Sperm...

If I were a father, I would not be watching Howard Stern on E. The entertainment network, not the drug, thank you. My ankle probably wouldn't be broken. I wouldn't be typing about this. I would have a better job. There would be milk in the house. You know, scratch that - I've read that there really aren't benefits to drinking milk, that it's all corporate propaganda. If I were a father, I would expect, at least, half of the action figures that I have in my room to be broken.

If I were a father, I would post pictures of my kid...with a machete. No, I wouldn't - but I would have my kid guest-write every once in a while. Actually, I'd give him his own blog. I would let em' wear his or her hair however they wanted. I would expose em' to all kinds of music. Most of it. I would teach them about Henry and Ribsy, Beezus and Romona, Sheila The Great, Super Fudge, Narnia, Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket, Dick and Jane, Dr. Seuss, Charles Bukowski, and National Geographic. My kid would teach me why the sucky-ass cartoons on Nickelodeon are appealing to him or her.

If I were a father, I wouldn't change my style of dress. They better like black. I would teach them that the white man is the enemy. I would make them listen to Radiohead. I would have them do the grocery shopping. I would teach them how to fall asleep in class without getting caught. I would teach them how to be a good person, but a rabid dog if somebody fucked with you. I would teach them how to drive in case Daddy happened to fall asleep at the wheel. I would teach them how to sign my name. I would play the guitar for them. I would play video games with em'. I would teach em' how to get along with women. It wouldn't matter if my kid were a boy or a girl; this is a necessary survival technique for any gender.

If I were a father, the space next to me would always be theirs, if only they could move their mom out of the way. I would expose them to oldies. You need oldies. It's the only listenable music on the radio. I would teach them to be polite to old folk, but to be a rabid dog if somebody fucked with them. I would teach them not too kill bugs if they could help it. I would encourage them to not eat paste in school. I would tell them to pick off the smallest kid in dodge ball at school. I would always tell them to give mom a hug, but to save the best ones for me. I would teach them how to throw a proper "Nut-Punch". I would not let them browse the Internet. I would cook for them, and if they didn't like what I made, I'd be more than welcome to throw a cookbook at them. I would tell them to avoid drinking keg beer out of plastic cups at parties. I would tell them to play in a band, but not for too long if you're not making money off of it.

If I were a father, they would always take out the trash. I would encourage a wandering mind. I would give em' noogies, but from the first day that they tell me to knock-it-the-fuck-off...I would. We would both know the lyrics to Travis' "The Man Who" album. I would send them to mom whenever they got hurt. I would teach them how to make paper airplanes. I would teach them how to make spit wads. I would tell them to use a dictionary more than I do. I would tell them that they had to know how to read by the time that they were in preschool, and if they didn't - I'd throw them into the toilet where the poo poo man lives. I'd teach them that it was okay not to see a movie on its first weekend release. I would tell them to start off as an intern at a movie studio to get their foot in the door- any studio, just as long as it wasn't anything porn. I'd tell them that they had to go see The Beastie Boys once, at least. I'd tell them to join Drama Class, but only for a little bit, so that the weirdos don't get too you. I would have their voice on the answering machine. I'd tell them that when a phone solicitor asked for the man of the house, to always answer, "This is he".

I would tell them to keep on typing this while Daddy goes and checks the sprinklers (smokes secretly). Naw, I don't want to be smokin'. A smokin' hot dad, hell yeah. I'd tell them all about Spiderman's troubled relationship with Mary Jane Watson Parker. I'd tell them to speak to all animals and plants like they were real people. I'd give them storybook records as Christmas stocking stuffers. I wouldn't encourage them to try out for sports in high school. I would discourage them from joining "band". I would encourage them to use "maam" and "sir" along with "fucker" and "dumbass". I would tell them that if a dot com resurgence comes along, to take the money, save, and run. Fast. I would paint pictures with them and hang them on the living room wall. I would teach them all the magic tricks that I know. I would teach them how to play poker. I would teach them how to spit far. I would teach them how to fix things. I would teach them how to strangle their mother and not leave bruises. I would teach them how to fish. I would tell them how to steer conversations into their favor.

I would teach them that there are a lot of sucky-ass things in the world, but that I think that there are more beautiful things out there than the sucky. I would teach them that no matter what happens, and how much the life-hand can slap you in the face - that nothing bad would really ever happen to them, and that if good things aren't happening at the moment...they'll eventually get there.

