Little snakes eat their tails

Phukete Thailand:
I decide to sleep in until twelve. Fuck it. I deserve it. When I finally wake up its hot and muggy in my room. Roll over. Rub one out to the memory of my first girlfriend. The fantasy is foggy and old. Over used. My leather wallet has the same qualities. Worn. Torn. Little pieces of thread hanging from the edges.
Time to shower. Shave. Drink the rest of a warm Chang beer on my nightstand. Tastes flat and slightly like cigarette breath. My head feels better.
Stepping out on my porch I watch the river and the trees and the birds. A long line of Elephants ramble past. White. Fat. Filthy. Tourists. Wearing brightly colored hats and snapping photos with silly grins on their stupid faces. They laugh and giggle. Rocking back and forth with the awkward sway of the giant beasts. Their guides bang small sticks onto the Elephants heads to prod them forward. I feel sick again. This is what we have reduced these land whales too. Maybe one day we will ride Humpbacks and stab their heads with spikes to make them buck and turn. We will own them. We will own all. Dogs and Whales alike.
Drink another beer.
Cheer up.
You’re in Thailand kid. Lets go get some.
I head for the pool; which is immense and sparkling with blue tiles and small inlets. I marvel at it for a moment and then wave to the small group of crew drinking beer under the shade of large yellow umbrellas.
“Bapu! Where have you been?’
“We are going to see a fight want to come?” They are all smiling. Cheerful and young. The beer showing on their pale cheeks.
“A fight? Yes I think I could go for that.” I say, smiling warmly and shaking hands and giving high fives. We have a few more beers under the hot sun and then pile into a van. The drive to Phukete is long and curvy. Mountains and streams pass by the darkly tinted windows. I sip a beer and marvel at the small huts and the poor people that live in them. Some people live with nothing and yet they seem to have everything. Their smiles are constant and slightly irritating. Why are you so fucking happy? I turn the music on my iPod up and lean back. Close my eyes. Dream of a life that is better. Adventure. Sex. Love. Money. Scandal. Knifes and gunshots. I fantasize about something happening. Something dangerous. Little did I know… Baby snakes eat their own tails.
We arrive at the fight arena. A concrete parking lot that looks out of place amongst a world of dirt. Brightly colored tents flap in the wind. English tourists drink beer from clear plastic cups and make snide remarks to their fat sunburned wives. We make our way through the crowd and take a seat on plastic folding chairs three rows from the ring. The air is hot and heavy. Smells of piss and garbage. I miss the taste of sweet perfume on my snout. Drink a warm beer and call for another.
The lady boys are everywhere. Small skirts and high heels. I’m surrounding by women and all of them are men. Drink more beer. Wait for the fight.
The first fight is a small Thai man verse a large white eastern European man. They both wear red trunks, which I find odd. White tape on their ankles and wrists. The crowd cheers for the English man and boo the Thai fighter. Where the fuck am I? I hate this. It’s a show of blood and violence designed to make white European tourists happy. Drink another beer. The two men go at it in the first round. Grappling. Knees flying and smashing rips. Knuckles crushing cheekbones. The sweat and blood blends in very nicely with the smell of garbage and beer. I light another cigarette just as the smaller Thai man takes an upper cut to the chin and falls to the ground.
Out cold.
The crowd cheers.
I feel tired.
Lost a hundred bot.
The celebration ceremony is quick and is shortly replaced by another white fighter and an even smaller Thai boxer. The show is obvious and I am sick of it. fuck this. I’m going to find something real. Find me something that is not a show. Something that blows my hair. Something that makes me feel alive. I’m going to get into trouble.

