Interview with the Gypsy
I apologize for the repost but this is one of my favorites of all time. And this is new to some of you anyway. And for those of you loyalists who have read this before, consider this a reward for sticking with me for all these years. Next time I’ll buy you Isotoners. I’ve been slacking off lately due to a *found* bushel of opium. (I didn’t know it came in bushel form either until last month.) Starting this week though, I’m rededicating myself to writing while beginning a long and arduous detox.
So enjoy this Crazy Ass Gypsy Post…
Part I
I met her on a narrow winding street surrounded by tidy whitewashed homes, but there was nothing tidy, narrow, or white-washed about this woman.
I’ve done it! Through persistence, 8 cardboard boxes of wine, 1 pack of roll up cigarettes, 7 euros, and an old pair of boxer shorts I was finally able to begin to chronicle the Gypsy life. For the purposes of simplicity and duplicity I have translated this interview from its original format of her speaking broken English and me speaking broken Spanish to something resembling coherence. So now, in the proud tradition of Frost/Nixon, Larry King/Tony Blair, Howard Stern/Crackhead Bob; I give to you….. Oglesby/Crazy Ass Gypsy Lady…..
G.L.- Do you got a cigarette?
Me- Yea, I’ll buy you a pack of roll ups if you talk to me for a minute.
G.L.- I want to drink something too then. And not no goddamn water.
Me- Ok, I’ll buy you a box of wine.
At this point there was much celebrating in the form of hand kissing, dancing, and suggestive hip thrusts. After I bought her the wine I pulled out my camera to get her photo…
G.L.- Oooh, oooh, shiny thing, give me, give me??
Me- No, get off of me. Stand back there, I want to take your picture.
G.L.- Can I have a euro?
Me- Yes, now stand still and get your hands out of your pants.
After capturing her image on the ‘evil shiny soul catcher,’ we found a nice spot in the park for me to sit down and type, and for her to endlessly pace, smoke, drink, shoot-up some smack, smoke some crack, and scream insults at passing tourists. After I was able to calm her with another euro, we began again.
Me- Can you please state your name for the record
G.L.- Blearaphariemooshhhhhhh.
Me- Ok, I’ll just call you Crazy Ass Gypsy Lady, or G.L. for short. Ok?
G.L.- Buy me more wine?
Me- In a little while.
G.L.- You Goddamned mother fucker.… yes yes.
Me- How old are you?
G.L.- 29.
Me- What? You can’t be.
G.L.- Coke miles ain’t easy miles, white boy.
Me- I guess we’ll skip the personal information for now. Can you tell me anything interesting?
G.L.- I’m the hottest bitch on the block white boy, wanna fuck?……….. Hey, why are you throwing up and stabbing at your eyes and poking sticks into your ears? Are you ok? Do you need some brown mother fucker?
Me- No, no (calming down) I’m fine, I just must have eaten something.
G.L.- Oh yea, that happens to me everyday. I thought I was funny.
Me- What can you tell me about Gypsies? Do you have any family legends or lore?
G.L- Well, one legend states that we were forever cursed because we made Christ’s crucifixion nails. But that’s a load of horseshit! The truth is that we stole one of the four nails that were used to crucify him.
Me- Wait are you saying that you are a 2000 year old vampire?
G.L.- What are you, fucked up? You’re in the wrong ‘Interview.’ Stay with me here white boy!
Me- Sorry.
G.L.- That’s why Christ had both feet stuck with one nail. The truth is we didn’t do it out of mercy; the nails were made out of olive wood, which were really handy for stabbing relatives back then. Anyway, because we spared Christ that one painful nail, God bestowed upon us the blessed ability to be the best thieves in the world.
Me- But you always get caught. Old, half blind, drunken shop owners have kicked you out of every store in Europe.
G.L- Fuck you white boy. Buy me some wine. Please mother fucker?
Me- After one more tale.
G.L.- This wine is getting my womanly juices flowing!
Me- I’ll give you a euro if you just tell me why the Bulgarians have a country and a church and you don’t?
G.L.- Hell yea! At one time there was a country in which the Bulgarians and the Gypsies lived. The Bulgarians built a church and the gypsies built another one. The Bulgarians made their church out of gold. We made our church out of cheese. Time passed. The gypsies were wandering incessantly, and hunger gripped us. We did not have anything to eat…. so we began to eat the church. One Gypsy took a slice, and then another… We ended up without a church. For that reason we do not have church, because we ate it. The Bulgarians have one, but we don’t. We do not have a state either. We do not have anything.
Me- Ooh don’t forget your God bestowed talent for thievery.
G.L.- Fuck you.
Me.- No really, you guys are like Satan. The greatest trick you ever pulled was making the world think you didn’t steal.
G.L.- Fuck you, I’m getting mad.
Me- Cause nobody would ever think that a gypsy would steal anything. I’ll bet the shop owners ask you to lock up for them every night huh? Cause you guys are so trustworthy and all?
After she pulled out a knife I changed the subject back to the cheesy church.
Me- Wait, you made a church out of cheese?
G.L.- We’ve always been a bit eccentric. We like cheese, plus we like to horde shit. This was like stabbing two relatives with one knife. Smart huh?
Me- What kind of church was it? Romano Catholic? Christ of the Ubriaco? Saint Paulin? Protestant Pepper Jack? Anglican Acorn? I’ll bet the Marble marble Saints kept the Munster out! Jajajajaja. You guys should have made it out of Swiss; then it would have been really holy.
G.L.- You are seriously a fucking idiot. My IQ is like 48, I’m strung out on smack, I’m drunk; and I still know how lame you are. What’s next in your comedic repartee, knock knock jokes? Jackass.
Me- Uh, sorry. Do you want to finish this tomorrow?
