It was my wife who first pointed out the similarities between Ryan Air’s business practices and the shady dealings of time share pitchmen/hostage takers. Once I begun shifting through the grainy, overexposed, somehow Dali-esqe memories I have of those flights, I knew that she was right. The similarities are obvious; get a great vacation (or at least to your vacation destination) for a ridiculously cheap price in exchange for a few hours of your time. Sure you’ll suffer a little annoyance and inconvenience, maybe have to deal with an obnoxious salesperson or two but then you’re done. –Just like with a time share.
I think you’ll appreciate the subtle nuances in the similarities between the two situations. I find them quietly charming.
Once Ryan Air begins the boarding process it’s all about people herding. They make you stand in line for an hour, narrow the lanes with those little vinyl ropes and plastic poles, make you move up fourteen feet, cull the herd by picking off a few of the lame or elderly, narrow the lanes again then move you up seven feet while glaring and swearing at you and occasionally stabbing you with an electrified cattle prod. I believe that this is done purely to assert their dominance as the alpha class and loosen your resistance to utter, soul crushing domination. They basically just make you their bitch.
Once you’re allowed to board you have to present your thrice shredded ticket to the First Steward who then rips it from your trembling fingers and throws it to the ground while turning his pant pocket inside out. This you must hold submissively while you are escorted to your seat and while the other attendants jeer, whistle and spit at you. From this point on you will be not be able to move about the cabin without your ‘sponsor attendant.’ I saw one man attempt to disregard this rule to take his young son to the restroom and the resulting beat down/anal gang rape, while sickening and horrifying, did serve to present a lesson. After all, rules are rules.
Once you’re allowed to claim your seat, you’ll enjoy a brief moment of peace during takeoff. This may lull you into a false sense of security and when you’re offered coffee you may stupidly accept. If so, the stewardess will promptly pour tar flavored battery acid in your cup/lap and then demand $2.50 with a malicious cackle. From this point on, it’s on and poppin’ like a Redenbacher with a cheap crack pipe. Every time you allow yourself to let down your guard and relax another demonic attendant will appear with the rustle of blue polyester and the smell of hair spray and spermicide, either to humiliate you with unprovoked violence or to bully you into buying one of their endless wares.
They start out with the $2.50 ‘complimentary coffee’ then proceed to $5 hot dogs and burgers. Then comes the alcohol cart and this has the exact effect you’d think it would in such an unpredictable and dangerous environment. Like a fucking match in a meth lab. Then they tease any and all children with toys until the parents finally relent and buy a Chinese made, lead painted, Dora the Explorer for the price that would actually buy a Mexican child. Then they hawk perfume, cosmetics, clothing, jewelry, cigarettes that don’t smoke, cigars that won’t light and then follow that up by throwing all the leftover wine on you so they can sell you the wet wipes to clean it up.
They already charge a luggage fee, a seat tax and rumor has it that they are contemplating charging for use of the restrooms and cabin oxygen, both being purely optional of course. During my last flight I was lucky enough to get in the shitter before it became a premium service and once I latched the door another sadistic stewardess popped down from the ceiling and cut lines of coke and ecstasy on the sink and fixed a rig with junk in case I was in the mood for a little recreational heroin.
AND THAT’S HOW THEY FUCKING GET YOU!
After I’m floating in a narcotic induced utopia I always seem to devolve into frenzied consumerism, opting for both the blow job and the tied twins while paying to watch midgets beat hookers with dead salmon in the engine room and before I know it I’m spending money hand over foot… no, no, shit, that was a knee, the knee of a dead fucking midget and everything has just gone to hell and now I bought the fucking scratch off too… shit.
Just like a god damned time share pitch thing.
-In hindsight I realize that I wasn’t qualified to quantify that comparison since I’ve never actually experienced a time share meeting and only have the vaguest notion of what it would be like. I guess I just assumed that it is a drug and sex filled orgy in a maximum security prison atmosphere and where annoying, androgynous yet abusive types try to sell you hot dogs and scratch off lottery tickets plus or minus a few dead midget prostitutes.