“I’m going to go look around, check you fellas later.” I say tossing my beer cup on the ground and stepping on it. They nod and wave; their eyes focused on the fight.
“Watch out for lady boys.” I hear one of them shout as I stroll away. Hit the mob like a bat out of hell, strolling and staring. What do I want? The world is my oyster.
“Taxi?” I man in a dirty polo shirt grabs my elbow.
“Sure why not.”
“Where you go?”
“I don’t know. Take me somewhere with no tourists. Someplace that only has locals.” He stares at me with a puzzled look on his mug.
“Only Thai.” I say pointing at his chest. He shakes his head. No. Sigh. I pull out my wallet. Money talks.
I crawl into his sidecar as he starts his engine. He eases into the thick Phukete traffic. I briefly wonder where he is taking me, someplace dangerous. I hope. We head out of town for about twenty minutes. The city fades into the jungle and the darkness becomes overwhelming.
We pull into a dirt parking lot filled with rusty Motorcycles; in the distance I hear dogs barking. Hundreds of them. I pay the man two hundred Bot and then look around. Where am I? He points toward a break in the foliage and a long dark path. Yes.
My feet step lively as I head into the darkness feeling my heart begin to thump. Out of the night a man appears carrying a limp dog across his shoulders. Blood drips from a wound in the animals’ neck. In the moonlight I catch a glimpse of the face. He is crying and weeping quietly. Tears glistening down his cheeks like water splashing on a car window. It is the saddest face I have ever seen. More Dogs bark.
The forest breaks and a dirt clearing is illuminated by two single light bulbs hanging on wires. A group of screaming men with money clenched in their dirty little paws; stand in a loose circle. They all stop and stare at me. Sup white boy? I nod my head and join their circle. The screaming begins again and the money changes hands. The fight is about to begin.
The first dogs are scrawny little mutts that set upon each other with a terrible gust. I scan the eyes of the men watching; they are filled with lust like starving vampires. Spit hangs loosely from their lips as they wave orange colored money and scream. Disgusting beasts all of them. The dogs are bleeding now and the pitch of the crowd reaches a furious and frightening level. I feel sick as I watch the dogs. I want to kill all of these men and take the pups. I want to leave but my feet won’t move. I stare blindly as dog after dog meets a bloody end. I’m paralyzed. I can’t move, stoned on the blood and the rage.
I’m not betting and the energy directed at me is becoming increasingly hostile. Their glances are dirty and Thai swear words are muttered under dirty mustaches. The ringleader of the pack blocks my view and gestures toward the road. He has a small dirty pocketknife in his hand. My eyes follow the blade with interest. I finger my own knife and wonder if I should kill the man. Slitting his throat before he can react. His blood mixing with the blood of the dogs and soaking into the dirt. Nothing would make me happier.
I black out.
When my eyes focus again I’m being pushed toward the road. The dogfights are over and the crowd is scrambling back to the darkness. The smell of gas hits my nose. Turn my head. A child is pouring gasoline from a glass Coke bottle onto the pile of dead dogs. Glancing at his bare feet I see a pile of similar bottles; his feet are stained red from blood. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. The child looks up and our eyes connect. He smiles and lights a match.
The jungle. Dark and peaceful becomes an inferno of death and fire. I let the crowd push me forward as water bursts from my eyes. I am the man carrying the dog with tears on his face. I am the dog too, dead and bleeding from the neck.
Home now. Sit on my porch and down a bottle of whiskey and smoke cigarettes until the sun rises over the jungle. As the sun hits my face I fall into a deep slumber. Dreaming of glass bottles filled with blood. One day I will forget what I saw. Just not anytime soon……

Dirty. Deep. South.

I shouldn’t be telling this story. But life is too short not to share all of the seriously dark and horrible shit that happens to me. So here goes nothing.

I’m working in a small town in Alabama; shooting a trashy reality show about killing innocent animals. Crocodiles are not innocent dude.

I’ve been here for a week and haven’t left my crappy hotel other than to go to work; which is about thirty minutes away in some swampland. I hate swamps but love mosquitoes. It’s weird I know but there is something about watching a little creature fill its belly with my blood that kind of turns me on. Killing it right afterward is also exciting. You are crazier than the voices in your head. Fuck off schizophrenia.

I have the day off so I head to the local bar to get shit faced. The place is nothing more than a small shack on the side of the road. It has a sign that used to be neon but probably hasn’t worked in years. There are those machines outside that electrocute bugs. I stand for a minute, smoking a cigarette and listening to the sound of other creatures being executed. I wonder if any of them are my ancestors reincarnate. Finish the smoke. It’s time for whiskey.

Inside now. Dead animals on the wall. No beer on tap. Just whiskey. My kind of place. There are five drunken degenerates sitting at the bar. I count eight teeth between the five of them. Hello deep south. I order a double whiskey neat and start pounding away. Alcoholics are pussies and I am their king.

Two hours later.

I stumble out of that shit bar and focus all of my energy on the mile walk back to my crap hotel.

I make it two blocks.

Stepping out from behind a tree is a skinny toothless hick. I kid you not. He is wearing a wife beater covered in sweat stains and clenched in his dirty paw is a clear plastic jug of what I can only assume is moonshine. Give me some of that bitch.

I nod my head and smile at him with my full set of teeth. In my mind this is the funniest thing I have done in a while. My smile disappears quickly as he pulls a black handgun from his dirty pants and orders me to stop in my tracks.

He literally says, “stop in your tracks.” Giggle.

I’m getting mugged in the middle of nowhere in Alabama. Fuck sticks. If you have read any of my previous stories you know that I don’t react like normal people to being mugged. Anyone who smokes cigarettes has a death wish and if they claim they don’t then they are liars. I fall into this category. I spend at least three hours a day fantasizing about getting shot or stabbed or seriously injured in a plane crash. The idea of death doesn’t scare me. If I die I will be reborn as a hot chick with big tits or a blood-sucking mosquito. Either way its pretty much a win win for me.

Dude you have a gun in your face. Concentrate.

“Nice gun. Is that a Glock 17? Do you have the eight round clip or the extended Mag?” I had recently worked on a reality gun show so I know a little bit about guns.

His face goes from a nasty toothless snarl to a look of confusion. I take it he hasn’t mugged someone who has no fear of death and is all hopped up on Jim Beam. Or a fucking sociopath.

“Naw I just have eight rounds. Give me your wallet and I won’t put three of them in your fucking head.” I try to place his accent, it honestly doesn’t sound like he is from here. Maybe Florida? He drops the bottle of moonshine so that he can scratch his arm and chest. Meth addict.

Under no circumstances am I giving this piece of shit my wallet because someone whom I love dearly gave it to me. Someone who is no longer on this earth. Except in spirit. Or as a bug.

