SO I WAS BROWSING CRAIGSLIST looking fruitlessly for a job that didn’t require a degree or involve rectal cleansing. I was frustrated, bored, on house arrest, and I had been filing applications all week. None of them had called back. So there I sat, like Steve Butabi looking for more girls to reject him when, nestled between a request for a live-in maid willing to perform her job topless and a hedge trimmer at a senior center, was the headline “SEEKING SPANISH-SPEAKING CAUCASIONS[sic]!”
“Spanish Speaking Caucasian,” I said aloud, “Why that’s me, by golly!”
There was very little information, but it said they were casting for a Telemundo show. On a whim, I snapped a pair of Photo Booth pictures and sent ‘em in. Expect nothing, gain everything, my friends. The very next day, I got a call from Let’s-call-him-Miguel who asked me my Zodiac sign and was I available tomorrow at 3? I said yeah but I got a DUI so I can’t get there. No problem, says Telemundo Miguel, we’ll just send a chauffeur out for you. I almost cry at these words. A chauffeur? Pour moi? Well thanks, Miguel.
So sure enough, the next day at three my driver appears. I still don't know what the premise of this show is. We drive to the heart of East LA ghettoville to pick up two of the other 'contestants' on the show, where we see three (count 'em, three) arrests of vatos going down. The girls are not ready, so the Driver and I have a pair of cigarettes and out come the two raunchiest girls I have ever seen. One of them looks like a skeleton with makeup on and I spot the beginnings of a cold sore beneath the six ounces of lipstick she has on, and the other looks like the female Latina equivalent of of Jack Black. Apparently, the driver tells me, there is a chance that I will be kissing these girls for the sake of the show. I look back at the hoodrats in the backseat and laugh at the driver's naivete. I kiss 7s, fuck 8s, date 9s. These are 2s, and there is no chance I will be kissing these two, televised or not.
So we make it to the very, very rundown studio lot and I'm ushered into the tiniest dressing room ever conceived. Inside are my four other male costars, and a supper peppy PA who looks exactly like Chayanne, and two bottles of champagne. The others have been briefed already, and they're all professional actors, which makes me nervous. Chayanne gives me the rundown on what this show is all about. "It'th called Dothe Corathoneth," he says his fruity latin tone, "and bathically you will be competing againtht thethe gentlemen for the heart of one girl bathed on your Thodiac thign." The producer comes in, a 30-something latina broad with a retainer and a lazy eye, and assigns us our Thodiac Thigns (excuse me, Zodiac signs). I'm assigned Virgo, despite my being a Leo and, from what I'm told, one hell of a Leo at that.
Let me just say that I know nothing of Zodiac signs, so I begin to worry that I'm not going to know what the fuck is going on. Then I realize that I am Buster, and I'm a champion bullshitter. I also realize that I have a pocketful of Xanax and an untouched bottle of seven-dollar champagne at my beck and call. I take both into the bathroom, finish the bottle, and pop a Xannie or two. I am feeling good. I am in the zone. I am up to the task.
And thank god for my intoxication, because apparently, whether or not we stay on the show is contingent upon how well we perform the tasks to woo the girls. The first of these is to dress up in full Mariachi regalia and serenade them with song.
Another producer arrives and asks me if I'm okay and assigns me my song, which despite only having five minutes to memorize under the haze of alcohol and drugs, I can still recite. Here goes.
Para todas las Latinas For all you Latinas out there
Yo les traigo un regalote I'm bringing a gift for you
No son joyas ni dinero It ain't jewels or money
Si no este bello papazote It's this rockin' handsome Jew
The translation, as you may have gathered, is a loose one. But nonetheless, after making a Zoolander-style entrance and getting my Mariachi gear on, I was called to the stage by the hottest 40-year-old Latin woman I've seen up close. MILF STATUS. Anyway, my fucking mustache wouldn't stay on because instead of spirit gum, they were using scotch tape. Welcome to Mexican Television. I strutted onto the stage and did the Mariachi Stomp up to the girls, and sang my little heart out. After the last line, I naturally had to do something ridiculous, so I pulled my hat off my head, pulled it to my crotch, and hung it on my belt buckle so it looked as though it was supported by a massive erection. Then I toss my mustache off into the girls' section of the audience (the audience was divided into men on one side and women on the other) amidst screams and peals of laughter. The crowd is mine. The rest of the guys do their thing, but none of them speaks a fucking word of Spanish so they sound like crap and it's kind of awkward.
