WHAT THE SCRIBE'S READING & CONTEMPLATING & WHY IT MATTERS TO YOU:

In my never-ending quest to be even less interesting, I’ve been reading lots of non-fiction lately. There are two reasons for this: First, I feel the need to build a new foundation for future fiction writing, and second, after having completed the final book in Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, all other fiction seems leaden and labored to me right now…including my own.

So, I read a book on the controversy surrounding the Great Pyramid of Giza, where entire cults have sprung up around the concept of “The 9,” the so-called ancient gods and goddesses of Egypt who created us and built the pyramids. The authors of ”The Stargate Conspiracy,” while certainly believers in the occult, didn’t seem convinced of the claims regarding The 9. In fact, they seemed to think it was either a government-sponsored mind-F or the product of some less-than-nice entities preying upon the hope of desperate humans.

Much of the book focused on remote viewing, the ability we all supposedly have to focus on an object and see important aspects of it. For example: Being handed a picture of a missing child without knowing what it is and pinpointing her location. This was a big project in the 1970’s, although it has continued to this day. Some of the former members of Stargate, the remote viewing project, have written memoirs, one of them mentioned in “The Stargate Conspiracy.”

I went to the library to get the book and wound up finding another one written by the actual head of the project. But then something of much more vital and world-shattering interest caught my eye on a nearby shelf: A biography of Stan Lee!!!!!!!!!!!!

Stan Freakin’ Lee!

The creator of the Marvel superheroes universe! The man who single-handedly added angst and dimension to the comic book medium! The man behind such world famous characters as Spider-Man, the Hulk and the X-Men!

Right?

Well…kinda. Let’s just say the rumors of his solo greatness have been greatly exaggerated…by Stan Lee himself. And later by Marvel when it became a corporation.

I’d always known it but never wanted to believe it. After all, I grew up in the heyday of Lee’s prominence in the field. I cut my teeth on comic books, Marvel in particular in those days. In fact, Marvel’s comic line was what taught me early on how to approach characterization, since they were so rich in it. I read and re-read giant “treasury edition” collections of comic issues until I’d memorized them and still I read them again.

Stan Lee wrote a column in his issues in those days called “Stan’s Soapbox” where he discussed various issues and shamelessly promoted Marvel. I actually read it whenever I saw it, even at the age of 10. It was a fascinating peek inside the “Marvel bullpen,” a fictitious metaphor for the every-increasing creative force churning out comic after comic.

What Stan’s Soapbox never mentioned, at least not that I ever saw, were the contributions of his co-creators, those people who actually designed and drew the books. In some cases, especially when it came to Jack “the King” Kirby, they often wrote large chunks of the stories. The more I learned about Kirby, the less of a hero Stan became. Kirby alone created Captain America 20 years before Marvel existed, The Hulk, the original X-Men and the Fantastic Four. Another artist, the reclusive Steve Ditko, was at least as responsible for the creation of Spider-Man as Stan.

But Stan “The Man” became the voice and face of Marvel Comics. He still is, despite his lack of direct involvement. The book doesn’t take away from Lee’s greatness; it simply puts it into perspective. It’s about time. At one time I went from deifying to reviling the guy, in particular because of the big split in the early Nineties involving Todd MacFarlane, creator of Spawn, and a host of others as they formed their own creator-owned company, Image Comics. That was a shake-up that temporarily revitalized the industry. Sadly, most of the books sucked and faded within 3 years.

By that time I’d long since defected to DC Comics, the company featuring the most world famous heroes such as Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and the Flash. DC had reinvented itself in the early Eighties, taking themselves from corny self-parody to gritty, well-written stories aimed at older audiences. Marvel continued to provide juvenile storylines and to employee gimmicks such as holographic covers and multiple book tie-ins.

Stan Lee’s vindication came in the year 2000 when the X-Men movie was released. Then there was that little independent flop known as the Spider-Man trilogy. Oh, and that total bomb Iron Man. Suddenly, Stan Lee is the Man again, showing up in cameos in every Marvel-themed movie being made these days. It is no surprise to me that the movies tend to reflect the early days of Marvel, when Stan Lee & Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko were throwing all their passion into these revolutionary tales of angst-ridden heroes in funny costumes. “Heroes with feet of clay,” as Stan Lee often says.

So now I guess you know what I’m thinkin’: How the h_l do I work remote viewing, ancient Egypt, wacky religious cults, a glory hound comic books into a coherent epic? Impossible, you say? Have we met? We haven’t? Oh, then never mind. It makes sense that you don’t think I can do it, then.

