Jim, thankfully, will be taking the summer off to do things that, we suspect, will include nudity and frozen alcoholic beverages.
With that said, we’re feverishly editing the first book that he wrote approximately 4 years ago.
In the meantime, vignettes of the aforementioned book shall be released to Pontchartrainpress.blogspot.com and at the sheer antagonism of a publisher who has had this wtriting in “queue” for a while. Consider it a sneak peek for those who regularly click in and read his absurd ramblings.
Particularly noteworthy, those who have read and who have worked on this book recently discovered, that the story is based on a suicide letter which was left behind by a close friend to Mr. Patrick about 5 years ago. This, in NO way, is a plot spoiler.
Only Jim, along with Irish whiskey, could find a humorous side to such a plot line.
At its root, the story spotlights three base characters and holds a redemptive factor in its ultimate outcome. While there’s a dark comedy spine throughout, this is a tale of redemption; a simple story of life and love. **
**With a drive-by shooting and sex
Keep in mind that the passages which will be released are loosely edited; especially the passages which were clearly written near the end of bar tabs.
We sincerely hope that you enjoy this story as we feverishly edit the hell out of it.
We equally wish that, with his summer vacation, we don’t have to bail Jim out of a Los Angeles County jail as he is visiting friends.
Collectively, CHEERS!
Mike, the editor
Marie
Todd
Eric
Bob
The other, less important, Eric
Stephanie
Amanda (always on the bottom…by choice)
Monday, April 30, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Birthday Candles Cause Global Warming
~ I’ve found that you find strength in moments of weakness
My birthday is next week, and you know what that means...I still do not fully know the rules and regulations of English League soccer...
or women.
Admittedly, I'm a big fan of any situation that's packed full of passion, roller coaster exhilaration, personal injury, yelling, running back and forth (aimlessly at times) scrambling and blocking with potentiality for an end score of 0-0.
I suppose English League soccer also fits this description.
I don't know about you, but turning a year older is an optimistic event for me personally.
It serves as a stark reminder that I’m barreling at (what seems to be) the speed of light toward dysfunction in the pee pee department. In turn, this will cause my future wife or girlfriend to run away with a car dealership owner who films his own cheesy commercials; incorporating one of his awkward, ugly kids because he thinks that it's cute.
I relish a day when various gastrointestinal ailments, coupled with a neurological disease, renders me unable to properly wipe my ass without the assistance of an apathetic teenage son who’s impregnated two girls and dropped out of school after the 10th grade in order to form a band named:
“Doo Doo Jones & the Transcendental F*ck Sticks.”
What’s not to love about celebrating a day with friends over cake, a fist fight, a few beers, a hooker and thoughts of a future that will likely involve no fewer than four forms of fatal cancer.
Mine is a future which holds the likelihood that all of my internal organs will slowly and painfully ooze from a gaping wound as a direct result of a staph infection; primarily because I’m being housed in an understaffed, sub-standard nursing facility where sexually deviant male nurses routinely beat and/or sexually abuse me. A facility in which my ingrate son imprisoned me right after his band signed a multimillion dollar recording deal.
Birthdays are indeed a happy occasion for me.
I NEVER know how to answer the inevitable question that arises around birthday time…
“So, what do you want for your birthday?”
I usually just tell these people that I’d like a bag of Gummie Worms or a bottle of Irish whiskey…and a Lincoln Navigator.
Yesterday my landlord and friend, Jeff, asked what I want for my birthday. I informed him that I need $1,275.00**
**Note: The precise amount for the rent payment due on Tuesday.
I enjoy celebrating other people's birthdays more than my own.
For instance, last Friday I attended a party being thrown for a lady friend who shares the same birthday week as that of her neighbor, so their mutual friends decided to throw a combined party.
Sharing a birthday celebration with people I don’t even know seems rather awkward to me. It’s like attending a swinger’s club…only with better lighting and less regret.
Incidentally, the birthday girl turned 30 and the bouncing birthday boy…79.
As I surveyed the room, it appeared as though I’d stumbled upon visitation day at a nursing home…with funny hats, cake and adult incontinence.
Each April I’ve utilized this space as a vehicle to share, reminisce, come to grips with and make fun of myself. It's a snapshot of the past 364 days and is unoriginally titled:
“Things I’ve Learned”
Also known as:
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…and borderline homicidal.”
Here we go…
1. Crazy people seem to possess amazing talents in that they are incredibly creative…most importantly, they are usually also extremely good in bed.
Of course, you must also accept the bad with the good in that you might eventually find yourself waking to find this person standing over the bed, threatening to beat you to death with a tea kettle unless you can explain why American Idol won't force a re-match between Jordan Sparks and Blake Lewis.
2. No one can tell me what the name “Todd” is short for…not even my friend TODD!
3. I learned how to say a dirty word in French.
4. I’ve officially encountered a self-proclaimed, spontaneous person who takes a different approach to loose schedules:
Sarah: We haven’t done anything spontaneous in a while.
Jim: I love spontaneous…how bout we jump a streetcar downtown in a while and stumble into whatever looks like fun.
Sarah: Sounds good. Oh, while we’re there I need to go to that boutique on Royal. Actually I also need to see my friend at Cosimo’s. Then we can be spontaneous.
Jim: Sure thing.
Sarah: Can we also have late lunch at Mona Lisa? Then maybe we could walk over to CC’s and grab a coffee before going to the French Market…I need sun glasses.
Jim: OK…then can we just play it by ear and see what looks like fun? No schedule, to do list or time frame?
Sarah: Ya, but not for too long; by the time we’re done with the other stuff I need to be heading back so I can watch The Voice.
Jim: Uh, ok.
Sarah: Where are you now?
Jim: I’m on the streetcar heading downtown with Todd.
Sarah: ???? Where you going??
Jim: Don’t know. I’ll call you in a little while.
Sarah: What time?
Jim: At precisely 3:47pm
5. As evidenced by my friend Dave, it IS possible to be friends with an EX…until they find out that you’re dating someone else. (This lesson caused a considerable amount of personal property damage for Dave)
6. Trust me when I tell you that there is NOTHING funnier than witnessing 5 trannys pile into a Ford Festiva.
7. Walking away from an argument is indeed a good and healthy policy…so long as you destroy both cell phones, eliminating text message abilities for either party.
8. I’m still not a role model for children.
9. There is nothing more alarming than discovering that the really hot girl who walks down the sidewalk past your front porch each day is one of the aforementioned trannys.
10. The police department, apparently, frowns upon helpful reminders as to citizen rights where traffic infractions are concerned. It's also unwise to request a partial refund of taxpayer contribution to his salary due to the fact that you feel as though you're being treated discourteously.**
**Note: A-1 Bail/Bond is doing God’s work in New Orleans
11. Under certain circumstances, giving up might just be an accomplishment.
12. It takes 5 drunken guys to change a flat tire.
13. The Surgeon General seems to be correct in the assessment that there is NO safe cigarette.
My friend, Pete, was mugged outside of a convenience store after purchasing a pack of Ultra Lights.
14. “There’s NOTHING good going on at 4am!” This was a regular assertion offered by my mother and father when I was 17-years old. With the assistance of my lady friend, Ashleigh, we blew that theory right out of the water a few months ago. **
**Note: Between the hours of 3am and 5:13am…and again at 8am.
15. Playing “Call of Duty” on X-Box with a 12-year old will make you feel like Forrest Gump. I'll bet that if the kid had 4 shots of Jameson ( as did I) he wouldn't be such a hot shot then! Since WHEN does it take 8-thousand buttons to play a video game?
16. Spending a Sunday afternoon in the park with three kids who act like crack-addicted squirrels is far more entertaining and a breath of fresh air when compared to spending the previous evening with a drunken adult who knows better.
17. A counterfeit excuse letter from the Pope will NOT get you out of criminal court jury duty…and might result in a contempt of court charge.