At this point, the girls pick who they want to eliminate, which is the guy two seats down from me who's sweet but kind of a moron. I almost get nervous when one of the girls picks me to be eliminated, but she was the only one who wanted to vote me off so fuck her.
We take a break for commercials, and one of the girls asks me who I'm with. I'm like, "I'm here by myself." She goes, "No, who are you with?" I tell her adding "no" to the exact same question does not change the fact that I don't know what the fuck she's talking about. She laughs and says "What agency?" I say, "The Craig's List Agency" and she just looks kind of shocked. Apparently her agent actually booked her for this thing.
The hostess of the show walks by and I ask her how we should pick if we like her instead of the contestants. She laughs and gets something to eat. On the way back, I flirt with her for a few minutes and joke about her having shit in her teeth. She laughs again and says, "Chocolate!" and I rub her cheek to brush some brownie remnant off. We go back to our positions.
Next challenge up: Pole Dance time. I won't go into the details, but it consisted of me climbing up the pole and doing my best stripper slide to the ground, then humping it for thirty seconds until they cut.
Apparently the girls had no challenges, which was bullshit, but whatevs. The last bit was great.
I had to recount a story of how I'd gotten a girl to fuck me who didn't speak English. I have several of these stories, so I picked my best one (I'll type it out later, I have a meeting to get to) and let her rip. The hostess made fun of me for the length of the story, so she made me pick up a mannequin (like, pick up a mannequin in a bar, not physically pick it up) and tell me how I'd get her in the sack without touching her. We cut to the commercials and the guys rave at me and tell me I'm the best.
Back on the air, and down to the wire: Who gets to pick who? This part is interesting. The girls get to pick guys based on attraction, but the guys have to reject or accept based on who's willing to kiss who. The producer comes over and naturally, the two girls I have to kiss are: A, the hottest one there and I'd give a finger to fuck, and B, Herpelip from the car ride over. I say fuck that, I'll kiss A but I ain't getting an STD for the sake of your show. They say it's a stage kiss, there's no tongue. I remind her that Herpes are not spread by the tongue, and she leaves in a huff. The other male contestants are actors (read: whores), so they assign the pretty kid to stage-kiss with Herpelip and Hottie. Instead, I get to do my favorite thing in the world:
REJECT BEAUTIFUL WOMEN WHO WANT TO MAKE OUT WITH ME.
Little Miss Taurus comes up, a 98-pound Latina Iman who many, many men would break old ladies' knees for a date with, and I look at her, hold her hands, pull her close, and SHUT HER THE FUCK DOWN. I am having a blast. I sit back down. Surprise surprise, the next girl picks who? Shut up, she picks moi. I tell her she's too fucking short for me. The next one comes up and describes her perfect man, looking at the ugly fuck to my right most of the time, then she says "Virgo!" and I'm called to the stage once more. I'm on a roll, baby. I tell her I don't like her tattoos and up close, she doesn't smell that good. SO NO, THANKS BUT NO THANKS. The fourth girl comes to the stage. There's no way I've managed to capture the hearts of four Latin hotties, is there? Oh, wait, yes there is. In spite of my drunken douchebaggery, she picks me, and I get to reject my fourth fuckable Latina of the night. She almost cries, and shoves me as she does the walk of shame off the stage. I cackle with laughter and return to my seat. Then, in the scripted part, pretty boy and Herpelip make out, and I laugh at the bullet I've dodged. Then the other girl comes up and simply says "Ese", and points to Pretty Boy, they stage kiss, and we wrap.