And I'd teach them to tell their father to get the hell to sleep at later hours like these, cuz' there's playing to be done tomorrow. Adventures, mischief, and madness, yo.

Or at least Cup O' Noodles, Beer, and bad TV...

Short Order Cook...

Man, do you remember that one freak that answered the "roommate wanted" ad that you posted up at the local college? You were desperate and you needed somebody in there fast. He was short. Big ass nose. Kinda like Tim Roth, but ugly as hell. He was a cook at a local burger place, hey, now wasn't the time to be judgemental - remember, you needed his money.

The first warning sign was that when he moved in, it took him about fifteen mintues. And that was with a cigarette break. Second warning sign? You used to hear him talking to Captain Kirk as he was watching Star Trek. "Yeah, go Kirk!".

He only lasted about a month and a half. He just got weirder and weirder, til you couldn't take it anymore. Then, you thought he stole some money from you, you almost choked him to death, and then he threatened to send the Mexican Mafia on you. He was Irish.

Yeah, I remember him. What a dumbass...

What The Hell...

audblog audio post

Dear God(s)...

I'm sorry for whatever I did to deserve this horrible feeling in my belly. I'm a recipient of poo karma today. Anyway, if I had a hundred dollars right now to spend on foolish things, it couldn't go towards anything useful - cuz that's no fun, I'd spend the hundred bucks on as many comic books, beer, cigarettes, and Hello Kitty stickers as I could. That would be fun. Now I'm depressed. Somebody come over, drink with me, and play video games. I'll give you a back rub. I'll go forever too. I won't try to cop out of it after the first five minutes either. Or let's write a story tonight. You can write all the sexy parts.

Assignment For The Day...

To call someone "Bubba".



Thank you...

My Xanadu...

No particular reason, but if I lived in Australia, I'd save all of my money and buy the whole damn island. Got that right, Bub. Australia seems nice. They have wonderful exports. Nicole Kidman. Naomi Watts. That one book...what was it called? Cold Beer and Crocodiles, or something like that. Koalas are cute. And they hate Rabbits. They eat chocolate Bilbys instead for Easter. Don't ask me to explain what a Bilby is, I don't have the time, it's late.

But this is what I want...all of Australia. Nothing else. I'll keep on producing the occasional hot actress, I won't ruin the environment, I'll keep out of world politics, I'll just use the government funds for building a force field and for making toys. Yeah, It'll be the real island of misfit toys. I'll grow a beard, because somehow, I don't think It'd be right for me to be a nutcase who owns an island without having the obligatory, long, white beard.

Oh, and drunk Koalas. And cybernetic Kangaroos controlled by Chimpanzees that sit in their pouches.

Fosters. Australian for beer, mate.

Thank you.

My Bozzie Award...

I forgot to tell you that I won the...

"EXCUSE ME WHILE I POO
DID YOU KNOW POO BACKWARDS IS OOP?
OOP, I GOTTA POO
MY MOTHER JUST ATE MY DOG
'SCUSE ME WHILE I SMOKE AND POO
AND GOOK BACKWARDS IS KOOG
AND HALF A GOOK IS GO OR OK
EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO OK" Award yesterday...

Bow before me...

Soft With An Eyeball Invading Undertone...

Besides the Academy Awards, The Bozzies, and the war in Iraq. It's been a really boring day. But just leave it to one of western thinking to list a bunch of things happening in the world and to tell you how boring the day was. It's like saying how much you hate your car after taking an awesome roadtrip. Did that make sense? If it doesn't that's okay, because my little sister says I am officially a Godfather now...

Harry Cash Malone. That makes him co-captain of the next Malone wave. Milo Malone is hanging somewhere in Brooklyn. Him and his little four year old self. I can't wait until the inevitable family reunion where the next generation of Malone's comes up to me as I'm smoking in the backyard and asks me what the hell happened? Why are all of these old people so weird?

I'll tell him I have no clue, but I'm sure glad he's here...

Then we'll go play...

That's it.

Can I Open My Eyes Yet?...

The Bozzies are here....

?...

I have nothing to say right now.

Wondering Again...

Who in a fight?
The Swiss Army or The Salvation Army or Swiss Family Robinson?

Just Wondering...

Who would win in a bare-knuckle fist fight:
Rumsfield or Powell, or Mr. Howell, for that matter...

Have A Good Weekend, You Jerks...