18. NEVER trust ANYONE who begins a sentence with “I’m not gonna lie.”
19. Craig's List is truly a one stop shopping mecca. In addition to finding a job, one may also find a slightly used weed eater, books, a cat, an automobile and, as evidenced in the following post, unique experiences:
"I'm alone on the couch at 253 South Scott Street. There's a ski mask by the door on the front porch. Put it on, come in and sh*t on me then leave...no questions asked."
What sort of questions would one ask after going to the bathroom on top of another person? Although I have MANY questions for the person who posted this ad, I would have MORE questions for the person who carried out the request. However, I'm not about to visit Scott Street to ask either of them.
And, finally, one to grow (up) on...
20. “Time heals all wounds.” This is a comforting scad of advice that's usually offered by a friend who’s entered a brand-new exciting relationship.
The same friend who, not more than 6-months ago, was curled in the fetal position of the living room, sobbing uncontrollably**
**Note: Not necessarily their OWN living room. In some cases, a demo living room at Rooms To Go
Even though they seem happy now, these same friends are typically one missed Prozac dose away from hunting down and torturing their 2nd grade teacher for failing to properly teach the correct method for writing the upper case letter “Q” in cursive.
The violence spree concludes by beating a family of 3 to death with a George Foreman Grill before taking his/her own life by dousing in fingernail polish remover and jumping into a roaring fireplace.
Well…there it is. Another year has come and gone and I plan to celebrate with a candle-free cake so as not to escalate the effects of Global Warming™ thus angering Al Gore™.
I’m thankful, achy, angry, capricious, somewhat sexually aroused, craving a Crunchy Taco Supreme and, of course, none the wiser. But, it’s been an interesting year.
Whew!
With that, I shall sum it all up with my newly learned fancy French word…MERDE!
 |
| HOW did I not get on the invite list to THIS party??? |
Author's Note: This piece is dedicated to a gentleman by the name of Dick Weisihinkle. I don't know him, but I found his name in the phone book and thought it to be a pretty cool name. Oh, and it's also dedicated to a group of people, with names that are not as high on the "cool factor" scale, who have been working tirelessly editing and promoting a recently completed writing project. I appreciate and love each of these dedicated people...and I sometimes imagine a few of them without clothes.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Happy Anniversary...Hoping For More Than 9-Lives
Pontchartrain the kitty cat turns 2-years old today. Actually She's older than that, but her namesake (Pontchartrain Press) is age 2.
Pontchartrain was an abandoned, scared little kitten that I used to feed outside of the writing office in Mid City New Orleans.
It was time well spent, as she provided an abundance of company and companionship through the course of time that it took to write my first book (which will be coming to this very website in April.)
I appreciated the fact that we both seemed to find ourselves at a challenging time in our respective lives and later felt it appropriate to tattoo her likeness on my inner arm a couple of years ago. Try explaining to the guys WHY a cat is tattooed on your arm...at least there's a cigarette dangling from her mouth.
As a side note, the original co-founder of Pontchartrain Press is an old writing buddy of mine, Dick Rosenthal. He wanted to name the company “Big Dick's Wayward Writing Shack.” I wonder what THAT tattoo would have looked like??
Anyway, little Pontch was later placed in a loving, happy home...or hit by a drunk driver. I can't exactly recall.
On the eve of the anniversary, I sat down with two of my fellow writers, Todd and Marie, to do something that we haven't done together in a long time...remain sober.
Instead, we sat around the kitchen table until sunrise. Using nothing but pen, paper and the largest pile of loaded nachos that I've ever seen, we wrote the following anniversary column.
Because Marie is the most girly girl that you will ever meet...she brought chocolate cupcakes and candles to celebrate.
In case you're wondering, Todd's, and my, record remains soundly in tact in that we were unsuccessful in talking Marie into showing us her breasts.**
**There's always next year
As we blew out the candles on our (dry) cupcakes, Todd and Marie decided that this particular writing project should be a little different.
There would be strict parameters which would specifically challenge our individual writing styles. Something outside of our “norm” if you will.
And so...here's how a random Monday overnight unfolded this week for three dysfunctional writers with a giant trough of nachos, a pan of dry cupcakes, no alcohol and a shared level of disdain for Mike, the editor:
First up, Marie.
Marie is a talented writer who holds a degree in Classic English Literature with an emphasis on the Victorian Era. She also holds an Art history degree (pronounced colossal waste of tuition money.)
Additionally, she possesses an endearing attitude in that she sees the very best in every person and every situation. Sort of like Oprah, only without the financial ability to award a bunch of poor people in a studio audience a new SUV.
Picture Charlotte from Sex and the City or the young, assistant librarian with dark framed glasses, vaguely reminiscent of the one from your senior year of high school. The one who worked late after school organizing the Dewey Decimal System index cards as you surreptitiously ogled from across the room while impatiently serving your 20th after-school detention sentence.
You pretend to be studiously scanning a pile of American history books that lay before you, only you're actually using the books to hide the fact that you're looking at boobie pictures of primitive women who reside in a remote tribe somewhere in central Africa as chronicled by the award winning magazine, National Geographic.
Desire fills a young man's head, imagining a day when the librarian slings her glasses against the pale yellow Formica counter top and rips open her low cut top, finally announcing that she's secretly had a crush on you all year.
She then tips over the 30-foot bookshelf, killing three obnoxious high school football jocks who used to bully you and, finally, makes sweet love to you on top of a pile of scattered books outlining the Underground Railroad and the end of slavery in the United States.**
**American Historical Note: The 13th amendment did not, unfortunately, outlaw inner-city gangs, payday loans or rent to own establishments.
We challenged Marie to use her poetic knowledge to craft a sonnet...only this one must be artistic AND sexual in nature. A literary piece of art as written from the perspective of a kinky backstreet hooker.
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz or a bottle of Crown Royal:
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire, the type of fire that burns within my loins:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things, such as the precise location of the Reverend Jesse Jackson's church, the secret ingredients in Kentucky Fried Chicken or the natural remedies for genital warts.
I love you secretly, between the shadow, the soul, a third sexual partner for an additional $100.00 and thong underwear.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries the light of a bouquet that I stole from the lobby of a Holiday Inn Express; I relentlessly beat you with them and strangle you with a Versace' belt as though you have stolen something from me.
Mine is a pure love, hidden, within itself. And thanks to your love the not so tight, slightly putrid aroma, with a hint of Mountain Fresh Fabreeze, rises from the earth and lives dimly in my body and lingers for years to come...like herpes.
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, thanks to a creepy uncle, habitual drug use and an after-school sexual experience with a high school volleyball coach, Ms. Campbell.
Except in this form in which I am not nor are you,so close that your hand upon my chest implants is mine,so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
Not exactly a sonnet but absolutely beautiful Marie! Bravo!
Next up...ME.
Since it is a foregone conclusion at this table that I, typically, do NOT write anything remotely romantic, poignant or brief, Marie and Todd dropped a wager at my feet challenging me to craft a brief, insightful, socially acceptable personal wish for the upcoming year..
I have to do so in 90-seconds, using only 150 words!!!
What???
Because Todd is mature, the wager was for a shot of Irish whiskey.
Here goes:
I wish what everyone wishes...for Anderson Cooper to finally reveal his sexual orientation.
To never miss an opportunity to live vicariously through the crystal clear panes of my front window, which happens to overlook one of the most beautiful corners in New Orleans.
To never take a compliment for granted; to always appreciate my friends and the encouragement that they often offer.
To say “I'm sorry” more often; to NOT do things which require an apology.
To stop being a damn fool...unless there's money involved.
To judge myself more than others.
To live like there's no tomorrow, appreciate tomorrow when it becomes today...rinse & repeat.
And now I wish for Todd to go to the corner convenience store and then the pub and bring me a pack of Reese's peanut butter cups and that shot of Irish whiskey before his mean wife demands that he come home immediately.