I decide to take a risk. Give him the wallet. I don’t want to die.

Don’t be such a pussy Ronald Reagan. Kick him in the balls and run.

My head is a battlefield of conflicting personalities.

“You look like you need a hit. Listen man. I need one two. You know someone we can score from? Lets go meet him and I will give you half of whatever I buy from him.”

I start itching my face and body, mimicking his movements. I keep my one good eye on his trigger finger. The other eye is too drunk to actually see straight. I am still pretty wasted at this point regardless of the adrenaline that is screaming through my veins.

He pauses.

“You do ice?”

“Yeah man and I’m starving for a bump. Come on man put the gun down and lets go get fucking twisted.” I don’t know if kids still use the term twisted but whatever. They don’t.

“You’re not from around here, what’s to stop me from killing you and taking your money?” actually a decent line of reasoning coming from a cracked out meth head.

Bypass. Bypass.

Remember fear is the mind killer. I still my beating heart. This is the first time I actually realize that I am this close to being shot by a man wearing a wife beater. Jesus loves drama.

“You are right I’m not from here. I just got off a ten-hour bus ride from Florida and I need a hit. As far as why you shouldn’t put three in my head? Why kill a random dude on the street and steal his money? And risk spending the rest of your life getting ass raped in prison. All you have to do is take me to your dealer and I will get you higher than you have ever been for free. Sounds like pretty good deal to me.”

I wonder if this fucking retard is smart enough to follow my logic. I watch him as he thinks about it. He scratches his face. I scratch my arm. Acting saved my life.

He lowers the Glock and smiles with his single tooth. I smile back with my full set. Again. So. Fucking. Funny.

“All right partner, I trust anyone from Florida. I’m from around em parts myself. You got your self a deal. I got a spot about a half mile down the road.” He extends is hand.

“My name is Billy John.” I stare at his outstretched paw of a hand. Wishing I had a bottle of sanitizer in my pocket.

“I’m Bapu.” I say as I shake his filthy hands.

“What?”

“Baaaah-poooooo” I say a little a slower and louder.

“Nice to meet you Bob. Follow me.” He turns and scampers off into the woods. It’s Bapu not Bob. Asshole.

So now I am stumbling through a fucking forest in the dark with a meth addict who has a handgun. How do I get in these situations? Fuck you alcohol. I run directly into a tree and fall. Cursing. He laughs.

“Watch your step. There is poison oak everywhere in these bushes.” Great.

After what seems like an eternity of crashing through possibly poisonous bushes we arrive at a nice looking brick house. There is a single yellow porch light and the remains of a Christmas deer ornament on the front lawn. For a meth house it actually looks pretty good. He bangs on the door. The smell of burning hair and deer piss wafts through the air. I drunkenly lean against the cold brick of the house. Maybe you have a brain tumor. Probably.

A small fat man wearing camouflage boxers and a dirty brown shirt that has an advertisement for some bait and tackle store on the front opens the door. He has all his teeth but is sweating like he just got out of the sauna.

“What the fuck you want?” the fat man belches as he rubs his balls. At this point the adrenaline has worn off and the whiskey has taken its hold on my brain. Everything is spinning and my body is having trouble standing up straight. I vaguely remember some conversation about buying drugs. I am supposed to pay for it. You spent all your money at the bar you big dummy.

The fat man invites us in.

I black out.

“He has the money. Check his pockets.” I feel someone rummaging through my pants as I slowly regain conscience. Where the fuck am I? I smell stripper. Open my left eye and catch sight of a pink bra. I reach out and snap the elastic band. Bad idea.

“What the hell, asshole!” the stripper screeches and jumps back. I chuckle. Sorry that was my fault. Jeeze JFK.

My eyes focus and take in the scene before me. Bears with no claws get killed. Toothless dude stands in the corner. Scratching his arm with his glock. The chubby meth dealer stands above me. A silver snub nose pistol hangs loosely in his hands. He cocks his head and eye fucks me.

“Who the fuck are you? Your too skinny to be a cop.” Gulp.

“I’m Bapu.”

“Who?”

“Bapu.” Dude its not that hard.

“And what the fuck are doing at two in the morning in my house with this asshole.” He waves at good old toothless. I’m too drunk for this shit. I decide to treat this dude like I would treat a police officer.

“Yes sir. I apologize for waking you and your lady up. This gentleman tried to rob me outside of that whiskey bar down the road. He wanted my wallet and I wasn’t going to give it to him. So I pretended to be a drug addict and convinced him that I would pay for all the drugs he could put up his nose as long as I got some too.” Truth. Sigh. Risky business.

“And here we are.”

“But you don’t have any money?”

“No sir. Spent it all on Whiskey.” Classy men carry pocket watches.

“What was your plan when you got here?” he crossed his arms and spread his legs. Becoming the cop.

“I didn’t really think about that. I just wanted to get Toothless Jones over here to stop shoving his pistol in my face.” Mister drug dealer laughed at my insult, Toothless Jones cocked his glock. That gun has no safety.

“Who you calling toothless you bastard!” I can’t help but laugh in his face. He goes bright red and starts waving his gun around in some sort of frantic meth addicted rage.

