Travis trying to reunite his wife and child (Hunter), but it’s also about ruining the lives of his brother Walt and his wife Anne who took custody of Hunter during his disappearance.

Another heartbreaking scene is when Anne fails to convince Travis and Hunter to return home, and she goes to lie down in Hunter’s bed. Even though Hunter wasn’t her actual son, she was still attached to him. And that’s the last scene Anne is in, never to be mentioned again.

But Wenders’ direction mixes realism with a childlike perspective (which resembles Travis’ emotional state) quite well. So, I think, that permits me to have a pessimistic interpretation of the ending: there was no way that Jane would maintain custody of Hunter, and Hunter would return to Walt and Anne with a better sense of his “real” family, which would likely cause further damage to everyone involved. Meanwhile, Travis, once again, ran away from it all.

Is my interpretation correct? I dunno. But that’s how art works.

So do yourself a favor: stay up late one night and watch Paris, Texas.

2051: a space monstrosity

To avoid alienating my audience with discussions on politics that are completely boring and academic, I’ve decided to make a return to fiction.

Once again, I will challenge myself by writing in a genre that I’ve never done before. This time HARD science fiction (if you know what I mean 😉) a la Arthur C. Clarke, albeit in first person because that’s the only way I know how to write.

And instead of descending into pure action schlock, as my stories tend to do, I will try to end this one on a hopeful note.

Per usual, I will be winging it and make no guarantees that it will be good.

“Fuck space!” I said to my executive officer while we were docking at Space Station Tranquility Bay orbiting earth. “This will be my last mission, so help me GOD!”

“You said that 5 missions ago, Bill,” the XO replied. “Personally, I love it out here. It truly is a never ending frontier.”

“Speak for yourself, Jackass!”

Dr. Sergei Jackass and I served together for 15 years. I was a military man. He was trained astrophysicist from some dump of a university in east Europe. We came from two different worlds, but together we made one hell of a team.

After our ship, the USV Jim Varney, completed docking maneuvers, Dr. Jackass and I were ordered to meet with Admiral Stockdale for debriefing.

“Captain Kananga, I trust that your mission was a success,” the Admiral said.

“Yes sir,” I replied, “the two years studying the black hole around Uranus was money well spent.”

“We gathered all the sufficient data sir,” Dr. Jackass interjected.

“Good. You men will have a fortnight’s rest and then report USV Carl Sagan for your next mission.”

“Wait a minute, sir,” I said, “with all due respect, there’s a reason why the Sagan is called the Starship of the Imagination: because your imagination is the only thing that works on that piece of shit. If you want to send me into deep space in that thing, then you can have my resignation.”

“Captain Kananga, I understand that you want to be on the front lines in the war in North Africa, but this is important. We need you out here.”

“What can be more important than fighting for peace and democracy?”

“Because this information is classified, I was going to wait until you reported to the Sagan. But I will tell you now. We have received a strange transmission from a planet orbiting Tau Ceti.”

“Admiral,” I said, “I’ve been on one end of the Solar System to the other, and let me tell ya: there ain’t no aliens.”

“Space Fleet Command disagrees. STRONGLY,” the Admiral replied, “take a look at this report.”

The Admiral handed me a folder filled with charts and graphs I didn’t understand. “You know I can’t read this shit,” I said, “I’m a soldier, not a mathematician.”

Dr. Jackass took the paperwork and was stunned. “My god,” he said, “Captain, this is for real this time.”

I paused and rubbed my face. “Tau Ceti is over four light years away,” I said, “there’s no way the Sagan could make that kind of journey.”

“The Sagan has been updated and outfitted with all the necessary technology for interstellar travel,” the Admiral added. “We need you Captain. Damn it Bill. We need you. BADLY.”

The Admiral extended his hand.

“Okay Admiral,” I said as I shook his hand, “one more mission.”

***

I celebrated my birthday while on leave. I was somberly drinking myself into oblivion when Dr. Jackass stopped by my London flat.

“Doctor, I don’t want to be lectured,” I said.

“All I said was ‘happy birthday.’”

