turning over a new leaf

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?

C’mon!

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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Jack hardcock: Christian detective (part iv)

I returned to DCI headquarters to check in the Chief. He was shoveling jelly donuts down his face hole and getting shit all over the paperwork.

“Can you believe this shit, Jack?” he said while shards of donut was flying out of his mouth.

“I’m a Christian, Chief,” I replied, “I believe everything that I’m told.”

“Take a look at this.”

Chief handed me a report from the Pittsburgh FBI office regarding a series of murders. I had to swipe away jelly just to read all of the paragraphs.

“So what?” I asked.

“The autopsies came back from the McGarth killings. It can’t be a coincidence Jack. The same guy killing all them hookers in Pittsburgh is the same guy who killed McGarth and our two prostitutes.”

“The FBI are a bunch of jokers, Chief. I wouldn’t trust them to find a missing cat. Especially after what they did to President Donald Trump at Mar-a-Lago!”

“Now cool it, Jack!” Chief said. “I know that you hold a grudge against the Bureau after they shitcanned you and sent you to Ohio BCI, but I expect your full cooperation!”

“Cooperation?” I asked. “The fuck are you talking about, Chief?”

“The Feds are coming to help us with our investigation,” he replied, “and I don’t want ONE word out of you! You hear?! Or you’ll be sent to Toledo so fast that you’ll bust your pants!”

“I already busted in my pants once today, Chief,” I said, “then I prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness. So don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“That’s it!” the Chief yelled, “get out of my office!”

“With pleasure.”

The FBI would not be getting my cooperation. But I couldn’t solve this case on my own. So I went looking for my good friend: local gangster Gregg Poppovich.

I found him enjoying a plate of lasagna at his Italian restaurant that he owned just outside of town. I grabbed his head and shoved it into the plate.

“Jesus, Jack!” he said as he wiped away the tomato sauce from his face, “you could have just said hello!”

I laid the .38 down on the table. “I need some answers,” I said.

“About what?!”

“Art McGarth.”

“I told you! I know what you know!”

I grabbed the plate and smashed it against his face. “Not good enough!” I yelled.

Gregg grabbed another towel and began wiping the blood from his face. “Is there something wrong, Jack? You seem a bit agitated,” he asked.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thanks for asking Gregg,” I said, “but it seems like the FBI is always up my ass!”

“I know how you feel,” Gregg replied, “it ain’t easy being a local gangster, ya know?”

“Unfortunately, they’re coming down here from Pittsburgh to investigate the McGarth killings,” I said. “I don’t need their help. What good has the Federal government ever done?!”

“Jack, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye,” Gregg said, “but if you ever needed any assistance, I’m always here to help.”

“Thanks Gregg,”I replied, “you’ve always been a good friend. So since you’re offering, I’m gonna need the entire Cleveland criminal underworld to help me catch a killer.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

Jack hardcock:Christian detective (part iii)

I unlocked the door to 12th story apartment overlooking downtown Cleveland. I threw down my keys and coat then turned on the light.

The local gangster, Gregg Poppovich, was pointing a gun at me. “What do you want with Art McGarth, Jack?” he asked as he lifted a stogie to his mouth.

“I’m investigating his death, Gregg,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Of course not,” he replied, “I just didn’t want you pointing the finger at me.”

“Now why would I want to do something like that?” I asked while I studied him over.

Gregg laughed and put the pistol away in his holster. “I didn’t suppose you did,” he said, “you’re too smart for that.”

“But you must know something. Or else you wouldn’t have broken into my apartment.”

He laughed some more. “Of course,” he said, “that’s why I’m paying you a visit. It’s neither organized crime nor police corruption. There’s a madman loose out there, Jack. I don’t know much more than you, but watch your back.”

“Thanks for your concern, Gregg. But I have the Lord’s protection. Besides, why kill McGarth? He must have had some connections.”

“Not McGarth,” Gregg said, “but the two prostitutes. They’re disappearing all over the city. I’m telling you, Jack, it’s a Jack the Ripper kind of situation.”

