D.B. Tarpley's Blog
February 17, 2015
2-17
D.B.TARPLEY’S AMAZING ASS GHOST BLOG 1-5-2015
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,
This isn’t the usual rant, just an expression of Joy. My name is D.B.Tarpley and as most of you know I am a writer. I am on a mission to finish the 27 books in my head before I retire. I know it sounds crazy to set a specific amount of books to write, seems limiting or artificially pushed. But trust me when I say everything is exactly as it should be and I am right on track. I have the number tattooed on my arm to keep me focused so there is little chance of me slacking off.
Last year was the 1st year of this endeavor. I officially released 4 books out into the world. The first 3 were collections of short stories I have written over the years and I have to say that I am proud of each and every one of these collections:
‘Lick the Razor’
‘Learning to Kiss in the Snow’
‘The Night’s Night’
Each one has a unique flavor all its own and I would urge anyone who enjoys good short stories to pick up any or all before they tuck themselves in for a long Winter’s nap. In addition to these wonderful collections I just finished my first novel, ‘The Death of Fear’, and I have to say it is the best thing I have ever written. I have fallen in love with the characters and I cannot wait to continue their adventures in the sequels, ‘The Death of Love’, and ‘The Death of Death.’; both due out before the end of this year. In addition to these two novels I will be releasing another collection of brand new short stories called ‘Pickle Party.’ 2015 is indeed going to be a very productive and a very entertaining year in the world of D.B.Tarpley.
I have priced ‘The Death of Fear’ at 2.99 because even though I know people tend to be shy about spending money on an untested author I feel it is just too damn good to price any cheaper. It is really an extremely entertaining read and hard to put down. I am re-reading it now. I always say that I write the books I want to read and I mean that shit. Give ‘The Death of Fear’ a shot and I guarantee you will be clamoring for the sequels. And the good news is that part 2 will be out in 4 months and part 3 should be out in 7 months.
I have whole new worlds to share with you in the months and years to come and I promise that if you be good to me I’ll be good to you. Trust me, let me take you by the hand and show you things you only ever dreamt were possible. We can do this together. Hell, I am going to write the damn things regardless, it is just nice to know that someone out there is picking up what I am laying down.
That’s it for now; just super groovy to be here sharing the same space as you and I look forward to doing that for quite some time. Take care and as always have yourself an amazing ass day.
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,
This isn’t the usual rant, just an expression of Joy. My name is D.B.Tarpley and as most of you know I am a writer. I am on a mission to finish the 27 books in my head before I retire. I know it sounds crazy to set a specific amount of books to write, seems limiting or artificially pushed. But trust me when I say everything is exactly as it should be and I am right on track. I have the number tattooed on my arm to keep me focused so there is little chance of me slacking off.
Last year was the 1st year of this endeavor. I officially released 4 books out into the world. The first 3 were collections of short stories I have written over the years and I have to say that I am proud of each and every one of these collections:
‘Lick the Razor’
‘Learning to Kiss in the Snow’
‘The Night’s Night’
Each one has a unique flavor all its own and I would urge anyone who enjoys good short stories to pick up any or all before they tuck themselves in for a long Winter’s nap. In addition to these wonderful collections I just finished my first novel, ‘The Death of Fear’, and I have to say it is the best thing I have ever written. I have fallen in love with the characters and I cannot wait to continue their adventures in the sequels, ‘The Death of Love’, and ‘The Death of Death.’; both due out before the end of this year. In addition to these two novels I will be releasing another collection of brand new short stories called ‘Pickle Party.’ 2015 is indeed going to be a very productive and a very entertaining year in the world of D.B.Tarpley.
I have priced ‘The Death of Fear’ at 2.99 because even though I know people tend to be shy about spending money on an untested author I feel it is just too damn good to price any cheaper. It is really an extremely entertaining read and hard to put down. I am re-reading it now. I always say that I write the books I want to read and I mean that shit. Give ‘The Death of Fear’ a shot and I guarantee you will be clamoring for the sequels. And the good news is that part 2 will be out in 4 months and part 3 should be out in 7 months.
I have whole new worlds to share with you in the months and years to come and I promise that if you be good to me I’ll be good to you. Trust me, let me take you by the hand and show you things you only ever dreamt were possible. We can do this together. Hell, I am going to write the damn things regardless, it is just nice to know that someone out there is picking up what I am laying down.
That’s it for now; just super groovy to be here sharing the same space as you and I look forward to doing that for quite some time. Take care and as always have yourself an amazing ass day.
June 7, 2014
D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Ghost Blog - pt. what the fuck ever.
I am a writer. Simply saying that makes me a small fish in a large pond. Add on the fact that I am a working writer with no means of financial support towards my artistic endeavors and I turn into an amoeba. I have to use every avenue I have to get someone, anyone to pick up my book and read it. This is my craft. This is my passion. This is my life. I go to great lengths to ensure that my finished product is something I am not only proud of but something I will stand by until the end of time. I am working on creating literature here, not drab filler. I don't write a word I do not mean. I have been doing this for 25 years. One of the only methods of promotion available to me is promotion on book minded group Facebook pages. I carefully vet each and every one I post on to make sure I am not breaking their bylaws. The last thing I want to do is waste my time promoting where I am not wanted. So if I take the time and effort to share my craft, my passion, my life with you on a page you are involved with and you are aghast that someone would dare air an add there... please do not bust my balls when you could just as easily skip it altogether and live your life in peace. (A LIBRARIAN'S PAGE) That is where the trouble began. Frumpy and dowd looking school marms expressing their offense with me in tandem as if I were the recently discovered rat in the break room. These are people who claim to be against book burning not because they truly believe in freedom of expression but rather because they want to look right and proper upon the high horse they call Liberalism. It is all a club for them and they will each and every one tell you they have some very good Black friends, of whom they all openly agree with - withholding any dissent which may arise during natural friendly discourse. THEY are not racist, they tell themselves each night before going to sleep. THEY support free speech, unless it involves changing the parental controls they have installed on every media outlet breaching their limp and imagine-free lives. And THEY will go out of their way to crush the dreams of someone like me who just wants someone... anyone... even a frumpy librarian... to read his much agonized over words. If you can't see the Forrest for the trees don't walk around with an ax or you just might chop down a retard... sorry... special individual. Have a coke and a smile and shut the fuck up.
That is all. As ever, thank you for reading and have an amazing ass day.
That is all. As ever, thank you for reading and have an amazing ass day.
April 30, 2014
Quickie
Here is an interview I recently did with fellow writer J. Chris Lawrence for Novelmasters:
http://www.novelmasters.org/j-chris-l...
http://www.novelmasters.org/j-chris-l...
March 6, 2014
blahg
There are days when the thing I want seems eternally out of reach. And I know in the greater scheme of things it shouldn't matter but it does. Oh how it does.
January 27, 2014
D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Ghost Blog - pt. 21
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes.
My name is D.B.Tarpley and I am a writer. Most of you know this already or you wouldn’t be reading this damned thing. But I just wanted to take a moment to sit down and relate a little bit of my journey and where on this road I am planning to take us together. I have been writing for over 25 years. I am 41 years old at present so that would put me starting out my storytelling around the age of 15 or so. I know I wrote some corny stories for my own personal enjoyment at an earlier age but around 15 I decide to write for others which meant tightening that shit up.
It was high school and I was one of four students who started up the first literary magazine in the school. Even then my stories were darker… pulpy action serials with as much blood and guts as the venue would allow. I was an underground hit garnering requests for follow ups on a grand scale. College saw me listless and in a poetic mood. I dominated poetry slams when I entered and I wrote news copy for the school T.V. station. This experience was invaluable for picking up quick decisive writing skills regarding telling the important facts in the allotted time. It is a different kind of writing than anything I had ever done but its punctuation and brevity have been easily translated into my later forms. I wrote cleaner faster copy than anyone who had ever attended the school.
I tried a novel, hugely autobiographical and just a bit on the patronizing side. This was during a period of huge depression for me. The writing was good, but fairly static. I got about a quarter of the way into the piece and then lost it all in a random act of self destruction. But sometimes you have to lose everything to gain anything.
Getting back on my feet I found my focus to be screenplays. I wrote and directed several small films with friends and then produced several industry formatted scripts after I researched the ins and outs of the style. I shopped the first of these, a hugely quirky indie flick with the unsellable title of ‘Nashville Nigger’, around Hollywood at any production house I could think of. I was turned down by over a hundred places before Appian Way, Dicaprio’s house, took a look at it. They held the property a bit before eventually turning down as well. A production house gets thousands of screenplays a year and may produce 2.
This ended the script writing for awhile and in fact all writing for quite some bit. The tidal wave of manic depression the ups and downs of the marketing experience can offer is just too much to take at times. Every once in awhile you have to catch your wind before you dive back into it and so catch my wind I did. It took a traumatic break up for me to throw myself back into my craft. At the time it was the only way to heal but whatever the reason it stuck and I wrote over a hundred short stories over a period of 2 years. The more I wrote the better I got and I would tell any aspiring writer that is as simple as the key gets. Just write tons and tons of stuff and before you know it the words will come easier and easier.
I self published my first collection, titled ‘Learning to Kiss in the Snow’, and was lucky enough to get a publisher for my follow up collection, ‘Lick the Razor.’ Both books have been incredible learning experiences for me, on both the creative and marketing sides of the coin. I recently found myself once again at a crossroads in my career and had to sit down and figure a few things out. And once I got back up again, plan in hand, this is what I decided to offer you – my dear and beloved reader.
27 books.
That is what I am going to write before I retire. I have each and every one mapped out in my head and I even tattooed the number 27 on my arm so that I won’t lose focus. This is my commitment to both you and my craft. This will be a fun and satisfying journey for both of us if you just take my hand and come along for the ride. I am re-launching my brand in a huge way at the end of the year and once I do there is no turning back.
27 books dear reader… that is what we both have to look forward to.
I’m excited and I sincerely hope you are too.
27!