“Put that gun away, I don’t want anyone getting shot in my house tonight. It makes too much of a goddamn mess and I ain’t cleaning at two in the morning. Take him out back.”

The stripper pipes up from her perch on a dirty bar stool across the room. My eyes focus on her for the first time since JFK snapped her bra. She had slender legs, a pretty face and dirty hair. Not dirty blonde. But just thin and filthy looking. Our eyes met and I caught the deep sadness behind her fake smile and crooked teeth. Poor little snake. Must have had a tough life to hold that much sadness in her fangs. For a moment I feel bad for her. She just told them to take you outside and shoot you. Oh. Yeah. Right. Fuck her.

I decide its time for me to make my daring escape. I roll my tongue back in my mouth until I start to gag. Coughing and acting like I am about to vomit all over their dirty floor.

“Get him to the bathroom! Before the bastard pukes on my couch!” the stripper screams. I get to my feet and stumble to the bathroom. Suddenly I really do need to vomit. Blah.

The whiskey burns my throat in an all to familiar way as it splashes like a river into the toilet. My eyes are blurred and bursting with tears. I somehow manage to lock the door. Click. Wipe the mouth now. Time to man up. I turn on the sink and let the water run. Examine the window. It’s big enough for me to squeeze through. Take a deep breath. Wrap my fist in a towel and slam it against the window. It shatters with ease. I hear someone screaming. Hurry.

I scramble through the small hole, cutting my ribs on the broken glass. The blood feels warm and good on my belly. I fall to the ground with a horrible crash. Get up you pussy. Run. Run.

I head into the night. Crashing through the forest like a bear with the taste for blood. More screaming behind me. Gunshots. Something whizzes by my ear. Fucking hicks.

Run Bapu run.

Soon the gunshots stop and there is nothing but me and the darkness and the forest. I’m lost. Alone. Drunk. This should be a walk in the park.

Four hours later I find my hotel.

Ten hours later I wake up.

My sheets are covered in dried blood. My head is pounding and my knuckles are bruised. I stand up and with shaky legs take stock of my room. Looks like killed I someone. There is mud and blood everywhere. I take a shower and rub one out. My stomach bleeds pink mist into the water. I should get stitches but super glue will work just as well. I think about the stripper with the sad eyes. Maybe one day she will stop being such a sad snake.

Maybe not.

2011 stats

2011 stats

Made a drunken ass of myself at an important family function, twice.

Briefly dated an ex-dominatrix who naturally turned out to be crazy. Slept with her “cougar” friend who also turned out to be crazy. Dated a southern girl who had lovely hair. She drank bourbon out of plastic cups and was a horrible driver. She often called me Mr. Griscom in a Russian accent during Climax. Giggle. Amazing.

Fell in love 4 times.

Adopted a dog with my best friends.

Grew a mustache and got promoted immediately.

Spent my birthday with my ex-wife. Our last Hooray. No regrets.

Watched 30 Giants games on my computer and 3 in person.

Got arrested, puked due to alcohol, and failed miserably with on-line dating with stats that are relative to my last two years. (For specifics please see 2009 and 2010 stats)

Choked the chain 378 times. Got caught twice.

Illegally defiled the streets of LA with street art, 12 times.

Had a great idea 5 times. Two of which might have been original.

Threw crumpled dollar bills at strippers, twice.

Had a laser shot into both eyes and woke up 12 hours later with perfect vision.

Worked on six reality TV shows.

Saw my credit on the big screen of a feature film, twice.

Drank at least 3 gallons of whiskey.

Broke down and cried my eyes out, once.

Was left out of a family obituary for the second time in five years.

Spent Christmas alone with my dog.

Don’t remember New Years.

Some years are better than others. This one was…. You decide.

Jailbirds Love Cops

I suck down the last remnants of a half smoked cigarette; it tastes like an ashtray made out of elephant ass. I gag as the blue smoke hits my inflamed tonsils. Feeling the rotten stench of bile start to climb up out of my stomach I turn and walk away from my coworkers. I’m stuck at my job for another twenty minutes then I’m home for ten hours. Sleep. Sex. Pot. Booze. My list is simple and precise. I briefly think about what kind of porn I should watch when I get home, BBW or Hairy vintage cunts? Tough choice.

I turn in my walkie talkie. Give a brief wave to my boss who glances up with drunk red eyes; he has been drinking whiskey for the last thirteen hours. Someone will have to drive him home. Not me. I’m out bitches. Peace.

I settle into the soft and comforting interior of my car, Trixie. My lovable six speed stripper slut. I hit the gas and tear up the road. Toyko drift baby. Get some. I blast the radio as I down shift and speed through a turn in the road. I’m going home. Freedom. Ten hours of blissful, stress free, childish debauchery, Life is good. I can’t wait to do nothing. I can’t what for some goddamn peace and quiet. And BBW porn.

Whoop whoop.

The brilliance of red and blue flashing lights stops me in my tracks.

Fuck.

I turn onto a dirt side road. Quell those shaking hands and that trembling heart. Protect and serve. I watch with mild curiosity as an attractive female officer saunters up to the drivers’ side window of my car. You’re so screwed. I have a quick decision to make. To flirt or not to flirt. That is the real question assholes.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” she asks not bothering with a hello or a good afternoon. How rude.

