The Triangle Of Hatred

Happy Memorial Day Weekend. I figure most of you are out there drinking beers and partying with friends. I'm stuck in New Jersey where people don't seem to understand this is a holiday weekend. What's this holiday about? It's about honoring our soldiers. All those that died defending the values of our country. There's one value that these fine men and women died to protect that I think we've ALL forgotten about: Tolerance. Here's an example that hits close to home: The Triangle of Hatred between Women in The Adult Services Industry.

Simply, hookers hate strippers and porn starlets. Porn starlets hate hookers and strippers. Strippers hate hookers and porn starlets. It makes NO sense. Like so many of us, they are filled with hatred for people that are doing basically the same thing because they can't admit to themselves what they're doing. All these women are in the same profession: sex for money. They are just on different positions on the scale. But try and explain to a stripper that she's the same thing as a hooker and you'll see very quickly what I'm talking about. Here's how it works:

Hookers:

Hookers are the grunts of the sex trade. Whether they are walking the streets or working with a "high-class" escort agency, there's no disputing the fact that they're selling sex.

Hookers vs. Strippers:
Hookers hate strippers because strippers are just teases. They don't work for their money because they don't actually fuck (most of the time) for their income. Strippers give the sex-sellers a bad wrap because they just rip men off. "Sure honey, pay me $1000 in the VIP room and I'll come back to your hotel room (which 99.9% of the time never happens)" or "Wow, thanks so much for buying me that $500 bottle of champagne, now give me your phone number and I'll call you tomorrow". Of course if they do actually call, it's just so you can have the privilege of taking them shopping for a thousand dollars worth of clothes. You're still not going to get laid.

Hookers vs. Porn Starlets:
Similar to strippers, women who make porn films don't have to work as hard as hookers for their money. Sure they are slightly better than strippers because they do actually fuck. But the hatred is still there. It's blue collar vs. white collar. Hookers have to walk the streets, deal with pimps, run from cops, etc. Porn chicks get to work in a cushy studio or a nice house and they have the job security of contracts with the production company.

Porn Starlets:

Targets of the entire world because they're the most visible, these chicks have learned to deal with hatred against them the best. Unfortunately, knowing that they are at the top of food-chain they've got a chip on their shoulders.

Porn Starlets vs. Hookers:
This one kills me. Hookers are dirty sluts because they'll fuck anyone with money. Porn chicks pride themselves in working in this insular world where they know everyone they "work" with. They're not fucking total strangers. But it's TOTAL bullshit. Last year, at the porn convention in Vegas I found out about a porn chick that is a household name, taking an "erotic helicopter tour" of the Grand Canyon with a total stranger. Specifically, she went with a total stranger who had an extra $3000 to blow.

Porn Starlets vs. Strippers:
Porn chicks hating strippers because strippers don't fuck (sound familiar?). Porn chicks have to not only have sex, but have sex on a set with a 400 watt C-Light (crevice light for those uninitiated to the porn world) three inches from their ass crack. Porn chicks have to fuck on command. They have to take direction while still making it look like they're having the best sex of their lives. All strippers have to do is party and get drunk on booze some guy is buying them and jiggle their asses a bit.

Strippers:

I saved the best for last. I've got the most experience with strippers. I dated a stripper for a year. I learned first-hand how much shit these women have floating around in their heads. You can't take the stripper home with you line is total bullshit. You just can't get rid of them or their matching set of emotional baggage.

Strippers vs Hookers:
Remember, strippers don't fuck. That's their justification for everything. They're "entertainers." They're all just stripping to pay for the college degree that they'll NEVER use because once they have their degree they can't give up the easy money and work for 50 hours a week making shit for money. You all know what I'm talking about: real life. So they hate hookers because hookers give them a bad image. Strippers fight so hard to never admit to themselves that they're selling sex for money and hookers are so blatant about selling sex for money.