Until next time keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
My name is D.B.Tarpley and I am a writer. Most of you know this already or you wouldn’t be reading this damned thing. But I just wanted to take a moment to sit down and relate a little bit of my journey and where on this road I am planning to take us together. I have been writing for over 25 years. I am 41 years old at present so that would put me starting out my storytelling around the age of 15 or so. I know I wrote some corny stories for my own personal enjoyment at an earlier age but around 15 I decide to write for others which meant tightening that shit up.
It was high school and I was one of four students who started up the first literary magazine in the school. Even then my stories were darker… pulpy action serials with as much blood and guts as the venue would allow. I was an underground hit garnering requests for follow ups on a grand scale. College saw me listless and in a poetic mood. I dominated poetry slams when I entered and I wrote news copy for the school T.V. station. This experience was invaluable for picking up quick decisive writing skills regarding telling the important facts in the allotted time. It is a different kind of writing than anything I had ever done but its punctuation and brevity have been easily translated into my later forms. I wrote cleaner faster copy than anyone who had ever attended the school.
I tried a novel, hugely autobiographical and just a bit on the patronizing side. This was during a period of huge depression for me. The writing was good, but fairly static. I got about a quarter of the way into the piece and then lost it all in a random act of self destruction. But sometimes you have to lose everything to gain anything.
Getting back on my feet I found my focus to be screenplays. I wrote and directed several small films with friends and then produced several industry formatted scripts after I researched the ins and outs of the style. I shopped the first of these, a hugely quirky indie flick with the unsellable title of ‘Nashville Nigger’, around Hollywood at any production house I could think of. I was turned down by over a hundred places before Appian Way, Dicaprio’s house, took a look at it. They held the property a bit before eventually turning down as well. A production house gets thousands of screenplays a year and may produce 2.
This ended the script writing for awhile and in fact all writing for quite some bit. The tidal wave of manic depression the ups and downs of the marketing experience can offer is just too much to take at times. Every once in awhile you have to catch your wind before you dive back into it and so catch my wind I did. It took a traumatic break up for me to throw myself back into my craft. At the time it was the only way to heal but whatever the reason it stuck and I wrote over a hundred short stories over a period of 2 years. The more I wrote the better I got and I would tell any aspiring writer that is as simple as the key gets. Just write tons and tons of stuff and before you know it the words will come easier and easier.
I self published my first collection, titled ‘Learning to Kiss in the Snow’, and was lucky enough to get a publisher for my follow up collection, ‘Lick the Razor.’ Both books have been incredible learning experiences for me, on both the creative and marketing sides of the coin. I recently found myself once again at a crossroads in my career and had to sit down and figure a few things out. And once I got back up again, plan in hand, this is what I decided to offer you – my dear and beloved reader.
27 books.
That is what I am going to write before I retire. I have each and every one mapped out in my head and I even tattooed the number 27 on my arm so that I won’t lose focus. This is my commitment to both you and my craft. This will be a fun and satisfying journey for both of us if you just take my hand and come along for the ride. I am re-launching my brand in a huge way at the end of the year and once I do there is no turning back.
27 books dear reader… that is what we both have to look forward to.
I’m excited and I sincerely hope you are too.
27!
Until next time keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
January 24, 2014
D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Ghost Blog - pt. 20
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes.
I could fill this blog entry with sunshine and rainbows but I have been told to write what I know and for the most part I would agree with that little piece of advice.
Don’t know much about sunshine and rainbows.
As you know I am an author and as such an extremely tireless and thankless part of that is the marketing of the material I write. I would have to say that I spend almost as much time if not more marketing as I do actually writing. It is exhausting. Every week or so I put together a different ad to pepper across various demographically desirable groups on social media pages. I have built and developed my technique over a series of lengthy trial and error attempts. And throughout all this I have discovered one concept – no one thing specifically works. You are at the mercy of the luck of the draw in regards to your rotating audience. The same people will never be viewing the same site at the same time and the window of visibility in posts of this nature is often small depending on the popularity of the site.
That is to say that what works on one person will not work on the other and vica versa.
So I vary my approach from ad to ad to see what has the most universal appeal. I often have many likes and few sales but the sales I do get I can mostly attribute to these promotional pushes. So if I have a texture or technique to this week’s ad you had better believe the modus oporandi is intentional.
Occasionally I will get some well meaning boob who comes along and tries to give me advice on how to market my work by pointing out that the way I am marketing at present is most definitely not the way. Remember, there is no right way as everyone is different and all exposure is good. I do not mind advice, well meaning or not, so long as it is constructive, and not condescending in nature. I have actually learned quite a few things during the course of this process and some of these things have come from well meaning strangers.
That being said, my most recent such encounter left me wanting to fracture this gentleman’s sphincter after feeding him an entire jug of industrial strength laxatives. My ad this week was in all caps, just how the mood struck, and he pointed out that most people when viewing all caps will be turned off, in a very teacherly way.
I appreciate this gentleman’s concern for not turning readers off and I equally appreciate him leaving a public message on my post which pretty much guaranteed to turn potential readers off. Perhaps while he is at it he can relate the proper method for balancing the national budget so I can pass it on to the proper authorities that they can know the peace which this man has brought to my life. While he’s at it why does he not give me the formula for cold fusion or the cure for cancer? I am sure he could make many people in the world very happy once they have received the benefits of his extensive knowledge.
My point is this: No one person has it right. There is no one true way to do it. My ad this week got tons of positive response. If I had been in his class seeking his advice then I would just have to keep my mouth shut and take notes. But the pomposity it takes to elicit unsolicited advice to someone whose back story you do not know is incredible. Grammar Nazis often miss the point. They just want to be right at any cost. I love advice if it is given properly and in the correct context. This was not.
If any of you are aspiring writers and want any advice from me whenever please feel free to ask and I will tell you what I think I know. It is a small meager bit of information but if you think any of it will help you I would certainly be happy to provide it.
Certainly be happy.
Sunshine and rainbows would be shooting out my ass.
Until next time, keep reading and have an amazing ass day
I could fill this blog entry with sunshine and rainbows but I have been told to write what I know and for the most part I would agree with that little piece of advice.
Don’t know much about sunshine and rainbows.
As you know I am an author and as such an extremely tireless and thankless part of that is the marketing of the material I write. I would have to say that I spend almost as much time if not more marketing as I do actually writing. It is exhausting. Every week or so I put together a different ad to pepper across various demographically desirable groups on social media pages. I have built and developed my technique over a series of lengthy trial and error attempts. And throughout all this I have discovered one concept – no one thing specifically works. You are at the mercy of the luck of the draw in regards to your rotating audience. The same people will never be viewing the same site at the same time and the window of visibility in posts of this nature is often small depending on the popularity of the site.
That is to say that what works on one person will not work on the other and vica versa.
So I vary my approach from ad to ad to see what has the most universal appeal. I often have many likes and few sales but the sales I do get I can mostly attribute to these promotional pushes. So if I have a texture or technique to this week’s ad you had better believe the modus oporandi is intentional.
Occasionally I will get some well meaning boob who comes along and tries to give me advice on how to market my work by pointing out that the way I am marketing at present is most definitely not the way. Remember, there is no right way as everyone is different and all exposure is good. I do not mind advice, well meaning or not, so long as it is constructive, and not condescending in nature. I have actually learned quite a few things during the course of this process and some of these things have come from well meaning strangers.
That being said, my most recent such encounter left me wanting to fracture this gentleman’s sphincter after feeding him an entire jug of industrial strength laxatives. My ad this week was in all caps, just how the mood struck, and he pointed out that most people when viewing all caps will be turned off, in a very teacherly way.
I appreciate this gentleman’s concern for not turning readers off and I equally appreciate him leaving a public message on my post which pretty much guaranteed to turn potential readers off. Perhaps while he is at it he can relate the proper method for balancing the national budget so I can pass it on to the proper authorities that they can know the peace which this man has brought to my life. While he’s at it why does he not give me the formula for cold fusion or the cure for cancer? I am sure he could make many people in the world very happy once they have received the benefits of his extensive knowledge.
My point is this: No one person has it right. There is no one true way to do it. My ad this week got tons of positive response. If I had been in his class seeking his advice then I would just have to keep my mouth shut and take notes. But the pomposity it takes to elicit unsolicited advice to someone whose back story you do not know is incredible. Grammar Nazis often miss the point. They just want to be right at any cost. I love advice if it is given properly and in the correct context. This was not.
If any of you are aspiring writers and want any advice from me whenever please feel free to ask and I will tell you what I think I know. It is a small meager bit of information but if you think any of it will help you I would certainly be happy to provide it.
Certainly be happy.
Sunshine and rainbows would be shooting out my ass.
Until next time, keep reading and have an amazing ass day
January 23, 2014
D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Ghost Blog - pt. 19
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,
It occurred to me, approximately 3.76 seconds after I posted my last blog entry. That changing the name to ‘D.B.Tarpley’s Amazing Ass Ghost Blog’ might confuse some of you into thinking this is a blog about my adventures as a paranormal research specialist ala Harold Ramis circa 1984. I can assure you that such is not the case and that neither ghosts, nor ectoplasm shall be the topics discussed in the coming blog entries.
Still…
I did bring it up and as such feel obligated to spend at least one blog entry discussing everything I know and feel about the paranormal. Don’t worry, this won’t take long.
I am fortsmthgrble years old and during the course of my life I have had exactly 2 experiences which may fall into the realm of the para – or alter – normal.
Spooktacular experience number 1 – When I was 9 years old I lived in the state of Washington D.C.. Being in the Pacific Northwest it rained most days which lent to a fairly drab and eventless existence. But one day my 2 friends and I, (I have only ever been able to acquire 2 friends at any one given time in my life and that is the record… usually it is one or none... ‘Don’t cry for me Argentinaaaaaa.’) were walking through our neighborhood on an unusually sunny day and we happened to pass a house which was known by us to be haunted. Don’t ask me how it was known to be haunted, I moved around a lot as a kid and so I just took things as told mostly. It was abandoned, two stories, wooden, rickety and creepy as hell. We stood there looking at it daring one another to throw rocks at it until we all did. I saw something move in an upstairs window. It looked like a man with a sheet over him staring down at me with utter ambivilance. I turned to tell my friends and when I looked back it was gone. The entire experience made my skin crawl and I stayed away from that house instead choosing to take the long way around from that moment on.