Update: I’ve been informed that time share pitch meetings usually end with more dead midget prostitutes.
Update X2: I’ve been informed that you apparently can NOT buy actual Mexican children on board.
Update X3: I’ve just been informed that while you can not ‘buy’ actual Mexican children on board you can, in fact, obtain actual Mexican children but only for the express purposes of adoption.
I remember a big fuss over how smart I supposedly was at around the age of nine or ten and the fact that the hoopla has died down considerably since then doesn’t diminish the sweet memory of the false sense of superiority it gave me at the time.
I was in the fourth grade and it all started with my teacher telling my mom that I was reading at an eleventh grade level. We quickly rushed out and had my IQ tested and when the results came back that it was 163 my mom devoured the news like it was a chocolate filled donut after being on a diet for months for a guy who just took his secretary, his fucking secretary, to Hawaii with him and had the nerve to tell her, just like that, about it. She held onto that 163 like it was a tangible thing that she could hold onto and maybe eat, because fuck that bastard and his slut secretary.
When we’d see old friends or meet new people it was the one thing she’d mention in the overly zealous way that Kato Kaelin used to drop his address, at least until all the unpleasantness. She’d say things like, “It’s been in the 70’s all week. Which reminds me, my son’s IQ is 163.” Or, “I’m so sorry to hear your brother died, my son’s IQ is 163.” She was never the family newsletter type but I’m pretty sure she found a way to add that magic number to Christmas cards and tax returns.
I was smart enough to figure out that I could get away with murder, at least for the moment; I wasn’t shooting bottle rockets at kids I hated on the street, I was testing aerodynamic propulsion theory, and when I accidentally set the school bathroom on fire, or got marbles stuck up my nose, well, she might not be able to explain why I did what I did but I was smart as a whip and that was good enough.
The 163 always felt heavy and oppressive, even dangerous, like enhanced uranium in the hands of country without proper sewage treatment. Still, I enjoyed the benefits. When I was in Jr High I’d barely have to study or show up and I’d manage A’s and B’s. It was then that I developed the atrocious habits and lack of focus that would have a far greater effect on my life than that ridiculous number.
About the time I discovered alcohol and drugs and the girls to do them with, my grades had started to plummet. When I actually put effort into math by only smoking one joint before class every day and found myself still struggling, the truth began to set in. I’d known from the start that there was something inherently wrong with a system that called me smart. I barely had object permanence awareness. I never even missed the X, much less was able to solve for it. But I’d eat the shit out of some X when you put it within reach.
As I grew older, people gradually stopped using words like brilliant or genius to describe me. Even my mother was surprisingly mute on the subject. By that time I was just the idiot who fell through the glass coffee table or the moron who set the bathroom on fire, again.
When Karen and I both took the test again, albeit online, I wasn’t even surprised when she scored a 162 and I’d dropped to 160. I wasn’t surprised because the test is flawed. This is a woman who can watch a movie or read a book for the first time every week. She has no short term memory (despite never indulging in vice the way I have) and little reasoning skills. She can perform her accounting duties at CPA level but can’t remember if she’s supposed to take 3 or 5 Tylenol for a headache or how to order lunchmeat at the deli. When she distrusts someone she’ll say that they have “an interior motive.” When I ask her if she’s ‘lost her words’ again, she’ll invariably say, “exterior… Right?”
I’m not one to point fingers either. I couldn’t put together an IKEA coffee table (to replace the one I fell through) if you gave me directions and a sharp turning stick. –I’m being told that I’m referencing a screwdriver.
I’m not sure whether it was all the partying or an undiagnosed case of ADD but I know now that I’m nothing special. Sometimes when I’m feeling inadequate or insecure I’ll tell people that I have a monster IQ and that I could really be ‘doing something’ but I no longer buy into my own bullshit. Whatever it does mean, it doesn’t fucking translate to my beautiful mind.
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…
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
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?
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!
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.
If you enjoyed this and want to read Part II, you can do so here.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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???
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.
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 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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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?
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 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
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
The Hype to Chuck D
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.
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.
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…