G.L.- Yea, because you suck. Buy me some wine. Mother fucker.
The End
If you enjoyed this and want to read Part II, you can do so here.
Overheard in New Hampshire
Dunning-Kruger-What?
Guy Who Looks Like That Guy in the Irish Spring Soap Commercial: If you looked up the Dunning-Kruger effect in the encyclopedia there would be a photo of Sarah Palin.
Amazingly Hot White Girl Wearing a Funny Hat, Like the Kind the Stoners Wear: I know, right? Then there would totally be a picture of some overweight mid-western truck driver and his wife, and they’d be standing in front of their gun rack and you’d see Glenn Beck on their TV in the background.
Guy Who Looks Like That Guy in the Irish Spring Soap Commercial: Yea. Fuck yea.
Amazingly Hot White Girl Wearing a Funny Hat, Like the Kind the Stoners Wear: This hat is itching the shit outta my head, ugh.
— On the campus of White Mountain Community College.
Debbie Does Dover
Old Man in Fur Hat: I heard the Pattison girl is buying the old Hemler property.
Old Man in Flannel Coat: What?
Another Old Man in another Flannel Coat: Debbie? She’s 58 years old. Hardly a girl now is she?
Old Man in Fur Hat: She’s younger than me.
Old Man in Flannel Coat: I have to take a leak.
— Bus stop in Dover
Not the same Debbie
Tripy
Man in Bar #1: I heard that Jimmy Mullen dropped acid the other day.
Man In Bar #2: Yea, he got really messed up by that stuff man.
Woman in Bar: What happened.
Man #2: He was etching a new window for the Presbaterian church and knocked it off the table. That hydrofluoric acid burned his foot and calf up something fierce. Pity
Man #1: Shame
Man #2: They should take up a collection. You know, at the church.
—A local bar in Portsmouth.
Live Free or Die
Eckhart Tolle, Speaking on Campus at Dartmouth: You know, this state motto has always bothered me; it’s a false dichotomy. How exactly does one quantify the word freedom? And in what sense would one, supposedly, rather die than ‘not’ live free? For none of us are ever truly free until we are finally able to throw off the bowlines of physicality and set sail onto the brilliantly empty sea of death that can only be achieved through giving up one’s past identity as well as their stake in the future. This process will be expedited by purchasing my books and CD’s.
Student #1: No dude, I think it’s just a motto, like Virginia being for gay lovers or whatever. .
Student #2: Virginia is for lovers moron.
Student #1: Well, it’s also for gay lovers. I have a gay uncle that loves it down there.
Student #2: oh, word.
Eckhart Tolle: Stay in the moment people.
—Dartmouth
Not Eckhart Tolle
Politically Incorrect
Earl: Did you hear that a colored family moved in last week?
Earl’s friend: You’re supposed to just say black these days Earl.
Earl: But they aren’t black.
Earl’s friend: Well, what are they?
Earl: I don’t know… Middle Eastern I think.
Earl’s Friend: Jesus killers or suicide bombers?
—Denny’s on Route 6
Bad Juju
I must have jinxed myself and invited bad juju with my last post. I should have known better than to tempt the creative yet evil brain of Jerry Bruckenheimer. Since last week I’ve been hit by a literal shit storm. Before you people get all judgey- yes, I know what literal means. I was literally hit with human shit flying through the air. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
Thursday night, the night before Karen was to start her new job, we took the dogs to the vet. All we had to do was have papers signed off that they could be in the country. While talking to the vet we brought up the fact that we found a small lump in Luca Brasi’s abdomen last year and that the Spanish vet told us that it was fatty tissue. After *probably* blocking out the mental picture of Kirstie Alley’s extra vagina skin, our all American vet, while emoting perfect condescension for Spanish vets and all fools who would trust them, told us that he needed to check for himself.
.
I’m sure that Kirstie’s extra vagina skin is quite lovely.
After taking an ex-ray and finding a tumor the size of a baseball, Luke was going to need emergency surgery. He explained, in far too much detail, the risks involved in operating on a nine year old dog as well as the 50-50 chance that he’d have to call during surgery to tell us that the dog was riddled with cancer and ask us to put him down right there and then on the operating table. My wife went all Sophie’s Choice and told him to just kill me instead before realizing that wasn’t up to him and asking Morgan Freeman instead. I assume that our vet, Steve Sanders, was trying to punish us for having exciting lives in Spain while he hasn’t done anything since gradating from that stupid high school. I’ve constantly tried to reassure him by praising him for banging Kelly and getting Dylan off the drugs, but he just looks at me like, “I’m a veterinarian, not a fictional character from a teenage soap opera” but doesn’t say it because he’s too embarrassed and I’m all like, “Dude, have you done anything, like, AT ALL, since then?” but I don’t say it because I’m too embarrassed for him.
A perm? Good. A permed mullet? Better!
The surgery went well and Luca wasn’t riddled with cancer. Luckily Steve Sanders can cut up animals better than he can act. He got out the tumor and had to take out Bubbalou’s spleen as well. Unfortunately they didn’t save it for me. I would have liked to put it in a jar as a warning to other tumors of what happens when they threaten my family. Because that would be hardcore. Like, “See your cousin? He’s in a fucking jar on my dresser. And your cousin’s balls are in another jar on my other dresser.” Then the other tumors would all be like “Don’t fuck with him Essey, he’s fucking loco.” Because I’m pretty sure that all tumors talk with a Mexican accent.
That night, while still worried about Luke, we took Pablo Escobar for a walk and got caught up in a flash shitstorm. It was exceptionally dark and we were just passing one of the beach restaurants when we noticed 3 things simultaneously; (1) a weird gurgling that seemed to be coming from the earth itself- like Britney Spears had burrowed down into the ground like some kind of gangly hobgoblin, to smoke up my meth farm and got all gurgly and pukey (probably because my meth was rotten because I suck at meth farming) like that chick from The Ring, (2) that we seemed to be walking through inches of mud; weird since it hadn’t rained in a week, and (3) WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT FUCKING SMELL???