I flirt with the hostess of the show some more and she gives me her number. I LOVE MILFS. Then Chayanne grabs me and says it's time to pick up my compensation for the show. We walk over to a folding table and hands me a stack of tens. I'm like, whoa, we actually get paid for this shit? I had a blast! I count the stack to see what I've earned for dressing like a mariachi, pole dancing, and grinding on a mannequin, and the total is a whopping 80 dollars in cash.
Apparently that is the price of my dignity.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
GALLERY GIRLS
SO MY FRIEND MR. SIMON told me about an amazingly funny little web strip. I'm far too hung over to write much right now, but let me just say this: if you love "the scene," odds are you'll love Gallery Girls. Gallery Girls is run by Mr. Simon's friend whose name I believe to be Kate. Either way, she's one funny beeyotch. Check it out at http://ceceliawestgallery.com/
Personally, I find the human beings represented therein disgusting and morally reprehensible, but I'm a piece of shit too so who am I to judge? Also, I think that's kind of the point. Anywho, enjoy.
--buster
Sunday, February 1, 2009
FUNNY SHIT THAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DO DRUGS
A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR YOUR SUNDAY. I recently got arrested for driving under the influence. Consequently, I've been on parentally-imposed house arrest because I'm too broke to pay my own car insurance (because mine is, well, rather high). But in an uncharacteristic batch of good news, the case was set aside due to insufficient evidence. So I thought I'd share my little DUI adventure now that I'm (mostly) in the clear from it.
Some of you may've heard this before in its other forms, but to all of you who haven't, here it is. Be Warned.
Notice to all Law Enforcement officials: This is not an admission of guilt. The following is simply an assemblage of the recollections various people have of a night's events, and their interpretation thereof.
It was Saturday evening, and I got a call from two friends inviting me to a party. Since I knew I'd have at least two solid drinking buddies, I figured it would be worthwhile, so I decided to go. This was a mistake.
Apparently it was Mike's girlfriend's birthday party, although when I got there it looked like some impromptu Overeaters Anonymous social. Well, at least there was booze and a recently-filled prescription for 2mg Xanax sitting in my pocket.
Let me just say this: I love Xanax. In conjunction with alcohol, it turns me into a delusional, ranting, semi-composed loudmouth who knows he's not going to have any recollection of the night's events the next day, thus freeing him from any semblance of social restraint or tact. I popped one, ground another up and put it into my drink.
After a few minutes, my friend Brian and I decided that our attention would be better spent elsewhere. Apparently I had already spiked two fatties' drinks with large doses of Xanax and was Danger-Close to succumbing to their torrid plans for me.
We had seen a party around the corner, so we decided to head by. I brought my drink with me, either because I thought we were just going to say hello or because I thought there might be some Xanax pasted along the bottom.
The people had decided to throw the party with their neighbors, and had themed each house as Japan and the US. Ever the patriot, I hit the US first, and was immediately greeted by a gay guest who offered me a "Blow by Blow" which apparently means a coke induced blowjob. Since he turned and laughed hysterically at a good-looking blonde I decided to spin it on its head and be charming, which I can be. I politely declined asking instead if he'd show me around the party and introduce me to his hot friends. I bent my arm out so he'd take it and winked at the blonde.
I paid little attention to what the fruit was saying, and vaguely remember my friend leaving me alone in the company of two samoan guys who'd play little part in the evening.
The punchline is that the aforementioned blonde and I wound up together in a bathroom and she let me do a line of blow off her tits before giving me head on the toilet (I'm not sure if this would constitute a blumpkin as I wasn't actually taking a crap).
These stories, however, would not be as funny if everything was hunky-dory and it was simply that I did coke and got head from a girl. No, it must contain at least one instance of the following:
-A Boyfriend.
-A flat tire.