After a round of shots, we finally get to gang up on our old friend, Todd. His is a seemingly simple writing challenge which Marie and I felt appropriate since he and Melissa's 7-year wedding anniversary is coming up next week.
We asked that Todd write a short love letter, no longer than one paragraph, describing everything that he loves about being married to sweet Melissa.
Ready, set...GO!
Pontchartrain was an abandoned, scared little kitten that I used to feed outside of the writing office in Mid City New Orleans.
It was time well spent, as she provided an abundance of company and companionship through the course of time that it took to write my first book (which will be coming to this very website in April.)
I appreciated the fact that we both seemed to find ourselves at a challenging time in our respective lives and later felt it appropriate to tattoo her likeness on my inner arm a couple of years ago. Try explaining to the guys WHY a cat is tattooed on your arm...at least there's a cigarette dangling from her mouth.
As a side note, the original co-founder of Pontchartrain Press is an old writing buddy of mine, Dick Rosenthal. He wanted to name the company “Big Dick's Wayward Writing Shack.” I wonder what THAT tattoo would have looked like??
Anyway, little Pontch was later placed in a loving, happy home...or hit by a drunk driver. I can't exactly recall.
On the eve of the anniversary, I sat down with two of my fellow writers, Todd and Marie, to do something that we haven't done together in a long time...remain sober.
Instead, we sat around the kitchen table until sunrise. Using nothing but pen, paper and the largest pile of loaded nachos that I've ever seen, we wrote the following anniversary column.
Because Marie is the most girly girl that you will ever meet...she brought chocolate cupcakes and candles to celebrate.
In case you're wondering, Todd's, and my, record remains soundly in tact in that we were unsuccessful in talking Marie into showing us her breasts.**
**There's always next year
As we blew out the candles on our (dry) cupcakes, Todd and Marie decided that this particular writing project should be a little different.
There would be strict parameters which would specifically challenge our individual writing styles. Something outside of our “norm” if you will.
And so...here's how a random Monday overnight unfolded this week for three dysfunctional writers with a giant trough of nachos, a pan of dry cupcakes, no alcohol and a shared level of disdain for Mike, the editor:
First up, Marie.
Marie is a talented writer who holds a degree in Classic English Literature with an emphasis on the Victorian Era. She also holds an Art history degree (pronounced colossal waste of tuition money.)
Additionally, she possesses an endearing attitude in that she sees the very best in every person and every situation. Sort of like Oprah, only without the financial ability to award a bunch of poor people in a studio audience a new SUV.
Picture Charlotte from Sex and the City or the young, assistant librarian with dark framed glasses, vaguely reminiscent of the one from your senior year of high school. The one who worked late after school organizing the Dewey Decimal System index cards as you surreptitiously ogled from across the room while impatiently serving your 20th after-school detention sentence.
You pretend to be studiously scanning a pile of American history books that lay before you, only you're actually using the books to hide the fact that you're looking at boobie pictures of primitive women who reside in a remote tribe somewhere in central Africa as chronicled by the award winning magazine, National Geographic.
Desire fills a young man's head, imagining a day when the librarian slings her glasses against the pale yellow Formica counter top and rips open her low cut top, finally announcing that she's secretly had a crush on you all year.
She then tips over the 30-foot bookshelf, killing three obnoxious high school football jocks who used to bully you and, finally, makes sweet love to you on top of a pile of scattered books outlining the Underground Railroad and the end of slavery in the United States.**
**American Historical Note: The 13th amendment did not, unfortunately, outlaw inner-city gangs, payday loans or rent to own establishments.
We challenged Marie to use her poetic knowledge to craft a sonnet...only this one must be artistic AND sexual in nature. A literary piece of art as written from the perspective of a kinky backstreet hooker.
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz or a bottle of Crown Royal:
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire, the type of fire that burns within my loins:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things, such as the precise location of the Reverend Jesse Jackson's church, the secret ingredients in Kentucky Fried Chicken or the natural remedies for genital warts.
I love you secretly, between the shadow, the soul, a third sexual partner for an additional $100.00 and thong underwear.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries the light of a bouquet that I stole from the lobby of a Holiday Inn Express; I relentlessly beat you with them and strangle you with a Versace' belt as though you have stolen something from me.
Mine is a pure love, hidden, within itself. And thanks to your love the not so tight, slightly putrid aroma, with a hint of Mountain Fresh Fabreeze, rises from the earth and lives dimly in my body and lingers for years to come...like herpes.
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, thanks to a creepy uncle, habitual drug use and an after-school sexual experience with a high school volleyball coach, Ms. Campbell.
Except in this form in which I am not nor are you,so close that your hand upon my chest implants is mine,so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
Not exactly a sonnet but absolutely beautiful Marie! Bravo!
Next up...ME.
Since it is a foregone conclusion at this table that I, typically, do NOT write anything remotely romantic, poignant or brief, Marie and Todd dropped a wager at my feet challenging me to craft a brief, insightful, socially acceptable personal wish for the upcoming year..
I have to do so in 90-seconds, using only 150 words!!!
What???
Because Todd is mature, the wager was for a shot of Irish whiskey.
Here goes:
I wish what everyone wishes...for Anderson Cooper to finally reveal his sexual orientation.
To never miss an opportunity to live vicariously through the crystal clear panes of my front window, which happens to overlook one of the most beautiful corners in New Orleans.
To never take a compliment for granted; to always appreciate my friends and the encouragement that they often offer.
To say “I'm sorry” more often; to NOT do things which require an apology.
To stop being a damn fool...unless there's money involved.
To judge myself more than others.
To live like there's no tomorrow, appreciate tomorrow when it becomes today...rinse & repeat.
And now I wish for Todd to go to the corner convenience store and then the pub and bring me a pack of Reese's peanut butter cups and that shot of Irish whiskey before his mean wife demands that he come home immediately.
After a round of shots, we finally get to gang up on our old friend, Todd. His is a seemingly simple writing challenge which Marie and I felt appropriate since he and Melissa's 7-year wedding anniversary is coming up next week.
We asked that Todd write a short love letter, no longer than one paragraph, describing everything that he loves about being married to sweet Melissa.
Ready, set...GO!
 |
| copyright Pontchartrain Press 2012 |
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Welcome To Fantasy Island
This is a little story that Mike, the editor, fears will cost him his 401k investments. I assured him that inept legislation from the United States Congress and election year politics will take care of that long before a questionable writing of mine will.
Our little story centers around a friend of mine who’s recently begun dating a young, sexually adventurous, woman who he met at a neighborhood pub. She's been badgering him nonstop to reveal his deepest sexual fantasies.
Everyone, whether they admit it or not, has some sort of dark sexual fantasy. I also appreciate the fact that many people do not want to reveal them for fear of being judged.
It's important background information to know that my friend is rather conservative when it comes to talking explicitly about sex...much less his FANTASIES!
Since the sex, as he revealed, is incredible, he felt that if he kept stalling, he would lose this woman (and the incredible sex). Since he's a very close friend and co-worker, I offered to assist as a "ghost writer" so that he might finally satisfy her curiosity.
Everyone, whether they admit it or not, has some sort of dark sexual fantasy. I also appreciate the fact that many people do not want to reveal them for fear of being judged.
It's important background information to know that my friend is rather conservative when it comes to talking explicitly about sex...much less his FANTASIES!
Since the sex, as he revealed, is incredible, he felt that if he kept stalling, he would lose this woman (and the incredible sex). Since he's a very close friend and co-worker, I offered to assist as a "ghost writer" so that he might finally satisfy her curiosity.
From: Thomasnolaguy@yahoo.com
Well…I’m not very good at vividly describing my sexual fantasies because I’m not a writer. I know what I like but I’m afraid that, after revealing my fantasy, you might find me to be boring.
Don't get me wrong, I'm adventurous but I feel that I'm tame compared to most other people. But, here goes.