I want the mob to contact me.
I'll work for them. I need money.
Maybe I should show them this,
then they'll hire me, huh?

p.s. The Bozzies will be presented at 9pm est Sunday night March 23, 2003!!!
Then after his awards ceremony, we'll hit the gay bars.

The Gombe National Preserve In Tanzania...

Fiona Apple loves Lemony Snicket. Where the hell's she been lately, by the way? David Blaine broke her heart. He must have done a magic trick and made it disappear, I guess. Never trust a magic user, I say. Ask any wood elf. My foot gets all purple when it's cold. Then i have to hike it up on permanent Rockette duty or like Jenna Jameson. The I bring it back down and then it gets all purple again. It's never-ending cycle folks. It's like Sisyphus on a Schwinn. Is that two n's on Schwinn? Am I related to em'? Hmmm...might have to check that out, yo.

I like magic tricks, didja know that? Of course you don't. Uh oh. Madonna's playing now. Get into the groove. Very eighties. It reminds me of riding my bike and singing this song. Better than being a young boy and singing "Like A Virgin" as you're pedaling past Michael Jackson's front gates. And on whose blog did they say that they liked Mike and that he should just live in Vegas permanently? He could make a crapload of moolah performing in Vegas. He'd fit right in, and if freaks like Liza, Celine, and Siegfried and Roy can do Vegas duty and make a living - Mike can too. Maybe he'd get in less trouble. Maybe he'd start dangling "Blanket" off of the Startosphere, though. I hope you all are following my ramblings, cuz if you ain't - then catch up before you get too far behind.

I'll be right back. Hold on. I'm back. I had to go chase a Possum away. How he got into the house, I don't know. Just kidding, I just had to go chase this monkey on my back away. A cigarette later, and he's gone. That was easy. Uh oh...y' hear that? No. Over there. In the trees. No that tall one. He's lookin' at me. Okay, let's continue - but if he starts flinging poo - I'm outta here.

I think that my little sister's personal boycott of Fat Free Milk is over. She got offended because I called my mother a bad name. I need to learn how to speak more Vietnamese. I only know, like, three things, and how to say "horny old goat". That's it, folks. I must've looked pretty gooky today, beacuse all I did for a good portion of the day was sleep. Then when I woke up, my eyes looked normal again. My father is the whitest guy in the universe. Quite the handsome man, though for a guy of 65 years. I wonder how he's doin'? Probably gearing up for another fishing tournament. I remember when I was young and my parent's were still together, how when we'd go on fishing trips, after we'd get home, my mother would spread out some newspapers on the kitchen floor and slide the cooler full of live fish next to her, grab her big ol' hatchet thingy and start fish head choppin'. I'd look on in amazement as she hacked away. Fish bodies would be flopping everywhere. Then she'd take the knife and scale it, gut it, save the eggs, if they had any, and sometimes save some of the heads if she wanted to make a soup later. Can you imagine being a four or five year old kid and wondering what smelled so good simmering on the stove top, lifting the lid off of the pot and finding fish heads looking up at you? I'd sometimes sip at the broth, but never touched the heads. That was my mom's deal. Picking at a fish head. That was all her. She was a great cook. Mexican food too. But sometimes, certain dishes got too much for my father and he'd round up all of the kids and take us to Carl's Jr. or Pizza Hut.

Do you guy's remember when Pizza Hut used to be a family restaurant? They had tables, booths, waitresses, and a bar. Video games and jukeboxes too. God, I loved going there. Now? Feh! Yukky poo. I used to work at a Pizza Buffett-type-Shaky's kinda restaurant owned by a family of Christian freaks. And I could cook up the best Mojo potatoes around, let me tell ya. But I'm not too proud of that, because I was living in the bosses RV behind the store. It was leaky, cold and pretty scary. I'd peer at the Mexicans digging through the dumpsters at night, looking for cardboard to recycle. They should've killed me and sold my kidneys on the black market.

When I have more money, I'm thinking of making a batch of Fat Free Milk t-shirts, my neighbor has a printing company, so I'll be able to swing them pretty cheap, I think. I also want to buy Fatfreemilk.com when all of my debt calms down. That would make me very happy. As a fooking clam.

I think I'm going to lay off of watching the news tomorrow. It's kind of avoidable, though. But, I'm going to try. It's just another big "Monkey War". Desmond Morris' hairless monkeys fighting over the same old things. Territory, resources, and bananas. What? Well, I bet we've fought over bananas somewhere, sometime.