Spooktacular experience number – 2 – When I was 11, (It is important to note at this moment that we traveled around a lot because my father was in the military.) We were between deployments and visiting relatives in the middle Tennessee area before shipping out to Germany. This story is one which is hard to differentiate from dream or reality. That is to say that it may have been a dream which stuck in my cranial craw so hard as to be perceived as remembered reality, or this shit might have really happened. My favorite cousin lived in a flat one story house with no back door. The front door was the only way in and out of the house. There was a kitchen and a living area by the front door then a long hall with bedrooms and bathrooms on either side. I was playing with my cousin throughout the house. We passed my aunt, his mom, in the kitchen. She was smiling and baking cookies. Then we went through the house running into this room and that until we got to the back, his parents room. A figure was standing over his bed apparently folding laundry. I somehow at this point found myself alone, my cousin had gone to the bathroom or something. I moved closer into the room and the figure turned to look at me over its shoulder. It was my aunt, only twisted and dark. Her nose was hooked, and there was a slightly wicked twinge to the smirk on her mouth. She motioned for me to come closer but every single thing that made up my body screamed for me to run. I knew if I came closer it would be the end of me. A silly thought but one which rang solid in my noggin that day. I weakly smiled and turned to leave the room. There was rapid motion behind me and I ran. I ran as fast as I could towards the front of the house. There, in the kitchen, as I panted to catch my breath – my aunt turned from her cookies and asked, “Is everything O.K.?”
It is in my head as if yesterday.
I don’t know about ghosts or evil spirits. All I know is what happened to me, what my perceptions were, and how I handled them. I do not believe in malevolent spirits as are often depicted in media. Every since I made a decision for atheism at 12, walking that long cold dead winter trail to the school bus stop, I have come to decide that any true malevolence lies within the hearts of men. But that does not negate the fact that I know these things happened to me. They did.
Until next time keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
It occurred to me, approximately 3.76 seconds after I posted my last blog entry. That changing the name to ‘D.B.Tarpley’s Amazing Ass Ghost Blog’ might confuse some of you into thinking this is a blog about my adventures as a paranormal research specialist ala Harold Ramis circa 1984. I can assure you that such is not the case and that neither ghosts, nor ectoplasm shall be the topics discussed in the coming blog entries.
Still…
I did bring it up and as such feel obligated to spend at least one blog entry discussing everything I know and feel about the paranormal. Don’t worry, this won’t take long.
I am fortsmthgrble years old and during the course of my life I have had exactly 2 experiences which may fall into the realm of the para – or alter – normal.
Spooktacular experience number 1 – When I was 9 years old I lived in the state of Washington D.C.. Being in the Pacific Northwest it rained most days which lent to a fairly drab and eventless existence. But one day my 2 friends and I, (I have only ever been able to acquire 2 friends at any one given time in my life and that is the record… usually it is one or none... ‘Don’t cry for me Argentinaaaaaa.’) were walking through our neighborhood on an unusually sunny day and we happened to pass a house which was known by us to be haunted. Don’t ask me how it was known to be haunted, I moved around a lot as a kid and so I just took things as told mostly. It was abandoned, two stories, wooden, rickety and creepy as hell. We stood there looking at it daring one another to throw rocks at it until we all did. I saw something move in an upstairs window. It looked like a man with a sheet over him staring down at me with utter ambivilance. I turned to tell my friends and when I looked back it was gone. The entire experience made my skin crawl and I stayed away from that house instead choosing to take the long way around from that moment on.
Spooktacular experience number – 2 – When I was 11, (It is important to note at this moment that we traveled around a lot because my father was in the military.) We were between deployments and visiting relatives in the middle Tennessee area before shipping out to Germany. This story is one which is hard to differentiate from dream or reality. That is to say that it may have been a dream which stuck in my cranial craw so hard as to be perceived as remembered reality, or this shit might have really happened. My favorite cousin lived in a flat one story house with no back door. The front door was the only way in and out of the house. There was a kitchen and a living area by the front door then a long hall with bedrooms and bathrooms on either side. I was playing with my cousin throughout the house. We passed my aunt, his mom, in the kitchen. She was smiling and baking cookies. Then we went through the house running into this room and that until we got to the back, his parents room. A figure was standing over his bed apparently folding laundry. I somehow at this point found myself alone, my cousin had gone to the bathroom or something. I moved closer into the room and the figure turned to look at me over its shoulder. It was my aunt, only twisted and dark. Her nose was hooked, and there was a slightly wicked twinge to the smirk on her mouth. She motioned for me to come closer but every single thing that made up my body screamed for me to run. I knew if I came closer it would be the end of me. A silly thought but one which rang solid in my noggin that day. I weakly smiled and turned to leave the room. There was rapid motion behind me and I ran. I ran as fast as I could towards the front of the house. There, in the kitchen, as I panted to catch my breath – my aunt turned from her cookies and asked, “Is everything O.K.?”
It is in my head as if yesterday.
I don’t know about ghosts or evil spirits. All I know is what happened to me, what my perceptions were, and how I handled them. I do not believe in malevolent spirits as are often depicted in media. Every since I made a decision for atheism at 12, walking that long cold dead winter trail to the school bus stop, I have come to decide that any true malevolence lies within the hearts of men. But that does not negate the fact that I know these things happened to me. They did.
Until next time keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
January 22, 2014
D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Ghost Blog - pt 18
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes.
You are reading D.B.Tarpley’s Amazing Ass Ghost Blog, formerly known as D.B.Tarpley’s Amazing Ass Blog. I recently mentioned calling it a ghost blog due to the fact that no-one ever reads it. Additionally, without the ‘ghost’ you expect the subject of the week to be Jennifer Lopez, or Beyonce. (No Madonna, bad Madonna – Get your old wrinkled up ass back in your cage… nobody called you.)
So, Ghost Blog it is.
I am not exactly clear as to the reason for a blog anyway. Sure, it gets my thoughts out of my head and onto the little screen – but who would want to read this shit? It is almost like a diary which the public gets to look into only I’m not a budding teenage girl explaining how I practiced giving a blowjob to my pet puppy. There is no titillation to be had here. In fact I am very purposeful in my attempts to separate my personal and professional lives.
Like any artist the events of my life do influence the words and concepts I present to you in my work. But, that being said I am not one to break it all down and say this is borrowed, this is creation. I try to keep my mind open to influence and not filter too much out, but the psyche has a way of throwing things in there which you later read with shock. I have written things before and reflected, ‘no, I can’t put that out there.’ But in general I keep the filter wide open and allow my brain to do its thing.
I am sure I have a story or two which may read like something else. There are millions of stories out there and only about 6,752 ideas. Eventually you end up borrowing one, but this should never be on purpose. If you ever find yourself In the middle of something and you find you are accidentally plagiarizing something else I say just go with it. As long as you feel the idea or concept came to you naturally then it shouldn’t matter. Just do your best to make it yours and own it.
We are all just the lump sum of our individual experiences for the most part. If we were men at the dawn of time and we saw a herd of wild mustang right before seeing a flock of geese flying south for the winter, then maybe… just maybe it might occur to us to conceive of such a thing as a flying horse. But in this day and age who has not heard of a flying horse by the time they are a grown artist. All we do as a society of comfort is hear stories via film, books, music, games… etc. We are born into a reality of fiction.
Therefore, being a storyteller in this land of thrice told tales can be an exhausting endeavor if you let it. But if you just relax, and let whatever story flows from your fingers enter the realm of existence and keep true to your heart… your voice… then you can do no wrong in my book.
So if you excuse me, I am going to hop up on my winged pony… a purple pony… a pretty purple princess of a pony… and fly away.
Until next time, keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
mmmmmmm… puppy pecker.
You are reading D.B.Tarpley’s Amazing Ass Ghost Blog, formerly known as D.B.Tarpley’s Amazing Ass Blog. I recently mentioned calling it a ghost blog due to the fact that no-one ever reads it. Additionally, without the ‘ghost’ you expect the subject of the week to be Jennifer Lopez, or Beyonce. (No Madonna, bad Madonna – Get your old wrinkled up ass back in your cage… nobody called you.)
So, Ghost Blog it is.
I am not exactly clear as to the reason for a blog anyway. Sure, it gets my thoughts out of my head and onto the little screen – but who would want to read this shit? It is almost like a diary which the public gets to look into only I’m not a budding teenage girl explaining how I practiced giving a blowjob to my pet puppy. There is no titillation to be had here. In fact I am very purposeful in my attempts to separate my personal and professional lives.
Like any artist the events of my life do influence the words and concepts I present to you in my work. But, that being said I am not one to break it all down and say this is borrowed, this is creation. I try to keep my mind open to influence and not filter too much out, but the psyche has a way of throwing things in there which you later read with shock. I have written things before and reflected, ‘no, I can’t put that out there.’ But in general I keep the filter wide open and allow my brain to do its thing.
I am sure I have a story or two which may read like something else. There are millions of stories out there and only about 6,752 ideas. Eventually you end up borrowing one, but this should never be on purpose. If you ever find yourself In the middle of something and you find you are accidentally plagiarizing something else I say just go with it. As long as you feel the idea or concept came to you naturally then it shouldn’t matter. Just do your best to make it yours and own it.
We are all just the lump sum of our individual experiences for the most part. If we were men at the dawn of time and we saw a herd of wild mustang right before seeing a flock of geese flying south for the winter, then maybe… just maybe it might occur to us to conceive of such a thing as a flying horse. But in this day and age who has not heard of a flying horse by the time they are a grown artist. All we do as a society of comfort is hear stories via film, books, music, games… etc. We are born into a reality of fiction.
Therefore, being a storyteller in this land of thrice told tales can be an exhausting endeavor if you let it. But if you just relax, and let whatever story flows from your fingers enter the realm of existence and keep true to your heart… your voice… then you can do no wrong in my book.
So if you excuse me, I am going to hop up on my winged pony… a purple pony… a pretty purple princess of a pony… and fly away.