FIRST, I kill your cat and then throw you down on the bed and rip your clothes off with a box cutter. Then I tie your arms and legs to the bedposts and force you to watch The People’s Court while I paint your toenails.
While we’re waiting for your nails to dry, I go to the kitchen and prepare a box of Kraft Mac n Cheese.
As we wait for the pasta to boil, you finally notice that my next door neighbor is bound and gagged in the corner with his dog. (I’ve also tied up the dog.)
Finally, the macaroni comes to a boil…only I don’t add the cheese. Instead, I drain it and dump the scalding pasta down the front of my neighbor’s pants and kick his dog in the nuts.
He screams in agony through the ball gag as the radio blares Michael Buble’s “I just haven’t met you yet” in the background.
He screams in agony through the ball gag as the radio blares Michael Buble’s “I just haven’t met you yet” in the background.
Then, I trace every inch of your body with my lips; your mind reels. Your physical senses drown deeply into unadulterated ecstasy.
Even though my neighbor has passed out from clinical shock, you experience an immeasurable level of physical pleasure…and disgust.
My neighbor finally comes to and wonders if he might be an unwitting participant in a “snuff” film. I calm him down by assuring him that I do not own a video camera.
FINALLY, we make sweet and slightly violent love.
You try to kiss me, only you can’t. Primarily because I’ve stuffed a swifter dust mop replacement pad into your mouth.
Just as the dog and my neighbor begin to shit themselves, you succumb to sensory overload and begin to scream and writhe with mind blowing pleasure as I belt out a tune from Fiddler On The Roof.
We mutually reach our peak, releasing pure, sexual energy in an earth shattering burst.
As our bodies explode in the spotlight of raw, primal delight, I spray you in the face with Lemon Fresh Windex and then roll over and watch Sports Center.
Whew! Who ELSE needs a cigarette???
My buddy is no longer dating this woman and I feel that it's a direct result of him not opening up to her. And, perhaps, for not sending the fantasy that I wrote on his behalf.
And, so, he's on the market again.
By the way, before anyone judges me for writing the above email, please know that it's NOT a personal fantasy of mine. I would NEVER waste a Swifter replacement mop head.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2012
My buddy is no longer dating this woman and I feel that it's a direct result of him not opening up to her. And, perhaps, for not sending the fantasy that I wrote on his behalf.
And, so, he's on the market again.
By the way, before anyone judges me for writing the above email, please know that it's NOT a personal fantasy of mine. I would NEVER waste a Swifter replacement mop head.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Meeting Of The Mindless
I’ve never been a big fan of meetings. I understand the necessity for meetings under certain, urgent circumstances.
Example:
Receptionist: Doctor Taylor's office
Seth: Um, yeah, this is Seth Franklin. I'm calling about my test results from Tuesday.
Receptionist: Oh, I see...yeah, Doctor Taylor wants you to come in immediately to chat about them in person.
Seth: What??
In the professional world, I've found that most meetings simply spiral out of control into a gripe session/waste of time…much like Fox News’ Sean Hannity program.
Mike, the editor, LOVES meetings!
On a recent afternoon while I was doing important research into the reasons as to why NO ONE in my house seems to know how to fill an ice tray, Mike decided to call a meeting with our freelance writing group.
My friend, Todd, is in this group and shares my frustration with meetings. He and I hold efficient writer meetings all the time. This is to say that we discuss our notes for 5-minutes and spend the rest of the evening in the pub before Todd goes home to his angry wife, Melissa.
Behold…the power of the meeting:
To: Amanda, Todd, Marie and Jim
From: Mike Klein, Editor
Date: February 28th 2012
Re: Reminders
It’s been a while since we’ve gone over some important housekeeping items, as evidenced by some of the writing that has been submitted recently.
Everyone, with the exception of Jim and Todd, has worked very well at meeting story treatment deadlines; especially Marie.
Deadlines are due on the first Tuesday of each month…NO exceptions!
It takes a considerable amount of time to edit and pitch your stories so you’re only hurting your writing integrity.
By the way Todd, I still haven’t seen a treatment for the Civil War Society magazine…it’s been 2-months!!!
Let’s all do an online conference at 2pm today and we can chat about these reminders.
Thanks,
Mike
And so, here’s what I like to call “40-minutes of my life that I will never get back.”
Mike: This won’t take long; I just wanted us to go over some things collectively as a group. Any concerns to throw on the table before we begin?
Jim: Collectively and group mean the same thing. Are you sure that you’re an editor? Xo
Mike: Very funny. Hey Todd, what’s the timeline with the Civil War draft?
Todd: The draft for that war ended in 1864 I believe.
Jim: HahahahaHA!
Mike: You fully know what I mean Todd.
Todd: I thought I was fired.
Jim: I’ve tried that excuse before Todd…it doesn’t work.
Marie: I have a 3pm appointment so I may have to log off early. BTW, I just emailed my latest drafts to you Mike. I’m way early this month!
Jim: Ass kisser.
Mike: Thanks Marie. From now on I’m going to need something in writing 2-weeks in advance asking for an extension and explaining why a deadline is going to be missed.
Jim: What if one is suffering from a bout of writer’s block so severe that writing a note informing that a deadline will be missed is impossible?
Mike: I think you can bang out a paragraph of explanation…even with writer’s block.
Jim: I’m not so sure. Actually I sometimes suffer so badly that my private part doesn’t even work properly…which really annoys my lady friend.
Mike: Any more excuses?
Jim: What if I find myself in the unfortunate situation of going to the bank to make a deposit and I'm involved in a hostage situation, which happens to occur at noon on the first Tuesday of the month? Does this waive the deadline request?
Amanda: Do I really need to be on this chat session?
Mike: Yes Amanda.
Todd: I’ve actually been working on that Civil War piece you asked about. The lead character has detached from his military unit (the first African American Unit.)
He goes on a personal mission to make sure the son of a plantation owner is brought to justice after a racially-motivated murder.
Anyway, it’s sort of a combination of Glory, Roots and Shaft. I wanted to incorporate “Red Tails” but there were, of course, no airplanes in the Civil War.
Mike: Please tell me that you aren’t serious.
Jim: It’s better than incorporating the movie “Booty Call.” Bravo Todd!
Marie: What if we introduce some sort of incentive system for writers who meet or beat the deadlines? That might fix the problem. Just a thought.
Jim: I bet you were the hall monitor in school, weren’t you?
Amanda: Seriously, do I need to be on this conference?
Mike: That’s an excellent suggestion Marie. Maybe we can offer a restaurant gift certificate or basketball tickets? Any other incentive prize suggestions?
Jim: A stripper cookout and a bottle of vodka. We can do the party at Amanda’s place.
Mike: Can you contribute a serious statement to the meeting?
Jim: Amanda has an awesome pool…seriously.
Amanda: After the last pool party, you and Todd are still banned from the pool.
Marie: Ha! What happened?
Todd: I honestly thought cats could freakin’ swim!
Jim: How is little Pook the cat doing anyway Amanda?
Mike: Uh, guys, I’m trying to host a meeting here.
Amanda: How’s your love life doing Jim?
Todd: HAHAHAHA! Now THAT’S cold!
Marie: LOL!
Jim: Laugh it up. You know, Amanda, they say that lobbing sarcastic comments in the workplace is a form of sexual tension.
Amanda: Ha! Really now?
Jim: I can come by later tonight if you want to discuss your feelings more in depth. Since I’m not suffering from writer’s block this week, my equipment is working at full capacity.
Marie: HAHA! Don’t do it Amanda. LOL!
Mike: Ok kids…back to the meeting. Listen, bottom line is: I need for you to pay attention to formatting, deadlines, word counts and especially PUNCTUATION. Any questions?
Marie: Nope
Todd: Got it.
Amanda: No questions here.
Jim: .....",,::;,…":;?&,.{ !!
Todd: I get it!! Jim just did punctuation humor. Brilliant!