Strippers vs. Porn Starlets:
My stripper ex-girlfriend absolutely hated porn chicks because they fucked on video and hundreds of thousands of men saw this. "Only men that come into the club see me naked" she would say. Of course we would point out that she stripped for ten years. She worked an average of four nights a week. Any given night at the club there would be 1000 guys passing through. Do the math and that means that around 2,080,000 men saw her butt-ass nekkid. But of course she would always come back with the comeback that every stripper has: "yes, but I didn't fuck."

So there you have it folks. After reading this far I'm sure you're having the same thought as I am: what a crock of shit. They ALL sell themselves. It's just to varying degrees. If they could just own up to the fact that they're ALL making a living in one way or another off horny guys we wouldn't have all this hatred. Here's why this will never happen. If they admit to themselves that they're all doing the same work then they'll ALSO have to admit to themselves that they're all traveling on the same path.

Seriously, it's the natural evolution of a woman who's willing to sell her body in one way or another. She starts with the amateur bikini contests. It's her first taste how easily she can make money by showing a little skin. Next is the job as a shooter-girl at the strip club. She makes more money than flipping burgers and she doesn't have to show any nipples. But she's in the club every night seeing how much money the strippers are making. She sees the strippers aren't fucking anyone. So next she's stripping. Then the "headline feature girls" come through town. These are the porn starlets. She sees how much money these girls make dancing. She talks to them and hears what a wonderful job being a porn starlet is. What, you think the porn chick is going to admit to the lowly stripper that fucking for money in L.A. has a downside? So the stripper is off to L.A. to make even more money. She probably has some crazy hope of breaking into mainstream movies too. Yeah, that worked out so well for Traci Lords. Now it's time for the downhill slide. After a few years of fucking and sucking for bucks and snorting up more coke than Robert Downey Jr. the wear and tear is starting to show. She didn't make it to Jenna Jameson status and she doesn't have a big contract with a porn production company. So to supplement her income (read pay for her drug habit) she hits the road as a headlining stripper. Eventually she can't pull in enough money so when the eager fan (horny dude) approaches her at one of the strip clubs with an offer to pay her big money to come home with him she finally takes it. She's lonely and she's been on the road for so long it sounds reasonable. Next, she gets tired of traveling and after years of fucking for money she settles down in a town working as a high-class escort. After fifteen years of selling her body in one way or another she's left with a serious drug habit, no education, no money saved, and one ass-poor work ethic. She'll be walking the streets in no time.

PLEASE, don't think this is a condemnation of the porn industry. Lots of women get off this crazy train before it gets to the end of the line. My ex-girlfriend is now a Chief Financial Officer. She never went past the stripper phase. There are PLENTY of strippers and porn starlets that save their money and never make it to the street-walking hooker phase. Hookers, don't hate me. I'm not judging you. If you're happy with your life, I'm happy for you. The point I'm making is you're all the same. You all sell some part of yourself for a living. It's the path you've chosen and you will be judged for it by closed-minded people. I promise, I will never judge you. So stop judging each other!

Can't we all just get along?

The Department of Ironic Punishment

I’m a big fan of Schadenfreude. Schadenfreude is the malicious amusement and satisfaction derived from the suffering of others. I can laugh at damn near anything. The AIDS scare in Los Angeles: That shit was HILARIOUS! So, everybody freaks out because some porn slut contacts HIV doing an unprotected double anal? Holy moley, geez-gosh-geewilkers…who knew? Not a double anal! Why the fuck would you stick your dick in an ass that ALREADY had another dick in it?

You know the real tragedy of all this? The outbreak didn’t originate on some LA Valley porn set! The male talent acquired the virus from stuffing low-wage hoes in Brazil!

Yes folks, here is more proof that outsourcing is bad for America!

Despite my penchant for mocking the misfortunes of others, there’s one thing that I just can’t poke fun at. You probably already know what I’m talking about, The Nick Berg beheading video. That shit was fucked. It’s very rare anything is able to offend me, but this video did the trick! The strange thing about it: I didn’t even know who to be mad at! Usually when something steams my beans, I know straight away who pissed me off, but not here. Like when Britney Spears ran off and married that Louisiana hick in Las Vegas – it was that dude! He was who I had a beef with! Yes, it was the worst three days of my life, but after watching the Nick Berg video I found myself simultaneously enraged at:

1. Those Five Camel Jockeys in Ski Masks: Yeah, get ready to eat a ninety-kiloton bag of red-hot American death when we find your asses!