What I need is an anchor, a premise or character or event that grounds the whole thing into some type of surreality (my term) while at the same time not overshadowing the other elements of the story.

There’s only one thing that can accomplish this: Midget porn!!!

Yep. God’s delightful little punch lines. They remain a mystery to this day and the perfect anchor for tales of the unusual. Plus, they can be rather erotic. They’re the perfect height for so much.

Obviously I have my work cut out for me. Fortunately for me, most people grew up reading Marvel comics while following the ancient Egyptian Gods and remote viewing, or I’d have a serious plausibility issue.

I’m so glad I can read now. Trying to write novels back when I couldn’t really sucked ass. So basically everything I wrote prior to Feburary this year needs to be scrapped.

SCRIBE'S SHITTY, SHITTY DAY

I was all set to post a piece I wrote a couple days ago about readin' 'n writin', but on the way to do it I wound up having the shittiest day I've had in a long time.

Regular readers of the previous Organized Chaos may remember that I was ripped off by a couple carnival freaks who called themselves plumbers a few years ago and wound up with an unfinished laundry room and the inability to do...you guessed it, laundry. I sued the fuckers and won, but courts don't enforce small claims suits so the so-called plumbers simply changed their company name and lived to rip off another customer.

I haven't had that section completed as of yet and am forced to do my laundry elsewhere. It works out well. EFB and I split the chore and sometimes the laundry itself and it keeps her occupied on days I need to be alone.

This morning I took all the darks and decided to drive to the laundromat and get it done quickly. While showering, I noticed the water pressure seemed to be lowering a bit. Odd, I thought, but knew I couldn't do anything about it until I was finished warshing me arse. Then a funny thing happened...the water STOPPED!

I thought I was imagining things. Was it turned off? Cities can't stop the water flow even in cases where the bill hasn't been paid due to potential environmental issues. A water mane must have broken. But in the meantime, there I was covered in soap, my remaining hairs covered in conditioner, and certain vital areas not completely cleaned. Screaming obscenities to the walls of my once watery prison, I continued washing, then stomped through the house, no doubt getting water everywhere, trying every faucet in the house. None of them worked.

I found one tiny squirt bottle with water in that I used to rinse what I could and toweled off as best I could. Once dressed, I peered through the picture window in my living room and saw no city trucks on my street. Was it really because the bill wasn't paid? Resolving to ask my neighbors if they too didn't have water, I walked outside and saw three yellow vans at the very end of my street. Another goddam water mane break.

Having loaded up my "new" car with the laundry, I headed in the opposite direction of the vans and saw another one in front of the "hippy's" house draining a fucking fire hydrant into his ditch! Later I would find out from EFB that she saw that happening when she left for work an hour before. This of course begs the question: WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T THOSE LAZY SONS OF BITCHES GO DOOR-TO-DOOR TO INFORM PEOPLE THEY'D BE WITHOUT WATER ON A GODDAM SATURDAY FUCKING MORNING WHEN EVERYBODY IS HOME!?

But whatever. I made it to the laundromat mere minutes before a huge rainstorm and washed everything rather quickly while reading, "Dogs in the Moonlight," a brilliant short story collection by yet another hippy based in Texas.

Once laundry was complete, I jumped behind the car, resolving to gits me somethin' to eat. For some reason, I took a completely different route than I usually take and wound up driving behind some of the slowest moving traffic I've ever seen. One hillbilly fuck in a pick-up truck (yes I know it rhymes) couldn't decide if he wanted to go fast or slow or both at the same time. When I finally had the chance to pull around his indecisive ass, It was just in time to slam on my breaks before I hit a giant puddle that resulted from the flash flooding. Hillbilly Hank decided this was the time to speed up hit the puddle so hard it threw water all over my windshield and into my open windows and all over me and my cell-phone!

What was this? God's little ironic comment on my inability to complete my shower earlier???

Now drenched in water and freezing, I drove to the nearest drive-thru with the heat on full blast.

An hour later I was back on the road heading toward the library so I could pay my car insurance and print off a party invitation for tomorrow. I pulled into the parking lot and noticed a bunch of carnival crap on the opposite side surrounded by kids and port-a-potties, which to me is basically the same thing. I found a good parking spot and walked up to the entrance, only to pause as the doors refused to open. Other people stood around with me as we read the sign telling is the library was closed:

THE SIGN YOU ACTUALLY HAD TO PARK AND WALK UP THE FUCKING LIBRARY TO SEE!!!