Okay, you god damn simpleton simians. I've got to go and hang at another monkey's tree for a bit. Take care of yourself and try not to sleep too much.

Hoot! Hoot!

Mr. Rourke...

Okay, who has tattoos? I don't have any. Never really got around to the grand masterpiece that I wanted. A guy I work with just got these prison-looking anchor tats on his forearms. Dude...c'mon, gay? Yes. Very. I have a couple of pierced nipples, though. I put peanut butter on them and let my dog, "Skippy" lick it off.

So where are your tattoos, you heathens? When'd you get them and what the hell are they. And all the girls with tattoos of butterflies or an asian symbol on the small of their back, need not reply. You buttholes.

Da' plane, boss...da' plane...

War Baseball Cards...

Okay. Not that it hasn't been done before, but I mean, somebody needs to fucking drink with me. I mean REALLY needs to fucking drink with me. Not tonight, because, today was weird and full of hospital financial visits, and an old, nice lady pushing me down a hallway in a wheelchair. Not mine, but the hospitals. I keep on wanting to type in HOLIDAY instead of hospital. I don't know why.

But, really guys. I want to go fucking nuts tomorrow day or night. I want to sit around and drink everything possible and just talk about bullshit. I want to talk til the morning. Play Castle Risk. Solve a video game. Write a screenplay from scratch. Bring out the old G.I. Joe figures. Saddam can be Sgt. Slaughter. Bush can be fucking Lobot. I want to dance. I want to skate. I want to read comic books. I want to slow dance with you, then, maybe we can hold each other in our underwear and open-mouth kiss each other...

I Am Jack's Lack Of Drive...

So I brought the wheelchair that I keep in the backyard inside finally. It was inside before, but my gal got sick of it and there wasn't any other place to put it. I bought it at the Salvation Army for twenty bucks when I used to have money. I've always wanted one since I saw one in a store when I was 19. I am so ready to try out for the Wheelchair Basketball Association now. I'm actually pretty good. I can do wheelies forever, spin around in circles and run over things. Before I broke my ankle, I was going to have Joe videotape me careening down the grass hill at the park across the street from my house. Hurting myself is always inevitable, so I guess I jumped out of a car instead, and just saved myself the suspense.

What the hell was the point of this?...???

Oh. Yeah. I just did something that one can only dream of. Olympic medals? Bah! Painting a great work of art? Double Bah! Feeding the hungry? Thrice Bah! Anything noble? Googleplex Bah!

I was playing a video game in front of that big ass TV in my wheelchair tonight...I pressed pause...slowly wheeled to the kitchen, opened up the fridge...and got myself a beer...and then wheeled back to play video games again.

Thank you.

Pork Chop Sandwich...

Isn't that gross? I was at a little diner-type/fast food window thing today and I saw that advertised. I have a cast-iron stomach and all, but that's gross, yo.

So, my ultimate Fat Free Thanks to Amy of Get To The Choppa fame. I just recieved a get well/boredom present from her. Very, very cool. I heard a thump at the door, so I one-legged-hopped to the door ready to kick some ass and the mailman put the package under the door. I kicked it out into the street thinking that it was a bomb. Never, ever, steal an Al-Queada member's girlfriend folks. You'll be paranoid for life. Anyway, after I got the package back, I opened it up and started to squeal like Ned Beatty's gay Vietnamese, pot-bellied pig. Inside was a cute page from a coloring book ( with crayons wrapped in a ribbon ). Ummm...awesome cookies...little oragami star ribbons, a mix cd, a simpsons coloring program, jelly beans...and that's it. i hope I didn't forget anything.

That's why, dudes - Amy is the queen of swing. That's why she's Chopparific. She's the best. I encourage all to visit her and say hello. Tell her that she rocks ghost socks.

I spoke with her, Boz, who is having the first annual Bozzie Awards this Sunday, Atl Superstar, Danee, and Angelo on AIM yesterday. My apologies for having to hop on out real quick and not having the chance to talk to Danee and Angelo. I had to go. I'll make it up to them.

Praise to the Chop.

t h e b l u e b i r d ...

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski

Raw! Houghh! Good God, Y'All...What Is It Good For?...

Absoulutely nothin', say it again.

Dude, this hamburger needs to go back on the grill.

Nous Avons Casser Des Nouvelles...