“No ma’am, was I speeding?” I already know that I was but here’s to hoping.

“You have expired tags.” I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, I did know that. I’m super sorry. I just have not had the money to pay for them yet. But I’m working on it, I promise.” This is actually true. I really didn’t have the money to pay for it and I was saving a penny there and a dime here in order to get myself some registration tags. You should have stolen them. I watch, as she looks me up and down; I can see her thoughts. Brand new car. White boy. Malibu hills. Yeah you don’t have the money to pay for it. sure.

“I’m going to write you a fix it ticket. Get your registration taken care of and this ticket won’t go on your record. Have a good day.”

What a D in the A. I scowl as she drives past me, still wondering if I should have asked for her number or something. I feel used. Fuck it. I got vintage porn at home. Hit the road. Heading south to SmogTown.

Six months later. I’m working on a new reality show. 12 hours of stocking coolers, taking out trash, driving mini vans, smoking cigarettes, and flirting with the crafty girls. I have my one good eye on a cutie from Ohio and my bad eye on a larger girl from Wisconsin. They both have their merits and I am persistent in my pursuit. Neither one is interested. I’m in the process of telling Ohio that her scandalous and completely inappropriate work attire is cute.

“Bapu. Robot.” I hear my name over the walkie talkie accompanied by the command to “robot.” Without breaking stride or lapsing in conversation I start doing the robot dance. Arms at ninety degrees. Head on a swivel. Pop and lock. Ohio looks at me like I am out of my fucking mind. You are. I continue with my bad white boy version of the robot dance style. She turns and walks away.

There is a burst of hysterical laughing above me. Look up. My three bosses are leaning out of a window giggling to high heaven. Gaylord Fucker. This is the best part of their day.

“What? You never seen a white boy do the robot?” I yell up at them, smiling.

“I’ve never seen anyone do the robot like that.” One boss jeers.

“The ladies seem to go for it too.” Another boss joins in.

“You wish you had these sweet moves.” I yell back as I moon walk away. God this shit is embarrassing. Yeah it’s really bad.

My shift ends and I feel like death wrapped up in a purple picnic basket. Dead and gay. I crawl into Trixie and let her gears take me home. Downshift. Hit the gas. Accelerate through the turn. Feel the rush. Me and my hipster mustache are gonna ride this train all the way back to Dixie land. Baby.

Whoop. Whoop.

Fuck.

I pull over on a dirt road. Kill the engine. Kill the stereo. Fuck me.

I watch in horror as a female cop strolls my way. The same one? She grins when she sees me. Gulp.

“Was I speeding?” I ask, my voice shaking a little.

“Nope your license is suspended.” She says with such a casual attitude I almost relax.

“Really? I had no idea. Do you know why?”

“I gave you a fix it ticket a couple of months ago and you didn’t get it fixed.”

“But I did get it fixed,” I cry, “didn’t you see my license plate? Brand new tags.”

“Yeah you did fix that, but you failed to show up in court and get the fix it ticket taken care of.” She seems disappointed in me; like a momma swain scorning her ducklings.

“I was supposed to go to court for a fix it ticket?” Duh.

“Yes. Didn’t you read the ticket I gave you?”

Blink. Gulp. Blink.

I’m pretty sure I put the ticket in a drawer and never looked at it again.

“Um so what does this mean? Are you gonna give me another ticket?” Jesus I can’t afford this shit.

“Nope I have to take you in, please step out of the vehicle. Do you have any weapons I should know about?” Just an AK in the trunk.

“Wait! Your taking me in… like arresting me?” My head is swimming in circles.

“Yes I am. Now get out of the car.” I black out from fear.

I come to in the back seat of the squad car. My arms tucked neatly behind my back; the cuffs digging into the tight skin on my wrists. Kinda feels sexy. I wipe the drool off my chin and decide to man up.

“So what kind of music do you like?” I ask. She looks startled. Pause. Wait.

“I like just about everything, some country, some rock, a lot of chart toppers, actually.” Such a typical girl answer.

“Have you heard of the XX?” I have no idea what I’m doing but at this point my dick is doing the talking.

“You know, I have heard of them, they are pretty awesome.” Score.

“Oh yeah? Would you like to go see them? They’re playing at the Launch Pad on Sunset. I got tickets.” I can tell by the look on her face that this isn’t a good idea.

“You know it’s a federal offense to try and bribe a police officer.” Her nose has a very serious look about it. I wonder if that’s a common occurrence for her facial structure.

“No. I mean, would you like to go see The XX with me, not like as a bribe or anything.” Jesus. Even JFK thinks your crazy, Bapu. Wait for it. She laughs.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yes.”

“You realize I’m your arresting officer and I am taking you to jail right?” I fight the urge to black out again. Black spots. Blurry vision. Breathe.

“Yes I am very aware of that fact but I won’t be in prison on Friday so what do you say?” I’m stretching the limits. She giggles like a schoolgirl. Covers her mouth. Hot.

“Man you are a trip.” I black out.

I’m sitting on a wooden chair in the headquarters of the Malibu police station. It smells like lent and bad coffee. I test the air for donuts but come up short. This is Malibu dude. They are probably all fucking vegans. I look up and spot my “arresting” officer walking toward me. Her nose is serious. Shit.