Until next time, keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
mmmmmmm… puppy pecker.
January 16, 2014
free story
THE UNMITIGATED GALL OF ARTEURO LANGELLA
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Arteuro Langella will make a pretzel of your soul.
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Hold on, you want to know about Arteuro Langella? I’ll tell you about that asshole. Sit down, take a load off... tune your ears to the lord and all that crap. This may take awhile. The man is a perplexation to us all, a positive curdled cunt loogie on the scale of King freakin Kong. I’m talking bout bad voodoo here pure and simple. There is no reason, no way for any sane man to develop the way he has without some sort of supernatural or occult-like interference. I should know. I know a lot of things.
It all started back in the winter of ’72. The year that little cock knobbler was born. His mother and father were people, that much is true and like any normal red blooded human beings they made a mistake or two in the raising. But having said that, let me say this: that fucking fagot was clothed, fed, bathed, and all around taken care of. He wasn’t molested, abused, or inflicted with any tragic illness or debilitating condition known to man.
What I am trying to say here is there is absolutely no reason the man should have turned out the way he did, none whatsoever. There is not one single factor that we can point our fingers to which would cause us to say, “Hey! There! Look at that! That MUST be the reason for his complete and total fucked-uppedness!”
No my friends, there is no clear explanation for Arteuro Langella’s obvious, over all, and apparent fucked-uppedness.
((RING! RING!))
Jesus fucking…all the resources of the universe and I can’t get a decent ring tone… keep it classic, it’s what people expect…what fucking ever!
((RING! RING!))
Yes! What?
Yes!
Unhunh, well I don’t fucking know when?
I don’t care if they’re getting restless I’m in the middle of a story. Where the Hell are they going to go?
No, that wasn’t a joke.
Look, just tell them S.P. said…
Wait…
Ok, hold on, I have to deal with this; I will be back in a sec. Just catch up, joggle your jiggle or something… Check this out while I do everyone else’s fucking job for them.
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((In this paper I would argue in favor of a broad game theoretical perspective on language use. Polite linguistic behavior should and only should be pertinent within the domain of two rational conversational partners which each come with their own unique perspectives and belief systems. Within the domain of the animal kingdom polite behavior is a handicap which will inevitably bring about the ruination of the participants given the previous stipulation is not immediately apparent. The function of making a request in a polite way is to turn a situation in which preferences are not well aligned to one where they are by assuming…))
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Arteuro Langella’s father was a diplomat. The man left his work at work. He held no diplomatic intentions within the confines of his own walls. There was no question. There was no dispute. The man would be king.
This is the man Arteuro learned diplomacy from.
There were questions within Arteuro’s mother’s extended family as to whether or not his father beat the woman; His temper was such. Even to Arteuro the subject of spousal abuse was unclear. He had never seen physical evidence to support the theory.
The diplomat’s family led the diplomat’s life and moved as he was repositioned accordingly. There was never any question of a vote. Once or twice a year they all packed their things, left what little surroundings they had become used to, and ventured off to God knows where to do God knows what.
God knows.
Uncertain footing in an uncertain tide for Arteuro… ever adrift in a sea of suspicious faces and unkind glances.
There were friends, passing acquaintances. And once or twice the boy opened himself up… only to find himself the subject of mass public ridicule. He quickly learned that around the new faces at every school, and the new faces at every church, and the new faces at every grocery store… even around the faces in every new house, silence was the best course of action.
His opinion was for shit.
A person without, ‘history of presence’, obviously did not have anything important to say.
This is what Arteuro Langella learned as a child.
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Everything’s unexpected but in reality it’s all the same – Arteuro Langella.
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I dated Arteuro Langella for 3 years, 4 months, and 22 days. Excuse me, let me just… 1, 2, 27, yes, that’s right. I had to do the math because it felt like an eternity towards the end. I had to reassure myself that it was, in fact, a measurable amount of time.
He was... well Arteuro was special.
During the end, as we were… you know, breaking up… he would call me on the phone and stay on the other end of the line an ungodly length of time. If I stopped talking he would listen silently. A couple of times I put the phone down and walked away only to return five or ten minutes later to find him still there, waiting like a puppy dog… not talking, not humming, not breathing… just listening.
As if the telephone magically connected us and conjoined our souls. It was enough to sustain something in him that he needed.
Oh, yes…
He needed.
He was a late bloomer.
I mean, he was 27 by the time he lost…
Look, he loved me more than any man has ever loved me. And that was just weird. It was too much to take, all that love day in and day out. There is no excuse for that. He was a great boyfriend but he needed to focus some of the energy he was directing at me on himself. He seemed to loose himself in love. And since he wasn’t there… well, there wasn’t much left for me to love back.
He was too sensitive.
Excuse me. I get a little bit …
Just give me a second.
O.K., Arteuro was…
No.
I said I wouldn’t…
Fuck it.
Fuck Arteuro Langella.
Fuck Arteuro Langella right in the ass…
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((“The United Nations voted today to extend its trade embargo on Sudan. Officials within the Sudanese Government are quoted as being ‘extremely disappointed’ claiming that the embargo is an act of terrorism and that its people are starving as a direct result of these actions… Sudan… Sudan is hot. Dan, how’s our weather this weekend going to compare to theirs?”
“Well Peter it is definitely not going to feel like a desert out there. Saturday holds an 85 percent chance of rain and torrential downpours. So if you have any outdoor yard sales planned you may need to reschedule.”
“Dan I believe all yard sales are outdoor events.”
“Ha! Yes indeed Peter, you got me. The weather clears up Sunday just in time for football with scattered sunshine and a pleasant high of 75… low humidity.”
“Thank God for small favors Dan.”
“Indeed Peter.”))
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He stares at his drink. No, not the drink… the square wet ‘rings’ on the desk from where he has lifted it up and set it back down. For some reason his placement has taken a consistent list to the left. The rings form symmetrical mirror images one right after the other like two dimensional motion indicators in an action comic directly behind the glass. He smiles. Little things make him happy.
Arteuro raises his glass to his lips and drinks the cold crisp liquid from within. It is a ritual, a motion for show performed even when he is alone. In his mind’s eye a camera is always on him. Someone is watching. Someone is always tuned in. He fills his mouth and tightens his lips as he gulps down the glub.
He winces, something he picked up from the movies he watched growing up. Only in the movies it was whiskey and not carbonated water.
It is the same with his glass. He holds a short square glass, the sort usually reserved for cocktails. It feels good in his hand and when he carries it around he feels like a grown up. He feels he looks as a grown up should.
For some reason this is important to him.
Too many things seem to be important to Arteuro these days… too many silly things.
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((The last known sighting of Tubulidentata Orycteropus, more commonly known as the North American Aardvark, was in the Ozark Mountains in 1927. It is described as being vaguely pig like in appearance sporting limbs of moderate length, a back sparsely covered with coarse hairs, and a greatly elongated head set on a short thick neck. Its primary source of food (termites and ants) it procured by a long, thin, snakelike protruding tongue.
The North American Aardvark has earned the nickname ‘The Polite Beast’ by the reported observation of its refusal to step on the very creatures it is endeavoring to ingest.
Tubulidentata Orycteropus is, at present, considered extinct.))
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Arteuro Langella is weird and you can quote me on that, one really weird weirdo. I met him right before he and Candice broke up. He was quiet at the restaurant but when he did speak he seemed charming enough. There was no way I could have foreseen the weirdness that was to come. He was like a weird wolf all covered in sheep… uh… stuff… anyway, (I never was any good with metaphors according to my creative writing professor,) Arteuro was one weird cat.
So like, Candice left his sorry ass and he tried to talk to me about it…which was cool, I can be sympathetic if you know, a person is deserving of such sympathy. But let me assure you lest there be any disputation that Arteuro Langella was most definitely not such a person. Not by a long shot.
Did I mention he was weird?
He kept telling me and telling me that he wanted to get back together with her and I was all like, ‘I know dude! Get over it already.’ All the chestnuts… maybe she was right for you but you might not have been right for her and if you love something let it go, if it comes back then it was truly meant to be… yada, yada, and yada.
I was trying to be nice but there he was, every time I turned around telling me how much he loved her… pathetic much?
So anyway, I had a party, kind of a housewarming thing, and I invited Candice and her new boo… but like no way in Hell was I going to invite Arteuro frickin Langella, who needs that kind of awkward? I mean, I would talk to him through email but that was it. So he sends me a message asking me why he wasn’t invited, like I needed to explain it to the likes of him. Weeeiiirrrd!
Paging weirdy Mcweirdenstein.
So I chilled for a while, gave it some space, I figure the guy just needed some time to cool. And for a moment he did. Then he started commenting on like, everything I said and I was like, whoa. I sent him a message calmly explaining to him that I had just started seeing a dude I liked and could he please stop liking anything I like, said. He sent a message back stating he didn’t understand… that he and I were just ‘platonic’ friends and all that.
I was like… Hello! Penis… vagina… penis… vagina!!! There’s nothing platonic about that. If he were able to sustain a real relationship he would understand. I had to delete him… I just couldn’t take all his weirdness anymore.
And every so often, I get a friend request or an email from him wondering how I am. I sincerely wish he would just stop and keep all his weird weirdness to himself. I don’t need to hear that he hopes I am doing well. Who needs that shit? The thought of him just makes me go all… Ick! You know? Just ICK! Ewe, I gave myself a full body shiver thinking about all that weird…
Enough talk about Arteuro Langella. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about my new book. It is a quaint little mystery thriller about a forensic pathologist who investigates…
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((Coming this Thanksgiving to a theater near you!!!
The world of Shakespeare as you’ve never seen it before!!!
Starring Sarah Silverman and Kathy Griffin as Goneril and Regan…
“C’mon daddy! I wanted a purple Porschie!”
“Like your fat ass could fit in a car that small!”
“Bitch!”
Also starring Jessica Alba as Cordelia.
“Really it’s fine father, I like riding my bike.”
And Wesley Snipes.
“Ah ‘ave your daughter and her bike mon. Whacha gwanna do naw!”
“No papa! Don’t give in to his deman…”
(SLAP!)