“With all the heavy interstellar objects that we’ve spent so much time around, we’ve aged so much slower than people on Earth. I’m the same age as my son now! Nobody told me that was gonna happen!”

“Is this about not being able to fight in the war?”

I took another drink. “I don’t know doc,” I said. “I feel like I’ve let so much time on Earth pass. This planet’s gone to shit and I’ve been wasting time flying around space doing nothing about it. The resources dedicated to Space Fleet could have been redirected to fight this war. I feel useless. Old.”

The doctor poured himself a glass of Irish Whiskey. “Captain, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye,” he said, “but the exploration of space is Earth’s destiny. War is a machine of humanity’s past. It’s time to put childish things away and build a future.”

“Dr. Jackass, you’re an idealist. I’m a realist. We don’t live in the future. We live in the present. And presently I’m drunk as shit, depressed, and want to kill people.”

“You’re too short sighted.”

“No, I see the universe for what it is: a vast empty wasteland, void of any meaning or God. And if there is a God, he has to answer for creating this shitty planet. I swear.”

“I think you need to sober up.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

mr. bright side

As we settle into the Cold War II and the ever present threat of nuclear war, it’s time to look at the silver lining: we might get better movies.

One thing I miss from the first Cold War is character study films of the 1970s. They should make more movies that look into the depraved lives of ordinary people in an uncritical manner. I’m sure they still make em but they’re probably shit.

Jack Nicholson was the king of these movies back in the day. Perhaps the best example being Five Easy Pieces.

I’ve decided to get back to my roots and start building up my Criterion Collection. So I recently purchased Five Easy Pieces along with Paris, Texas (The only time I saw Paris, Texas when I stayed up late and watched HBO when I was 10 years old. It blew me the fuck away. I had a weird childhood).

When you have a toddler running around that gets PISSED if you watch anything other than Blippi, it’s hard to find time to watch these movies. But I got far enough into Five Easy Pieces to watch one of my favorite scenes in film history: Sally Strothers’ random heartbreaking monologue on being forsaken by God.

The essay pamphlet that accompanies the Five Easy Pieces blu ray is pretty good. Apparently this early 70s state of being, where everyone’s fucked-upness was a given…and people talked while others listened…is an existence that’s no longer.

So it’s refreshing to look back at a time that was no less deranged, but far less judgmental.

“bitcher”: where free speach is MANDATORY

All the political ideologues claim they want to protect free speech. Well now’s the time to put their money where their mouth is.

Twitter’s a dumpster fire.

So allow me to introduce you to new kind of free speech platform: Bitcher.

Clearly I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet. Nor have I set up a website. Any Big Tech billionaire can take (or steal, if you prefer) this idea.

But here’s the general concept:

-For every Bitch (equivalent to a “Tweet”), there is NO character MAXIMUM. Only a character MINIMUM (which would greatly exceed the character maximum on Twitter). The idea being that participants MUST present a well reasoned Bitch. If any poster tries to cheat the system by circumventing the character minimum (i.e by stringing together random words and letters, or by typing something like “penis penis penis,” etc) then that Bitch will be flagged and removed and the poster will be suspended for a brief period.

-Each Bitch must have at least ONE hyperlink to an external source that is relevant to its subject. To submit a reply, the poster MUST click on the link. Replies don’t have to provide links, but must meet the character minimum.

-If a reply also presents an external link that’s relevant to the subject, the OP MUST respond within a given timeframe (ex: 48 hours). If there are an excessive amount of replies that fit this criteria, a minimum amount of replies from the OP will be set (ex: 5). Failure from the OP to reply will result in a temporary suspension.

-Name calling and obscene language ARE permitted. (Terroristic threatening and harassment are not)

-It will be highly encouraged on the platform to belittle and name call any politico on Twitter that has yet to join Bitcher (within the bounds of reason, of course). If they are interested in free speech, then they should have the courage to join Bitcher.

-It is my belief that the format of Twitter encourages snark, sarcasm, dunking, and just general stupidity with its character limitations. By setting a high character MINIMUM, hopefully this will minimize the effectiveness of those acts by FORCING the participant to engage thoroughly.

So you want free speech? Here’s your chance:

Bitcher: Where Free Speech is MANDATORY