“A serial killer?” I laughed, “in a city like Cleveland? Never heard of such a thing.”

“I’m not crazy, Jack. I don’t believe in that silly God of yours, but I do believe in the Devil. And he’s here in this city. So you better watch yourself.”

“I’ll pray on it,” I said, “and I’ll pray for you and your Salvation. May the Lord guide you towards the Light.”

Gregg left and I took a shit. All that scotch and nicotine was running through me. I absolutely destroyed that toilet.

When I walked out of the bathroom, Sally was lying on the bed. “Jesus Christ, Jack!” she said while puffing on a cigarette, “someone light a match!”

I closed the door and loosened my tie. “You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” I said. “What are you doing here? I should really change the locks to this place.”

“Just paying you a visit,” she replied while hiking up her skirt to expose her gorgeous legs. “Have you found out anything about Art McGarth? Seeing as we’re both investigating his death.”

“His murder appears to have been collateral damage,” I said. “Other than that, I know nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Sally asked as she unbuttoned her blouse.

“Sally, I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen here. You know I don’t know what to do with a woman. I’ve never had sex!”

“I could show you,” she said as she lowered her shirt to expose her shoulders.

“No thanks,” I replied, “I don’t believe in sex before marriage. Now please leave.”

After she left, I straightened out the bed, loaded one round into the revolver of my .38, spun it, pointed it at my head, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

“Thank you, Lord, for always watching out for me,” I prayed. Then I went to bed.

I always sleep better after a game of Russian Roulette.

Throwback

This was one of my first stories that I published here.

For the life of me, I can’t understand why it wasn’t more popular 🤷‍♂️

Nice balls,” she said.

“Thanks”

I just got a new pair of truck nuts for my 2004 Dodge Ram 2500. Luciana Ortega De Navarro was impressed.

Luciana was the heiress to the largest cigarette manufacturer in Southern Cal. It recently went out of business. She asked me out on a date while I was sleeping in the doorway of her storefront in Venice. 

She had a thing for hard luck cases.

So I finally brushed my teeth and ran a comb through my hair. I put on my best Def Leppard shirt and met her at Il Porcellino, the finest Italian place near Marina Del Ray. 

Luciana wore a floral red dress. Her dark hair flowed down to her shoulders and her skin was as radiant as the Mediterranean sunset. She was stunning.

We shared a bottle of Molinara from Veneto over candlelight. She asked, “do you go to church?”

“I’ve been there before.”

“How do you feel about 3rd Baptist Church of Culver City?”

“I’ll give it a shot,” I said.

That Sunday, I wore a clip-on tie and went to church. Elderly people abound. They all asked “Welcome Brother James, isn’t Luciana great?!”

“I guess,” I said.

Services began. The choir sang “Are You Washed in the Blood”. The pastor waddled out from behind the stage.

The preacher was a heavyset man, obscenely flabby. He wore a flannel suit and lightly tinted bifocals. He asked us to take out our Bibles.

“Open to Romans 3:48.”

The parishioners complied.

“Now, my congregation, I wish to speak on god’s grace, his mercy, and his message to all the people of earth.”

Silence fell over the church.

“Yesterday, while I was praying, a voice said to me ‘I will bring forth your people as testimony to this cursed world.’ I replied ‘God! What does this mean?’ The voice said ‘do not worry, just listen to my commands,’”preacher continued.

All eyes were now glued to him.

“The voice said ‘Get up!’ So I got up. Then it said ‘take off your shirt!’ So I took off my shirt. Then it told me ‘take off your pants’. So I took off my pants. ‘Now drink your own piss!’ So I drank my own piss.”

The preacher began to move around the stage.

“It was at this time when I felt the grace of Jesus Christ inside of me. I leapt for joy! And I knew right then what I had to do.”

He then walked over to the assistant pastor.

“Brother Ted, please stand up.”

He stood up.

“Ladies and gentleman of this congregation. This is the future I want to bring forth.”