Marie: You two are unbearable sometimes.
Mike: Look, you all do very amazing work but I need for you to pay attention to details. By the way, Jim, while I have you online, do you have your next draft ready and formatted?
Jim: You included an unnecessary modifier in front of the word “amazing.”
Amanda: Word snob.
Jim: I DO have my latest draft ready. I took liberties to write it in Japanese this time. An abstract, artistic style so to speak.
Mike: Well…that certainly peaks my curiosity. Would you like to share a sample with the group?
Jim: “Me love you long time…uh, suckie suckie?”
Todd: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Jim: Oh NOOOOOOO!!! Godzirra!!!!
Marie: User has logged off
Amanda: User has logged off
Mike: Ummm…is anyone still here?
Todd: I'm here
Jim: マイクは吸います
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2012
Example:
Receptionist: Doctor Taylor's office
Seth: Um, yeah, this is Seth Franklin. I'm calling about my test results from Tuesday.
Receptionist: Oh, I see...yeah, Doctor Taylor wants you to come in immediately to chat about them in person.
Seth: What??
In the professional world, I've found that most meetings simply spiral out of control into a gripe session/waste of time…much like Fox News’ Sean Hannity program.
Mike, the editor, LOVES meetings!
On a recent afternoon while I was doing important research into the reasons as to why NO ONE in my house seems to know how to fill an ice tray, Mike decided to call a meeting with our freelance writing group.
My friend, Todd, is in this group and shares my frustration with meetings. He and I hold efficient writer meetings all the time. This is to say that we discuss our notes for 5-minutes and spend the rest of the evening in the pub before Todd goes home to his angry wife, Melissa.
Behold…the power of the meeting:
To: Amanda, Todd, Marie and Jim
From: Mike Klein, Editor
Date: February 28th 2012
Re: Reminders
It’s been a while since we’ve gone over some important housekeeping items, as evidenced by some of the writing that has been submitted recently.
Everyone, with the exception of Jim and Todd, has worked very well at meeting story treatment deadlines; especially Marie.
Deadlines are due on the first Tuesday of each month…NO exceptions!
It takes a considerable amount of time to edit and pitch your stories so you’re only hurting your writing integrity.
By the way Todd, I still haven’t seen a treatment for the Civil War Society magazine…it’s been 2-months!!!
Let’s all do an online conference at 2pm today and we can chat about these reminders.
Thanks,
Mike
And so, here’s what I like to call “40-minutes of my life that I will never get back.”
Mike: This won’t take long; I just wanted us to go over some things collectively as a group. Any concerns to throw on the table before we begin?
Jim: Collectively and group mean the same thing. Are you sure that you’re an editor? Xo
Mike: Very funny. Hey Todd, what’s the timeline with the Civil War draft?
Todd: The draft for that war ended in 1864 I believe.
Jim: HahahahaHA!
Mike: You fully know what I mean Todd.
Todd: I thought I was fired.
Jim: I’ve tried that excuse before Todd…it doesn’t work.
Marie: I have a 3pm appointment so I may have to log off early. BTW, I just emailed my latest drafts to you Mike. I’m way early this month!
Jim: Ass kisser.
Mike: Thanks Marie. From now on I’m going to need something in writing 2-weeks in advance asking for an extension and explaining why a deadline is going to be missed.
Jim: What if one is suffering from a bout of writer’s block so severe that writing a note informing that a deadline will be missed is impossible?
Mike: I think you can bang out a paragraph of explanation…even with writer’s block.
Jim: I’m not so sure. Actually I sometimes suffer so badly that my private part doesn’t even work properly…which really annoys my lady friend.
Mike: Any more excuses?
Jim: What if I find myself in the unfortunate situation of going to the bank to make a deposit and I'm involved in a hostage situation, which happens to occur at noon on the first Tuesday of the month? Does this waive the deadline request?
Amanda: Do I really need to be on this chat session?
Mike: Yes Amanda.
Todd: I’ve actually been working on that Civil War piece you asked about. The lead character has detached from his military unit (the first African American Unit.)
He goes on a personal mission to make sure the son of a plantation owner is brought to justice after a racially-motivated murder.
Anyway, it’s sort of a combination of Glory, Roots and Shaft. I wanted to incorporate “Red Tails” but there were, of course, no airplanes in the Civil War.
Mike: Please tell me that you aren’t serious.
Jim: It’s better than incorporating the movie “Booty Call.” Bravo Todd!
Marie: What if we introduce some sort of incentive system for writers who meet or beat the deadlines? That might fix the problem. Just a thought.
Jim: I bet you were the hall monitor in school, weren’t you?
Amanda: Seriously, do I need to be on this conference?
Mike: That’s an excellent suggestion Marie. Maybe we can offer a restaurant gift certificate or basketball tickets? Any other incentive prize suggestions?
Jim: A stripper cookout and a bottle of vodka. We can do the party at Amanda’s place.
Mike: Can you contribute a serious statement to the meeting?
Jim: Amanda has an awesome pool…seriously.
Amanda: After the last pool party, you and Todd are still banned from the pool.
Marie: Ha! What happened?
Todd: I honestly thought cats could freakin’ swim!
Jim: How is little Pook the cat doing anyway Amanda?
Mike: Uh, guys, I’m trying to host a meeting here.
Amanda: How’s your love life doing Jim?
Todd: HAHAHAHA! Now THAT’S cold!
Marie: LOL!
Jim: Laugh it up. You know, Amanda, they say that lobbing sarcastic comments in the workplace is a form of sexual tension.
Amanda: Ha! Really now?
Jim: I can come by later tonight if you want to discuss your feelings more in depth. Since I’m not suffering from writer’s block this week, my equipment is working at full capacity.
Marie: HAHA! Don’t do it Amanda. LOL!
Mike: Ok kids…back to the meeting. Listen, bottom line is: I need for you to pay attention to formatting, deadlines, word counts and especially PUNCTUATION. Any questions?
Marie: Nope
Todd: Got it.
Amanda: No questions here.
Jim: .....",,::;,…":;?&,.{ !!
Todd: I get it!! Jim just did punctuation humor. Brilliant!
Marie: You two are unbearable sometimes.
Mike: Look, you all do very amazing work but I need for you to pay attention to details. By the way, Jim, while I have you online, do you have your next draft ready and formatted?
Jim: You included an unnecessary modifier in front of the word “amazing.”
Amanda: Word snob.
Jim: I DO have my latest draft ready. I took liberties to write it in Japanese this time. An abstract, artistic style so to speak.
Mike: Well…that certainly peaks my curiosity. Would you like to share a sample with the group?
Jim: “Me love you long time…uh, suckie suckie?”
Todd: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Jim: Oh NOOOOOOO!!! Godzirra!!!!
Marie: User has logged off
Amanda: User has logged off
Mike: Ummm…is anyone still here?
Todd: I'm here
Jim: マイクは吸います
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
The Greatest Show On Earth
Mardi Gras is undoubtedly one of the biggest celebrations of the year. It’s right up there with Carnival in Rio, New Year’s Eve in Times Square, the season finale of 24, etc.
Having lived in the French Quarter for years, I had a front row seat to the eccentric traditions and debauchery which accompany this grand celebration…
Translation: Several people had sex, puked and urinated on my front porch**
**Note: I need to find new friends
Translation: Several people had sex, puked and urinated on my front porch**
**Note: I need to find new friends
In mid-February the ancient Romans celebrated the Lupercalia, a circus like festival, not entirely unlike the Mardi Gras we're familiar with today. Only the ancient Romans were a bit more stringent with law enforcement in that they summarily crucified people for urinating on a street corner, flashing private parts or claiming to be the son of God.
Mardi Gras, in its early incarnation, was a time for the Romans to take a break from doing civic project, such as destroying other countries and inventing an impossible language which is only used by pharmacists, doctor's and lawyers today.
