Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist!

I'll never understand the allure of convenience store porn labeled soley by race. Is there a 'Secret Santa' charm here I'm not taking into account, where all one knows one is getting is something 'white' and something 'adult'? Like you might get home with your blue box of "Latin" and end up watching a Hispanic midget dressed as a clown mounted on a Great Dane and all you can say is - "Well, it's certainly as advertised?"

Well, I for one can only hope that Net Neutrality will help all these poor Americans who have to settle for grab-bag porn while picking up smokes and a Little Debbie.

T

Of numerous occupational hazards the unpaid life of a writer offers, chief amongst their most annoying is being pitched big pictures by drunken strangers who just found what you do to make ends, if not happily ever after's, meet. They arrive at your table as if they just stepped off a life raft following a three year castaway gig, and it's all congratulations stranger, you're the first real soul I've talked to in ages. Some friend of a friend, some kind of asshole with a grudge against silence and space. Yet, before you can ask who the fuck you're talking to, they unload across the table the big idea that will make you a bestseller loaded up with a golden movie deal awaiting.

Yeah. As if it was the generation of an idea and not its execution where the work separated the idea men from the writers.

Still they're entertaining enough. Grist for the dialog mill and all that good shit.

Usually they're just lonely drunk guys, old, mummified by their decades of partying, taking a stab at momentary relevancy and unloading the burden of simple visions. It's akin to hearing a small child explain the convoluted and fantastic epic his crayon picture evokes.

This one's different though. This one is a woman, my age if not a little younger, with a Faster Pussycat physique and switchblade disposition. She's drunk, but like her weight, she carries it with the confidence of a sledgehammer slung over a skinhead's shoulder.

"You want a story?" She tells me with no interest whether I do or even asked, "I'll give you a story to write about. I got me one hell of a pussy, right here. It's seen the tongues of poets cross and received the cocks of warriors true. It's seen blood and death and fists and more than a few crosses from the devout. It's seen two children who don't even know my name and it's seen the loaded barrel of a cop with a bad coke problem."

"I see." I say with awkward smile and ice-rattling sip of bourbon.

"No." She laughs giving a quick double air-karate chop towards the groin, "You don't see. Because once men see what I'm talking about here they never have to write again. They never have to pray neither. They never have to win another bet, they never have pick another fight."

She steals a cigarette and adds as an afterthought. "Not a few women either come to think of it."

Now, before I can inquire on how exactly she proposed I write this magna cunt louder when the sight of it rendered all words futile therefore mute she slammed the table with her fist.

"But I'll tell you one thing this pussy of mine has never seen and that's a pussy as big as the one I'm looking at now."

And no sooner did the words fully register across the shock, did she get up from the seat across the booth from me, pluck an empty Ying-Ling off the table and crack it over some dude's skull. The dude, despite being yeti sculpted and hard of appearance, crumbled like a sack of shit to the floor. He had been standing behind me over by the bar with his woman and some of his boys. She grabbed a drink from his buddy's hand, downed it with a single gulp, then grabbed the dude's girlfriend and Frenched her before a stunned bar. She pushed the girlfriend into the buddy sending them both sprawling over their possibly unconscious friend, grabbed a chicken wing off someone's plate and pointed it at me.

"There ... write about that little writer before you dream of my pussy tonight."

She took a bite out of the wing, flipped us all the bird and bolted out the front door unopposed.

A minute later the Princess returned from the rest room and asked if I was ready to go.

And the Harvey for best SFX in a work of sequential art goes to...

Not much I can say about tonight for contractual reasons regarding the shoot, but fuck man, I had a blast hanging with some mad talent while rocking the tux and tails with a pencil thin mustache that made me feel like a cross between Mike Patton and Aleister Crowley. Afterwards these mad souls I know thank me for showing up, for doing my part, for doing what I can, but really the honor - truly - was all mine.

However that said, it's been a long day without weed and I got a fat joint ready to be lit along with some Whitman to smooth out the wrinkles in my soul calling to me.

10-4, over and out.