Fritures stupides. Juste ne boycottez pas le dressage de ranch, ok? Mon estomac sent peu un queasy. J'ai obtenu mon premier contrôle d'incapacité aujourd'hui, il n'est pas beaucoup, gens. Mais il est meilleur que rien, et je suis heureux que j'aie de bons amis que comme moi et savez réellement les choses au sujet de la façon dont la société travaille et de la façon retirer les avantages d'être un boiteux. Je ne sais rien au sujet des lois, des règles, et des contrats sociaux. S'il se produit dans une jungle, désert, forêt, ou espace extra-atmosphérique - que moi pourrais savoir à son sujet. Je trouve intéresser de primatology. Je n'ai envoyé aucun de mes prix de jour de Kevynn Malone, parce que j'ai été me suis cassé - mais peut-être je puis maintenant. Je fais très bien aujourd'hui. Comment allez-vous? Amusez-moi ou je vous cognerai dans les écrous.

Grâce à Chezpink.

The Bozzie Awards...

This Sunday at The Grand Ennui.
I think I'm up for an award...and that scares me.

Another Reason Why I'm A Jerk...

I was watching a MSNBC segment on this:

ATLANTA, March 16 — U.S. health officials on Sunday were analyzing samples from a mysterious respiratory illness described by the World Health Organization as “a worldwide threat.” While no cases have yet been reported in the United States, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention activated its emergency operations center for only the third time ever and hospitals across the country were put on alert.

“THIS IS an evolving problem,” Dr. Julie Gerberding, director of the CDC, said Sunday. WHO officials said the illness, called Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, has infected more than 150 people, mostly in southeast Asia. At least 9 people have died...

and caught myself thinking about The Simpsons...

Boz of The Grand Ennui Guest Post
That Should've Been Posted By Me A Long Time Ago,
But He Still Loves Me Anyway...

Here it is ...

The Kenneth V. Cole Fan Club News.

The last couple of months of my senior year in high school were really a drag, so I did what any self-centered young twerp would do, I started a fan club for myself.
Those were strange times, not the best of times, not the worst of times, just strange times
(((SLAP)))
Take that Charles Dickens.
Martin Luther King had just been murdered.
The Democrats were fighting among themselves to see who would take the place of the much feared and equally despised Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Meanwhile, Richard Nixon was saying “sock it to … me, sock it to … me?” on the television show Laugh-in, so at least we didn’t have to worry about him, the rat bastard.
And of course that silly little war was still raging over in Vietnam, and even though the town I grew up in was blue collar to the max, only one person that I knew, was killed in action, and that was Tom Yoklewicz, who dropped out of school at sixteen and died in Vietnam before the rest of us had even graduated from high school,
But I digress…
This is a post about me … me… me …
Like I said, I started a fan club for myself, and the amazing part was that about twelve people actually joined my little attempt at self-aggrandizement .
The members I remember were:
Jill Stephens the seventeen year old schoolgirl with the body of a woman, hubba hubba: and make no mistake about it, she was the real reason that I started the club, I had the major hots for her mind and body, and the fan club did actually result with me getting a date with her, but just one, self-aggrandizement can only take you so far, and the last I heard of Sweet Jill she had married some Navy loser six months after graduation, and lived happily ever after.

Greg Zmud: my best friend who I lost contact with because his soon to be wife hated my guts, I think she felt that I exerted some kind of mind control over Greg, and if there were to be any mind control exerted it would be her’s.

Doug Wong: my token oriental friend who either became a doctor or a drug addict, or both.

Bob Zechmiester: who had been a star athlete before, at the age of fifteen, jumping off the roof of his friend’s garage into an above ground swimming pool breaking his spine, or whatever it is you do your spine that paralyzes you. I think he became a teacher.

And Finally there was
Beth McKenzie: who had a stare that could make any hard-on shrivel up into next to nothing and quiver in fear. I have no doubt that she was a lesbian in training, and probably became quite adept at it.

And isn’t this post dragging on, and I haven’t even gotten to the point, which is …

The Kenneth V. Cole Fan Club News!
The KVCFCN was a newsletter I wrote just about every day from mid April till we graduated.
What is was was a non computerized version of my current blog, without the boobs, as written by a seventeen year old, the one and only hand written copy passed from member to member to member.
Member, heheheheh

Some of the highlights, well, maybe not highlights, but some of the things I can remember about the newsletter were:

Joe Smith, my choice for President in the 1968 election. Joe had just returned from Argentina after a 20 year holiday, and bore an almost sickening resemblance to Adolph Hitler, and was in fact Adolph Hitler, oh the sly satire on the political situation of the time.