I believe at the end of the festival they also usually tossed a low income village idiot or two into the arena for the lions to maul.
When Rome embraced Christianity, the early Church fathers decided it better to incorporate certain aspects of pagan rituals into the new faith…such as pure grain alcohol served in a to-go cup, unimaginable heaping piles of trash, boobs and colorful beads along with tourists from Idaho doing things in the middle of a public street that they likely wouldn't do at a gang-bang.**
Note: Please see Porn Hub.com (keyword: Mardi Gras)
Controlled chaos indeed.
Mardi Gras came to America in 1699, along with CNN’s Larry King. The event had been celebrated in Paris since the Middle Ages until Walt Disney bought the rights and turned it into a family oriented event. This is why the French hate Americans to this day.
I eventually traded in the hustle and bustle of French Quarter life, opting for a more peaceful neighborhood located about three quarters of a mile away…which means that I may now sit comfortably on my front porch cursing myself for moving to a neighborhood where the bars actually have a closing time.
Having experienced several Mardi Gras festivities over the years, I decided to “opt out” for this particular season and enjoy it from home. That is until my neighbor, Glen, found himself strapped with babysitting duties for a single mother of two children, ages 11 and 5..
I realize that babysitting and a street celebration consisting of 1.5 million half-naked, drunk people don’t seem to belong in the same sentence but enlisting my assistance and babysitting ALSO do not belong in the same sentence. Ask any number of my female friends to confirm this fact.
I sat on my front porch on a balmy Mardi Gras morning trying to enjoy a cup of coffee (pronounced: vodka and orange juice) as Glen badgered me non stop to the point that I began to cry...and bleed from the ears.
It was reminiscent of that scene from "Return of the Jedi" when Luke relentlessly pounded Darth Vader with his light saber.
So I, reluctantly, agreed to co-babysit at a celebration which I’d hoped to skip.
If I were the mother of these two children, upon learning of this field trip, I would have immediately called the police.
Since it was 10:00am, I did the responsible thing one does to prepare for a long day in the middle of chaos-- I took a 30 minute nap in order to sober up a bit before heading out.
Our rocky start should have rang as an omen as Glen and I couldn't figure out how to open the stroller. After each of us downed a shot of Irish whiskey we executed a second attempt as the kids stared at us in the same fashion as that of an Alcoholic's Anonymous sponsor.
Finally, sweet victory was OURS! By that, I mean that the 11 year-old opened the stroller for us.
Glen and I stared in awe at this quite expensive and elaborate contraption, happily realizing that this stroller represented the fact that we didn't have to lug a 5 year-old around the city. As an added bonus...it came equipped with an abundance of spacious storage compartments!
We shoved every ounce of alcohol that we could find into the compartments, leaving just enough room for the kid and headed out for an adventure to the biggest party on the planet.
We made it to the streetcar stop when something vaguely important crossed Glen's mind…and so, I walked six blocks back to the porch to retrieve the children.
Upon my return, Glen lifted the 5 year-old from the stroller as I tried to figure out how to fold it. This literally caused us to miss the first three streetcars and resulted in me smoking four cigarettes.
Finally, as the 5 year old sat on the bench grabbing an attractive young woman’s left breast, the 11 year-old dismantled the stroller for me as I stood there wishing that I were a 5 year-old again. HOW do they get away with grabbing a random breast when I CAN NOT???
Upon boarding the streetcar I noticed that, in the stroller folding operation, a vodka bottle in one of the storage compartments had apparently broken.
Glen, the kids and I strode down the aisle of our crowded streetcar, unaware that a stream of vodka leaked from the stroller all the way down our path. I'm certain that we looked like some sort of alcoholic Hansel and Gretel.
Our fellow passengers shot looks of disgust and were likely trying to find the number for Child Protective Services on their I-Phones.
Glenn is an openly gay man. I only share that piece of information as it occurred to me from some of the glares that we received on the streetcar that we likely appeared as though we were a same sex (drunk) couple who had adopted kids.
I shared this suspicion with Glen and we agreed to do the mature thing...We had fun with it, at the expense of two tourists (a middle aged husband and wife) from Alabama.
(Insert Forrest Gump accent here)
Husband: Those your kids?
Me: (in a flamboyant vocal delivery) Oh no! I want kids but Glen doesn't...isn't that RIGHT Glen?
Glen: There she goes again! Why do you ALWAYS have to be a bitch?? First you blame ME for the fact that you lost your job at Rooms To Go, then I’m the cause for your father disowning you and now it’s KIDS! Don’t even start with me girl!
Me: He’s a little edgy today; he'll be fine after a Xanax. We couldn't adopt kids anyway because Glen can’t even wake up on time for his anger management sessions much less an appointment with an adoption agency. We’re just babysitting. Would you two care for a shot of whiskey by the way?
Wife: (nervously laughing) uh, where are the parents?
Glen: The father ran off with a girl who worked at a place in Tennessee called Toot’s. It used to be called Tooter’s but Hooter’s sued them because, like Hooter's, the girls wore skimpy shirts and orange shorts and also served shitty wings…They lost the lawsuit so now it’s a topless restaurant. I heard the wings are better than they used to be though.
Me: Eeeeew! Boobies gross me out!!
Glen: I KNOW...right??? Whew! Who else needs a Xanax??
Husband: (now growing visibly concerned) Where, um, exactly does the mother live?
This is a moment that I dream about every single time I venture out into the world; spewing juvenile, uncomfortable mischief. I gave them Mike's (my editor) address.
Mike has a spastic colon and I've advised him on numerous occasions that he desperately needs to enlist the services of a hooker in order to calm his nerves. I feel strongly that this will better free his mind, thus curbing his incessant acts of evil-doing toward me when I submit a writing draft.
We arrived downtown where we would begin our trek to the Mardi Gras parade route; quickly ducking the Alabama couple before they could hail a police officer.
By the way, Mardi Gras is a time where I feel perfectly comfortable enjoying a parade without having my sexual orientation questioned by the guys. That is, until Glen smacked me on the ass in front of a group of senior citizens while I held the 5 year-old.**
**Note: The 11 year-old was dripping with spilled vodka as he unfolded the stroller. Plus, when Glen smacked my ass, I accidentally spilled a full cocktail all over both children. The senior citizens grew much edgier at this point.
As an important travel tip, taking the streetcar is quite convenient during Mardi Gras. They only cost $1.25 and drop you off, conveniently, in the middle of a median filled with 8-thousand people per cubic foot...9 blocks from where you actually need to be. But, at least you're in the middle of a crowd which consists of 20 or 30 heavily armed, drunk citizens...just in case anything bad goes down.
We inched our way to a position where we would secure our prime parade viewing spot when the 5 year-old began whimpering that he was hungry while the 11 year-old announced that he had to pee.
This is the point where I saw some fat old lady flash her breasts for beads and it caused me to laugh so hard that I spewed my shot of whiskey all over the 11 year-old
On a positive note, the 5 year-old already peed his pants so I didn't have to take him to the port-a-potty.
Glen volunteered to take the eldest to the portable toilet while I took the youngest to get something to eat. In the interest of safety, we agreed to meet back at a designated area. (I suggested Des Moines, Iowa)
I purchased the youngest child one of my favorite mid-afternoon snacks...a can of Mountain Dew a Three Musketeer's bar and a bag of Cheetos.
We all rendezvoused back at our designated spot where Glen informed me that the kid was not allowed to have ANY sugar or foods with preservatives or saturated fat. WHAT???
When did kids become so delicate? What difference does it make what this kid eats?
As Glen and I discussed the dietary requirements of a 5 year-old, the eldest kid stood under a balcony which was filled with party goers when a giant bucket of an electric blue liquor substance tumbled over the edge.
And now we had an 11 year-old who looked like part of the "Blue Man Group."
My attention diverted as I noticed that the 5 year-old, on a sugar and carbohydrate high, was strangling another young child against the parade street barrier...I suppose this explains the importance of a regimented dietary intake.