I wound up driving to my neighboring town to take care of everything at their library which is where I am writing this now! it's only 1:30 in the afternoon and this has been one of the most fucked up days I've had in a long time!

Pay that forward!!!

*Plus I see that only one person is paying attention to my hard-earned efforts these days!* http://churchofscribe.blogspot.com/

SCRIBE'S MOVIE LIST

I’ve written it many times during my blogging career and will probably do so again before I have abandoned the medium in search of newer, more meaningful pursuits, but Americans love lists. They also like to think they’re experts on creative crafts such as movies, TV and music. I like lists, too, but I prefer my own. That’s not because I’m arrogant. It’s simply because I am god-like in both nature as well as stature and my word is law.

Thus, when I spake unto Roger Ebert, he did carry forth my list of movie commandments. But he was a bad, bad porker and threw them at the masses because they were too busy watching reality TV to hear my Word to Your Mother. I punished him with bad hair.

Now I have decided to unveil a list of questions that only the truly enlightened will answer correctly and ascend to the next plane of Scribeism, patent pending. I shall answer them the right away and then send it forth for the rest of you to ruin their sanctity.

Let us begin:

-BEST. MOVIE. EVER.- The Empire Strikes Back.

-WORST. MOVIE. EVER. – http://movies.yahoo.com/movie/1800029783/info saw this as a kid with my mom. We held each other afterwards due to the severe trauma and laughter.

-MOST DEPLORABLE GENRE- The sub-genre of horror known as “torture porn.” Exploitation of the audience and the actors at its worst and most repugnant.

-MOST VOMIT-INDUCING REMAKE-Father of the Bride. I would’ve chosen the second one since it is technically more nauseating, but it wasn’t a remake and had a few laughs.

-MOST BEARABLE AND/OR ENJOYABLE REMAKE- JOHN CARPENTER's "The Thing." More like the short story, less like the cheesey 1950's crap-a-thon.

-8 WORDS OR LESS: WHY DOES SATAN KEEP MAKING ROMANTIC COMEDIES? He enjoys watching men’s sacks shrivel up.

-BETTER ACTOR: ELVIS OR JESUS? Hard to say, they were both so good. But I think Elvis had more range and better hair. Pretty sure he got laid more, too.

-2 WORDS: THE ONE THING THAT TURNS YOU OFF OF A MOVIE/FILM? Keannu Reeves.

-DUMBEST IDEA FOR A MOVIE- Earth Girls are Easy. Young Gena Davis as a horny human and Jeff Goldblum and Damon Wayans as furry and friendly aliens who look human when they are shaved.

-BEST IDEA NOT FULLY REALIZED-Total Recall- a brilliant Phillip K. Dick short story is givne the bloated budget Arnold SchwarzeNAzi treatment and becomes mindless action at mid-point.

-BIGGEST GUILTY PLEASURE- Ishtar! Shut up! It’s a brilliant satire! Shut up!

-GREATEST CASTING CHOICE-Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones- it was almost Tom Selleck. I’ve seen the screen tests, people! I’VE SEEN THE SCREEN TESTS!!!

-BIGGEST MISCAST- There have been many, but John Wayne as Genghis Khan is still numero uno. Hearing him utter, “How goes the battle, my brother?” in his typical tough-guy drawl is worth the first ten minutes of the film.

(Just in case you thought I made it up)

BEST BOOK TO MOVIE ADAPTATION- Tie: Fight Club & No Country for Old Men.

-WORST BOOK TO MOVIE ADAPTATION- "The Shining" Jack Nicholson version. I'll catch flack for attacking this beloved descent into camp, but the book and this version of it have nothing in common.

-MOST INACCURATE HISTORICAL DEPICTION- Braveheart. There was so much artistic license taken in that movie I half-expected it to end on another planet surrounded by hyper-intelligent apes.

-MOST INEFFECTIVE SOUNDTRACK- Shallow Hal. The music pulls you out of the terrible screenplay and complete lack of laughs...hmm, maybe it didn't really make a difference.

-MOST EFFECTIVE SOUNDTRACK- Star Wars, bitch!!! What’choo thought? Greatest usage of brass in movie history. Before then, music was steady and rarely altered in movies, John Williams decided to take an operatic approach by giving the main characters their own themes and then interweaving them into the main score.

-MOST OFFENSIVE MOVIE EVER MADE- D.W. Griffith's "Birth of a Nation." See it for yourself.

