Because I have a real job that sometimes requires me to do actual writing (fuck that shit, right?), and because Walgreens has posted armed guards, Fort Knoxing my prescribed supply of mood stabilizers, so you won’t want to hear what comes out of my diseased mind today anyway, I present another chapter from my creative nonfiction masters thesis Silly Scabs. It was my very first foray into essay writing, and coincidentally, I used to use it to shirk writing new assignments in every new class I attended, so I guess that means I respect you about as much as I did the second string undergraduate professors that bought it every time. Still, it went over way better than it ought to have almost every time (except for that one crack whore that thought essays about flower strewn beds on the night of a young lady’s awkward carnal awakening were the only good kind). The result, which we should have seen coming really, is that I tell you assholes four or five dick jokes a week and call it a second job. The land of opportunity sans any modicum of foresight, that’s what America is…

(Clowns teach hilarious lessons, like: When you have a colleague with tard strength, don’t dress like his favorite snack. A proverb for our times, really.)

Chuckles Goes to Bermuda

(Note: before you bitch about the questionable politics and childish rhetoric, remember I was like 19 when I wrote this.)

America seems to me to be a difficult subject to broach these days. We live in an era where half of the American population takes its cues from Jesus freaks with slick silver media pulpits, and the other half can’t see past the wafting steam of its patchouli stank; and anyway nobody wants to be told anything that doesn’t jam a thick wooden support beam up the rectum of their deeply entrenched ideas, so it all degenerates into a bulleted list of talking points. Meanwhile, young, idealistic high school students are told they could be President one day if they just followed the rules, embracing their ambitions while swallowing them just enough to appear humble and, oddly enough, not ambitious. How is a young American man, presented with the inherent contradictions in the system, supposed to trust that his hard work will lead to success later down the road? In the span of two years, I believe I learned just where a lower middle class boy could expect to end up in the new century. In this anecdotal journey, I can not expect you to consider me a hero on par with Aeneas, but I beg of my reader to think of me as a young Hercules, who does not yet know where his youth and ambition can bring him.

Continue Reading…

This is a sample chapter from my Masters Thesis from a couple of years ago, just to prove I’m not all dick jokes and vitriol. Called Silly Scabs: Essays On Lechery, Smoking, Death, Life, Infection and Jurisdiction, it was a relativley successful hat tossing into the ever-evolving industry of creative nonfiction. It’s just an essay about shit that sucks, you’ll like it.

(No, seriously, I got things covered here. Why don’t you go get yourself a latte?)

Just Let Me Die

A lot of animals, in some Darwinian manifestation of heightened instincts, can sense when they are about to die. A lot of these animals, sensing the impending last car ride to the cloud kennel, will find a dark corner to settle in to die in solitude and dignity away from prying eyes. I’ve noticed that humans are that rare species that are seldom afforded this simple opportunity. So many times we hear of people dying in hospitals inhabited by thousands, surrounded by friends, loved ones, casual acquaintances, and the occasional gloating enemy with a handlebar mustache. Sometimes we even get to watch it on television; bonus points if it goes viral on You Tube. Popular forms of death throughout our history have included the public hanging, the lynching by mobs, and the suicide by crowded city skyscraper. Rarely are we afforded the decency of reflection and repose that most animals cannot even begin to appreciate.

I have never died, personally. However, I have frequently been in situations where all I really want to be is alone, left with my thoughts and personalized coping mechanisms. The most obvious manifestation of this feeling is simple embarrassment, if any emotion that feels so complex at the time can be considered simple. I have an unreasonably big mouth, which often leads to my putting my foot in it. One would hope that polite company and colleague relationships would allow for it to go unmentioned when I do, but this is almost never the case. Usually, my mistake is pointed out in front of large groups of people, and this generally leads to uproarious laughter at my expense. My embarrassment is compounded by my unusually pale complexion that exhibits the penchant for extreme blushing. My face swells and pinkens to the point where I look like a drunk Irishman, and when I feel the space heater that is my face plug itself in, my only thought is how I can escape the room. But my psyche is a predatory mistress, and I only feel the pangs of flaming shame when I am at work or class, somewhere I am obligated to remain.

(Don’t Be A Twat Monkey, Keep Reading After The Jump)

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Here’s something else you can blame Bryant Gumbel for. Ever since he aired his HBO specials, taking a look into the lives of athletes that viewers had no interest in or conceivable right to see, the Western World has salivated for more juiciness that has nothing to do with the sport those same viewers claimed to actually like. So screw it. Scumbag Style presents it’s first installment of a column called Sports Voyeur.

(Tiger Woods’ anonymous caddy and his bangin’ wife, recently expertly fertilized.)