“Come with me.”

I follow her like a sad little puppy. She takes my hand in hers. My heart beats. I’m sweating. Is she really holding my hand? We haven’t even kissed yet. I wonder what she smells like after sex. Mmm police sex. So sexy. I snap out of my wildly inappropriate daydream as she places my hand on a scanner. Fucking fingerprints.

Next up they take my picture. My arresting police officer stands just to the right of the camera. I can’t help but stare at her as they take my mug shot. They make me take it again. I guess you have to look right at the lens. Who knew?

Next she leads me down a long white hallway, concrete walls, red floors. Kind of reminds me of my middle school. Some prisons never change. A gate opens. Fuck me. She is putting me in general population. Has she seen this face? I’m going to get killed and then gang raped. She waves me into the enormous cell and slams the door shut behind me.

“See you later Romeo.” She says as she walks away. Personally I found that remark to be wildly distasteful and incredibly insulting but that’s just me.

I look around. Criminals. All of them. I spot the teardrop tattoos. The scars that look like knife wounds. The gangsters that live for days like today. Days when they get to tear apart some stupid white boy that didn’t pay a fix it ticket. I’m about to get fucked. Proper. I realize that I only have one chance at surviving this terrible ordeal. Time to be a badass motherfucker. I take a deep breath and channel the spirit of Steve McQueen. This is your only hope. Got to go for it. I step into the middle of the cell. All eyes are on me. Criminals. I raise my arms into the air.

“Excuse me everyone, can I have your attention! Yes! Everyone eyes on me! That’s right. Look at me.” I feel the cross hairs of shanks all around me. Take a deep breath.

“Who wants a mustache ride?”

Two days later I get a facebook message from a really cute red head named Ashley. It says simply: Meet me at the Launch Pad for drinks and some XX.

Great. Now I have to get tickets to The XX.

Jailbirds love cops.

2010 Stats

2010: 2 parking tickets, 1 open container ticket, 1 strongly worded warning for speeding. 60 days of sobriety. Went to one AA meeting. Went to 3 Dodger games. Went surfing 4 times, stood up once. Moved twice. Briefly dated 6 girls, all of whom I currently have no contact with. Got 1 chest tattoo. Watched the sun rise 60 days in a row (completely overrated). Played golf 16 times. Produced 1 pilot. Worked on 4 reality TV shows, 2 feature films, 3 commercials, worked on the Paramount lot and the Warner Lot. Threw up do to alcohol consumption est. 6 times (probably double that). Contracted 1 foot fungus that spread to my hands. Underwent 1 nasty divorce. Lost only 1 pair of glasses (miracle). Drove 2 hundred thousand dollar sports cars. Signed up for est. 6 dating sites. Went on 0 dates. Underwent 296 days of unintended celibacy. Still managed to contract a nasty case of crabs (fuck you karma). Caused 1 scene at a bar over a baseball game. Watched the Giants win the World Series. Changed 1 flat tire in the rain. Got stuck in 2 blizzards while driving to and from New Mexico. Pretty awesome year. Kinda. Sharks love candy corn sandwiches.

My Itchy Itchy Taint

Its 6am. I’ve been at work for the past twelve hours. Hour drive home. Sunglasses. Check. Rice crispy treats. Check. Fuck you LA traffic. Home now. Smoke some resin out of my pipe. Need to sleep. Crawl into bed. First order of business, knees bent, hand down pants. Scratch the taint. Ahhhh. God that feels good. Three minutes later I roll over and sleep till three PM.

Next day same story, except I’m on the couch falling asleep to the World Cup. Hands down pants. Scratch the taint. Sleep. Wake up at 3Pm. Shower. Scratch. Head to work. I drive mini vans and take out garbage. Restocking coolers I flirt with the crafty girls. I do this for twelve hours then I drive home. Scratch Scratch.

This is the honeymoon stage with my itchy taint. I don’t remember when we first got married or how it happened. You were drunk. But this is when I love you the most and the sex is great. I don’t itch at all during the day. As soon as the sun dips behind the San Fernando mountains. The scratch is on. It’s a never-ending mosquito bite and I love it. Wallow in the itch. Dive deep into the feeling of bliss as I dig my fingers tips into my flesh. Scratch. Sleep. Work . Scratch. Sleep. And Repeat.

I spend a lot of time hacking my computer. Killing the FB. Then I spend two hours winking at girls on match dot com. Loser. They never wink back. I haven’t been laid in a year. Not since the divorce. Not counting that coked out stripper from last month? Never happened JFK. Lies. I resolve to spend the rest of my days alone and celibate. Scratch. Scratch.

Working now. Standing with cold water bottles in my hands for the producers. The constant chatter of production drama buzzes in my ear. Who’s got a twenty on the keys to the Bentley? Anyone? Crickets. I giggle to myself. I start handing out water to people who have only just recently started looking me in the eye. Suddenly it hits me like tidal wave. Scratch. Please scratch me. Please. I look around; how can I get away with scratching my taint in front of all the producers on set? Your fucked dude. Pass out the water. Quick. Pretend to take a smoke break. Left hand in pocket. Push balls back and to the right. Giggle. Scratch. There. Now I’ve done it. Time to leave me alone. I go back to work; unable to shake the sick feeling in my stomach. The honeymoon is over. The sex is gone. The love will fade and the great war of the itchy itchy taint has begun. I don’t know it yet but I’m in for some serious shit.