-WOULD GOD/ALLAH/YAHWEH/BRAHMA/& EVEN BUDDHA APPROVE OF YOUR MOVIE COLLECTION? Yes, they would all be impressed by my massive selection of midget porn.

OK, your turn!!!

AND NOW THE GROIN-TINGLING, RECTUM-PROBING, TRIUMPHANT RETURN OF

THE "FUCK YOU" SERIES!!!


I haven't done one of these since I relocated to the new blog, but it's time has come. So, without further ado,


Fuck you, Rob Zombie:

You’ve certainly had an interesting career. Going form lead singer of new metal band White Zombie to a successful solo career to writing and directing horror films. Wow! That doesn’t happen too often. Congratulations on your success.

If I may, I’d just like to ask one question: WHY THE FUCK DID YOU RUIN A CLASSIC LIKE JOHN CARPENTER’S ”HALLOWEEN!?”

What made you think some former rock star turned filmmaker could even come close to capturing the genius of a revolutionary director? Being a fan is one thing, but trying to re-tell somebody else’s masterpiece is a different matter entirely. Here’s a wacky notion: Since you’re arrogant enough to think you’re that good, I am gonna remake Star Wars only this time it will take place in ancient Atlantis and the Force will be changed to a special suit of armor that gives its users the ability to conduct electricity. Sound stupid? No stupider than breaking the one rule of creative writing I firmly believe everyone should follow regardless of what they write: SHOW, DON’T TELL!!!

Not to be confused with the military policy regarding homosexuals, this is a rule that depends, perhaps unrealistically, on the intelligence of the reader and/or viewer. Instead of flooding us with unnecessary exposition and back-story, stop for a moment and think about what makes the concept effective. I’ll give you an example.

What made the original Halloween so effective was the fact that we as the viewers had to use their own imaginations (you know, that thing the current generation no longer has?) to fill in the blanks. Instead of a textbook psychology lesson, we were treated to a true mystery in the form of Michael Myers. Carpenter wisely threw us right into the action as the young child dons a mask, grabs a knife and enacts horrible violence. He never speaks, he never rationalizes, and nobody tries to make us feel sorry for him because, sniff-sniff, him had a bad childhood. Awww.

Only a talent-less hack would have done the opposite of what Carpenter did. Hell, one could make the argument that only a talent-less hack would have even attempted a remake of this kind in the first place, but you did so we’ll deal with reality instead of what should be.

You took one of my favorite films and you reduced it to another in a long line of dumbed-down garbage. Much like Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula, Michael Myers is reduced to an annoying, supposedly tragic figure we are meant to see as a fallen soul. Far too much screen time and dialogue is wasted on establishing the Myers family as this emotionally abusive, dysfunctional white trash family. This film starts to feel more like a form of self-therapy for Rob Zombie than a horror film as we take a look into the toilet of his sub-conscious and endure gratuitous foul language and hammy acting on the part of the usually brilliant William Forsythe as Michael Myers’ step-dad.

Borrowing from every serial killer case study of the past 50 years, you portray this New Millennium Michael Meyers as a troubled young’n who enjoys killing animals and gets bullied a lot at school. Never mind that he is far too young for his delusional schizophrenic behavior. If you’re going to turn him into just another nut, at least make him an adolescent, which is when mental illness of that variety gets to the point of homicide.

Not only does Michael Meyers talk, thereby ruining all possible mystery, but everybody else does, too. Too much. When you finally show Michael as the killer, you do so in a way that literally stretches credibility and strives for shock value, much like your music. Michael doesn’t just kill his sister in this re-imagined version. He kills his handicapped step-dad, his sister’s boyfriend and his sister. That is one powerful 9 year old.

None of this is even remotely believable because, again, you have removed any supernatural element from the story. Now instead of a Michael Myers who may be inhabited by the Halloween demon enacting a ritualistic sacrifice, this motherfucker is just crazy…and not at all interesting.

Even worse, you apparently have no talent for getting good performances out of your actors. If everyone in your film was an unknown, I would blame it on their lack of acting ability or experience. But when you have none other than Malcolm McDowell and Brad Dourif, it couldn’t be anything but you. How else can I explain legendary actors adding nothing to a bad film?

As a fan of the original movie, I was especially disgusted at the treatment of the Dr. Loomis character. Gone was the icy, almost fanatical psychiatrist who knew his patient was beyond help. In his place stands a wussy, pathetic shell of a man who considers Michael to be his “best friend.” What the fuck kinda piss poor storytelling is that?

I don’t know how you managed it, but you found a way to make the killer’s motivations both meaningless and absurd. You also drained any passion or suspense from the story. You truly are a terrible filmmaker.