-The Police.
Although, as the rest of the story will tell you, all three is perfectly acceptable.
Brian confirmed his candidacy for the Amazing Timing Awards when he showed up JUST as the boyfriend pinned me down with his two friends. They had me backed into something of a corner, and we seemed to be moving towards the door as though an altercation was inevitable. When I saw Brian stumbling down the street, drunk as a fucking priest, who threw up his hands and said, "BUS! WHAT UP, NIGGA!" I knew that the fight was, indeed, inevitable.
I looked at the boyfriend with a grimace on my face. "Fuck you! What are are you getting mad at me for? I didn't SUCK ANYBODY'S DICK."
He looked down at the ground and then back up at me, straight into my eyes. I quietly added, "On the toilet," thinking this was a good idea. He shoved me, and I shoved him back, and he flying-tackled me down the steps.
Luckily I was coherent enough to see this coming, and when he reeled back from my shove and charged at me, I kind of side-stepped him and he wound up taking the brunt of the fall. My hands, unfortunately, were on the underside of him, and scraped along the pavement (I'll see if I have any injury-fresh photos).
Since my hands were trapped, I reeled back, and fucked a good headbutt across his nose. He yelped and grabbed his nose, and I freed my hands. At this point, I was on him full on, so I pounded on his face while his friends jumped on my back and punched me in the face. They were both standing, and I was kneeling across this guy, so none of them really got in any good blows, but I can only assume this is when I got my black eye. Brian just walked up the street and casually got up behind one of the guys and started choking him out.
When I was finished with boyfriend, I spun around on the violent friend, and caught a good elbow to his temple. I'm about 6' 2", and the friend was only about 5' 9", so it wasn't terribly hard. Brian and I had trounced them.
I decided to sleep this off in my car, so he walked me to it and I closed my eyes for a while. I woke up hours later, laying backwards against the dashboard with my feet propped up against the passenger seat, crust covering my eyes, and retrieved my keys. I decided it was probably prudent to get the fuck out of dodge, so I drove back home. Fate, it seems, had other plans for me. As I was pulling onto the 10, I busted a flat on a very, very loose right turn.
I got out of the car and started attempting to flag people down. People mainly just honked and told me to get the fuck out of the way, this being the 10 freeway. Finally, a cabbie stopped and let me use his cell phone to call Triple A. I asked them to bring me a spare tire as mine was already on my other flat tire. Naturally, when the guy showed up he didn't have one, and to clinch it, his truck wasn't big enough to haul mine to the towyard, so we waited for dispatch to send a bigger truck. I did not let him off easy, nor did I let the second guy off easy, which is why when we got to Sears' Tires on Lincoln he left me there and tore off into the day.
The salesman came over at this point, and I told him what I needed and asked him to quote me a price. He quoted me something outrageous and I looked at him and cursed. Allow me to point out that I know nothing about tires - every car I've owned thus far has already had them. All I know is every week someone drops off a book of coupons and is says $89.99 for a set of four tires. I tell him this. He disagrees. I tell him to get fucked. My Xanax was swinging into full effect.
I decided I'd call around to see where there were cheaper tires but the salesman told me to get the fuck out of there. Three cars had pulled in behind me, so I decided I'd go out their other exit and busted a left. I vaguely remember a policewoman screaming at me from her car. The next thing I knew I was in the back of a cop car, and had just pulled my legs between my cuffed hands, because the cuffs were incredibly uncomfortable behind my back. Suffice it to say I was in bad graces with the Santa Monica Police Department by the time I was hauled in to get mugged by the guy in charge of the drunk tank. The guy didn't say anything, just put me in a half nelson. The other cop put me in an arm bar. I said something about my Grandmother doing a better one and he nearly popped my arm out of the socket.