I decide to wait a while just to see if the itchiness goes away. It doesn’t. Now I must find alternate solutions to this problem. It’s getting out of control. I’m constantly thinking about putting my hands down my pants and scratching. Not good. This is pushing the realms of my sanity. Assuming your in the slightest bit sane in the first place. I try not scratching. Don’t have the will power. Scratch. Scratch. My itchy taint is winning and I don’t know what to do. I consider all manner of diseases and rashes. I consult the Internet, scouring the pages of web MD. Nothing worth mentioning. I haven’t had sex in a year. Pretty much rules out everything sex related. Why god why? Scratch. Scratch.

I also spend some time wondering why the rest of my down town area is itch free. Balls. Check. Manhood. Check. Lower belly. Check. Everything is where it should be and feels normal. Scratch the perineum (what the medical community calls it) weirdoes. What am I missing? What’s the defining difference between my balls and my taint? Two look like the moon and the other a landing strip? Obvi. Think. Then suddenly it hits me. For the last three months I had been doing some pretty extensive manscaping. I had very little pubic hair around my junk. The only area left untamed was between my skinny legs. What grows on hair and itches at night? Jesus. Eats. Buttery. Crabs.

Fuck.

How the hell did I get crabs? This is ridiculous. I’m embarrassed. Scared. I remember reading a story about solders in the Vietnam War who used to douse them selves with diesel fuel to kill crabs. I briefly consider going to the gas station and buying a gallon. Horrible idea. Pour gas on my junk in the shower? No thank you. On the lawn? Possible. I look for alternate routes. Hit the pharmacy. Work up the courage.
“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Says the girl behind the counter. Cute. Fuck this is so embarrassing.

“Do you have anything that kills lice?” I ask.

“Body lice or room lice?” She smiles as she asks me this, I wonder if there is a difference. Also, is she fucking with me? Suck it up crab boy.

“Body lice.” My face goes bright red.

“Aisle nine on your right.”

“Thanks.”

Buy the biggest bottle of lice killer. Fuck you crabs. I got your number now. Get home, lather up the stuff. Rub it on. Wait for ten minutes as directed. Naked. I feel it start to burn and hop in the shower. After two days of this torture I re-read the directions. Apparently I need to shave. Great. Get wasted. Always shave better drunk. Here goes nothing. I shave my taint. Lice killer. Get some.

A few days go by and everything is back to normal. Then. Itch. Itch. Scratch. What the F? How hard are these mother fuckers to kill? No. They are dead. But your hair is growing back.

A week passes.

Oh my god. I have a cactus growing between my legs. The fresh spikes of my newly born taint hair pick and poke, scraping my legs as I walk. Every movement is absolute torture. This sucks.

Then suddenly I discover something completely surprising. I fart. Instead of going out like a good fart should. It comes blasting up and hits my balls like a hot summer breeze. Guess there is a good reason for having a hairy taint after all. I spend the next three weeks farting forward. I shower twice a day.

After two more weeks everything is back to normal. Kind of. Still scarred for life. Its wrap out on my reality dating show. The kind of show were couples are encouraged to screw in hot tubs and bang it out in showers.

“Hey Bapu, do you want these towels? They are left over from the cast bathroom.”

“Yes of course I want them.”

I go home. Shower. Without thinking grab a towel and use it. And the war of the itchy itchy taint begins again.

Fuck.

Fighting Britney Spears

The fog is heavy. Like a cold blanket that surrounds my heart and drags me down. I haven’t gotten out of bed in two days. Lean over. Crack open another beer. Slug. Slug. I see a flash of black ink on my chest. Tattoo. Fuck. Thick black letters scrawled across my rip cage. The pain was good. Woke me up. I went alone. Paid extra to get it on the bone. My tattoo artist was a girl with colored sleeves and a lip piercing. She was pretty. I asked her not to talk.

It’s Halloween tonight. I haven’t got a costume and have no motivation to do anything other then drink. Alone. At home. In bed. This day always reminds me of the recently departed “love of my life”. She hasn’t called me in the last week. A record length of time for her. I wonder if she will like my tattoo. Doubt it.

“Get up dick head.” My roommate pounds on my door.

“Go away.” I yell.

Door opens. My tall lanky roommate storms into the room and drops his elbow into my rip cage. Ouch.

“Get up and come drink with us, there should be girls at this party.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“You sound like my girlfriend, wear a suit and you can be lawyer with a chest tattoo. Haha.” My roommate hands me a shot of whiskey and a lit cigarette. Good friends. Who? This guy.

Get up. Shower. Puke in the sink, nothing but foam. Put on a suit that smells like the back of a dead persons’ closet. More shots. And we are out the door. There are five of us. My two roommates, Joey and Manny and their two girlfriends… don’t remember their names. They looked hot and sultry. I tried not to notice. Somewhere out there my X was looking hot. I wished she were crying in her bed. Alone. But I knew better.