On the plus side, I can honestly say you didn’t ruin the film for me the way other remakes have. Gus van Sandt’s Psycho comes to mind. Your film is so repulsively bad that it isn’t even a true remake to me, just the product of a bankrupt imagination and a hack writer/director who should’ve stayed in his ghoulish make-up. The great horror filmmakers-John Carpenter, George A. Romero, Sam Raimi, and even Don Coscarelli- should have no fear of their legacies being threatened if your poor storytelling instincts and listless shooting style are what is passing for horror these days.

So, Fuck you Rob Zombie, for your lack of writing talent and your complete lack of an eye when it comes to shooting a movie as well as your arrogance in thinking you could re-interpret a classic. You are a poor man’s Alice Cooper, which isn’t saying much, so get over yourself!

Bitch~



For an enhancement to your reading pleasure:
http://seriousdiscussions.blogspot.com/

A SCRIBE IN HIBERNATION?

I’m stuck in this weird creative phase where I have ideas but I don’t want to do anything with them.

I’m not sure what to make of it. Normally, when I’m not writing, it’s because I am uninspired and unable to force my way through a work in progress. This time things keep coming to mind and just staying there. As of this writing, there are 3 main ideas in my head to be completed and one novel that is more than halfway finished. The other three are the first 30 pages of a novel I think might be my best work, and two short stories.

Lately, my inspiration is coming from strange places. The most recent came when I saw a homeless woman in summer walking around in full weather gear. People who know me might not be surprised that the first thing that came to mind was, “What would it be like if someone was madly in love with this woman?”

Then, of course, the next logical question came to mind: What if she wasn’t what she seemed, and everybody except the lovesick protagonist knew it? A story like that can only be told from one of two perspectives: Either the lovesick puppy himself, or someone who can’t believe how it all wound up. I went with the former and got almost 4 pages written before I stopped. Sadly, it was flowing nicely but the demands of a 40-hour workweek forced me to go to bed in the middle of my inspiration and it has yet to return.

Maybe I am still disappointed and disgusted with the events recounted in previous posts concerning my publisher. Within a week, I had gone online to research other venues for short fiction to submit some of my other work. This seemed to make her nervous but so be it. I can’t sit still anymore and, besides, short story submissions don’t affect the novel in any way whatsoever. In fact, published short fiction can only increase my marketability.

But I have to finish a story first. Blank white paper doesn’t inspire confidence in most editors. They’re weird that way.

I do have some older short stories I’ve been thinking of submitting and have even had some recommendations in that direction. I might dig those up and see what I can salvage. Any writer who goes back and looks at something they wrote seven years ago and feels it doesn’t need any modification is a fraud. I don’t mind improving older work, but I can’t seem to find the motivation for that either.

I wish I knew why. I wish I could point to a single incident and say, “This is the reason.” But I can’t. Maybe someone else can.

I must confess I’m a bit burned out on writing in general. There are days, more often than not lately, when I consider giving it up completely. One can only bang one’s head against a wall so many times before they either pass out or realize the ramming isn’t accomplishing anything worthwhile.

I’ve been told I’m a natural storyteller, whatever the hell that means. It sounds like a compliment, though. People do seem to find it interesting when I am relating actual events in print, as evidenced by the two incarnations of this blog.

Could it be that the nearly instant gratification received from posting here has ruined my ability to be patient and await publication? It’s possible. I’ve become rather spoiled by this particular outlet. Sadly, it isn’t even a forum what I consider my best work.

But I’m pretty sure there’s more to the “story.”

I think I’m tired, burned out, exhausted. I think I have reached the limit of my legendarily lengthy patience. I have done all that was required of me and more. This has been an overall decent year for me, but there have been a few blows and light upper cuts to my resolve that have shaken me. Both private and professional lives have been subject to no small measure of disappointment this year.

In the “old days,” such experiences were what inspired me to write. That’s still the case to a certain extent, but I am getting older and my perspective has shifted a bit. One of the favorite quotes is, “Time is the fire in which we burn.” Supposedly I have quite a few years left barring any accidents, but time marches ever onward while I watch it go past.

One can only write about that so many times before tiring of the theme. It isn’t as if I don’t have plenty of other forms of inspirations. Certain people who shall remain nameless seem tom have taken it upon themselves to provide it for as often as possible, a fact for which I am exceedingly grateful. I just can’t seem to do much with it these days.

Well, anyway I just felt like sharing something dull about myself. I know this isn’t up to par with my more dynamic and highly info-training posts, but I needed to get it out.