.
I needed a win. Badly.
Just as the shocking and horrifying truth started to sink in, Britney changed DVD’s and went all exorcist and begun spitting large chunks of shit, shit flavored water, and piss flavored shitwater at our legs and torsos. In those last few seconds as the broken sewer line/meth-ed out, demon possessed Britney spewed out the contents of the underworld, I glanced down at The Puppy and she wore an expression of rapturous bliss. Like Mitch McConnell might look while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia while being blown by Harry Reid while congress repealed health care and the blue states burned.
While Karen ran home, I ran to a nearby, random house with a visible hose and went all mean prison guard in Rambo on myself and the dog, violently hosing away the gross. Karen had thrown away her shoes, her only shoes, before coming home so as soon as I got home I had to run out and buy her flip flops.
.
Brit leaving my house. Maybe I don't suck at meth farming after all.
While I was gone and Karen was in the shower, The Puppy, still wet from her hosing and still euphoric from the unique high of human feces, chewed up a God damn library book. The one I was reading. The one I’m now going to have to replace at full retail value. I only had a one chapter left. The dog only chewed one chapter, the last one. And even though it wasn’t that great a read, my personality being what it is, I’m going to have to borrow it again just so I can read the predictable ending that I know is coming. So I’m going to have to borrow a book, that I actually bought, from people who will likely be all judgey and superior even though, technically, I pay their salary. Or will when they start taxing meth farming.
Update: Since I wrote this post things are bouncing back to awesome again. An old, old, old, (he’s really old) friend of mine, Ricky Martinelli sent me a shirt that is so full of Win I don’t think I’ll ever lose at anything again. Not even *New* Risk, or as the press likes to call it; The Mexican Drug War.
.
I got a win!
I know one thing; I’m never again going to tempt Morgan Freeman and Jerry Bruckenheimer. I think they re-did the Job bet thing. Staring me. That’s ok though because I fucking Won.
Duh.
It’s Good, Almost Too Good
When I was 8 or 9 years old my mom was exceedingly nice to me for an entire day and I never quite got to the bottom of it. I think it was a Saturday and the first thing we did after cereal/cartoon time was to go to Kmart (definitely Kmart) where she allowed me to pick out some toys. After that she took me grocery shopping with her and a good 25% of what I put in the cart, stayed in the cart, and that was a first. Then she took me home and cooked me dinner. This would have been extravagant to begin with but the meal was something I remember thinking was too good to be true. Probably something with peanut butter and fried fish or hamburger on cookies, caffeinated, sugar infused, melted ice cream to drink- and at this point I knew something must be up.
This kind of thing isn’t nearly as appetizing as it used to be. Maybe I’m just not high enough yet?
This kind of aberrational behavior went on in this unprecedented way well into the evening as I steadily grew more leery and disquieted by every loving gesture. At ten when she noticed that I seemed to be enjoying whatever I was watching, she brought me a blanket and a snack and told me that I could stay up and watch Saturday Night Live if I wanted. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and voiced my concern that there seemed to be a game afoot and that she likely was working on a nefarious plan to kill me or otherwise destroy me. Was this PB & J that she handed me laced with razor blades made out of cyanide and dragon teeth? Was she planning to sell me into Russian slavery, she knew that I was terrified of the Russians. Was she about to announce her engagement to that douche-juice, the one with the shiny eyes and the personal relationship with Jesus that he HAD to tell you about? No? Holy Christ, there is a God. Then what childhood annihilating travesty was she about to unleash upon my fragile life?
She tried to reassure me by giving an Oscar worthy performance by getting all teary eyed, in that young mother kind of way and asking ‘if I was out of my fucking mind’ but I didn’t buy it. She quickly shook it off like an aggravated goose coming down from a goose fight adrenaline high and we got past it. Especially since I fucking won by calling her out before she could carry out her evil plans.
Well, it’s happening again.
I’m rooting for Morgan Freeman being the God-like being in this production.
The Universe, or God, or maybe Jerry Bruckenheimer, whoever’s in charge of this thing, is being way too nice to me. Every. Single. Thing. Is. Perfect. The whole move: Cadiar>Madrid>Miami>St. Pete Beach went smoothly. No lost luggage, no shit covered animals- even after 15 hours in a cage, no hula hoop inspections by customs or their infuriatingly accurate dogs, no cavity searches, no arrests, not even any international incidents. That’s a first for me. I’ve moved and traveled for most of my adult life and this one was easier than a transfer from state to federal prison. Even the food was better. And there was a lot less prison bitch making. Which is good because as entertaining as it sounds to witness a prison bitch making, or PBM, it usually just makes you feel kinda uncomfortable, awkward even.
The first things that got me suspicious were the people. Everyone’s all, “have a great day now, sweetie!” while being all smiley and flirty and helpful. There are more scantily clad beach beauties than I remembered. My neck actually hurts from whipping it from side to side while driving. Also from where I got punched by a surprising accurate right hook thrown by a surprisingly fast fisted wife.
All that without one situation! Or Snooki, for that matter.
The roving bands of pillagers/rapists are no longer a problem since they’ve all turned obese. Now, when I hear their heavy footed, gaspy approach I just throw country fried donut skin in the other direction and by the time they remember to come back and resume their pillage/rape they’re usually too tired or heart attacky.