They rolled my prints and threw me in the drunk tank. I didn't like my digs. It was all one piece, from the looks of it. The walls were white, there was a roll of toilet paper, a sink, and a toilet. The piece-de-resistance was assuredly the bed/seat, which was basically a 4 foot by two foot rectangle. That was it. I can't say I remember much about this part, except that I took to calling one guard "Shirley" and the Mexican one "Cheech." As a sign of their appreciation for the new nicknames, they decided to answer my pleas for clean water or a cup or something with "Shut up."
In protest, I laid out all my toilet paper on the bed and wet it down with spit and whatever loogies I could conjure up with my coarse, Xanax-and-alcohol-parched throat. I formed it in the sign of the cross and patted it up against the window of my cell. I had to apply a few more loogies to get it to stick. Shirley did not find this funny at all. He was wearing green SWAT-style fatigues and the hair from the crown of his head seemed to have immigrated to his upper lip. He didn't say anything, simply grabbed the toilet paper roll, tore the paper off down the middle, and tossed the cardboard piece into my face. I laughed. I was feeling very good.
I turned my eyes heavenward, and noticed that there was a ventilation duct in my cell. I calculated that if I could pry it open, my chances of escape were probably excellent. I stood on my bed/seat to examine the lock and noticed that the lock was, oddly enough, shaped like an M or a W. "Perfect," I thought, "I'll just tear that toilet paper roll into a key." I cannot remember how much time I spent on this arduous task, but I would conjecture now that it was probably to the tune of 45 minutes to an hour.
Finally, my key was ready, and it was time to escape. I stood on the bed/seat, and found that the duct was a bit further away than I had initially calculated. I steadied myself, alternating between bracing myself with an arm on the wall and a hand on the ceiling. I try to work my "key" in, and it shows a promising 15 degree turn in the lock. I work it more, taking care not to force it, but the lock is deeper than I thought. My arms are getting very tired. I am switching hands and have to put the key in my mouth every time I do. I work the key in a bit more, and I've got it in there really good. So I push my forearms against the ceiling and try to work the key around, actually gaining some of my stability from the cardboard's integrity. It rips. I let out a scream and go crashing into the wall; my coordination is lousy, but so is my pain reception. I am mainly furious that my key is broken. Escape is out of my reach. I am rapidly approaching sober. Shirley and Cheech have started ignoring me completely.
I curl up on the bed/seat, trying to find a comfortable position, when the guards come in and drag me by my shoulders out of the cell.
"Little fuckin' plan didn't work, huh Birdman of Alcatraz?"
"Easy, Cheech. I was only going out to get Shirley some flowers."
"Come ON!"
They clenched up their grips in my arms so I decided to let them just carry me. I let my body go limp so they'd have to drag/carry me and I guess they decided to be assholes. They let go and I just flopped. It's hard to go from ragdoll to rigid in the time it takes to hit the ground.
"Ow, fuck! What'd you do that for? I was gonna get you some, too, Cheech."
They called over another cop and gave me the bum's rush. One of them grabbed me by the belt on my lower back, the other two got me by the shoulders. I fought them on this point, tossing my arms around as uselessly as possible. The just laughed and kicked open the door and tossed me sailing into the evening.
I pounded on the door and yelled, "Hey, my fucking cigarettes!"
Cheech just gave me the finger from the doorway.
Suffice it to say, I did not feel well the next day.
Some of you may've heard this before in its other forms, but to all of you who haven't, here it is. Be Warned.
Notice to all Law Enforcement officials: This is not an admission of guilt. The following is simply an assemblage of the recollections various people have of a night's events, and their interpretation thereof.
It was Saturday evening, and I got a call from two friends inviting me to a party. Since I knew I'd have at least two solid drinking buddies, I figured it would be worthwhile, so I decided to go. This was a mistake.
Apparently it was Mike's girlfriend's birthday party, although when I got there it looked like some impromptu Overeaters Anonymous social. Well, at least there was booze and a recently-filled prescription for 2mg Xanax sitting in my pocket.