Thanks for listening~


-Scribe

WEDDINGS & TRANNIES & BOWLING, OH MY!!! Conclusion

As promised, the third, final and far less interesting Wedding post:


When last we left the scene of the crime, trannies were bowling and falling and flirting with unsuspecting townfolk. Scribe was lamenting the fact that he has great pictures & video of the blessed event and couldn't’ post them on his blog. And the bride and groom were acting like complete tools on the bowling lane, posing for the camera like hillbilly couture fashinistas..

As this scene fades into the next one, we follow Scribe, EFB & the bride’s sister to the couples’ home. Entering their abode was like unto being allowed to walk into a prop or a home that hasn’t been occupied in years. Scribe expected to see the living dead coming out of the floorboards because it was noon and the cows needed to be milked.

As the bride’s sister took them on a tour of the house, Scribe wondered how many cribs could be fitted into a single home. The answer he came up with was at least five. The adult furniture was practically non-existent, presumably because it would take up room from children, of which they apparently intend to have many.

The bride’s sister revealed that everybody on the street was related in some way. Next door lives a cousin, two doors down an uncle, three doors down another cousin, and so on. This is the town the children of the farmer parents move to because it’s so affordable and they are still close to home. Scribe and EFB couldn't wait to get out of that house.



Back in the car, they drove down the road apiece back to the reception hall, where more cars and people from out of town had arrived. As the bride's sister went to help with the serving of the food, she kept mentioning how her, um...let me pause her for a moment. I'm not sure what to call him anymore, although the phrase "punk-ass bitch" holds a certain appeal. My confusion lies in the fact that his designation when it comes to the bride's sister depends greatly upon the version of events being related at any given time.



We know they started dating in the early Eighties and moved in together shortly thereafter. We also know he claims to be a devout Jew, yet is living unmarried with a "goyim," with whom he has sex on a regular basis, runs electronics during the Sabbath as well as drives, and eats and drinks dairy with his meals. But he's the first to decry Muslims and spout Zionist rhetoric. This kind of hypocrite can be dealt with only one way, and unfortunately Scribe was the first to do it, despite being at least ten years his junior.



So, Scribe and Faux-Jew are not friends anymore, to say the least. People who love to dish out criticism of others but threaten to end friendships when the favor is returned are ho's to be dismissed in Scribe's world. But the bride's sister loves him and she's in her mid-40's and not much to look at. He was and is her last chance at happiness, and despite the fact that he refuses to marry her unless she converts to his open-minded and all-encompassing religion, she stays with him. She has used failing health and false pregnancies, phony work schedules and who the hell knows what else, but Faux-Jew looked up and 25 years had passed.



It's hard for anyone to know what the hell he is because they had supposedly broken up for good not long ago, but she still refers to him in the same manner she did before.



In the ensuing years, the Faux-Jew has become even more of a staunch pro-Israel/God's Chosen People type. His anti-Christian bias is a thing to behold. Once when some well-meaning yet no doubt annoying would-be missionaries at the Detroit Auto Show told him Jesus loved him, Faux-Jew replied, "And Satan loves you!" in the same sweet tone. He also spent an entire trip through the Dominoes Farms outdoor drive-thru X-mas display making derogatory comments about Christianity with EFB's little nieces in the car. A bigger asshole there never was.



So, it came as no surprise to old Scribe when he didn't show up for the wedding like he said he was going to. It was also unsurprising that his Jewish friend and forcibly converted wife didn't show either. How he was able to function as his friend's best man in a Catholic church I will never know.



It was sad to watch the bride's sister walk around and decline involvement in any activities because she was waiting for him. As the evening wore on, we started feeling really uncomfortable. Surely he would show up. Even someone like him wouldn't be that much of an asshole in this situation. Hell, even Scribe came and he barely knows these people! OK, maybe he came for the trannies, but still...



"I don't think he's coming," Scribe said. "He'd be here by now."



By now meant 90 minutes into the reception. The bride and groom has already been forced to kiss like 50 times and all the tributes and toasts had been uttered. Still no Faux-Jew.



The bride's sister had tears in her eyes she was holding back. Scribe was getting really pissed. EFB looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. Nearly two hours had passed at this point.



Then he arrived. He looked worse than dog shit in summer heat*. Like an old rabbi who didn't take care of himself. Gone was the cool goatee' he'd sported 4 years ago and its place was a massive, scraggly beard filled with white. His eyes were all puffy and his complexion was ashen. Scribe, on the other hand, looked fiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnne! He took no joy in his former friend's appearance. He decided to take the high road. His path would be one of positivity.