The apartment we rented was much nicer than I’d expected and even offers a water view. The kindly downstairs neighbor doesn’t even sell meth (yet) but she seems pliable should I ever get my meth farm off the ground. Right now the shit I planted is just kind of lying there. The apartment is actually clean and nice and I’m thinking about just staying here for a year. There are two beach bar/restaurants within crack rock throwing distance and they have live bands or music playing every night but it’s not too loud and only seems to add to the beachy ambiance. Besides, it’ll be good cover if I ever have to use a chainsaw on somebody in a bathtub.
The roving bands of pillagers/rapists are just off screen. Eating.
One of our surprisingly loyal, unusually helpful friends was able to lend us a perfectly healthy car and there weren’t even any dead vagrants in the trunk until I’d had it for a weekend.
Everything is, so far, absolutely perfect and that scares the shit out of me. What’s the plan here? Is my penis going to start dripping Ebola? Am I about to get caught up in a zombie apocalypse? I wonder if the zombies will fall for the country fried donut skin trick?
Hasta Luego España
I was originally going to put up a real post but then realized how that would have been disingenuous to reality. Because right now, in reality, I’m freaking the fuck out. After three years, it’s finally time to leave the peaceful, quiet village life of Southern Spain and head home. I remember the journey here vividly, arriving in Madrid, seeing all the beautiful women dressed in high fashion, the decadent nightclubs, the five star hotels and amazing restaurants and immediately driving far away from all of that into a tiny village filled with old people and dog shit.
But it is cool looking in a disaster movie kind of way.
We arrived in May of 08 and once we finally found the house we were to be staying in I was surprised in a ‘testing positive for testicular cancer’ kind of way. We’d just come from a beach house we were renting in Florida after we got lucky on a ‘real estate sale.’ When I say ‘real estate sale’ I really mean a crack farming venture that went well in that we grew a lot of crack. And then farmed it. So moving from a beach house into this, this… was not what I was expecting at all. There wasn’t even anywhere to grow my crack.
It was a redone ‘ruin.’ There were walls, mostly, and a ceiling, kinda, but not much else. The windows were wooden and hundreds of years old. There were no screens and dozens of flies circled lazily in the dusty air. The floors were cement. I walked through the empty rooms, shooing flies and half expecting to find a decomposing body or a secret chamber filled with snakes and/or treasures of antiquity. The whole scene had an Indiana Jonesy feel to it.
We eventually put screens in the windows, painted, and did other minor repairs and improvements. Not many, because I’m about as handy as an elderly Jewish grandmother. We managed to make it into our home and grew an inexplicable fondness for Casa de Cadiar. It did manage to keep the psychotic biker clowns out and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in. Which was important because that chick is violent. Somehow, I also acclimated myself to the rural culture as well as a weirdly awkward loner can become acclimated to anything. I grew to love it here. Surprisingly. Honestly.
They were my hula hoop drug ring rivals. And they were serious about it.
I loved the way that I could walk for 5 minutes in any direction and be out of civilization. Not only would I not have to see people but I couldn’t even see evidence of the existence of humans. After a five minute walk! I loved the pristine, unsoiled air. It was there, up in those mountains, where I found myself. And also found a kickass place to manufacture ecstasy. I loved the way that nobody here asked or cared what I did for a living or what religion I was. Which is great when you’re an ex crack farmer Flying Spaghetti Monstertarian. To them, none of that mattered. They only seemed to judge people by their character. I loved the way that I could jump on a 10 Euro flight to anywhere in Europe and find buyers for my new ecstasy ring. I’d begun loading hula hoops with MDMA as a way to smuggle it by that time. I got to meet a lot of nice people and see amazing places. And there are hardly any cops, anywhere. And if you do run into one they’re usually too drunk or high to bother checking hula hoops for contraband.
Spain, and especially this small rural village, has fundamentally changed me for the better. I’m no longer materialistic. In fact, now, I could barely give a shit, I’m much more relaxed and at peace than I’ve ever been. I quit drinking and smoking (everything but opium, weed, crack, meth and the pituitary glands of my enemies… I just realized that it would have been easier just to say that I’ve quit smoking tobacco) here amongst the heaviest consumers of sin in all of Europe. Whereas I used to be fidgety, anxious, and always thinking that I had to be doing something, counting flowers on the wall or blood feud initiating, or some other nonsense, now I’m much more relaxed and happy. I would’ve never had the patience to sit through a four hour dinner with friends without stabbing somebody in the hand with a steak knife, but now I can.
All that and we had the privilege of saving animals. I’m like the Mother Teresa for animals because I feel like it partially absolves my other sins, the ones against humanity. I saved kittens and cats and puppies and dogs and a goat. We are bringing two of ‘the pardoned’ back with us so they can try to make a better life for themselves by lying on our couch all day licking their junk. It’s the American Dream.
Tunado, Luca Brasi and The Puppy/Pueblo Escobar/Big Pappy
And that is going to be the toughest part about this move. Transporting all of these animals. Actually, it’s all going to be hard. I’m not a detail oriented person so traveling is hard for me to begin with. An intercontinental move with three animals may damn well kill me. If an angry and vengeful Flying Spaghetti Monster doesn’t first, I mean.
Even after we make it out the other side of the tarmac, it’s not over. At that point we’ll be balls deep into the badlands of Florida. The last time we lived there I had to defend my homestead from roving bands of pillagers/rapists at least once a month. I used to use their hollowed out skulls, tastefully under-lit with those Chinesy lights, to frame my lawn. I went through a minor Colonel Kurtz phase that was, frankly, horrifying. Those skulls deterred everybody but the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Those people are fucking hardcore. Florida is no joke and now I’ve grown all soft and feeble minded. I just saw that there’s a dealership giving out AK-47’s with each pickup truck sold and I wonder what they’ll give me if I buy a Saturn wagon. Probably a utility knife. Maybe even a tire iron but it’ll be bendy and made in Korea. Sorry, I’m rambling so much; it’s indicative of my state of mind right now. I think I got some hula hoop in my coffee.