The preacher then pulled down Brother Ted pants, exposing his fully erect penis.

Gasps filled the audience. 

As the parishioners started getting riled up, the preacher continued.

“Do not be afraid,” he said as he held Brother Ted’s member. “Change is always scary. But this is the beginning of a new era!”

The preacher then shoved Brother Ted’s penis into his ass. The sound of clapping ass cheeks echoed throughout the church.

Women in the aisles were passing out. The men shouted “Amen!”

“Come here Brother Al,” the preacher said to another assistant. 

And the preacher sucked and fucked his way through the sermon, igniting his congregation into a titillated frenzy.

As we were driving home, Luciana asked, “what did you think about the service?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It was a little tame. Think I’ll just stay a Catholic.”

***

RIP Nichelle Nichols 😔

on being a lazy sack o’ shit

If any “alcoholic” tells you that it is easier to quit alcohol than to quit nicotine then you know that they aren’t a real alcoholic.

Quitting nicotine has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Sure, I got pissed off a lot. I cried a few times. Hell, some days I’d even stare into the void and ponder ways to kill myself. But I overcame it.

And through these trials and tribulations, I’ve come to realize something: this blog is a pain in my ass.

As usual, I keep coming across the same old solution: I need to stop doing so much.

Is life a race?

You’re damn right it is. I want to get all this living over with. But why make life more painful than it needs to be?

That’s another thing that pisses me off…why does it take so much for people to be happy? You’re breathing right? You can pay the bills, correct? You have access to internet pornography? What fucking more do you need?

“But I gotta feed my kids 😭,” you say

Or

“I gotta have insulin for my Type II diabetes 😭.”

Don’t worry about it. You know why? Cuz God provides.

“God will provide for my crippling gambling debts 😀?”

He sure will.

Of course I don’t need God. I’m much too powerful for that bullshit. But you do.

It takes real strength to admit weakness. At least keep telling yourself that. As for me, I have no weaknesses.

But the point is you gotta recognize your own weaknesses before you can start making improvements. And I’ve realized that my so called “weakness” is trying to take on too much responsibility.

So actually, I don’t have a problem at all. I’m just a too damn good of a person.

So say ‘no’ to paying your bills and staying healthy, and ‘yes’ to more drugs and internet pornography.

I’m just doing what my therapist told me to do 🤷‍♂️

anouncement (and thoughts on writing)

Hate to toot my own horn but 2051: A Space Monstrosity turned out much better than I thought it would. I also wrote a lot more than I intended.

It’s not perfect. Far from it. And I blatantly ripped off lines from various Star Trek productions, almost verbatim, because I’m a shameless hack.

But I’m getting closer to being able to tell stories the way I want to: where I create a plot on the fly by establishing a rhythm and hitting the story beats. If you do a few setups and meet the payoffs in any ridiculous way you can, BAM…you have yourself a story.

Maybe not a GOOD story, but a story nonetheless.

My method is akin to Bill Walsh’s “West Coast Offense” in football: where players lack in athletic ability (or, in my case, artistic genius), you can make up for in precision and timing.

This runs entirely contrary to the way my high school teacher tried to teach me. It was his belief that that the secret to writing was in rewriting.

The problem I found with this practice is that my interest always waned and the magic was gone. Editing and proofreading is necessary of course, but frankly it’s boring and if I spend too much time on it, I end up hating everything about the piece itself.

It is my belief that art works best when it exists in the moment….when the artist can, however briefly, be completely honest with themselves.

So I’ve written a lot to get the practice in. And most of the stories are in fragmented pieces. Therefore I created a separate page to compile all these short stories.

…that is, once when I figure out how to get the page up on the website. Right now it looks like shit. I dunno 🤷‍♂️

I’ll get it figured out.

That is all.

a quiet life (part II)

Guys, I don’t know.

I’m beginning to think we need a villain, a hero, and a plot to make a good story.

But we’ll see where this goes…

***

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.

TO BE CONTINUED