2. Lindy England - You stupid bitch hick cunt! You looked real cute posing with those piles of Iraqis in the Algarve prison pictures. It’s all fun and games till someone gets decapitated!

3. Our Fearless Leader, George Dubya - Without whose imperialistic tendencies Mr. Berg would still be in possession of a cranium!

So, how do we deal with all of these fucks? I suggest a very American way: By creating more bureaucracy as a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Face it, we’re stuck with the Patriot Act, Homeland Security and nebulous terror alerts. What’s another inconvenience? Did you know that income tax was just a “temporary tax” to help fund our involvement in World War II? Try telling the IRS you think we’ve paid off D-Day by now. You’ll be busting rocks with Martha Stewart at Club Fed in no time. What about the War on Drugs? How long is that shit gonna keep going and when will someone win? Somebody did win. Know who? Me! I sold drugs for five years and turned the profits into a nice house! Couldn’t have done that if I had to compete with Pfizer! Haha, joke’s on you jack! Thanks for the war...losers!

In that same fine tradition, I am creating The Department of Ironic Punishment. Abbreviated TDIP, it will be a combination of Divine Intervention, the Judicial Branch, and a lynch mob. I shall be its autocrat. The TDIP will dole out swift and furious “cluster punishments” to entire groups of wrongdoers, whereby they will be subjected to the most vile ironic punishment imaginable based on their transgressions.

Now for the first public action of the Department of Ironic Punishment; we shall dispose of this Nick Berg matter. Please remain silent while the sentences are being read…

LINDY ENGLAND: Seeing as you are so fascinated with piles of naked Iraqi men, I hereby sentence you to DEATH BY IRAQI GANGBANG!

THOSE FIVE HEAD CHOPPING TERRORIST GUYS: Seeing as we have so deeply violated your Muslim sexual morays that innocent people need to die, I hereby sentence you TO BE CLUBBED TO DEATH BY NAKED STRIPPERS WIELDING HEAVY SACKS OF BACON! In addition, after I have lived a long, healthy life and face the eventuality of my own death I would like to sentence myself to this same fate.

GEORGE BUSH: Without your dishonesty and stupidity none of this fun would have been possible…

OFF WITH YOUR HEAD - BITCH!

Deracination

The word for today shall be Deracination. Got that? Deracination. We’re going to be talking about this word because of how it applies to a very close friend to me. Now I know you are asking yourself “What the hell does Deracination mean?” “Is this one of those wacky Johnisms that this guy made up?” “Do I want to put my genitals anywhere near a deracination?” Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary defines Deracinate as follows: Deracinate v. 1. To pull out by the roots; uproot. 2. To displace from one’s native or accustomed environment

My good friend Malik, was deracinated in an entirely different and much longer way. For four years Malik lived with a very large and very mean woman, unbeknownst to his girlfriend. Yes, the very large and very mean woman and his girlfriend were two different people. They were two people who had not a clue that the other existed or the fact that they shared a lover. Malik would hang out all day with one then go home to the other…for four years. No, the one he hung out with all day never saw where he laid his head at night…for four years. No, the one he came home to never knew where he was going once he left the house…for four years. No, neither woman ever (ahem) smelled the other on him…for four years. Some of the women in our circle of friends suspect Malik got away with it because he has a penis the size of a mailbox. Personally, I don’t think he’s smart enough to have a penis the size of a mailbox.

Naturally, the day came when Malik was to leave the woman he lived with and move in with his beloved girlfriend. This is where his deracination comes in. You see, the last time Maliki tried the leave the woman he lived with, she tried to kill him. I don’t mean she went all woman on him and started crying and flailing about. The woman grabbed a kitchen knife and chased him around the house stabbing him in his arms like something out of a bad Wayan’s Brothers movie. Now, he was scared. He hid in my apartment the day before he was supposed to have his shit at his new place. The ploy he’d cooked up to get his live-in out of the house had failed. His only hope of escape was to wait for her to leave later that evening to go clubbing with her girls. I’d just gotten my car and wasn’t going to help him move shit after eleven-my-ass-thirty that evening as I was going to a party. His bottom lip started quivering. His eyes welled up with water and I knew that the adult-looking human being sitting on my couch was about to become a man-esque object. But first, he’d had to be deracinated properly.

