The Cutting Room Floor

A couple of essays that missed the final cut of the latest book. In hindsight, I have no idea why. It’s hard to kill your children. Or, in this case, to put them in the back of the file cabinet. Here’s some sun, little ones. You very pale, vitamin deprived, ghost like little ones… The Tyranny of the Empty Page…

Burphole #2!

(Go here! Purchase a book, please. Thank you so much!) So, a few epiphanies: I don’t like Medium. BUT, here are eighty-four shocking ways you can delete your account. (Kidding, of course.) No more Medium. So long, buddy. I realized I had enough material for a second mini book. (About 16,000 words.) And that’s what is happening. I must say:…

I’ve Moved To Medium!

For now. But it’s paying me a couple of bucks, so. I hope you will take a look. Thanks! Link to it by clicking here.  If you are curious, you can link to my latest attack: 5 Reasons “Downsizing” Should Have Been A Horror Film or, Nice Kitty! No, Miss Fluffy Bottom! NOOO! Thanks again and I will see you over there.…

Passion of the Crime

What is your motivation? That is to say, “Why did you pull your dick out, Caitlyn Jenner?” Caitlyn: No, I didn’t pull it out. I pulled it off. Like an angry gorilla. I’m a gold medal winning Olympic athlete after all, silly… Make America great again. You did pull it off. But why? Some people speculate you did it out…

The Joy of Dissent

HELP OUT BURPHOLE WITH A SMALL PURCHASE HERE. THANKS!

I like playing a game called “Escaping Terri Schiavo.” I sit on the couch and allow television entertainment to beat me into a vegetative state. Slobber begins to collect on the right side of my Snuggie. (I dribble from the right only. An insignificant observation, I suppose, but try dribbling from both sides at once. It doesn’t work. As if the saliva is drawn to the lowest hanging testicle. Science is cool.) My focal point drifts from the screen to a small framed picture of a raven haired lady. Or is it a giant Burmese? It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters. Imaginary doctors enter the room to study the stupid grin that my face muscles have frozen into. “Maybe he should die,” one doctor says. While a second replies, “But does he have a right to?” The final laugh track of an episode of “Two Broke Girls” fades out. And for that fraction of a second where the dead air meets my dead eyes, the doctors reach for the plug.

And then a miracle happens…

***

Every kiss begins with Kay.

Terri: Oh yeah? So, why is she tackling him? Did he consent to that tackle? Or are we watching the beginnings of a rape? A cluster of rubies does not validate an unwanted sexual advance, lady.

Doctor #1: Don’t touch that chord! She just uttered an opinion. A crass opinion, but an opinion none the less.

Doctor #2: Did we make a mistake? I was sure she was gone.

Doctor #1: Maybe that was an anomaly. Let us wait a minute.

Doctor #2: Yes. An anomaly. Hmm.

A chance to live longer.

Terri: Well, maybe I don’t want to live longer. It all depends on the quality of life, right? What I’m saying is this pancreatic cancer is unbearable! You can take your pill and shove it up your ass! Please, baby Jesus, will you bless me with sweet relief! The sweet relief of death!

Doctor #1: I don’t know how to explain it. The brain machine still reads zero.

Doctor #2: There must be a malfunction.

Doctor #1: Yes. A malfunction. Because this can’t be.

Doctor #2: Impossible. Or is it?

Because girls don’t poop.

Terri: Of course we do. We also fart. Do your toilet drops come with a flame thrower? Because it’s not the poop that smells. It’s the fermented gas that was a kale salad. You can’t battle chemical warfare with a drop in a bucket. You need to incinerate the air, Agent Orange.  It’s similar to a French Hooker. There’s no amount of perfume that can cover the stench of broken dreams and a carton of Gitanes.

Doctor #1: It’s a miracle!

Doctor #2: It can’t be a miracle. We are men of science, god damn it.

Doctor #1: Will someone turn off that television, please.

Doctor #2: Yes. Can’t you see we are working here?

Doctor #1: Terri, How did you do that?

Doctor #2: Terri. Can you hear us? Do you have another opinion?!

Doctor #1: She is not responding. How… What…

Doctor #2: She’s gone, Doctor. It was just an anomaly. We should pull the plug now.

Doctor #1: Yes. An anomaly. Ok. I’m pulling the plug.

Doctor #2: Do you think those poo drops work?

Doctor #1: Of course not. I’ve smelled your farts, Doctor. There is no cure for that. Impossible.

Doctor #2: Impossible.