- Buy now and get a free confederate flag!
We rented a one bedroom apartment month to month until we can figure out where to go and what to do next. I’m hoping to be able to jump right back into crack farming but I hear that all the good drug addicts switched to meth and I can’t grow meth for shit. I tried. So I might have to actually get a real job until somebody decides to pay me for incoherent, stream of consciousness, drug-fueled ramblings. Maybe they’ll pay me in meth so I can plant some more and try again. Hopefully this time it’ll yield a successful crop. I assume meth works like potatoes.
I may not have internet for a week or two but when I come back I’m sure I’ll at least have something to talk about.
PS- You know I suck at farming.
PPS- Do any of you know if I could bring six hula hoops as one Carry On?
PPPS- Can customs dogs smell ecstasy?
PPPPS- Do government people read blogs?
PPPPPS- shit.
Correspondence With My 7 Year Old Self.
July 15, 2010,
Dear 7 Year Old Self,
There are so many things that I wish I could tell you little dude. However, this magical portal into the past is only available for 15 minutes or until I get distracted by something else, which can be pretty much anything since I seem to have adult onset ADD. Which is entirely your fault for eating too much sugar and watching too many cartoons and probably also from the lead based paint on your walls and your asbestos ceiling and whatever organ melting chemicals are in that Smurf Berry Crunch cereal that you love. Just ignore all that, I was just making wild assumptions, I don’t want you to become a hypochondriac or anything. Seriously though, don’t hide stuff in that ceiling, I’m pretty sure it’s asbestos.
- Start applying yourself in school. You are not going to play professional baseball, football or basketball. Or tennis or golf or street hockey. There’s not even a professional street hockey league, dumb ass. Then, even after you mature (a little) and age (poorly), don’t delude yourself into believing that you are going to play professional pool, or darts or that bar bowling machine game. If you can do it in a bar, it’s not a ‘sport’ anyway. You are not going to play professional poker, spades, pinochle or dominoes. Lastly, you are not going to become a professional trivia knower, so just do the school thing.
- Don’t give Snowball a haircut and shave this year. Snowball will be angry and ugly and mom will be pissed and ground you.
- Take the Willie Stargell rookie card and the Roberto Clemente card and hide them in the ceiling of your bedroom. Do it right now. Don’t worry about the asbestos, this’ll be worth it.
Please save this card. Please!
- Please don’t ever start smoking or drinking. It’s not nearly as glamorous as your dad, who is long gone by now, but will be back when you are 13, mostly so he can borrow money off your mom, makes it out to be.
- Be extremely careful when you are playing the Fart Bubble game in the bathtub. You don’t know it right now, but it is, in fact, possible to lose the Fart Bubble game.
- Back the hell up away from the TV. You’re killing your eyes. And don’t listen to music so loud when you’re a teenager either. I can’t hear for shit now. I’m almost blind and deaf thanks to you.
- Do not date a girl named Caroline. Especially do not have sex with any Carolines.
- Don’t be in any hurry to grow up. Just live in the moment and cherish every second!
July 25th 1980
Dear guy,
Hi. So the future has lots of super stuff then. Do you like the Steelers? Do you drive a airplane car? I’ll try to do what you say a lot.
School sucks but I don’t have to try too much. Jeff Hagmier is a buttlicker and doesn’t even take showers! Everybody knows that. If I don’t be a football player that’s ok because I’m going to be a CHIP’s. That’s a California Highway Policer and I’m going to drive a bike and live in California unless they all sunk in the ocean because it’ll be Sandreas’ fault. That’s what Mrs. Edmonds said.
Snowball is white and has long, itchy hair. She’s pretty ok.
No because Timmy Quinlin said I could have his old Green Machine, 53 gummy fish and a baseball signed by John Candelaria for them so I said ok. Timmy and Teon spent the night last weekend and we stayed up till real late. Roberto Clemente is dead in a plane so he’s dead.
I think Mom smokes but it’s stupid and drinking is for bastard shiterhead. You didn’t think I know swearing did you! Mom wouldn’t let bastard shiterhead back in the house she told me.
I love fart bubbles. They kill or save my GI Joes. You have a lots of toys I bet.
You swored. If you’re blind and deaf do you have plastic eyes? What is your car?
Gross! I wouldn’t kiss a girl. I skated with one and held her hand so she didn’t fall down and I skate backwards too. I’m good at rollers and also skateboarding. DO you have a flying skateboard? How about for surfing?
No, I can’t wait to be a teenager because then everything will be different and it’ll all be so cool. Is high school scary? When I’m a teenager I’m going to move to the California unless it’s under the ocean and be a CHIP’s or a shortstop. I hope it’s not Sandreas’ fault and it’s all gone though.
These is the CHIP'S!
Will you please buy me a Blondie album and a Chipmunks Christmas Songs one? You can put regular records on fast and they all sound like The Chipmunks voices do. Teon showed me. I also want a Charlie’s Angels tee shirt, but the one for Charlie not the girls. You could send me a flying skateboard and other crazy stuff that I can’t even think of. I’ll love it. You should come back here and marry my mom. Does Fonzie be president or does Russia kill everybody?
Ok. Please write back and send me a camera too.
Holy Shit and Toast
Sorry, this isn’t really a post. There will be no fat, white Buddha, no black, kindly God, no Snooki, no Zombie Papa Smurf, no Shapeshifter Tara Reid, no Rapture Reality TV, none of that. Instead, this is an eclectic mash up of disconnected ramblings which pretty much mirror the functioning of my mind right now. There will also be a joke:
What will the Green Bay Packers secondary be known as after today?
Grilled Cheese.
Jesus, Mary, nor Pepper Jack can save you now.