Let me just say this: I love Xanax. In conjunction with alcohol, it turns me into a delusional, ranting, semi-composed loudmouth who knows he's not going to have any recollection of the night's events the next day, thus freeing him from any semblance of social restraint or tact. I popped one, ground another up and put it into my drink.
After a few minutes, my friend Brian and I decided that our attention would be better spent elsewhere. Apparently I had already spiked two fatties' drinks with large doses of Xanax and was Danger-Close to succumbing to their torrid plans for me.
We had seen a party around the corner, so we decided to head by. I brought my drink with me, either because I thought we were just going to say hello or because I thought there might be some Xanax pasted along the bottom.
The people had decided to throw the party with their neighbors, and had themed each house as Japan and the US. Ever the patriot, I hit the US first, and was immediately greeted by a gay guest who offered me a "Blow by Blow" which apparently means a coke induced blowjob. Since he turned and laughed hysterically at a good-looking blonde I decided to spin it on its head and be charming, which I can be. I politely declined asking instead if he'd show me around the party and introduce me to his hot friends. I bent my arm out so he'd take it and winked at the blonde.
I paid little attention to what the fruit was saying, and vaguely remember my friend leaving me alone in the company of two samoan guys who'd play little part in the evening.
The punchline is that the aforementioned blonde and I wound up together in a bathroom and she let me do a line of blow off her tits before giving me head on the toilet (I'm not sure if this would constitute a blumpkin as I wasn't actually taking a crap).
These stories, however, would not be as funny if everything was hunky-dory and it was simply that I did coke and got head from a girl. No, it must contain at least one instance of the following:
-A Boyfriend.
-A flat tire.
-The Police.
Although, as the rest of the story will tell you, all three is perfectly acceptable.
Brian confirmed his candidacy for the Amazing Timing Awards when he showed up JUST as the boyfriend pinned me down with his two friends. They had me backed into something of a corner, and we seemed to be moving towards the door as though an altercation was inevitable. When I saw Brian stumbling down the street, drunk as a fucking priest, who threw up his hands and said, "BUS! WHAT UP, NIGGA!" I knew that the fight was, indeed, inevitable.
I looked at the boyfriend with a grimace on my face. "Fuck you! What are are you getting mad at me for? I didn't SUCK ANYBODY'S DICK."
He looked down at the ground and then back up at me, straight into my eyes. I quietly added, "On the toilet," thinking this was a good idea. He shoved me, and I shoved him back, and he flying-tackled me down the steps.
Luckily I was coherent enough to see this coming, and when he reeled back from my shove and charged at me, I kind of side-stepped him and he wound up taking the brunt of the fall. My hands, unfortunately, were on the underside of him, and scraped along the pavement (I'll see if I have any injury-fresh photos).
Since my hands were trapped, I reeled back, and fucked a good headbutt across his nose. He yelped and grabbed his nose, and I freed my hands. At this point, I was on him full on, so I pounded on his face while his friends jumped on my back and punched me in the face. They were both standing, and I was kneeling across this guy, so none of them really got in any good blows, but I can only assume this is when I got my black eye. Brian just walked up the street and casually got up behind one of the guys and started choking him out.
When I was finished with boyfriend, I spun around on the violent friend, and caught a good elbow to his temple. I'm about 6' 2", and the friend was only about 5' 9", so it wasn't terribly hard. Brian and I had trounced them.
I decided to sleep this off in my car, so he walked me to it and I closed my eyes for a while. I woke up hours later, laying backwards against the dashboard with my feet propped up against the passenger seat, crust covering my eyes, and retrieved my keys. I decided it was probably prudent to get the fuck out of dodge, so I drove back home. Fate, it seems, had other plans for me. As I was pulling onto the 10, I busted a flat on a very, very loose right turn.