“Shut ap ya filthy wench!”
This Thanksgiving!
Vin Diesel!
Gets!
Medieval!
“Buddy… You just messed with the wrong king.”
KING LEAR!!!
(EXPLOSION), (EXPLOSION), (EXPL…))
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He tilts his head back and gazes at the hazy shaft shooting out from the projector’s booth. Light seems to move and curdle through the ray, like smoke. It is infinitely more interesting than the moving pictures on the screen.
Why is he here?
Here… in the darkened matinee of yet another holiday schlock fest.
Arteuro wandered into the nearest theater on this Tuesday afternoon. It felt like home. He left lunch at work and never went back, coming here instead. He purchased a ticket for the first thing showing and let the dark anonymity of the theater embrace him in its black cocoon. He is pretty sure he is alone. He finds it hard to believe that anyone would purposefully walk into this particular room while this, whatever this is, is on the screen.
Before him, Mr. Diesel is rapidly running through an exploding castle. He throws his shiny crown like a shrunken impaling someone, an expendable character, to the wall.
“Stick around.”
Why is his ass still in this seat? This is shit piled on shit. There is no reason for him to be here, other than the fact that he has already bought the ticket. The money is spent with no hope of a happy return. This is indignant?
Arteuro closes his eyes to the horror before him.
What is he hiding from?
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What’s it all about?
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The boy stands behind the curtains. The house is packed. He peeks out into the crowd, unable to make out his mother and father. He is nervous but he knows his lines. A cast-mate touches him on the shoulder from behind and whispers “Break a leg Langella.”
He nods and takes a deep breath. This is his grand entrance, a show stopping musical number where Arteuro gets a chance to play a nerd and maybe, in the process, not feel like such a…
What?
... Such a nothing.
He loses himself in the role.
He becomes Wilbur.
It feels good not being Arteuro.
It feels good being anybody but Arteuro.
Wilbur trips out onto the stage and pushes up his scotch taped glasses.
The crowd bursts into applause even before he starts. He is funny. That is what he is here for… the funny.
Wilbur sings in a nasally voice.
“I searched the skyyyyy
And crieeeeeed
Where is my looooove
Oooo eeee ooooooooo
Wop Wop!”
The crowd goes ape-shit as he sings his nerd love song to his nerd girlfriend…
There’s someone for everyone and all that.
Pip pip.
At the end, when all the seniors take their bow and accept their applause, sophomore Arteuro Langella gets the biggest round of the night. It is love.
Not love for him… love for Wilbur.
Still…
He accepts it in Wilbur’s stead and feels something on his cheeks he is not used to… an upward straining of the lips which is almost more than he can bear. It is an alien sensation, this feeling… this smile.
It scares the boy somewhat as he tries it… not all bad.
‘This is what normal feels like? How do they stand it?’
After accolades he waits with the others on stage. Parents, friends, and family members step up to shake hands, pat backs, and dole out huge heaping hugs.
“I’m so proud of you son!”
“Honey, you were excellent!”
“Wow, I never knew the next Laurence Olivier was living under my roof.”
“Awesome job!”
He smiles the whole time, feeling the burn. Arteuro’s jaw begins to hurt. His face isn’t used to the position. He smiles as he waits.
The crowd thins out.
Still he waits.
They might have gone to the restroom. He waits and he smiles.
He waits some more.
He waits until he is sitting alone on the edge of the stage.
He waits until the lights go out.
… He waits.
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OK, I’m back. These fucking assholes around here couldn’t screw in a light bulb without me unless they formed a committee to decide to allow a non-me light bulb screwing process to exist and then elected the proper officials to act as me-proxy in said screwing of said light bulb.
Where was I?
Oh yes… I was telling you about that fart plug Arteuro Langella. What a colossal cum stain on your mother’s apron that guy is. Don’t be fooled or deceived into feeling sorry for that piece of shit. We are all an amalgamation of our collective decisions, and some decisions simply cannot be forgiven.
Case in point… there he sat, watching KING LEAR, (great fucking movie by the way. Vin Diesel is one of the most underrated actors of this or any other generation,) and he suddenly decides he doesn’t want to be there. Great! You don’t want to be there! So fucking what? You bought the ticket, you take the ride. You don’t change horses in the middle of the race.
And then, this cocksucker gets up and leaves! Right in the middle of a big chase! What the fuck? So he hops theaters one to the next until he finally finds something he likes in the fourth. Whoa! You didn’t pay to see those films… You can’t just flip the script mid story. You’ll be lost. You have to let that shit play out. I don’t care if it’s not working for you.
Millions of people every day don’t like what they see. It doesn’t mean they can change it. It’s just not the way it’s done.
But noooooo, this turd sucking, booger licking half ass of a fuck tard Langella decides he is just gonna up and change, and not only movies. That would have been too fucking simple. As he walks down the long brightly lit mylar-laden hallway of the theater he whips out his phone.
First he calls his girlfriend.
“Sorry baby but I’m not happy anymore… best of luck.”
Then he calls his job.
“This is official notice that I won’t be back. I quit.”
Then he calls his family.
“Don’t think I’ll be home for thanksgiving this year; More turkey for you.”
And finally on the way out the door he drops his phone in one of those little trash receptacles… you know the one, the kind with those silver tops and the flap that flips in when you push it only you’ve got to push it with a little force because it doesn’t swing easy and if your hands are full you run the risk of dropping everything on the floor…
One of those things.
I hate those things.
Sooooo…..
Oh yeah, this fucknutz Langella is walking out the theater with his head held high, a new lease on life… what fucking ever bitch. You can’t just laugh at the hand fate dealt you. You have to play it out. You never… and I mean never ever… spit in the wind. And you don’t pull the mask of that ol’ Lone Ranger… hee hee.
All I’m saying is that if he hadn’t of done what he did, then he wouldn’t of had did what he had done.
So he walks out, huge ass smile on his face. Arteuro Langella is finally free… yeah right. Free to fucking die.
((SPLAT))
This 747 falls dead out of the sky straight down on his fucked up ass. Just like the hand of GOD.
((SMACK!!!))
Exactly like the hand of GOD.
Well… it pretty much was the hand of GOD. HE can’t be having that shit. What if everyone decided they wanted a different life and just up and changed? It would be pandemonium… sheer and total chaos is what the fuck it’d be. Fuck that shit. That little shit slurper needed to be shown the way. He needed guidance. He needed to be mother fucking told!!!
That’s where I came into the picture.
That’s where I made the acquaintance of one Arteuro Fucking Langella…the stupid fuck.
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((WOWZERS! YOU ARE TUNED IN TO WDAV RADIO! THE STATION THAT ROCKS YOU NEVER STOPS YOU AND MOTHER FOCKS YOU!!! THIS IS BILBO AND THE GREMLIN AT THE TOP OF THE HOUR BRINGING YOU THE EASY LISTENING CLASSICS YOU KNOW YOU WANT!!! YEAH BABY!!! GETTING CRAZY UP IN HERE!!! BUCK WILD!!! WOOO HOOO!!!! HERE’S A CLASSIC DUET FROM MICHAEL BOLTON AND COURTNEY LOVE!!! CRUSHED VELVET!!! ROCK N FOCKING ROLL!!!))
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‘Wait… this isn’t the parking lot outside of the theater.’
Arteuro is standing on… well; there is no other word for it… a cloud. He looks down at his body. He feels fine, better than fine. But for some reason he is wearing a robe. It fits nice enough but he doesn’t remember buying it…
‘Are robes ‘in’ this season?’
‘Must have been one hell of a party.’
‘Wait… this isn’t the parking lot outside the theater.’
There is a man standing in front of him and a man standing behind him, both in similar robes. He taps the shoulder of the guy in front.
“Excuse me, where am I?”
The man looks confused. He turns around and taps the shoulder of the guy in front of him.
“Excuse me, where IS the guy standing behind me?”
The man in front thinks for awhile before coming to a decision.
“He is behind you.”
The man in front of Arteuro turns back around.
“You are behind me.”
“Oh… OK… thank you.”
Arteuro looks beyond the man in front of him and realizes he is in a line… a long line of men in similar robes leading up to a huge podium where a man in an even whiter robe with an even whiter beard looks into a huge whi… I mean, golden, book.
“This definitely isn’t the parking lot outside the theater.”
Arteuro finally makes it to the front of the line.
The white bearded man behind the podium does not look up.
“Name?”
“Arteuro Langella.” He sticks out his hand. “And who may I ask do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
The old man keeps his nose in the book.
“Langella… Langella… Langella… Ah yes, Langella! You’re the spazkatoid who wouldn’t sit still through KING LEAR, what the fuck is wrong with you? Now you’ll never know how it ends.”
Arteuro looks at his hand then back up at the man.
“Vin Diesel defeats the Jamaican Nazis and gets his daughter back?”
The man behind the podium looks over the podium and down on Arteuro for the first time.
“Yes smartass and it is glorious when he does. Did you know that movie will gross…”
He glances back at his book.
“147 million at the box office… and that’s just domestic.”
Arteuro looks around at his surroundings.
“Yeah… um…. What exactly am I doing here… and who are you?”
He leans in.
“Do you work for Fandango?”
The man stiffens.
“This…” with a grand sweeping gesture of his long be-robed arm, “…Is the Kingdom of Heaven! And I…” stepping out from behind the podium, “…Am Saint Peter!” He raises one long pointy finger to the sky to emphasize the point.
Lightening streaks across the sky.
The pair stand there looking at one another.
Finally Arteuro blinks.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Peter.” He extends his hand again.
The keeper of the gate looses his shit.
“It’s Saint Peter you fucking retard! Are you completely insane? This is heaven! Those are the Pearly Gates!”
They look more of an off white to Arteuro.
“And I am Saint Fucking Peter you misguided cunt!”
Arteuro digests this new bit of information. He nods, looks down at his unshaken hand and retracts it.
“OK then… thank you for the information.”
They look at each other some more.
“Well…
… Be seeing you.”
Arteuro waves, turns to his right, and walks off.
Saint Peter is stunned and the boy takes several steps away before he regains his senses. He sternly crosses his arms.