I thought of that all by myself but I have no doubt that the national media will steal it and run with it. That’s what they always do to me.
So why the Holy Shit title? Two reasons; The Steelers! Super Bowl!! Stairway to Seven!! Holy Shit! Those exclamation points are all well deserved!
Also Holy Shit because we booked our flights and are leaving Spain for America on February 24th. Karen’s rat-like dog, Luca Brasi, is going in a little airplane safe, Paris Hilton purse-like bag which can stay in the cabin, under the seat. My cat, Tunado, and my Dog, The Puppy, Big Pappy or Pablo Escobar depending on my inclination and her mood, are both going into cargo hold. I’m just praying that Big Pappy doesn’t chew through her crate and start eating random mechanical parts of the plane. This is a dog that chews cement steps and licks the paint off of walls in her down time. Fuck Snakes on a Plane, Samuel L. Jackson would meet his match with My Spanish Mutt on a Plane. On some real shit.
There's a motherfucking Spanish dog on this motherfucking plane!
Before we even have to worry about her going all jihadist though we have to get the three of them from Cadiar to Madrid. I don’t know how many of you have ever ridden with a cat or one or two nervous dogs; but very, very bad things can happen. Usually they happen out of both ends of all three animals as well. After we get to Madrid, we’ll then have to try and get three pukey, shity animals somewhat cleaned up and fed in preparation for a twelve hour flight.
When we pick them up on the other end I fully expect them to be covered in excrement, vomit and possibly landing gear parts. From there we’ll just have a seven hour drive down alligator alley from Miami to St. Pete Beach. The problem with the Tamiami Trail is that if you stop to take a piss, you will be covered by mosquitoes from head to toe before you even undo your fly. Also you’ll probably be eaten by gators and/or stabbed by a Cuban coke dealer. That’s true of any road in Florida, honestly.
Florida is ridiculously dangerous.
Once we get ‘home’ we just have to pick up the keys to the apartment we’ve never actually seen and start life over, pretty much from scratch. Again.
Still, I’m extremely excited and can’t wait to get back now that it’s actually happening. Since the apartment is temporary I don’t even know if we’ll have internet. With the move and all I will probably be absent from blogoland for a couple weeks/a month until we get everything sorted out. Don’t worry though, I still have two more (real) posts (which will be funny) after this boring ramble.
I have a few questions for you guys now though, so this is the interactive part. (See how current, modern and hip I am?) Even though I’m probably going to have to either get a real job or go back to painting houses on the side, I’m obviously going to continue all of my writing. I’m still writing my book but I keep going back and forth between it being a novel or a looser collection of humor stories all based upon three central characters. I feel like, since I’m not known, my only chance of success is for it to be a novel. Or can I just do a David Sedaris type collection right out of the gate? Would that ever sell? I look at the non-novel humor books that do sell: Stuff White People Like and Shit My Dad Says and they all had followings before the books came out. Which would you guys be more apt to buy? Right now I’m going along as if it’s a novel but I can simplify it easily.
Also; a few people have told me that I should put together a short funny book about being American in Spain, the time I spent here. The problem is that I didn’t do much as far as integrating into Spanish life. I’m not sure that I did enough period. I mean, who wants to read about a guy who downloads The Wire and Lost and watches his laptop like a TV for three years. The only thing I’ve done a lot of is complaining. But that’s pretty much true to my character.
I also sat outside a lot. Crazy exciting!
What if I took a couple of my blog posts about living here in Spain, 10 or 20, and edited them and added to them. Maybe I could write a few more dealing with the major societal differences, some things about their unique customs seen through my American eyes. Describe how their way of life affected me, by making me mellower and less stabby. I’d keep everything humorous, obviously. I’d write a quick intro at the beginning and wrap it up neatly at the end. Maybe lessons learned(?) or something….? It’s something that I could do quickly and painlessly, that’s why I’m thinking about it. I could add some fantastic photos but that would drive the cost way up….
My question: would you guys buy that book? Not will you as my friends. But would you, as consumers? Would it be entertaining? And also will you as my friends? Like buying a date with an ugly chick for charity? But this wouldn’t be for charity. It would be for cocaine and hookers. Would you rather pay more and get photos? Is 50 or 70 pages enough?
Seriously, give me your advice and opinions about both books.
Go Steelers!!!
Song Letters
The Hype to Chuck D
Why don't you get back to fighting the power?
Chuck, brother man, listen man, I’m a big fan of your work, huge fan. You’re an inspiration, a force of change. You shone the spotlight of political consciousness into the darkest alleys of the ghetto and actually made a difference, touched lives. You are one of the legends of hip hop; you’re a fucking God man, an immortal. Sorry, you know I tend to get carried away. Subtlety is not my strong suit, but I speak the truth… at least this time.
All that being said, I’m admittedly still a little pissed off about your irresponsible and libelous attack on my character way back in 1988. I would have addressed this issue sooner but I’ve been busy with everything from Wrestlemania (Hulkamania was runnin’ wild on YOU!) all the way through to getting your latest president elected. Fear of a Black Planet no more, my brother! Why? Because of me, The Hype, thank you very much. And you have the nerve tell people not to believe me? Asshole.
This was a dick move.
I acknowledge that I’ve made my share of mistakes, sure. I’ve backed the wrong horse many times, literally, and I apologize for that money you lost on Barbaro, but I’ve never consciously lied. I erroneously stood behind everything from that baby saber tooth tiger fad that went tragically wrong 15,000 years ago to the Golden Calf to the Chevy Volt to Gingko biloba. Hell, without The Hype, there wouldn’t be anybody willing to die or kill for thier religion. Where the fuck do you think pearly gates and streets lined with gold, or 72 virgins for that matter, came from? That was all me. Do you think that your man, Farrakhan, would have got a million black men to march anywhere without me? Hell no. Even some of my cloudy mistakes have silver linings though. Thanks to my over exuberance, Vanilla Ice’s career ended prematurely. That painful shit could have dragged on for years without The Hype. It’s even working its black magic with Sarah Palin right now. I get shit done, bank on it.