Adding more stress to this chaotic scene, a local television crew transmitted a live shot as part of their non-stop Mardi Gras coverage which I believe begins in November.
There we were on live television; Glen looked as though he'd seen a ghost, blankly staring at the TV camera, standing next to an alcohol drenched 11 year-old Smurf, a 5 year-old acting as though he were a cracked-out monkey and me...groping an attractive young woman's left breast.
Glen's phone rang immediately...the mother of the children happened to be viewing the live news coverage and, needless to say, this phone call didn't seem to go very well for Glen.
He calmly motioned for me by flailing his arms like a shipwreck victim, begging for my assistance to explain the situation in order to calm the mother's nerves.
After the phone call Glen solemnly announced that it was time to head back home.
It was a quiet ride on the street car. I couldn't help but to feel sad for Glen as I watched him sitting in tortured silence. He hopelessly worried what terrible fate awaited upon his returning the kids.
As we walked from the streetcar stop toward home, I genuinely felt bad for Glen and assured him that the mother would be understanding if he simply explained that what she saw on TV wasn't as bad as it appeared-- sort of like the Fox News Channel.
I also suggested that we toss the kids in the shower before delivering them to their mother.
We paused on the sidewalk for a moment, pouring two shots, when Glen gave me a sincere hug for calming his nerves before he had to face an uncertain fate that awaited.
It was a nice moment where the spirit of true friendship is defined.
As we downed our shots on that quiet little sidewalk something quite important crossed Glen's mind. And so...I walked six blocks back to the streetcar stop to get the kids.
 |
| Me with some random drunk guy. Actually there are TWO drunk guys in this picture...I'm the one on the right |
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Love Is In The Air...Who Farted?
Admittedly, I’m absolutely terrible at writing in the style of sexy, mushy, dirty or even the classic “love note.”
One time, I dipped my pen into the well of writing children's short stories which, as I recall, was referred to as "sociopathic" by a prospective publishing house.
One time, I dipped my pen into the well of writing children's short stories which, as I recall, was referred to as "sociopathic" by a prospective publishing house.
I shyly glossed over love scenes in a book that I wrote a few years ago by simply writing in a manner which plunged head first, getting directly to the point. On a side note, this style pretty much sums up my sex life when I was in my mid 20's.
No wonder I never got too many second dates.
I feel that a succinct, yet clever, literary style makes me a time efficient writer. My editor, on the other hand, describes it as juvenile.
No wonder I never got too many second dates.
I feel that a succinct, yet clever, literary style makes me a time efficient writer. My editor, on the other hand, describes it as juvenile.
For the record, my editor, Mike, describes himself as unlucky in the dating world. He attributes this to his being misunderstood. I attribute it to the fact that he still watches VHS tapes and wears khaki pants. The highlight of his day is watching Jeopardy and eating Totino's Pizza Rolls. But, he IS an above average speller.**
**Note: Making him a ripe dating candidate for an 80-year old woman
Actually, I liken Mike's lady friend skills to that of the sh**ty tasting chocolate candy piece in those Russel Stover heart shaped boxes. You know the one...the lone morsel that people bite into and immediately spit out, frantically grasping for anything within arm's length (water, beer, mouthwash, gasoline) to erase the putrid and unexpected aftertaste in one's mouth.
Russel Stover even includes a diagram of the candy landscape in those boxes these days. You know why? So no one accidentally puts that piece of doo doo in their mouth! Why not just do away with the actual piece of candy?
I suppose this is also why I'm not a Russel Stover executive...or, for that matter, gainfully employed.
**Note: Making him a ripe dating candidate for an 80-year old woman
Actually, I liken Mike's lady friend skills to that of the sh**ty tasting chocolate candy piece in those Russel Stover heart shaped boxes. You know the one...the lone morsel that people bite into and immediately spit out, frantically grasping for anything within arm's length (water, beer, mouthwash, gasoline) to erase the putrid and unexpected aftertaste in one's mouth.
Russel Stover even includes a diagram of the candy landscape in those boxes these days. You know why? So no one accidentally puts that piece of doo doo in their mouth! Why not just do away with the actual piece of candy?
I suppose this is also why I'm not a Russel Stover executive...or, for that matter, gainfully employed.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m comfortable and confident in the sex department...ESPECIALLY when I know that I’m not going to see the woman EVER again. I simply don’t like to chronicle every detail of a love scene; I'm just not comfortable with writing it.
By the way, I recently read one such dirty submission from my friend Todd...WHAT IS a love button anyway????
Here's how I write love scenes:
By the way, I recently read one such dirty submission from my friend Todd...WHAT IS a love button anyway????
Here's how I write love scenes:
“Marie and Chris locked eyes; he gently kissed her cheek, moving slowly to her soft lips. Her beautiful, porcelain face stared back to him as she lay, poised on all fours, in the middle of the area rug; her face was illuminated in the romantic glow of a paused Wii bowling video game.**
**Chris was dangerously close to beating his room mate's high score
**Chris was dangerously close to beating his room mate's high score
They writhed beneath the sheets on a bed littered with empty beer cans, dog hair, dirty clothes and Nacho Cheese Dorito's crumbs.
It was at this very moment, a moment of sexual tension which had been building for about 2 and a half minutes, that Marie wondered if she'd remembered to turn off the stove at her apartment as Chris fumbled with her bra.
Finally, their romantic encounter reached fever pitch.
(Insert R. Kelly music here)
It was at this very moment, a moment of sexual tension which had been building for about 2 and a half minutes, that Marie wondered if she'd remembered to turn off the stove at her apartment as Chris fumbled with her bra.
Finally, their romantic encounter reached fever pitch.
(Insert R. Kelly music here)
Afterward, Chris resumed the Wii bowling game, assuring Marie that she probably turned off the stove.
His mind drifted to a distant place...wondering if there was leftover pizza in the fridge as Marie lay in bed, full of deep and dark regret, wondering why she did that 4th shot of whiskey earlier in the evening rather than go home and utilize a sex toy.”
His mind drifted to a distant place...wondering if there was leftover pizza in the fridge as Marie lay in bed, full of deep and dark regret, wondering why she did that 4th shot of whiskey earlier in the evening rather than go home and utilize a sex toy.”
I dated a woman who loved the “dirty” cell phone text chats. From time to time I’d receive a random text beckoning:
“Tell me something dirty.”
Me: Hmmm…something dirty?
Girl: YES…something dirty!
Me: I want to f**k you.
Girl: Uh, you’re a WRITER…I meant write something sexy and suggestively dirty, using your writing skills.
Me: The driving rain casts a hypnotic tympani on the roof as I lay in this bed tonight. Nature’s spectacular show is punctuated by brief streaks of lightening across the midnight sky, illuminating your beautiful face in a soft electric blue glow. Thunder fills the air with a commanding, yet mysterious, percussive rattle on the window panes…reminding me that I really want to f**k you...right now.
Girl: Uh...Never mind. I’ll be over in a few minutes.
Me: Can we have sex???
Me: Can we have sex???
I was quite flattered recently when my friend, Ed, asked if I might craft a Valentine’s Day love note to his wife.
Ed is a confident and handsome man and his wife, Amanda, is strikingly beautiful, talented and sweet. Ed knows how he feels about Amanda, he's just not confident in expressing romantic words on paper to her.
Ed is a confident and handsome man and his wife, Amanda, is strikingly beautiful, talented and sweet. Ed knows how he feels about Amanda, he's just not confident in expressing romantic words on paper to her.
I’ve never thought about “staffing out” the act of writing a love note. I usually just don’t write them in MY personal relationships for fear of getting into trouble. I fully know the sweet nothings that I WANT to convey, they just end up coming out all wrong on paper.
Example:
I enjoyed last night...WHO KNEW that the Muppet Movie could spur an evening of crazy animal sex?? I haven’t had a wild night like that since I was with my ex.