Shlome Katz and Beylo Wemple, two characters that popped up whenever I needed a dupe or fall guy to make fun of, sort of the same role Kevynn plays today.

A lengthy plea of devotion to the then almost unknown Goldie Hawn, pledging my heart, my soul, my love, and all the money I had saved up from cutting lawns the summer before, if only Goldie would flash her Double AA ‘s at me. Even then I had a thing for celebrities, and their boobage thereof.

And of course their were bits and snippets of song lyrics from “I Feel Like I’m Fixing to Die Rag” to “Sock it to the Soul Man as he Boogaloo’s Down Funky Broadway.”
And I made the Boogaloo song title up, another bit of sly satire reflecting the popular music tastes of the time.

And now I am getting tired, read bored, so I will do a spell-check and ship this off to Mister Malone, and I bet that Kevynn will delete all the swear words, cause he is a prude that way, but I don’t care, it’s his life, and he has to lead it his way.
And as the Master, Frank Sinatra, once sang …
That’s life, that’s what all the people say
You’re riding high in April
And shot down in May.

Goodnight Doreen.

"Pissed Off Cyrus" Written By Tom Schmitt...


I just lost my cell phone.
I got this hooker in L.A., and we went to one of those pay-by-the-hour motels on the Sunset Strip. The hooker was kind of cute, but I spent too much time driving around trying to find the hottest one, before realizing that they all had something wrong with them. Sure their profile looks good, but straight on you realize one eye is smaller than the other, or they've got some weird nose thing going on, or broad shoulders. There wasn't a perfect one in the bunch, but then you figure if they were perfect, they'd either not be hooker's, or they'd be in Vegas, getting what they're worth.
I accepted the fact that the picking's were all mediocre, and I stopped on a corner with three girls all wearing short skirts and fishnets. I turned my radio down and rolled the passenger side window down, leaning over the seat to get a better look. The girls walked to the car, all of them speaking hooker cliché’s at once, "Hey, honey, what's up?" "You looking for a good time?" "You ain't no cop, is you?" "OOOO, you're cute!" I told them I wasn't a cop, and pointed at one of them, a mulatto, with short dark hair and a cherry red mini skirt, telling her that she'd do. I unlocked her door, pushed it open, and she climbed in, my car quickly smelling like her perfume, and almost disgusting mixture of peaches and pine.
She told me she knew of a little motel around the corner, and as I drove she said her name was Sophia, and that she moved here from Ohio, hoping to make it in acting, but realized that she could make more money hooking, so here she was. I had no response. I didn't care about her. I just wanted some pussy.
We got to the motel, parked, and I told her to wait in the car while I went to the office. I got a room for an hour, and the desk clerk handed me a key and a towel, mumbling something about keeping the room clean, as if they aren't dirty already. I retrieved the Trick from the car and we went to room 206. She asked me what I wanted, and I said "the Whole Shebang." She handed me a condom, and told me to wash my cock. I felt kind of offended by this, being that SHE was the hooker, so I told her that she needed to wash her snatch. She looked kind of surprised, but she did it. Then the games began. . . .

After forty-five minutes, as she was putting on her clothes, she told me that it would be two hundred dollars. I didn't feel like paying her and I told her so. She laughed and thought I was joking, but I was serious. I said, "Look, you weren't even that good, I don't think I should have to pay you." Her face visibly sagged, and she looked at the wall, as if it was interesting, then she said, "Don't make me call Cyrus, 'cause he'll fuck you up, white boy. I gave you a service, and you need to pay me for that service, got it?" I stood up from the bed, still naked, and walked over to the phone. It was one of those old rotary phones, where the receiver sits on a cradle. I picked it up and walked toward her as she was putting her earrings in her lobes. "Call the motherfucker," I said, "Here, I'll help..." As I said this I swung the phone at her head, hitting her square in the temple. She stumbled back and fell against a small desk that was in the corner. I came at her again, but realized that phone would only go so far, so I ripped it out of the wall and bashed her head in. She never made one noise, as if accepting her fate, which was definitely a bonus.
I stole all her money and her earrings, which were cheap, but I thought my mom might like them. I put on my clothes and left, feeling much better about myself, but I left my cell phone in the room. Oh well, you win some and you lose some, eh?