“Hey! Fucknuts! What the fucky fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Leaving.”
The reader of the book of life stomps his feet and pulls his hair.
“This is the kingdom of heaven! The majesty of the lord your GOD unfurled before you. Large breasted women with wings! Amazing! Streets of Gold! Where the crap are you going?”
Arteuro keeps walking.
“This way.”
“Why in the universe would you ever do that?”
Arteuro stops. He cocks his head and thinks for a moment. The entire line leans in to wait for his response.
‘Why am I walking this way?’
Arteuro looks back at Saint Peter.
He looks back at the line.
Diplomacy… love… protocol… family… politeness… obligation…
‘What is expected of me?’
‘What is expected?’
‘What to expect?’
‘Expectations.’
He smiles.
It is the first natural smile of his life.
“Because.”
Arteuro Langella turns around and walks away from the Kingdom of Heaven.
Saint Peter sits down on the ground by the podium.
He shakes his head.
“Well poke me in the pooper and call me Polly.”
He looks up at the next man in line.
The man smiles.
“What the fuck are you looking at you sonofabitchin late term abortion?”
The man quickly looks to the ground.
Saint Peter returns to his position behind the podium.
“Next!”
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((Coming this fall to ABC Family! Kathy Yang is an average all American girl. Until the day she discovers an ancient family secret that changes her life forever.
“Kathy there is something you must know.”
“Yes Mom.”
“We have been keeping a secret from you.”
Now Kathy has to balance going to high school and keeping the secret.
All the while fighting the powers of darkness…
“Four corners of the cross unite as one!”
(KAZOWIE!!!)
“We are the Jesus Ninjas!”
“Good work Kathy.”
“Thanks daddy, we kick butt for the Lord!”
“That’s right honey.”
(High five air jump.)
JINJAS!!! Thursdays This Fall on ABC Family.))
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THE END
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Arteuro Langella will make a pretzel of your soul.
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The secret is in the scientific principals discovered in bee venom… a discovery years in the…))
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Hold on, you want to know about Arteuro Langella? I’ll tell you about that asshole. Sit down, take a load off... tune your ears to the lord and all that crap. This may take awhile. The man is a perplexation to us all, a positive curdled cunt loogie on the scale of King freakin Kong. I’m talking bout bad voodoo here pure and simple. There is no reason, no way for any sane man to develop the way he has without some sort of supernatural or occult-like interference. I should know. I know a lot of things.
It all started back in the winter of ’72. The year that little cock knobbler was born. His mother and father were people, that much is true and like any normal red blooded human beings they made a mistake or two in the raising. But having said that, let me say this: that fucking fagot was clothed, fed, bathed, and all around taken care of. He wasn’t molested, abused, or inflicted with any tragic illness or debilitating condition known to man.
What I am trying to say here is there is absolutely no reason the man should have turned out the way he did, none whatsoever. There is not one single factor that we can point our fingers to which would cause us to say, “Hey! There! Look at that! That MUST be the reason for his complete and total fucked-uppedness!”
No my friends, there is no clear explanation for Arteuro Langella’s obvious, over all, and apparent fucked-uppedness.
((RING! RING!))
Jesus fucking…all the resources of the universe and I can’t get a decent ring tone… keep it classic, it’s what people expect…what fucking ever!
((RING! RING!))
Yes! What?
Yes!
Unhunh, well I don’t fucking know when?
I don’t care if they’re getting restless I’m in the middle of a story. Where the Hell are they going to go?
No, that wasn’t a joke.
Look, just tell them S.P. said…
Wait…
Ok, hold on, I have to deal with this; I will be back in a sec. Just catch up, joggle your jiggle or something… Check this out while I do everyone else’s fucking job for them.
CLICK
((In this paper I would argue in favor of a broad game theoretical perspective on language use. Polite linguistic behavior should and only should be pertinent within the domain of two rational conversational partners which each come with their own unique perspectives and belief systems. Within the domain of the animal kingdom polite behavior is a handicap which will inevitably bring about the ruination of the participants given the previous stipulation is not immediately apparent. The function of making a request in a polite way is to turn a situation in which preferences are not well aligned to one where they are by assuming…))
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Arteuro Langella’s father was a diplomat. The man left his work at work. He held no diplomatic intentions within the confines of his own walls. There was no question. There was no dispute. The man would be king.
This is the man Arteuro learned diplomacy from.
There were questions within Arteuro’s mother’s extended family as to whether or not his father beat the woman; His temper was such. Even to Arteuro the subject of spousal abuse was unclear. He had never seen physical evidence to support the theory.
The diplomat’s family led the diplomat’s life and moved as he was repositioned accordingly. There was never any question of a vote. Once or twice a year they all packed their things, left what little surroundings they had become used to, and ventured off to God knows where to do God knows what.
God knows.
Uncertain footing in an uncertain tide for Arteuro… ever adrift in a sea of suspicious faces and unkind glances.
There were friends, passing acquaintances. And once or twice the boy opened himself up… only to find himself the subject of mass public ridicule. He quickly learned that around the new faces at every school, and the new faces at every church, and the new faces at every grocery store… even around the faces in every new house, silence was the best course of action.
His opinion was for shit.
A person without, ‘history of presence’, obviously did not have anything important to say.
This is what Arteuro Langella learned as a child.
CLICK
Everything’s unexpected but in reality it’s all the same – Arteuro Langella.
CLICK
I dated Arteuro Langella for 3 years, 4 months, and 22 days. Excuse me, let me just… 1, 2, 27, yes, that’s right. I had to do the math because it felt like an eternity towards the end. I had to reassure myself that it was, in fact, a measurable amount of time.
He was... well Arteuro was special.
During the end, as we were… you know, breaking up… he would call me on the phone and stay on the other end of the line an ungodly length of time. If I stopped talking he would listen silently. A couple of times I put the phone down and walked away only to return five or ten minutes later to find him still there, waiting like a puppy dog… not talking, not humming, not breathing… just listening.
As if the telephone magically connected us and conjoined our souls. It was enough to sustain something in him that he needed.
Oh, yes…
He needed.
He was a late bloomer.
I mean, he was 27 by the time he lost…
Look, he loved me more than any man has ever loved me. And that was just weird. It was too much to take, all that love day in and day out. There is no excuse for that. He was a great boyfriend but he needed to focus some of the energy he was directing at me on himself. He seemed to loose himself in love. And since he wasn’t there… well, there wasn’t much left for me to love back.
He was too sensitive.
Excuse me. I get a little bit …
Just give me a second.
O.K., Arteuro was…
No.
I said I wouldn’t…
Fuck it.
Fuck Arteuro Langella.
Fuck Arteuro Langella right in the ass…
CLICK
((“The United Nations voted today to extend its trade embargo on Sudan. Officials within the Sudanese Government are quoted as being ‘extremely disappointed’ claiming that the embargo is an act of terrorism and that its people are starving as a direct result of these actions… Sudan… Sudan is hot. Dan, how’s our weather this weekend going to compare to theirs?”
“Well Peter it is definitely not going to feel like a desert out there. Saturday holds an 85 percent chance of rain and torrential downpours. So if you have any outdoor yard sales planned you may need to reschedule.”
“Dan I believe all yard sales are outdoor events.”
“Ha! Yes indeed Peter, you got me. The weather clears up Sunday just in time for football with scattered sunshine and a pleasant high of 75… low humidity.”
“Thank God for small favors Dan.”
“Indeed Peter.”))
CLICK
He stares at his drink. No, not the drink… the square wet ‘rings’ on the desk from where he has lifted it up and set it back down. For some reason his placement has taken a consistent list to the left. The rings form symmetrical mirror images one right after the other like two dimensional motion indicators in an action comic directly behind the glass. He smiles. Little things make him happy.
Arteuro raises his glass to his lips and drinks the cold crisp liquid from within. It is a ritual, a motion for show performed even when he is alone. In his mind’s eye a camera is always on him. Someone is watching. Someone is always tuned in. He fills his mouth and tightens his lips as he gulps down the glub.
He winces, something he picked up from the movies he watched growing up. Only in the movies it was whiskey and not carbonated water.
It is the same with his glass. He holds a short square glass, the sort usually reserved for cocktails. It feels good in his hand and when he carries it around he feels like a grown up. He feels he looks as a grown up should.
For some reason this is important to him.
Too many things seem to be important to Arteuro these days… too many silly things.
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((The last known sighting of Tubulidentata Orycteropus, more commonly known as the North American Aardvark, was in the Ozark Mountains in 1927. It is described as being vaguely pig like in appearance sporting limbs of moderate length, a back sparsely covered with coarse hairs, and a greatly elongated head set on a short thick neck. Its primary source of food (termites and ants) it procured by a long, thin, snakelike protruding tongue.
The North American Aardvark has earned the nickname ‘The Polite Beast’ by the reported observation of its refusal to step on the very creatures it is endeavoring to ingest.
Tubulidentata Orycteropus is, at present, considered extinct.))
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Arteuro Langella is weird and you can quote me on that, one really weird weirdo. I met him right before he and Candice broke up. He was quiet at the restaurant but when he did speak he seemed charming enough. There was no way I could have foreseen the weirdness that was to come. He was like a weird wolf all covered in sheep… uh… stuff… anyway, (I never was any good with metaphors according to my creative writing professor,) Arteuro was one weird cat.
So like, Candice left his sorry ass and he tried to talk to me about it…which was cool, I can be sympathetic if you know, a person is deserving of such sympathy. But let me assure you lest there be any disputation that Arteuro Langella was most definitely not such a person. Not by a long shot.
Did I mention he was weird?
He kept telling me and telling me that he wanted to get back together with her and I was all like, ‘I know dude! Get over it already.’ All the chestnuts… maybe she was right for you but you might not have been right for her and if you love something let it go, if it comes back then it was truly meant to be… yada, yada, and yada.
I was trying to be nice but there he was, every time I turned around telling me how much he loved her… pathetic much?