By the way, can I grab that $10-Dollars later today for your half of the Miller Lite case? Or we can just apply the balance for you purchasing dinner at Taco Bell. In which case, you only owe me $2-dollars.
By the way, can I grab that $10-Dollars later today for your half of the Miller Lite case? Or we can just apply the balance for you purchasing dinner at Taco Bell. In which case, you only owe me $2-dollars.
Oh, I’m sorry that my neighbor, Craig, drunkenly stumbled into the bedroom last night…he gets real weird after drinking shots. Now that I think about it, he's weird when he's sober. I don’t think he saw anything because, if he DID, he would have snapped cell pics and posted them on the Internet today...so don’t worry.
Anyway, I want you to know that I have a lot more fun with you than pretty much anyone and I hope that you’re having a great day. By the way, I’m sorry for hurting the kitty.
By kitty, I’m not using a euphemism like lots of writers do, I mean the actual kitty…I didn’t see her laying on the bed. I also hope the other kitty is ok too! LOL!
Anywhoo…I look forward to seeing you after work...ALL of you! Haha! xoxoxoxo
I don’t send Valentine’s flowers either. I’m fortunate in that I:
a) Send flowers for no particular reason on any of the other 364 days in the year because I love my lady and/or there’s been a death in her family
b) Send flowers because I probably said or did something stupid (I’m told that I do this often.) Flowers usually pave the way in this situation so that a truce might be declared, leading to incredibly primal make-up sex
c) Usually date women who love football and baseball and also don’t want flowers on Valentine’s Day*
**Note: Typically, these are women who can beat me up…which is sexy in an erotic, odd sort of way
The all-powerful floral industry executives must sit back and laugh all the way to the bank on Valentine’s Day as they rake in billions of dollars from men who fork out exorbitant amounts of money.
They fork over the money so as not to have their lady witness delivery upon delivery to ALL of the other girls in the office. All the while, their lady stares blankly as though she resides in a trailer park in Jackson Mississippi and just received the crushing news that she's been rejected by the judges of American Idol.
The floral marketplace is SO overwhelmed at Valentine's Day that these flowers look like a wilted, weathered, faded, exhausted heap…sort of like Steven Tyler.
They fork over the money so as not to have their lady witness delivery upon delivery to ALL of the other girls in the office. All the while, their lady stares blankly as though she resides in a trailer park in Jackson Mississippi and just received the crushing news that she's been rejected by the judges of American Idol.
The floral marketplace is SO overwhelmed at Valentine's Day that these flowers look like a wilted, weathered, faded, exhausted heap…sort of like Steven Tyler.
By the way ladies, I don’t care what your man tells you…he DOES NOT want to receive flowers or balloons on Valentine’s Day…period. Your man wants to have SEX on Valentine’s Day. If pizza or Mexican food is involved...even better!
I was the recipient of flowers in the office place one time and the memory still painfully resonates vividly in my mind, over and over again like a bad dream.
I remember receiving the intercom page from the front desk. The page echoed through the radio station as though it were coming directly from God...or Darth Vader.
I ventured downstairs to find a bouquet of assorted, pastel colored flowers resting on the counter. There were frilly little multi-colored ribbons at the base of the arrangement, taunting me, as if to be questioning my sexuality.
A couple of my male co-workers snickered, trying to mask full blown laughter. They then asked if I needed a feminine napkin to go with my pretty flowers.
A couple of my male co-workers snickered, trying to mask full blown laughter. They then asked if I needed a feminine napkin to go with my pretty flowers.
The receptionist handed the flowers to me and I snatched them from her as if to be disarming an armed bank robber.
Incidentally, she also asked if I needed a feminine napkin as the entire lobby finally erupted with laughter. As an important note, I hate every single one of these people.
As my ardent readers know, I have long had a beef with Hallmark and American Greetings because I feel strongly that there’s a useful place for my talents in the greeting card industry…even though I do not send Valentine’s Day cards, I feel strongly that I can effectively WRITE them.
They don’t seem to share my vision, as evidenced by numerous rejection notices.
Those sappy holiday cards are terrible! For instance, if I received the following from my lady friend on Valentine’s Day, or any other day, I would likely break up with her, burn the card, light myself on fire with the burning card and jump through a window.
“Sweetheart, I don’t want to go to sleep at night because real life with you is better than a dream.”
I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
With that said, here’s my foray into the “love letter” writing assignment on behalf of my friend Ed to his wife. I’ve known them both for a long time; therefore Ed figured I would be able to craft a perfectly fitting letter to her…
My dearest Amanda,
I’m so glad that you’re a part of my life. Even though I didn’t really have a choice because we found out that you were pregnant three months into our relationship, I’m glad that I did the right thing and, after these past 2 years, I finally am convinced that you are truly the woman for me.
I love the way you look at me with your bright blue eyes and the way you touch me. I equally love your extremely large breasts and the way THEY touch me. I also love the fact that you make some of the best meatloaf in the world.
You are truly a loving, caring and absolutely beautiful woman. When I look at you, I’m reminded as to why I’m not interested in having sex with men.
Love always,
Ed
While I was very proud of how accurately I captured the essence of Ed’s love for Amanda, Ed didn’t think too highly of my Valentine’s Day missive so he decided to purchase a card.
Damn! I’ve been beaten by Hallmark AGAIN!
I suppose I don't know the first thing about writing a love note after all. But, I decided to give it a stab this Valentine's day for someone special.
This is a writing exercise that my editor, my mother, my friends and any number of my college professors would have referred to as a "recipe for disaster."
My dearest sweetheart,
I'm fully aware that I would, of course, NEVER speak that way in real life but I figured it to be inappropriate to begin a Valentine's Day love note with "Dear sexy ass ghetto booty."
The primary reason that I opted to craft a personal love note this year revolves around my refusal to purchase a $4-dollar card which was written by a cheesy writer working for a company that continually dispatches rejection letters upon receiving my writing demo packages.
Actually, I usually throw cards away after I read them anyway; or when a woman breaks up with me...whichever comes first.
On that front, I deeply hope that breaking up with me is not in your immediate plans as I'm quite thrilled that you like to watch football and do not force me to cuddle after sex. I also love that thing you do when you bend your upper torso downward from the side of the bed.
What I want to tell you can't be fully conveyed on paper because there are, in fact, so many things that I love about you and our time together.
In addition to your spectacular eggplant Parmesan recipe, I love the way you touch my face when I'm feeling down, the feeling that I get when I wake up in the middle of the night and find that you're holding onto me. I love the fact that I can feel your presence in a crowded room and how people react to your beautiful smile, laugh and independent personality...myself included.
I love the fact that you're not afraid to take a long road trip with me, even though (according to a CNN special report that I recently read) I'm in the primary demographic and socioeconomic profile as that of a serial killer.
By the way, if it makes you feel comfortable, I would never chop you up and bury you under a heap of lyme and sod in a vacant field located miles from a state highway near a rural town in Arkansas.
In all seriousness, I love how you challenge me in little ways to be a better person. I love that you still kiss me like it's the very first time. I feel a sense of complete trust, knowing that you're comfortable with opening up to me about anything. And I count myself fortunate in that you forgive me when I act like a complete idiot...I don't tell you that as much as I should.
Oh, and I also love that you don't judge me after I've done 9 shots of Irish whiskey and think it to be a good idea to sing karaoke. (By the way, thanks for the sober ride home last Thursday. And, I'm sorry for going to the bathroom on your side porch. I hope your room mate isn't still mad at me.)
I suppose what I'm trying to say is that, I love you...
always,
Jim
Since I've officially given up on Hallmark, I'm gonna send some writing samples to that candy company that sells those little hearts which have the consistency of blackboard chalk, with a slight minty taste. Here's my first draft:
Author's Note: This piece is dedicated to a special lady who probably loves me more than I deserve at times. And, I'm eternally thankful. Xoxo xxx
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