Firm in my stance of not getting involved I decide the fasted way to get this lump off of my couch was to motivate it. He knew I was serious when I demanded that he put the pot down and handle this. It was his moment of truth. He was about to go through the largest change in his life. He was going from boy…to…a boy-ish…man creature. And that’s mostly a man in anyone’s book. We hopped in my car and sped off to the hood. I kept the music off for the entire trip so he could have time to simmer in his juices. The closer we came to his stomping groups the louder I hummed Rocky. I’d also turned on the heat in the car so by the time we arrived he was a sweaty and angry black man. We screeched to a halt in the parking lot of his complex and I turned on the Cd player which happened to pump out that old R&B classic "Git Out My Life Woman". He jumped out of the car, slammed the door and marched up that apartment for the last time.

It seemed like it took him an eternity to come out of there. The sun was blazing outside that day and the neighbors were starting to look at me funny for staring so intently at my side-view mirror. I’d begun to think that she was inside killing him. So, I waited some more. Then I began to wonder how long it takes for a human being to lose consciousness for loss of blood. Then I began to wonder how long I’d been waiting. I looked at my watch and sunk back into my seat with a sigh. I’d almost fallen asleep when I heard a “slam” coming from the complex. There it was again but this time it was a big, BIG slam. I jumped up and looked to the apartment building where I found Malik, arms full of his shit, sweat streaking down his face and a fresh urine stain on his shorts, front and center. That woman scared the piss out of him but somehow he’d gotten out of the house. He was walking taller than he’d ever walked before! He was more proud and stronger than he’d ever been in life. He was deracinating himself like the man-like kind of human being that we all knew he could be. He threw his shit in the trunk, hopped in and we peeled off. We couldn’t help but laugh as we drove away and we could almost hear the Benny Hill theme playing in our heads while his ex chased us away waving a knife.

Deracination.

That Fucking Kid In Ulan Bator

Right now there is this fuckin kid in Ulan Bator (that's the capital of Mongolia for all those who didn't know...which is likely all of you) who doesn't know how to read or write. He doesn't know because he is a farmer's son, and he has no use for it. Likewise, he hasn't a penny in his pocket, because he has no use for it. Regardless, he's a decent person, as were his parents before him and he learns by talking to family and friends, studying the stars, and daydreaming over the landscape of his farm which has no barriers, neighbors or civilization in sight for miles.

He's about 25 years old and already married with three children: 2 boys, 1 girl. His wife is a hot little piece who is completely dedicated to him because: 1) She doesn't know that other bachelors exist. and 2) She has grown to love him unconditionally because their culture knows nothing but kindness towards one another. The two of them are completely untainted by society and know very few emotions outside of kindness, laughter, and love.

Everyday they go through the same routine, but it never gets boring, because they don't know the meaning of the word, "boring," as they're just happy to be alive, and living for every moment. Their day consists of harvesting crops, renovating their home, playing with the children, having sex, and snuggling together under a bunch of heavy blankets, because it gets cold in Mongolia. Most importantly though, they know of pain only in its most primitive definition. Mental anguish is practically non-existent, except during a poor harvest. Life is perfect, the love is ideal, and family is eternal.

They don't have a dime to their name, yet I guarantee they are ten times happier than all of us. (That means you, who is reading this right now, at this very moment)

Also, if there were a nuclear war, this guy and his family are probably the safest people on the planet. What's the point of bombing Mongolia for Christ's sake?