So anyway, I had a party, kind of a housewarming thing, and I invited Candice and her new boo… but like no way in Hell was I going to invite Arteuro frickin Langella, who needs that kind of awkward? I mean, I would talk to him through email but that was it. So he sends me a message asking me why he wasn’t invited, like I needed to explain it to the likes of him. Weeeiiirrrd!
Paging weirdy Mcweirdenstein.
So I chilled for a while, gave it some space, I figure the guy just needed some time to cool. And for a moment he did. Then he started commenting on like, everything I said and I was like, whoa. I sent him a message calmly explaining to him that I had just started seeing a dude I liked and could he please stop liking anything I like, said. He sent a message back stating he didn’t understand… that he and I were just ‘platonic’ friends and all that.
I was like… Hello! Penis… vagina… penis… vagina!!! There’s nothing platonic about that. If he were able to sustain a real relationship he would understand. I had to delete him… I just couldn’t take all his weirdness anymore.
And every so often, I get a friend request or an email from him wondering how I am. I sincerely wish he would just stop and keep all his weird weirdness to himself. I don’t need to hear that he hopes I am doing well. Who needs that shit? The thought of him just makes me go all… Ick! You know? Just ICK! Ewe, I gave myself a full body shiver thinking about all that weird…
Enough talk about Arteuro Langella. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about my new book. It is a quaint little mystery thriller about a forensic pathologist who investigates…
CLICK
((Coming this Thanksgiving to a theater near you!!!
The world of Shakespeare as you’ve never seen it before!!!
Starring Sarah Silverman and Kathy Griffin as Goneril and Regan…
“C’mon daddy! I wanted a purple Porschie!”
“Like your fat ass could fit in a car that small!”
“Bitch!”
Also starring Jessica Alba as Cordelia.
“Really it’s fine father, I like riding my bike.”
And Wesley Snipes.
“Ah ‘ave your daughter and her bike mon. Whacha gwanna do naw!”
“No papa! Don’t give in to his deman…”
(SLAP!)
“Shut ap ya filthy wench!”
This Thanksgiving!
Vin Diesel!
Gets!
Medieval!
“Buddy… You just messed with the wrong king.”
KING LEAR!!!
(EXPLOSION), (EXPLOSION), (EXPL…))
CLICK
He tilts his head back and gazes at the hazy shaft shooting out from the projector’s booth. Light seems to move and curdle through the ray, like smoke. It is infinitely more interesting than the moving pictures on the screen.
Why is he here?
Here… in the darkened matinee of yet another holiday schlock fest.
Arteuro wandered into the nearest theater on this Tuesday afternoon. It felt like home. He left lunch at work and never went back, coming here instead. He purchased a ticket for the first thing showing and let the dark anonymity of the theater embrace him in its black cocoon. He is pretty sure he is alone. He finds it hard to believe that anyone would purposefully walk into this particular room while this, whatever this is, is on the screen.
Before him, Mr. Diesel is rapidly running through an exploding castle. He throws his shiny crown like a shrunken impaling someone, an expendable character, to the wall.
“Stick around.”
Why is his ass still in this seat? This is shit piled on shit. There is no reason for him to be here, other than the fact that he has already bought the ticket. The money is spent with no hope of a happy return. This is indignant?
Arteuro closes his eyes to the horror before him.
What is he hiding from?
CLICK
What’s it all about?
CLICK
The boy stands behind the curtains. The house is packed. He peeks out into the crowd, unable to make out his mother and father. He is nervous but he knows his lines. A cast-mate touches him on the shoulder from behind and whispers “Break a leg Langella.”
He nods and takes a deep breath. This is his grand entrance, a show stopping musical number where Arteuro gets a chance to play a nerd and maybe, in the process, not feel like such a…
What?
... Such a nothing.
He loses himself in the role.
He becomes Wilbur.
It feels good not being Arteuro.
It feels good being anybody but Arteuro.
Wilbur trips out onto the stage and pushes up his scotch taped glasses.
The crowd bursts into applause even before he starts. He is funny. That is what he is here for… the funny.
Wilbur sings in a nasally voice.
“I searched the skyyyyy
And crieeeeeed
Where is my looooove
Oooo eeee ooooooooo
Wop Wop!”
The crowd goes ape-shit as he sings his nerd love song to his nerd girlfriend…
There’s someone for everyone and all that.
Pip pip.
At the end, when all the seniors take their bow and accept their applause, sophomore Arteuro Langella gets the biggest round of the night. It is love.
Not love for him… love for Wilbur.
Still…
He accepts it in Wilbur’s stead and feels something on his cheeks he is not used to… an upward straining of the lips which is almost more than he can bear. It is an alien sensation, this feeling… this smile.
It scares the boy somewhat as he tries it… not all bad.
‘This is what normal feels like? How do they stand it?’
After accolades he waits with the others on stage. Parents, friends, and family members step up to shake hands, pat backs, and dole out huge heaping hugs.
“I’m so proud of you son!”
“Honey, you were excellent!”
“Wow, I never knew the next Laurence Olivier was living under my roof.”
“Awesome job!”
He smiles the whole time, feeling the burn. Arteuro’s jaw begins to hurt. His face isn’t used to the position. He smiles as he waits.
The crowd thins out.
Still he waits.
They might have gone to the restroom. He waits and he smiles.
He waits some more.
He waits until he is sitting alone on the edge of the stage.
He waits until the lights go out.
… He waits.
CLICK
OK, I’m back. These fucking assholes around here couldn’t screw in a light bulb without me unless they formed a committee to decide to allow a non-me light bulb screwing process to exist and then elected the proper officials to act as me-proxy in said screwing of said light bulb.
Where was I?
Oh yes… I was telling you about that fart plug Arteuro Langella. What a colossal cum stain on your mother’s apron that guy is. Don’t be fooled or deceived into feeling sorry for that piece of shit. We are all an amalgamation of our collective decisions, and some decisions simply cannot be forgiven.
Case in point… there he sat, watching KING LEAR, (great fucking movie by the way. Vin Diesel is one of the most underrated actors of this or any other generation,) and he suddenly decides he doesn’t want to be there. Great! You don’t want to be there! So fucking what? You bought the ticket, you take the ride. You don’t change horses in the middle of the race.
And then, this cocksucker gets up and leaves! Right in the middle of a big chase! What the fuck? So he hops theaters one to the next until he finally finds something he likes in the fourth. Whoa! You didn’t pay to see those films… You can’t just flip the script mid story. You’ll be lost. You have to let that shit play out. I don’t care if it’s not working for you.
Millions of people every day don’t like what they see. It doesn’t mean they can change it. It’s just not the way it’s done.
But noooooo, this turd sucking, booger licking half ass of a fuck tard Langella decides he is just gonna up and change, and not only movies. That would have been too fucking simple. As he walks down the long brightly lit mylar-laden hallway of the theater he whips out his phone.
First he calls his girlfriend.
“Sorry baby but I’m not happy anymore… best of luck.”
Then he calls his job.
“This is official notice that I won’t be back. I quit.”
Then he calls his family.
“Don’t think I’ll be home for thanksgiving this year; More turkey for you.”
And finally on the way out the door he drops his phone in one of those little trash receptacles… you know the one, the kind with those silver tops and the flap that flips in when you push it only you’ve got to push it with a little force because it doesn’t swing easy and if your hands are full you run the risk of dropping everything on the floor…
One of those things.
I hate those things.
Sooooo…..
Oh yeah, this fucknutz Langella is walking out the theater with his head held high, a new lease on life… what fucking ever bitch. You can’t just laugh at the hand fate dealt you. You have to play it out. You never… and I mean never ever… spit in the wind. And you don’t pull the mask of that ol’ Lone Ranger… hee hee.
All I’m saying is that if he hadn’t of done what he did, then he wouldn’t of had did what he had done.
So he walks out, huge ass smile on his face. Arteuro Langella is finally free… yeah right. Free to fucking die.
((SPLAT))
This 747 falls dead out of the sky straight down on his fucked up ass. Just like the hand of GOD.
((SMACK!!!))
Exactly like the hand of GOD.
Well… it pretty much was the hand of GOD. HE can’t be having that shit. What if everyone decided they wanted a different life and just up and changed? It would be pandemonium… sheer and total chaos is what the fuck it’d be. Fuck that shit. That little shit slurper needed to be shown the way. He needed guidance. He needed to be mother fucking told!!!
That’s where I came into the picture.
That’s where I made the acquaintance of one Arteuro Fucking Langella…the stupid fuck.
CLICK
((WOWZERS! YOU ARE TUNED IN TO WDAV RADIO! THE STATION THAT ROCKS YOU NEVER STOPS YOU AND MOTHER FOCKS YOU!!! THIS IS BILBO AND THE GREMLIN AT THE TOP OF THE HOUR BRINGING YOU THE EASY LISTENING CLASSICS YOU KNOW YOU WANT!!! YEAH BABY!!! GETTING CRAZY UP IN HERE!!! BUCK WILD!!! WOOO HOOO!!!! HERE’S A CLASSIC DUET FROM MICHAEL BOLTON AND COURTNEY LOVE!!! CRUSHED VELVET!!! ROCK N FOCKING ROLL!!!))
CLICK
‘Wait… this isn’t the parking lot outside of the theater.’
Arteuro is standing on… well; there is no other word for it… a cloud. He looks down at his body. He feels fine, better than fine. But for some reason he is wearing a robe. It fits nice enough but he doesn’t remember buying it…
‘Are robes ‘in’ this season?’
‘Must have been one hell of a party.’
‘Wait… this isn’t the parking lot outside the theater.’
There is a man standing in front of him and a man standing behind him, both in similar robes. He taps the shoulder of the guy in front.
“Excuse me, where am I?”
The man looks confused. He turns around and taps the shoulder of the guy in front of him.
“Excuse me, where IS the guy standing behind me?”
The man in front thinks for awhile before coming to a decision.
“He is behind you.”
The man in front of Arteuro turns back around.
“You are behind me.”
“Oh… OK… thank you.”
Arteuro looks beyond the man in front of him and realizes he is in a line… a long line of men in similar robes leading up to a huge podium where a man in an even whiter robe with an even whiter beard looks into a huge whi… I mean, golden, book.
“This definitely isn’t the parking lot outside the theater.”