I got out of the car and started attempting to flag people down. People mainly just honked and told me to get the fuck out of the way, this being the 10 freeway. Finally, a cabbie stopped and let me use his cell phone to call Triple A. I asked them to bring me a spare tire as mine was already on my other flat tire. Naturally, when the guy showed up he didn't have one, and to clinch it, his truck wasn't big enough to haul mine to the towyard, so we waited for dispatch to send a bigger truck. I did not let him off easy, nor did I let the second guy off easy, which is why when we got to Sears' Tires on Lincoln he left me there and tore off into the day.
The salesman came over at this point, and I told him what I needed and asked him to quote me a price. He quoted me something outrageous and I looked at him and cursed. Allow me to point out that I know nothing about tires - every car I've owned thus far has already had them. All I know is every week someone drops off a book of coupons and is says $89.99 for a set of four tires. I tell him this. He disagrees. I tell him to get fucked. My Xanax was swinging into full effect.
I decided I'd call around to see where there were cheaper tires but the salesman told me to get the fuck out of there. Three cars had pulled in behind me, so I decided I'd go out their other exit and busted a left. I vaguely remember a policewoman screaming at me from her car. The next thing I knew I was in the back of a cop car, and had just pulled my legs between my cuffed hands, because the cuffs were incredibly uncomfortable behind my back. Suffice it to say I was in bad graces with the Santa Monica Police Department by the time I was hauled in to get mugged by the guy in charge of the drunk tank. The guy didn't say anything, just put me in a half nelson. The other cop put me in an arm bar. I said something about my Grandmother doing a better one and he nearly popped my arm out of the socket.
They rolled my prints and threw me in the drunk tank. I didn't like my digs. It was all one piece, from the looks of it. The walls were white, there was a roll of toilet paper, a sink, and a toilet. The piece-de-resistance was assuredly the bed/seat, which was basically a 4 foot by two foot rectangle. That was it. I can't say I remember much about this part, except that I took to calling one guard "Shirley" and the Mexican one "Cheech." As a sign of their appreciation for the new nicknames, they decided to answer my pleas for clean water or a cup or something with "Shut up."
In protest, I laid out all my toilet paper on the bed and wet it down with spit and whatever loogies I could conjure up with my coarse, Xanax-and-alcohol-parched throat. I formed it in the sign of the cross and patted it up against the window of my cell. I had to apply a few more loogies to get it to stick. Shirley did not find this funny at all. He was wearing green SWAT-style fatigues and the hair from the crown of his head seemed to have immigrated to his upper lip. He didn't say anything, simply grabbed the toilet paper roll, tore the paper off down the middle, and tossed the cardboard piece into my face. I laughed. I was feeling very good.
I turned my eyes heavenward, and noticed that there was a ventilation duct in my cell. I calculated that if I could pry it open, my chances of escape were probably excellent. I stood on my bed/seat to examine the lock and noticed that the lock was, oddly enough, shaped like an M or a W. "Perfect," I thought, "I'll just tear that toilet paper roll into a key." I cannot remember how much time I spent on this arduous task, but I would conjecture now that it was probably to the tune of 45 minutes to an hour.
Finally, my key was ready, and it was time to escape. I stood on the bed/seat, and found that the duct was a bit further away than I had initially calculated. I steadied myself, alternating between bracing myself with an arm on the wall and a hand on the ceiling. I try to work my "key" in, and it shows a promising 15 degree turn in the lock. I work it more, taking care not to force it, but the lock is deeper than I thought. My arms are getting very tired. I am switching hands and have to put the key in my mouth every time I do. I work the key in a bit more, and I've got it in there really good. So I push my forearms against the ceiling and try to work the key around, actually gaining some of my stability from the cardboard's integrity. It rips. I let out a scream and go crashing into the wall; my coordination is lousy, but so is my pain reception. I am mainly furious that my key is broken. Escape is out of my reach. I am rapidly approaching sober. Shirley and Cheech have started ignoring me completely.
I curl up on the bed/seat, trying to find a comfortable position, when the guards come in and drag me by my shoulders out of the cell.
"Little fuckin' plan didn't work, huh Birdman of Alcatraz?"