***

If you are looking for the meaning of life, I’d say it is to be cynical and combative. Positivity does not fuel the soul. I mean, whatever, little Timmy. Your finger painting is cool, but that’s it. Look, I put it on the refrigerator for the whole world to see. Isn’t that enough? Now I have to pretend you are Basquiat or someone greater? It’s a finger painting, dude. It’s ok. Fuck no, you’re not getting any ice cream. Listen, if you can chisel the rock in the backyard into something we can sell at the flea market, then I’ll drive you to the Cold Stone and you can buy your own ice cream. Oh, don’t cry, dude. Jesus you have thin skin. Crying is going to get you nothing. Go cry to your mother. Maybe you can squeeze a bicycle outta her, or something…

ANYWAY. I suppose you can go the LACMA on a positivity tour. “I’m working on me,” you think. You stare at some shit smeared on a canvas. Appreciate that shit for what it is. Shit. And then shuffle on over to the sculpted penis, and yep. It looks like a penis. Appreciate the hell out of it. And then go outside and swallow a .44, because exciting it isn’t. But, I would argue, if you took that penis and shoved it right through that shit stained canvas, and then fire balled your mouth full of whiskey through your crack pipe approved lighter, then things would get interesting. The minimum waged security guard might even tackle you to the floor. Maybe, just maybe, you might even feel a profound joy wash over you. “I’m alive!” you might scream. “I’m alive!” I’d buy you an ice cream for that. Any flavor you want…

***

Little Billy: I brought you a puppy, Grandma. We got him from Pets For The Elderly. He’s your new companion.

This ain’t no game. This the rap game.

Grandma: Well, which is it, asshole? Is it or isn’t it a game. I’m getting so angry I’m going to kick this puppy! UMPH! Oh, yeah. I feel good! Oh, hey Little Billy…

***

This is a small book in print, Kindle, and audio version. You can help by picking up a copy. I’d appreciate it.

Here are some audio essays in album form. They are cheap and you probably already have an Amazon account. The smallest amount of effort in the least invasive way. Thanks!

If you prefer iTunes:

Here is the audiobook.

Here are the audio essays.

If you wish, you can stay in touch on Facebook and/or Twitter. 

Beyond that, thanks for paying attention at all.

Hipster Gandalf (aka Aaron Atadero)

The Sweet Depravity of Twitterville

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@otterhands: So what if all Muslims are different. What does that have to do with Mexican babies dying of bean related allergies?

@thatstuart: No one cares about your kids Halloween candy. Priorities, people! Do you know what the queers are doing to the soil?

I start with a shot of whiskey, a small bump of cocaine, and an innocuous comment. And then wait for everything to completely go off the rails…

@Burphole: Game of Thrones. Great show.

@dicknow: So, you’re ok with incest and rape, but you’re not ok with diseased slaves making clothes for Walmart? Disgusting!

Excellent. Oh, Twitterville. Your small town values are colliding with big city depravity. One pocket contains a crucifix, the other a heroin needle. I run my fingers along the cracks in the foundation, waiting. Until we’re tweeting from the rubble…

@mouthbreather: How can spoiled, rich athletes think they have the right to protest during a game?

@BurpHole: Well, our country was built on the backs of protestors. I’m sure the English were saying something similar to what you are saying as we dumped english breakfast into the harbor, grabbed our muskets, and told them to fuck off. You don’t sound very patriotic, you oppressor of free speech. Communist.

@noclitforyou: The Muslim religion isn’t about killing and terrorism.

@Burphole: I disagree. But it’s not just the Muslim religion. It’s all religions. I’m sure the Spanish Inquisition was spreading love right along with the spread of rape and murder. Religion is responsible for millions of deaths, dude. The Gods are laughing at us.

@cystkin: It’s just the kind thing to do to learn what people’s preferred pronouns are and use them.

@Burphole: Don’t hide behind kindness as a tool to force agendas. It’s not kind to get abusive because I disagree with you. Your mob mentality is embarrassing. PLUS, “elf” and “pixie” and “zod” are not genders no matter how bad you want them to be. And thinking you are a dung beetle trapped in a human body is just your mind swallowing you whole. Good bye. Good riddance.

***

I will regret all of this tomorrow. But the depravity is addictive here in Twitterville. I enjoy these piss stained streets. The five dollar hand jobs. The pageantry of a beat down behind the Papa Johns. The discarded needles. I didn’t come for some sort of social validation. I came for the double vision; the latex skirts; the dead bodies; the cock rings. I’ve got a pint of Jack, a loaded .44, and a dozen hits of nitrous. Let’s burn this mother fucker down…

***

This is a small book in print, Kindle, and audio version. You can help by picking up a copy. I’d appreciate it.

Here are some audio essays in album form. They are cheap and you probably already have an Amazon account. The smallest amount of effort in the least invasive way. Thanks!

If you prefer iTunes:

Here is the audiobook.

Here are the audio essays.

If you wish, you can stay in touch on Facebook and/or Twitter. 

Beyond that, thanks for paying attention at all.

Hipster Gandalf (aka Aaron Atadero)