We get to the house party. It is a classic San Francisco Apartment, small tight hallways with three floors. In the crowded kitchen now. They have red wine in yellow cups. Drink one down. Have another. Go down stairs. There are girls here? Wow. They are dancing. I stare for a moment. I’m alone. Not for long. A chick dressed like a girl scout comes and dances with me. What is going on? Girls don’t just dance with me. She grinds and shakes and moves. I sway back and forth trying not to step on her. Her name is Paige. Word.

Britney Spears walks into the room. The gay version. Some white boy who thinks that cross-dressing is cool (Insert inappropriate insult here). For some reason all the girls think it’s the shit. Dumb younglings. I’m out of here.

On the roof now. Smoking. Staring at the fog. I text a picture of my new tattoo to my X. She calls me back. Thump Thump this heart beats. Answer.

“Hello luv,” I answer trying to sound happy.

“Why the fuck did you send me a picture?” She sounds drunk and angry,

“I don’t know I haven’t heard from you and I wanted to say happy Halloween, I know its your favorite holiday.” I say.

“I told you not to call me, I’ll call you when I feel like talking to you without wanting to break your face with a brick.” I laugh. Fuck.

“Are you fucking laughing at me now? You piece of shit.” She hangs up. I wonder why I always seem to laugh when people threaten to hurt me. Its just funny I guess. Hurting you is.

Sitting with friends now, found some whiskey. Warm this chest up. Paige comes out and starts talking to me. She is nice. She laughs at my jokes. We are having a good time.

Britney Spears walks in. fuck. He grabs Paige’s arm and tries to get her to dance with him. I can tell she doesn’t want to. She lights a smoke and says she wants to stay outside. Britney Spears sits down on her lap. What a weird-o. Paige rolls her eyes at me. I smile. Laugh. Shake my head. What the fuck else am I supposed to do? Britney Spears gets up for more booze.

Paige gets off her chair and sits in my lap. Dope.

“Is this ok? I need you to save me from that creepy dude.” She whispers in my ear, her lips just barely touch me. Hot.

“Yeah no problem sweetheart.” My leg is already going dead. I push through the pain.

Britney Spears comes back and glares at me. I smile at her / him. Then I give him my best gangster fuck off stare. It works. Fucking miracle.

My friends’ bail on me, they want to go have sex with their girlfriends. I understand. So do I. I track down my new favorite girl scout. We talk and then decide its time to leave. She grabs her jacket and we head for the door.

Britney Spears! He is all up in her face, asking her to stay, to drink more.

“Can’t we are leaving.” She says politely.

“You’re leaving with this guy? Are you serious?” Britney Spears glares at me. Hey man at least I’m not the guy wearing a mini-skirt and a white T-shirt that is tied in a bow. Just saying.

“You can’t leave with him, he doesn’t even know you!” I wonder where Britney is going with this. What ever it is it can’t be good.

“What’s her name?” I am distracted, looking around for something to hit this kid over the head with.

“What’s her name asshole?” he screeches. Girly diapers.

“You talking to me?” I can’t help but drop a little New York accent as a say this and now I am smiling. Fucking Robert De Niro.

“See he doesn’t even know your name!” he yells.

Paige looks at me. I can see the pained expression of awkwardness on her face. Yeah that’s right sweetheart this is fucking awkward. I’m drunk and I don’t remember her name. Britney Spears is now yelling questions at me.

“Where does she go to school?”

“She goes to the academy.” I say with some confidence. All these kids go to my school. Right? Wrong. False. Fuck.

“She goes to ballet school you moron!” I don’t like his tone of voice now. Where is a wine bottle when you need one?

“You are a ballet dancer?” I lean in as I ask this. She nods her head yes. This girl just went from hot to super hot.

Britney spears has worked himself up into a rage, he is spiting and foaming at the mouth. This has turned into a hilarious nightmare.

“You want to fight bitch, cause I will work you over like a piece of cake.” He screams at me. Sticking out his chest. I laugh at him. How could I not? He bumps me. This guy is starting to piss me off. I turn to Paige.

“You should handle this guy before I do.” I say as politely as I can.

“He is all yours.” She says and backs up to the door. Truthfully I was kind of hoping she wouldn’t say that. I guess it’s time to fight Britney Spears. She / He runs at me, the black and pink skirt flapping up and down and around. The blonde pigtails waving in the air like windmills. I reach my hand out and slap her/ him in the face. Britney Spears looks shocked. Steps back. I feel weird about punching a man dressed like a girl. Truth. Cause you never know. This is San Francisco.

Britney Spears raises his/ her fist. Fuck it. I pop my arm out with a quick Jab that makes him blink and then I swing the weight of my body behind a solid right hook. The punch lands squarely on Brittney Spear’s jaw. He / she drops to the ground like a sack of rocks. Pigtails and all. Time to leave.

I grab the Girl Scout and head for the street. We make out in the cold fog. Tastes like candy and red wine. She hands me a crumpled piece of paper with her number, there is a lipstick kiss on the corner. Jesus. I go home and drink whiskey. Fall asleep in my suit. Tie. Jacket. Shoes. I dream of large women. Weird.