Who am I kiddin'? Take that, bitch! Shuffle on in here lookin' like a fuckin' drunk rabbi if you want to, but the Scribe looks fashionable and fresh! Now who's the chosen one, muthafuka! HUH? Now who? MUAAAA HAAAAA HAAAA HAAAA haaaaaaa...





Um...





Anyway, Scribe and EFB were both glad he arrived and amused by his little wedding photographer act as he pranced around taking photos of everybody except us. So childish.



Later that night, in order for the bride and groom to have their dance, Scribe volunteered to watch their baby for them. So the conclusion of the night for him involved walking an infant back and forth and pretending a radio tower was the most fascinating thing in the world to keep its attention focused away from everything else. Babies love me. They're like puppies with less fur and less to say. I've been told I have a unique way of communicating with them. I don't speak baby-talk and they seem to respond well to it.



Had to work the next day so as I bid farewell to the assembled, shit-kickers, well-wishers, trannies and bigoted Jews, I noticed EFB waving good-bye to the bride's sister's um...boyfriend? I was told he nodded nicely. Whatever. He's still and ever shall be a bitch-ass whore.



God, I hate weddings.













*The dog shit line must be credited to my former supervisor, who sent that phrase via text when I sent her a pic of one of the trannies.

A TRAGI-COMEDY OF ERRORS:

“A tragedy has happened.” That’s how the man I have dubbed “Dude” in previous posts started the conversation when he called off work for the week. He didn’t define the nature of the tragedy, a fact that could only cause a person with advanced OCD like EFB to go crazy with speculations.

She is, after all, his direct supervisor and considers him to be a friend on some level I find difficult to fathom. When it comes to women like her, it’s often difficult to tell if they are genuinely concerned for the person or just looking for “juice” to get them through the day. In this case, I’d say it was equal measures of both.

Dude made the call on a Tuesday, claiming he would be in later that week to provide further and complete details. EFB couldn’t wait for that. She needed to know now. She even started coming up with lame schemes to find out. EFB is one of those people that wear their OCD like a badge, as if it’s something to be proud of and adorable all at once. It is, of course, neither, except perhaps to guys who forgive any transgressions when they come from an appealing face.

Dude didn’t tell her or anybody else that day. He did call her on her cell phone and tell her what he’d left on her work phone’s voicemail and insisted he would tell her later when his mom wasn’t in the car with him.

This set EFB’s gears to whirring a mile a minute! Was it a family tragedy? Did someone die or wind up in the hospital? Was there an accident? The endless speculation forced me to blank her out and start singing cartoon theme songs in my head.

Besides, who the hell says “There’s been a tragedy” at our age? I mentioned that to her and she criticized me for not having grown up around the “right people.” Everybody she knows talks that way and, besides, we’re not exactly youngsters anymore.

“I don’t know any old people that say stuff like that!” I said.

She had to laugh. Inside I think she knew I was right. This guy is like something from the 1950’s, even his hair. Or maybe a little further back, because all I could picture was a scene from some 1940’s film noir where the leggy dame enters the tiny office of the cynical P.I. as a ceiling fan rotates slowly above their heads:

He- What can I do ya for?
She- There’s been a tragedy! A real tragedy!
He- yeah, I can tell you’re all broken up. Who was the lucky fella?
She- How dare you? I haven’t done anything!
He- Remains to be seen, doll. Nobody does nothin’ ‘till they do somethin’.
She- You’re a bitter man, mister! That’s the real tragedy.

OK, I had a little too much fun writing that scene. But my point is that I’ve never heard anyone refer to something as a tragedy the way he did even in cases where a loved one has died. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case at all, but it was probably the next worst thing.

Before I get to that, let’s take a look at EFB’s shining moment. Her patience wearing thinner by the day, she complained repeatedly about how he hadn’t shown up to fill them in on what had happened. I felt the need to remind her that by law he isn’t required to tell her anything of a personal nature, especially if he isn’t being paid for his time off. As soon as I got off work Wednesday, a text message came into my phone instructing- yes, INSTRUCTING- me to call Dude and find out if he was OK. No problem, but that second part about seeing if I could find out what happened was unacceptable. This was the predictable moment where EFB started ripping into me via text about how she has always been there for me and I haven’t ever been there for her and I’m the most selfish man alive and barely a man at all, actually, and blah, blah, blibbidy blah…

Comments like that used to hurt a little back when we were a couple and that sort of thing mattered to me. Nowadays it simply provides me with a platform to say, “Ready to sell the house when you are.”