EXCLUSIVE: Scumbag Style managed to get the only interview offered by the Tiger Woods camp in the wake of the announcement of his return to professional golf, at the Masters in Augusta. The media is awash with the scandal, and most journalists would have given their left nut for such an opportunity, but I have something better than a testicle: two. Seems Tiger’s caddy (who asked to remain anonymous until the most watched 18 holes of all time airs on the boring channel) has 14 clubs in his bag, but none that can impregnate his wife, and an interview is cheaper than a sperm bank, so… win/win/lose for me. The “lose” being I can’t construct a complete golf euphemism to save my life. I’ll leave that to CNN.

Scumbag Style: Your wife was great, thanks again.
Caddy: Did she do that thing with her knuckles…?

SBS: You’re damned right she did.
Caddy: Pretty friggin’ good right?

SBS: We’re not here to talk about how much your wife prefers myself over you. We’re here to talk about Tiger’s golf scandal. I did the bonkin’, you do the talkin’.
Caddy: What is there to say? Tiger feels blessed to have boinked so many broads, and could not have done it without the support of Buddha, his frigid, gold-digging wife, and all his little fans out there buying his name brand condoms he never used.

SBS: Sure, he’s a great fornicator, but what about all this talk about his return to golf? How is the camp taking it?
Caddy: You bastards in the media cannot get enough of this, can you? For God’s sake, the man is a sexual predator, not a golfer! Covering his many conquests, giving book deals to waitresses who got famous on their backs, inventing bogus medicine shows like “Sex Rehab” and then sweeping up unsuspecting Billy Bobs and Duchovnies in the wake of us getting our scandal fix: that’s all gravy, man, it is what Tiger Woods does in the public eye.

SBS: So, what you’re saying is that, just because he’s the most successful professional erection since John Holmes, with a satisfied forty-niner rating of like a billion under par, that he is not public property, and that his decision to play golf should be something worked through privately? [ed. Golf euphemisms are hard because those fucking Scottish bastards didn't know Americans would firmly establish later that more = good]
Caddy:  Look, what Tiger does on the links is none of our business. Thousands of men all over the world play golf. Is it really fair that his shortcomings be forced into the spotlight? Frankly I am ashamed of this country for latching on to his private life when all he wants to do is be left alone on the back 9, and figure this out with his family: Nike, Swatch, Titleist, and Cadillac.

SBS: That brings us to the next point. How are his sponsors taking this? How will Tiger make ends meet with just the few million dollars he’ll make playing golf?
Caddy: The man is just trying to be a positive role model for those who feel “hoes in different area codes” is merely a dream that will never be realized. Sure, the makers of the Tuggin’ Tiger novelty toy and Tiger’s Wood Cover brand condoms will be dissapointed, but he will still retain royalties from all Tiger Wood’s Preferred Personal Ball Washer units sold. The little pimps out there can count on Tiger to continue proving that anything, including marathon sex with women of all sorts of varieties, from waitresses to porn stars to hookers, is still as possible as becoming an NBA star. Even more so! Tiger’s message to the kids: Women can smell money and fifteen minutes of fame from farther away than talent agents. So don’t stop trying!

Tiger Woods Prefered Ball Washer: actually, just a Fleshlight shaped like a golf bag, but each unit guaranteed used by Tiger himself, so nobody complains.

SBS: So, never let something like something as mundane and unattractive as professional golf ruin your dreams of hittin’ more white booty than God?
Caddy: That’s right, scumbag. There’s always a way to overcome adversity like that, whether it be with the help of your wife and children, your sponsors, or your bang maid. But the worst thing that can happen is having the sensationalist media speculating and accusing, taking your attention away from what really matters: getting your dick wet. Worse comes to worst, you feel you’ve painted yourself squarely in a PR corner, invent something ridiculous, like say… “Golf Rehab.” Golf addiction doesn’t actually exist; I mean, who doesn’t like a round in the fringe every once in a while? But the media eats that shit up like some people eat Fruit Roll Ups for its nutritional value.

SBS: Well, sure, that will appease the masses, but what about the institution of Professional Golf as it exists today? Can it handle such a controversial player on its roster?
Caddy: Well, this is just between you and me – -

SBS: No, really it’s not. This is for a wildly popular and handsome website.
Caddy: Anyway, remember when Michael Jordan joined Major League Baseball?

SBS: Oh, sweet salty Jesus…
Caddy: Indeed. Ratings will soar due to his success in the arena  of professional whoring, but he will inevitably disappoint in the shifting of sports. Frankly, I think he lacks the fundamentals. Still, just like baseball, golf will continue with the support of the holdouts who pretend it’s interesting so they don’t have to talk to their wives for a couple of hours.

Sobering stuff, indeed. Still, there are some who hope – and I count myself among them – that Major League Doin’ It will find it’s savior, it’s David Beckham if you will, who will once again find some way to make anybody that counts care about a sport that seems to have no more popular steam. From the can in my office bathroom, this has been Sports Voyeur.

Is, “Insert euphemism here,” what she said? Or is it way too meta?