Arteuro finally makes it to the front of the line.
The white bearded man behind the podium does not look up.
“Name?”
“Arteuro Langella.” He sticks out his hand. “And who may I ask do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
The old man keeps his nose in the book.
“Langella… Langella… Langella… Ah yes, Langella! You’re the spazkatoid who wouldn’t sit still through KING LEAR, what the fuck is wrong with you? Now you’ll never know how it ends.”
Arteuro looks at his hand then back up at the man.
“Vin Diesel defeats the Jamaican Nazis and gets his daughter back?”
The man behind the podium looks over the podium and down on Arteuro for the first time.
“Yes smartass and it is glorious when he does. Did you know that movie will gross…”
He glances back at his book.
“147 million at the box office… and that’s just domestic.”
Arteuro looks around at his surroundings.
“Yeah… um…. What exactly am I doing here… and who are you?”
He leans in.
“Do you work for Fandango?”
The man stiffens.
“This…” with a grand sweeping gesture of his long be-robed arm, “…Is the Kingdom of Heaven! And I…” stepping out from behind the podium, “…Am Saint Peter!” He raises one long pointy finger to the sky to emphasize the point.
Lightening streaks across the sky.
The pair stand there looking at one another.
Finally Arteuro blinks.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Peter.” He extends his hand again.
The keeper of the gate looses his shit.
“It’s Saint Peter you fucking retard! Are you completely insane? This is heaven! Those are the Pearly Gates!”
They look more of an off white to Arteuro.
“And I am Saint Fucking Peter you misguided cunt!”
Arteuro digests this new bit of information. He nods, looks down at his unshaken hand and retracts it.
“OK then… thank you for the information.”
They look at each other some more.
“Well…
… Be seeing you.”
Arteuro waves, turns to his right, and walks off.
Saint Peter is stunned and the boy takes several steps away before he regains his senses. He sternly crosses his arms.
“Hey! Fucknuts! What the fucky fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Leaving.”
The reader of the book of life stomps his feet and pulls his hair.
“This is the kingdom of heaven! The majesty of the lord your GOD unfurled before you. Large breasted women with wings! Amazing! Streets of Gold! Where the crap are you going?”
Arteuro keeps walking.
“This way.”
“Why in the universe would you ever do that?”
Arteuro stops. He cocks his head and thinks for a moment. The entire line leans in to wait for his response.
‘Why am I walking this way?’
Arteuro looks back at Saint Peter.
He looks back at the line.
Diplomacy… love… protocol… family… politeness… obligation…
‘What is expected of me?’
‘What is expected?’
‘What to expect?’
‘Expectations.’
He smiles.
It is the first natural smile of his life.
“Because.”
Arteuro Langella turns around and walks away from the Kingdom of Heaven.
Saint Peter sits down on the ground by the podium.
He shakes his head.
“Well poke me in the pooper and call me Polly.”
He looks up at the next man in line.
The man smiles.
“What the fuck are you looking at you sonofabitchin late term abortion?”
The man quickly looks to the ground.
Saint Peter returns to his position behind the podium.
“Next!”
CLICK
((Coming this fall to ABC Family! Kathy Yang is an average all American girl. Until the day she discovers an ancient family secret that changes her life forever.
“Kathy there is something you must know.”
“Yes Mom.”
“We have been keeping a secret from you.”
Now Kathy has to balance going to high school and keeping the secret.
All the while fighting the powers of darkness…
“Four corners of the cross unite as one!”
(KAZOWIE!!!)
“We are the Jesus Ninjas!”
“Good work Kathy.”
“Thanks daddy, we kick butt for the Lord!”
“That’s right honey.”
(High five air jump.)
JINJAS!!! Thursdays This Fall on ABC Family.))
CLICK
THE END
January 10, 2014
D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Blog - pt. 17
Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,
I am the almighty hacker of your subconscious, reaching up and down into your soul with my hook to grab that which is barely lucid and drag it kicking and screaming out your ripped nostril into some semblance of self awareness. I turn the known yet forgotten into the unknown so that it once again becomes known, and all the stronger for its absence.
I am that friend you always wanted. I am that stranger sitting next to you at the bar you are just dying to lean into and reveal all. I am your lover… the one who cums all over your face and makes you love it before exiting stage right not caring whether you are breathing or freshly corpsified.
I am all this and more as I weave my wordy spell through your earholes and around the nooks and crannies of that oatmeal you call a brain.
I am motherfucking GOD!
And you love it.
This is the relationship we have, and it is as it ever was and as it ever shall be. Otherwise your eyes would not be devouring these sequential letters right now. You are hungry. There is great hunger in you. You need to be fed and I have the only spoon long enough to reach your mouth and dump into your eager throat.
So long as you realize that not every single one will be a winner, and you can take that in whichever context you like, then you will be able to live with this arrangement. And what a symbiotic arrangement it is. You feed off my pain and I in turn feed off your feeding, some of which brings me great pain… It is the great circle of life.
HAMUMUWAYHHHHH!!!!
See Jack run.
See Jill chasing Jack.
See Jill holding a cast iron skillet, recently purchased from the Paula Dean collection.
See Jack throw away a used condom in disgust as he turns a corner.
See it all and know the truth of the matter.
And next and next and next and next…. Tell us what happens next D.B.? I yearn for this and yet I fear its arrival as well. What if there is no next? What if, once I reach the end of my travels, my audience is not ready to let me go softly into that night? What if they capture my soul and demand more…. MORE! MORE! MORER! MORERER! MOREREST!
And what if I am unable to deliver, my pencil limp on the paper… lead dust spent and smeared by the passing of my clumsy naked palm.
What then?
I love sentence fragments.
If I didn’t then…
“There’s a storm that’s raging through my frozen heart tonight.” says Tina Turner. But do I really need to be beaten by an angry black man for ten plus years to discover that?
Isn’t there a storm raging in all our frozen hearts? Doesn’t life have that effect on each and every one of us? Life is a motherfucker. People are always looking for some simplistic reason, some scapegoat of a condition to blame for this phenomenon. It is because I am ‘insert race here’; It is because I am ‘insert sex here’; It is because I had this hole ripped open by ‘insert penis here’.
But the plain and simple fact is that life sucks. It is all part of the human condition. We swim upstream our whole lives and then we die.
But wait.
Don’t give up hope on me just yet.
Don’t you see? This is why you need me. This is why we need each other. This is why this – what we are doing right here right now exists!!!
Wow.
That blows your fucking mind doesn’t it?
I string words together in a delightful popcorny ribbon of yummy goodness for you to feast your tired, bored eyes on until the remains of the day have been all but forgotten. I carry you through the night into the next dawn. What you do with that moment when I set you back on your feet is entirely up to you. It can be business as usual or ‘Hello brand new day!’
Hello brand new day.
That’s it… lick it, lick it all up, don’t you leave one shiny salty drop you filthy whore!
Ahem.
This has been your co-pilot speaking. Until next time, keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
I am the almighty hacker of your subconscious, reaching up and down into your soul with my hook to grab that which is barely lucid and drag it kicking and screaming out your ripped nostril into some semblance of self awareness. I turn the known yet forgotten into the unknown so that it once again becomes known, and all the stronger for its absence.
I am that friend you always wanted. I am that stranger sitting next to you at the bar you are just dying to lean into and reveal all. I am your lover… the one who cums all over your face and makes you love it before exiting stage right not caring whether you are breathing or freshly corpsified.
I am all this and more as I weave my wordy spell through your earholes and around the nooks and crannies of that oatmeal you call a brain.
I am motherfucking GOD!
And you love it.
This is the relationship we have, and it is as it ever was and as it ever shall be. Otherwise your eyes would not be devouring these sequential letters right now. You are hungry. There is great hunger in you. You need to be fed and I have the only spoon long enough to reach your mouth and dump into your eager throat.
So long as you realize that not every single one will be a winner, and you can take that in whichever context you like, then you will be able to live with this arrangement. And what a symbiotic arrangement it is. You feed off my pain and I in turn feed off your feeding, some of which brings me great pain… It is the great circle of life.
HAMUMUWAYHHHHH!!!!
See Jack run.
See Jill chasing Jack.
See Jill holding a cast iron skillet, recently purchased from the Paula Dean collection.
See Jack throw away a used condom in disgust as he turns a corner.
See it all and know the truth of the matter.
And next and next and next and next…. Tell us what happens next D.B.? I yearn for this and yet I fear its arrival as well. What if there is no next? What if, once I reach the end of my travels, my audience is not ready to let me go softly into that night? What if they capture my soul and demand more…. MORE! MORE! MORER! MORERER! MOREREST!
And what if I am unable to deliver, my pencil limp on the paper… lead dust spent and smeared by the passing of my clumsy naked palm.
What then?
I love sentence fragments.
If I didn’t then…
“There’s a storm that’s raging through my frozen heart tonight.” says Tina Turner. But do I really need to be beaten by an angry black man for ten plus years to discover that?
Isn’t there a storm raging in all our frozen hearts? Doesn’t life have that effect on each and every one of us? Life is a motherfucker. People are always looking for some simplistic reason, some scapegoat of a condition to blame for this phenomenon. It is because I am ‘insert race here’; It is because I am ‘insert sex here’; It is because I had this hole ripped open by ‘insert penis here’.
But the plain and simple fact is that life sucks. It is all part of the human condition. We swim upstream our whole lives and then we die.
But wait.
Don’t give up hope on me just yet.
Don’t you see? This is why you need me. This is why we need each other. This is why this – what we are doing right here right now exists!!!
Wow.
That blows your fucking mind doesn’t it?
I string words together in a delightful popcorny ribbon of yummy goodness for you to feast your tired, bored eyes on until the remains of the day have been all but forgotten. I carry you through the night into the next dawn. What you do with that moment when I set you back on your feet is entirely up to you. It can be business as usual or ‘Hello brand new day!’
Hello brand new day.
That’s it… lick it, lick it all up, don’t you leave one shiny salty drop you filthy whore!
Ahem.
This has been your co-pilot speaking. Until next time, keep reading and have an amazing ass day.