I did call Dude, but only because I had a feeling I knew what he “tragedy” was all about. He sounded OK, I guess, although his words were rather cryptic and vague. He tells me he told EFB’s boss but didn’t get a chance to tell her yet and he seems to think I already know. When I tell him I don’t, he tells me he will call back later. His wife is in the car and he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about it. That’s two family members he doesn’t want to speak in front of now.

I let EFB know what I know and she flies into a fit of self-righteous fury. HOW DARE HE TELL HER BOSS BEFORE HER? HER BOSS HATES HIM AND HAS MADE HIS LIFE A LIVING HELL!!! All those years of special treatment and he doesn’t have the class to tell her first or at least when she told him? Well, that’s it! No more exemptions!

The “E” in “EFB” now stands for “Egocentric.” It seems more appropriate.

Now that she’s written off her so-called friend because he chose to advise the actual head of their department before her, I endured text after text a about what a piece of shit he was. It got old fast and I told her so which, of course, made me an utter bastard.

An hour or passed with relative peace and quiet, eventually broken by the blaring sound of the trumpets of my Star Wars ringtone. Dude had finally told her what happened. I insisted she wit until she got home to tell me. Not because I was looking forward to it, but because I love fucking with her OCD.

I can’t say I was shocked by the gist of the tale she spun when she walked through the door, but there was one part that came awfully close. For those who have never read about Dude and his wife before, allow me to provide a brief recap.

Dude is my age and his wife is a good ten years younger. She is also from Canada, which some U.S. citizens think instantly makes a person more backwards. I disagree but whatever. The point is she was backward and weird and very child-like. But Dude was desperate to be married because every other woman his age was. He brought her to the U.S. and tried to make a grown woman and a responsible wife out of her. In return, she maxed out their credit cards whenever she felt blue, hung out and got drunk with her friends both male and female until 5 in the morning, and curled up in a fetal position whenever he got angry.

Yep, they were basically the Cleavers without the kids. One day a nosey old man who rides around their neighborhood on one of those electric wheelchairs spotted her all dressed up & hoochie fabulous He followed her to the end of the street, where a car pulled up and she got in. Dude thought the old guy was full of shit.

Many moons later, Dude walks into the shower while his wife is in there and does what I can only assume was a quadruple take. I imagine him standing there, mouth wide open, unable to move. I imagine her also standing there, a look of utter fright across her face as the water cascades down her pregnant belly.

They hadn’t had sexual relations in at least one year.

I don’t like to imagine what happened next, but it couldn’t have been pretty. Dude’s wife wound up admitting she’d been cheating on him for quite a while with a Mexican guy who also happens to be the son of the owner of the gourmet taco establishment where she works. And when I say cheating, I mean on and on for a long period of time.

Regular readers might remember earlier posts about this couple and her obsession with her pet bunny that died. If we follow the timeline, her infidelity seems to coincide with the rodent’s death, since Dude was out of town with his boss on a huntin’ trip. Apparently the Canadi-skank needed some consoling…over and over and over. Also, she was obviously so distraught that she forgot to make this Third World lothario with a rep for boinkin’ the ladies wear protection.

Dude, ever the forgiving sort, asked her if she would keep doing this guy if he came back and her reply was all he needed to hear…”I don’t know.”

Dude filed divorce papers the following day with a family friend. The land-shark, I mean “lawyer,” took special care to ensure that her 7-month pregnancy was included in the paperwork. When asked if it was seven, she replied, “Um, I guess!” I think we all know what that means. She may drop any day now. There is a little known Michigan law that’s been on the books since the 1800’s that states if she has that baby while they’re married and living under the same roof he will be responsible.

Needless to say he is transporting her ass back to Canada as we speak. The saddest part is that Dude had just been bragging to EFB about how she’d been acting like a real wife for the time for the past few weeks. Guilt, perhaps? I doubt it. She was probably just buttering him up for the eventual delivery day, hoping he'd keep her around and watch the kid on nights she needed to fuck Paco.

I still can’t understand how he didn’t know she was pregnant. She was a fucking beanpole!!! He mentioned she was putting on weight a bunch of times but damn!

Anyway, he plans to take a trip to the restaurant to inform Paco’s mama sita that if this kid comes anywhere near him or his soon to be ex-wife, he’s going to “Fuck him up.”

Stay tuned, vultures!

The tragedy might just be starting~