I’ve been a tremendous force for good in the world as well. Pretty much every Apple product has lived up to my noisemaking. Without me, you’d have no politics, no religion too. While we’re on the subject even the Beatles and Lennon would have been forgotten by now. Boxing would have died even quicker than it did if it weren’t for my long lasting partnership with Don King. Without me, Public Enemy would have never gotten out of Long Island. I am what gets you got mother fucker, you feel me now?
So yea, you have to expect a mixed bag. Sometimes you’re going to be let down and the life changing unveiling is going to be a Segway and sometimes you’ll be pleasantly surprised and the event will live up to The Hype, like the 2001 World Series or Super Bowl 43.
Best. Super Bowl. EVER.
Besides, without me Mr. D, nothing would ever get done. Companies need advertising. Products need promoting. Brands need, well branding. However, my primary role is so much deeper than all of that. I am hope. People need to feel excited, to get hyped the fuck up about stuff. They need that rush of adrenaline, that amazing euphoria about the latest and greatest THING, to believe that whatever IT is, IT is going to change them on a fundamental level and fill that hole that eats at their soul. It doesn’t even matter if it never does. People need a motivation to get up every day. They need me Chuck. They fucking feed on me.
By calling me a liar, by telling humanity not to believe in me, you’re asking people to abandon hope, to stop believing in the future, to stop doing the one thing that makes them human. Without me, The Hype, the masses would just shuffle around listlessly in a gray, cynical dystopia. It would be just like communist Russia in the 80’s or the produce isle in a Wal-Mart in Middle America right now. They’d only be living to die, and as I’ve already pointed out, without The Hype, they wouldn’t even have an afterlife to look foward to. Do you want to live in that world Chuck? I don’t fucking think so.
I’ll be expecting a public apology as well as a letter to the New York Times stating that you now stand behind me and have full, unmitigated trust in all of my endeavors.
PS. Please give mad love to Flav, that’s my boyyyyyy right there!!!
Update: I thought you guys needed some help with this one. I grew up on this shit…
The Love God Says; It’s Ok to be Alone
I know that many of you are sitting out there right now, stewing in self-pity and stained underwear, thinking about how lonely and horny you are. You are probably daydreaming that a short Scientologist is going to come along and claim that you complete him, and that may be true, but only if you have a penis and are good at keeping secrets. All that aside, I’m here to tell you that you don’t need anyone but yourself. Also, please stop watching romantic comedies. First of all, they suck. Secondly, they are nothing but propaganda spit from the vagina of Big Romance; that enigmatic cabal comprised of Hallmark and the Evil Dutch Diamond People.
They are the Big Romance Illuminati.
You are responsible for your own happiness and you don’t need anyone to take care of you. I’ve only recently come to this realization myself. See, even I, your reluctant hero, have been laboring under the false assumption that I needed a woman to take care of me. From the tender age of 15 I went from long term relationship, to hate sex with a few beautiful losers, to that one porno gig, back to long term relationship, without ever giving myself the chance to play the field and have lots of filthy sex with lots of dirty strangers. Although I try not to have any regrets, I really fucking regret that.
Before all you ladies out there go and leave your husbands, quit your jobs and rob a pharmacy to impress me, you should know that I’m not suddenly single. My wife is just visiting her family before we move back. This is the third trip she’s taken in two years and these have been the first times I’ve been alone in my adult life. And I like it!
I can do whatever I want whenever I want. If I want to sit with my hand down my pants, fondling my testicles, I can. If I want to watch Ultimate Fighting at 9am, I can. If I want to cook an omelet at 3am, I ca.., actually that’s a lot of work for 3am and I’d be too tired by then anyway, so no omelet, but you get the idea. And actually my wife just ignores what she disapproves of anyway, but it is nice to not have to notice her not noticing me.
He went on to marry a hot Columbian. His wife went on to control an outlaw motorcycle gang through sheer will and ‘heart attack guilt.’
Although I do miss her and her umbrella-like barrier of protection against things that I’d rather not have to do myself, I have learned some invaluable lessons in these challenging times. As a matter of fact, I’m even putting out a survivor guide based on my experiences. It’s called Man vs Stuff You Don’t Want to Do. Here are a few excerpts.
-To not have to walk the dogs:
Call them both to the door and throw all their toys as hard as you can towards the downhill side of your street. If your street does not have a downhill side you can substitute this with either a treadmill or a sedative.
-To avoid hassle with the fireplace:
You need a fire in the winter, there’s no getting around that. It stinks to have to use fire starter blocks, newspaper and pansy ass twigs to accomplish this. A fantastic shortcut I’ve found is to add some Ready Light charcoal briquettes to the normal size logs. Now simply pour gasoline and/or lighter fluid on top of everything and Whooosh. For added guy-fun you can sit on the sofa across the room and do the flying match trick where you light and throw the match all in the same fluid motion… do you remember that? Throwing fire at your friends when you were little? I do. It will take longer but it does provide some serious entertainment.
-To not have to wash your hair:
Shave your head. It doesn’t look as bad as you might imagine.
I look like this now, only slightly more pensive.
-To not have to clean up dog shit on your terrace:
Simply place a piece of already dirty laundry on top of the shit. If there are numerous piles, you’ll need a blanket. If you run out of your own blankets then you can usually find some cheap ones at the local thrift store or you can borrow them from a sleeping homeless man. Just continue stacking and eventually you’ll end up with a blanket and dog shit lasagna. As a bonus, you now have a soft, bouncy terrace.