"Easy, Cheech. I was only going out to get Shirley some flowers."
"Come ON!"
They clenched up their grips in my arms so I decided to let them just carry me. I let my body go limp so they'd have to drag/carry me and I guess they decided to be assholes. They let go and I just flopped. It's hard to go from ragdoll to rigid in the time it takes to hit the ground.
"Ow, fuck! What'd you do that for? I was gonna get you some, too, Cheech."
They called over another cop and gave me the bum's rush. One of them grabbed me by the belt on my lower back, the other two got me by the shoulders. I fought them on this point, tossing my arms around as uselessly as possible. The just laughed and kicked open the door and tossed me sailing into the evening.
I pounded on the door and yelled, "Hey, my fucking cigarettes!"
Cheech just gave me the finger from the doorway.
Suffice it to say, I did not feel well the next day.
RINGING IN THE AWESOME
IN A PERFECT WORLD I would've already been balls-deep in blogging fame by now, given that I created this blog ages ago and fancy myself, among other things, quite the writer and intellectual. I guess I'm not. But thanks to the glory of the internet, I have a place to conceitedly share my opinions on every subject under the sun. So let's start with my favorite subject: ME.
I am, at the moment, an out of work writer who lives in Los Angeles. I have no pets, although occasionally my friend Jose will bring by his turtle Petunte, which he is trying to sell to me for an ever-decreasing price. I generally tell him that I won't commit to buying the turtle until we know its gender, and I'm fairly certain he's not hard up enough for the cash to figure that one out.
I cook religiously, but not with the variety I crave. I don't know how the hell housewives perpetually dazzle their husbands with new dishes in between Hubby's Favorite Pot Roast or Meat Loaf, but if you're lucky enough to have a woman that cooks for you with any semblance of variety or panache, count your fucking blessings because I am getting very tired of my pasta.
Apropos women, I don't have a girlfriend. I do have women I have sex with, but truth be told, I'm finding it unfulfilling. Actually, that's not true; fucking is fucking great.
Occasionally, I can be the funniest person in a room. I generally accomplish this with the assistance of about 4mg of Xanax and two of my favorite drink in the world - Johnny and Ginger (A shot of Johnny Walker Black in an ice-filled highball glass, then topped up with Ginger Ale) - but when I get that wonderful deadly mix in me I become the love child of George Carlin and Caligula. I also enjoy cigarettes.
That said, welcome to this little bloggywog, which I hope you'll be enjoying on a regular basis now that I've gotten off my ass and am writing actively. Ta ta for now!
--Buster
I am, at the moment, an out of work writer who lives in Los Angeles. I have no pets, although occasionally my friend Jose will bring by his turtle Petunte, which he is trying to sell to me for an ever-decreasing price. I generally tell him that I won't commit to buying the turtle until we know its gender, and I'm fairly certain he's not hard up enough for the cash to figure that one out.
I cook religiously, but not with the variety I crave. I don't know how the hell housewives perpetually dazzle their husbands with new dishes in between Hubby's Favorite Pot Roast or Meat Loaf, but if you're lucky enough to have a woman that cooks for you with any semblance of variety or panache, count your fucking blessings because I am getting very tired of my pasta.
Apropos women, I don't have a girlfriend. I do have women I have sex with, but truth be told, I'm finding it unfulfilling. Actually, that's not true; fucking is fucking great.
Occasionally, I can be the funniest person in a room. I generally accomplish this with the assistance of about 4mg of Xanax and two of my favorite drink in the world - Johnny and Ginger (A shot of Johnny Walker Black in an ice-filled highball glass, then topped up with Ginger Ale) - but when I get that wonderful deadly mix in me I become the love child of George Carlin and Caligula. I also enjoy cigarettes.
That said, welcome to this little bloggywog, which I hope you'll be enjoying on a regular basis now that I've gotten off my ass and am writing actively. Ta ta for now!
--Buster
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