Sex Toys For Men

Why are all the great sex toys for women? My guess is because guys are inherently lazy. My left hand is still the best lay I’ve ever had. My hand is always ready and actually prefers it if I come in less than two minutes. After fifteen years of whacking off daily I’m getting bored with just my hand. I tried Paul’s suggestion of romancing myself by lighting candles and playing romantic music. Didn’t do much for me, so I went down to the local smut shop to see what I could find. All the shit is for women. Dongs and clit stimulators of all shapes and sizes abounded but in the men’s section I could only find a few jack-off sleeves, fake looking pussies, and lots of toys no hetero man would touch.

So I’ve decided to start my own line of products for men. Below are my first five products. If anyone reading this knows people that can help me make this a reality, email me.

The Viagra Condom
This one is fucking brilliant. Put liquid Viagra into the lube on a condom. It gets absorbed through the skin and immediately goes to work where you need it most. So many people have the wrong idea about Viagra. It’s not just for old farts that can’t get it up. I’ve got no problem getting and keeping it up, but I do enjoy the occasional Sting- style Tantric fuck-fest. Think Spinal Tap "it goes all the way to eleven." Lets face it, when you’re using a condom; it’s probably with some random chick. If you know the value of the referral pussy (fuck her well – she tells her friends – they all want to fuck you) then you’re doing your best to fuck her three ways from Thursday. With the Viagra Condom you’ll be sure to leave her with a limp!

The Backup Hand
Ever see those kits you can buy where you stick your cock into a pail of goo, leave it there for a few minutes, pull it out, pour in liquid latex, and you wind up with a dildo made from your cock? Aside from being a homosexual that wishes he could fuck himself in the ass this is only useful as a present for your woman. But, it does give me a great idea. As I’ve said, my hand is the best lay I’ve ever had. Last week I got a nasty cut across my palm. I was devastated. I couldn’t whack off for a week. So my idea is to make a latex replica of my own hand. That way if I get injured or my hand just plain wears out from a masturbatory marathon I’ve always got a standby ready. This could also be useful if your woman has issues with giving hand jobs.

The Stranger Lariat
Some of you may be familiar with the Stranger. You sit on your hand and put all your weight on it to cut off the circulation. Once your hand finally falls asleep you whack off. You can’t feel it on your hand so it’s like getting a hand job from a stranger. It’s pretty cool but it’s such a pain in the ass to get your hand completely asleep. If you don’t do it right you start getting that pins and needles feeling while whacking off. Nothing is more distracting than that. The Stranger Lariat is a simple device you put around your wrist and pull taught to cut off the circulation. Warning: I really don’t suggest using this one drunk. It would suck to pass out with the blood circulation cut off to your hand. It wouldn’t be as bad as the whole INXS Michael Hutchinson death thing but it would suck to explain how you lost your hand.

Flavor Pills
Ladies this one is for you as well! And you thought I was just a sexist pig! This one is based on the Asparagus Phenomenon. When you eat asparagus apparently it radically changes the color and smell of your piss. I’ve been told that it also makes your sploodge taste worse than normal. So why not do something about that? Chocolate, Strawberry, and Vanilla. You pop a pill an hour or so before you get down to the dirty business and when you blow your load in her mouth it tastes great. Think of it, no more "do you keep the change" or her saying "you better not come in my mouth." Now she’ll literally want you to come in her mouth.

AIDS Test Mickey
A few weeks ago I heard on CNN that the FDA has approved a new saliva-based AIDS test that only takes 20 seconds. I’m thinking a small pill or powder that is totally tasteless that you can slip into a chick’s drink at the bar. If she has AIDS it turns the drink red. If she’s clean it turns the drink green. Simple enough that even if you’re plastered you can tell whether or not to take her home and suck on her copper penny. Green = Go. Red = Run.

So that’s it for now. I’m sure I’ll come up with more. Again, anyone that knows how to make some of these things into real products hit me up!

The Oliver Stone Incident

This one goes back to September of 1999. I was fresh out of prison, on probation, dealing cocaine, and out with a group of friends to celebrate their collective birthdays. At Trader Vic's, we had a copious amout of Suffering Bastards, Mai Tais, and assorted rum drinks when our drunkenness brought us to The Clermont Lounge. I have often described the Clermont Lounge as “walking into a David Lynch movie”, but that night, we strolled into Atlanta’s version of Blue Velvet and found none other than, Oliver Stone.