-To not have to cook or wash dishes:
If you live in a place that doesn’t offer any fast food or if you prefer to just not have to leave the house, eating will present the biggest challenge you’ve faced. After you’ve exhausted your supply of cereal, bread and lunchmeat you’ll have to move on to more complicated dishes. Although you can eat pasta and rice raw (careful of your tummy with the rice) I prefer them slightly softer. Place your pasta in a bucket (don’t use your pee bucket though) and get it as close to the ‘fire wall’ as you can get without suffering third degree burns. After an hour or two the pasta should be a little less crunchy. You can also place all of your canned goods by the fire so that they’ll be anywhere between lukewarm to melted when you need them. Warning- Do NOT attempt to open the can with your teeth because you don’t want to have to walk all the way into the kitchen to retrieve the can opener. You’ll likely end up having to walk all the way to the dentist carrying 3 teeth and spitting blood. Although…codeine!
-To not have to do laundry:
Wear your clothes into the shower and follow your routine as you normally would, only without masturbating. Lather up and rinse off and you’ll have a clean body and laundered clothing in no time. Now you just have to sit by your roaring fire and dry off. If you find that it’s taking too long you can try taking your cloths off and turning them inside out before putting them back on. Unless you prefer to sit naked in front of a fireplace that is surprisingly still out of control. In that case, knock yourself out.
If anyone knows a good publisher or agent please let me know.
I’ve done some remodeling.
Update: Karen, if you are reading this, OHMYGOD please come home. Very bad stuff happened but it wasn’t my fault, I swear to god. Also, my hair and a few teeth disappeared. Again, not my fault. Also the fire department and police want you to call them. Give your folks a kiss from me.
Left Behind
I was bitten by a zombie while I was sleeping a few nights ago and now I’m dying. Either that or a team of aliens raped me and blinded me with the light of their orgasm and now their botulism infected sperm is all awash in my sinuses, lungs and pituitary gland. I can’t even guess at the ways they must have violated me to impregnate so much of my body. They either have tiny, piercing penises or a really powerful sperm propulsion device. Or maybe alien sperm all swim like Michael Phelps after he’s had a bowl of Chronic and a bowl of Cheerios. How am I supposed to know? That’s why they are called aliens for Christ sakes, because everything they do is Greek to us. See? I’m also on a ton of cold medicine, as this ceiling fan will happily tell you. (He never shuts up. Or stops his incessant, maddening spinning.) I’ve noticed that cold medicine is a lot like 3 hits of LSD. Or maybe I have defective cold medicine.
Due to my slow, agonizing death, I’ve been unable to motivate myself to write my book, to get ready to move thousands of miles, to work on my blog, to do much of anything but read. Many of you know of my unhealthy obsession with people who are unhealthily obsessed with the rapture. My wife knows of this obsession as well and was enabling enough to buy me Rapture Ready by Daniel Radosh. The book is even more fascinating than the website by the same name but with a totally different worldview. And by that I mean they want the world to end. While the website is made up of paranoid delusional fucknuts who need a shoulder to cry on and a black president to wish eternal hellfire upon, the book is written by an outsider looking in at the alternate reality universe of Christian pop culture.
When I see that shit… I’m done with the Sudafed.
If you you’re like I am and have an insatiable need to understand the pathology that causes so many Christians to be less pleasant that a salt water enema delivered by a juiced up New York City Jail guard having a bad day, then you must read this book. Radosh, who now writes for The Daily Show, devotes an entire chapter to Left Behind, which, as it turns out, goes a long way to explaining the sociopathic nature of modern fundamental and/or evangelical Christianity.
Left Behind is a series of novels that focus on the post rapture world and are, at their core, a way for the righteous to get their holy rocks off by mentally masturbating to the suffering and deaths of ‘the rest of us’ while proverbially doing the Eddie Murphy ice cream dance to the tune of “I told you so.” What astonished me was the unheralded success of this babbling bullshit. The franchise, of more cultural harm than if Hitler had opened a hot dog chain in the diamond district, has sold over 65 Million copies and 100 million products. The seventh book in the series was the first Christian novel to reach number one on the NY Times bestseller list.
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It’s my understanding that the movie is even better than the books. I mean, Kirk Mother Fucking Cameron!!!!
Radosh then goes on to introduce Fred Clark of Slacktivist, who, as far as I’ve read, is one of the biggest, baddest bloggers around. Clark has painstakingly, over 5 years, dissected and destroyed nearly every page of the worst series of novels that has ever been published.
Maybe it’s my own asshole-ish personality that always wants to shout “fight fight,” but I delight in the mean girl-ness of the whole thing. The fact that I’ve never read the books doesn’t make the resultant carnage any less entertaining. Also, since I never went to journalism school (I didn’t know who to ask, what to study, when to enroll, where to go, or how to begin), I’m using this literary autopsy as a way to learn what mistakes to avoid in my own writing/research.
Clark is brilliant, compassionate (towards everyone but the authors), informed, insightful and, shockingly to me, an evangelical Christian, but I won’t hold that against him, especially since he is so adept at eviscerating that particular sect of Christianity that I despise so much.
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Even The Buddha frowns upon these people. And it takes a lot to make The Buddha frown.
If you have a few extra weeks of your life, and wish to be ceaselessly entertained, follow this link and work your way back as Clark works his way forward (you have to go through the blog backwards, unfortunately) through this hilariously horrible book with an unbelievably evil message: if you aren’t ‘one of us’ then you can fuck off and die while we point and laugh.
Rapture Ready (the book) helped me to understand these peoples’ ignorance probably better than they do themselves. But that’s the bitch about willful ignorance; the people who perpetuate it have no desire to understand it.
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