Burphole is available by podcast, bandcamp, and at burphole.com. After 10 essays or so, Burphole is distributed by the good folks at Distrokid onto Spotify, Amazon, iTunes, and over a hundred more sites.
Today’s episode of BurpHole is brought to you by shock. Nature’s mood enhancer.
Does the silence seem louder than usual? Does the proposition of human beings walking over your flailing body as you stroke out towards the sweet relief of death freak you out? Take solace in the fact that if you do get hammered by a collectors edition Mini Cooper Hatchback driven by a heavily medicated Hollywood housewife as you jaywalk across Franklin Ave, shock will immediately take over. The anxiety of life completely melts away. Not even that uncontrollable bowel movement will matter.
Spectator 1: Oh my god, that lady just hit a homeless man.
Spectator 2: And he just shit himself. Gross!
S1: Hey, can I have a bite of your dragon roll?
Shock! Because nothing matters now…
The Pundit: So, how do you like the new place?
BurpHole: It’s fine. But I don’t know anybody here. So, I feel a bit uncomfortable.
TP: What are you talking about? You’ve lived in LA before. You know a load of people here.
BH: Yeah, but that’s the thing. For some reason I don’t feel like contacting any of them.
TP: Do they represent some sort of failure you’ve lived through? Like some ex-wife shit?
BH: Sort of. Like that drunken night where you hook up and the sex escalates into some freaky hardcore porn.
TP: Oh yeah.
BH: The next morning you look at each other with embarrassment because that whole experience is something you would have never tried sober.
TP: Alcohol. Because sober sex is gross.
BH: Right. And if you run into her a couple of weeks later, it’s hard making eye contact.
TP: Because you know what you did.
BH: Because I know what we both did.
TP: Listen, bitch. Stop fish hooking people!
BH: Yeah! I couldn’t move my mouth for two days!
TP: It’s not a good look.
BH: And I’m sorry for wiping shit on your wall, but it was technically yours.
TP: Wow. You wiped shit on her wall?
BH: Not intentionally. I lost my balance.
TP: Well, you’ll meet some new people that will shit on you. I’m sure of it.
BH: You’re right. Thanks, buddy…
I tried oxycontin once and it was the happiest I had ever been. Having that realization was extremely depressing. Luckily I was on oxycontin.
BH: Do you think single women are more promiscuous when on vacation?
TP: Of course they are. If they are far from home, they’re like Spiderman.
BH: Oh. This should be interesting.
TP: OK. So, at home, they play the roll of Peter Parker. Innocent. Studious. Pious even.
BH: I’m with you.
TP: It’s not really they’re true self, but the social circle they surround themselves with would not completely understand the super hero that lies within.
BH: The super hero.
TP: The glorious, deviant, so wet it’s like a fuckin’ spider web super hero.
BH: Yes! Please continue.
TP: On the road, they don’t have to worry about their reputations. There’s no need to be innocent or studious or pious. On the road, they can take off that wool sweater. They can let their hair down. Take off those glasses.
BH: But I like glasses.
TP: Leave those glasses on and step into the night, Peter Parker. No one knows you here. Put on that skin tight, super revealing uniform and find yourself a dirty, no good slimeball. And fuck them, Spidey. Upside down sex, back alley sex, sex that occurs over multiple rooftops. Our super hero is on a fuckin’ mission swinging through the city on a web made of vaginal discharge.
TP: Then, when Peter Parker goes home, he can say he had a good time. Visited museums, went to the beach, vineyards in the hills. A sweet time. Pete might even tell his closest friend that he hooked up.
BH: Peter, you slut.
TP: I know, giggles. It was Disneyesque. Candlelight. Roses. The sweet sound of an indoor champagne waterfall.
BH: How beautiful.
TP: It’s lies, of course, but he says this because he knows that he can’t truly reveal himself. Not even to his closest friend.
BH: For their protection?
TP: Not really, it’s because it’s hard telling a story that involves ecstasy, a rope, and that you prolapsed a man’s anus with your fist.
TP: That shit you keep a secret. No one can ever know… Every Peter Parker has a secret…
BH: Wow. Well done, sir…
I once told a girlfriend that nothing is free except herpes, HPV, and the clap. She disagreed sighting a walk on the beach was free. The shade from a tree on a hot summer day was free. That the conversation we were having was free. It was there that I realized she had no sense of humor. So I presented her with a fluffy puppy, an off Broadway dancing tea pot, and introduced her to a handsome prince that was racially ambiguous.
They now live happily down in El Segundo…