He was sitting at a table with two bodyguards. We are arguing back and forth as to whether it is really him or not. At the time, I had a girlfriend; she was quite something: tall, Brazilian, with an English accent and big boobs. We were supposed to get married one day. Yeah, right. Anyhoo, rather than have one of us guys going over to bug him, we thought it would be better to send the busty English bird -- she got up and sat down with him while we watched from across the room...

Yep, it was him alright – Oliver Fucking Stone.

So she brings him by our table, we shoot the shit with him for a while, where I am clearly introduced to him as her boyfriend, before she goes back over to his table and they continue chatting. It was becoming clear to me that Oliver was becoming quite enamored with my woman. No biggie, it would be cool to tell everybody tomorrow that we were hanging out with Oliver Stone at the Clermont.

If she was the bait – so be it.

It gets toward closing time, Oliver has joined our group and asks what was going on after the bar closed. We decide to do some afterhours shit at my friend Shane’s house. Oliver and his bodyguard follow us over to the house; they drop him off and leave. Oliver is back on my girl like a mosquito to a blood bank. I was starting to feel like Oliver was getting a bit disrespectful, but fuck it -- he's just an old fossil. A few times, I attempted to join in on their conversation but get rudely ignored.

Ok, Whatever.

At the time, I was in the midst of a dilemma. I was making my living as a coke dealer, but I felt my girl had a wee bit of a coke problem, so we made the mutual agreement lay off the weasel dust. Yeah, I know…what a stupid idea - it’s like suffocating someone, holding a bag of air, and charging them to breathe.

Hindsight is 20/20.

After a while, I leave the room and when I come back; they are both gone. I walked into the hall and by the bathroom; where I can here keys jangling, noses snorting, and a British accent saying, “Don’t tell my boyfriend about this…” Then, while lurking in the darkness at the end of the hall, I see them both walk out.

This was getting out of hand. It was time to check Oliver’s ass, but how best to do it? No point in kicking his ass. He’s an old fart. I had to do something though, I don't care who the fuck he thinks he is – the pompous bastard.

Then it hit me.

I go in the bathroom, lock the door, and pull the massive bag of boogger sugar I was slinging out of my pocket. I chop out a line that would choke Scarface and snort it in one go. I was gacked off my face.

It was time to exact my revenge.

Without warning, I plop down on the couch between Oliver and my ex. It was Showtime! Now, keep in mind, I am taking mercy on you, o’ fine readers, by paraphrasing what followed. Trust me, for every one word printed here - five came out of my mouth that night.

It was glorious.

“Hey Oliver, Hey Oliver...you do movies, right? I got this idea for a film! It’s about these guys who are in college and are living in this house on campus and are selling weed. One day, this crazy Irish guy shows up on their porch and just sits there -- all creepy and shit. These guys have weed in the house, so they are like totally afraid to call the cops. Well, he just loiters there on the front porch for days; not saying a word and really bugging these kids out. So you know how he’s on the porch and he’s Irish, right? They start calling him Patty...Patty O’Furniture!”

Oliver stares back blankly.

“Dude, do you get it? Patty ‘O Furniture!! Doesn’t that fucking RULE?!”

Oliver continues glaring back, barely able to hide his annoyance as I continue:

“So, one night they have this keg party at the house, and, you know, Patty O'Furniture is Irish, so he likes to drink! Right? Then, all these frat boys crash the party and drink the keg dry. So, Patty O'Furniture gets pissed as shit when the alcohol runs out and flies into a psychotic rage and starts butchering the frat boys with an axe. Then, more frat boys arrive with more beer; Patty massacres them all and drinks their beer. Then the other fraternities send rescue parties to discover the fate of the first two groups and he wastes the rescue party! By the end of the movie, Patty O’Furniture has killed every frat boy in town. Wouldn’t that be fucking great man? Making a movie about a drunken Irish serial killer slaying frat boy after frat boy? Fuck yeah. So, if you want, you can help me with it?”

Oliver responds, “That’s great. Now get the fuck out of my face you asshole.”

“No, wait dude, that’s just part one!” I say, grabbing hard on to his sleeve in cocaine frenzy. “Part Two is Patty O’Furniture Goes to Vegas. So anyway, Patty O’Furniture is in Caesars Palace playing some blackjack. You know how, like in Vegas, as long as you are gambling - they keep bringing you free drinks, right? So, Patty has been playing for a few hours when he starts to loose. As soon as he has no more money, they have to stop bringing him free drinks, so he goes nuts and starts slaughtering waitresses, blackjack dealers, and old ladies playing slot machines. The police seal the casino off and Patty O’Furniture is forced to flee. He runs further and further into a secret hidden labyrinth in Caesars Palace. All along, the cops are hot on his trail as he winds further and further back into the catacomb. Eventually, he reaches a dead end, where a secret ceremony is going on. In the room is an altar with a virgin tied to it, Wayne Newton is singing showtunes backwards in Latin, and Sammy Davis is standing before the alter of sacrifice with a dagger giving praise to the mighty Infernal Lord Lucifer. Patty realizes that he has reached the end of the line and runs, attempts to take cover behind the altar but is mowed down in a hail of gunfire and dies right on top of the sacrificial virgin! And that’s how the second movie ends...”

By this time, Oliver’s face is turning red and his blood pressure looks like it’s about to go off the chart. He is so angry he can barely speak, and I don’t give him the chance…

“Ok, Oliver…you know how Patty O’Furniture dies on top of that virgin at the end of my second movie – right?”

He starts screaming at me, “Will you get the fuck out of my face? NOW!”

Undaunted, I forge ahead, “Well that leads into my third movie: PART III: THE SON OF PATTY O’ FURNITURE…”

At this point Oliver snaps and pulls some exacto knife thing out of his pocket, and starts running about the house trying to stab me with it while yelling, “I’LL CUT YOU, I’LL FUCKING CUT YOU! YOU BASTARD - I’LL FUCKING CUT YOU!!”

It was, truly, one of my defining moments.

With that, I left the party. Fuck Oliver Stone! He’s a dickhead. When he makes a picture of my life, it’s gonna be a porno movie.

He never did leave with my girlfriend anyhow...poor sap.

Shake Your Money Maker

Patrick McLeod may have finally won the lottery.

The Cowtown white trash lottery, that is, when an Ohio grand jury hands down the indictment for shaking his two-month old infant to death. Because in the early morning hours of another random unemployed weekday, young Patrick was roused from his canned beer and schwag slumber by a child in need. In need of love. In need of attention. And obviously, in need of a better neckbrace. As a prize for his poor temperance and even poorer attempts at contraception, this post-partum abortive technique will likely land our hero a mandatory life sentence, with parole in 15. Who knows, after fifteen long years of pumping iron and his fist, with lots of practice rattling his cell bars, he’ll probably be able to shake the next baby in half the time. But more importantly, he may learn a valuable moral lesson during his stay in Ohio’s finest hotel, gaining in wisdom what he loses in years so he might be better prepared next time his ilk starts wailing at the crack of dawn. Better prepared to gather up his tender offspring and lift him from the cradle. Better prepared to grasp those small arms and look into those innocent, pleading eyes.

And better prepared to reap the financial harvest of a man who plans ahead.

In an American era of war, unemployment, and televised violence, we are confronted with dilemmas from the moment we awake until well after we fall asleep. To be greeted by headlines of dead soldiers, thieving executives, and American jobs moving overseas is enough to set any man off the path of truth. With feet sore from walking to the convenience store, and money stretched thin between generic cigarettes and diapers, a young parent must think quickly to survive. Try for a moment to stand next to Patrick McLeod on that fated morning. Your unemployment has long ago ran out. That cheating whore isn’t home from her third shift trick yet. You’re rummaging through an ashtray for a decent GPC butt, and the welfare check is still a good week away. A distant cry rises down the hall. Great, you think as you scratch the very same balls that started this mess, now you got shit in your pants, too. Much like your financial woes and bad haircut, perhaps if you ignore the noise, it will go away. But no, it only gets worse, until the shriek cuts clean through the drywall and into that stupid little brain, scraping away the THC resin and awakening that scrawny pit bull meanness that only a trailer could breed.

We’ve all been there, next to that loud drunken bastard, across the room that those chattering cunts and their sorority girl laughing, curled up with a snoring gay lover in a bed that just wasn’t intended for two people to share. Fists clench, the vision takes on a reddish tint, and suddenly the solution becomes glaringly obvious. The noise must stop, and the surest manner to stop any noise is to break the noisemaker. And if there’s any noisemaker easier to break than the neck of that reluctant date when she tries to pull away, it’s the underdeveloped vertebrae and neonate muscles of your own flesh and blood. But before you storm down the hall and fling your child around the room like a piñata on Cinco de Mayo, here are a few pointers to make sure your tracks in that cheap shag carpet are covered:

Rent a duplex
Any crime of passion deserves a fitting scene, and there is no better place to plant that tiny lifeless body than at the foot of a flight of stairs. Short of buying a big dog and dressing your child up as a giant tennis shoe, this provident measure will not only displace blame from your capable hands, but may even incriminate that whining cunt with whom you’ve been forced to live since you pushed when you should have pulled.

Learn the Moves
Find a shake you’re comfortable with, and go with it. Since your infant likely isn’t going to bounce back from ICU for a second round, you should practice with a more durable adversary whom you can trust to keep your brutality a secret – your baby’s mama. By maintaining a loving, nurturing relationship with your woman, and buying a pair of oversized sunglasses, you can refine your abusive techniques in preparation of the big snap.

Finish What You Start
Remember, while you might grunt through a few weeks on the assembly line with that half-ass work ethic, failure to follow through will likely leave you with a paraplegic vegetable you’ll be forced to spoon-feed and sponge wash for the next thirty years. An ounce of prevention is better than a hundred and fifty pounds of brain-damaged retard, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to snuff out the light now than pulling the plug in a crowded hospital room. Shake the child with authority, intent in your purpose, and remember your goal: Make the baby stop crying - permanently. Popularly employed methods include:

Side to Side – envision the child’s head as a bell clapper formed from soft bone tissue, and you’re ringing in the New Year.
Up and Down – turn down the lights and pretend your kid is a little Nigger with his pockets full of change. That money’s yours – and you deserve every penny. Incidentally, if your child actually is black, disregard this shaking business. You’ll likely leave a gun or crack pipe lying about, and Darwin tends to his own.
Front and Back – nothing severs a premature infant spinal column faster than saying “Don’t you understand I love you?” in the language of the ape.
Get Loaded
You’re always stronger after a few hours of Tennessee whiskey and cheap American brewsky, and your explanation to the authorities will be completely incoherent. Besides, you were probably soused when you conceived the little brat, why not make a toast to commemorate their “unconception”? Everything is more fun when you’re juiced.

Bury the Dead
Don’t call an ambulance when the song’s over. It’s a baby. They’re tiny. Take a minute to dig a tiny hole, or at least preheat your oven; hell, you could probably eat the thing before mama gets home. And if there’s anything we’ve learned from our Jewish friends, put the dead in the ground quick – you’ve got a will to read. But for youe own sake, think before you dig. Aside from the dog digging up the backyard and dragging Junior’s femur into the kitchen, the last thing you need is a baby tree sprouting up from the garden. And you’ll just end up having to shake that, too.

Talk to your Insurance Agent
Discreetly. Tell him you don’t trust that bitch further than you could throw her, and you know because you’ve tried. Take out a quarter million on the tumor swelling in her abdomen, and keep an eye on the market. With good behavior and a good accountant, that paycheck will grow into nearly $520,000 by the time the parole board hears your case, leaving you with a net annual income of almost $35,000. Pretty good money for five minutes of work, huh? With that kind of cash, you could purchase a hundred Asian infants fresh from the womb and have custom grips installed on their shoulders. And who said violence never solved any problems?