Posts Tagged ‘gary goude’

My world a toilet, you in it

Tuesday, 13 May 2008

Never did get back to you about frolf. Mac, a buddy from work one level above Acquaintance, his 3-year-old son, another guy and I went frolfing 2 weeks ago. Despite my rant, Mac’s boy was a cute well-behaved urchin except when he rolled off a bench and landed face-first in the dirt (he was OK).

The game of frolf requires strategy, skill, etc. I can’t imagine who came up with it or why since unlike bowling it’s a poor excuse to drink, though you’re walking often and far in hot weather.

I went frolfing again this morning after staying up very late on my “Friday” last night. I was late to pick-up Mac, who this time came alone. He’d wanted me to bring some weed….because I was late to get him, I brought a J along, but when he got in my car he already stank of the shit.

We went to a different park, much bigger with longer throwing distances (most holes were 3 or 4 par) and once again I borrowed a disc from Mac.

During the 3rd or 4th hole I sent his disc into a wide ditch filled with knee-high water. I was fully ready to buy him a new one but I’ll be damned, he waded in there, treading carefully along the clear, slimy bottom and got it. After that I didn’t do as well as last time. The water traps defeated any boldness I had, or had left.

The breeze was cool but it was still a disgusting humid Florida morning. Before and after the water trap incident, Mac kept hitting me up for the J. As it’s easy to out-argue a stoner I deflected his rap. I was disgusted that he kept asking for more after he already stank like a bong in a hippy’s den and I was already pissed about having to carry the shit in my car. The draconian punishments the State metes out to stoners it should be giving to child molesters, but that’s nothing to argue about after you’re pulled over. I didn’t want my car seized and shit job lost over a fucking joint, as well as being arrested by some dumbass cop who smoked plenty more weed in high school than the amount I did (none).

Yes, after the water trap my heart wasn’t in it anymore. After 5 holes we left the park and went to the local store that dealt solely in frolf sporting goods.

There were 30,000 or more discs in there, neatly stacked in crates separated by tabbed dividers. It looked like a record store, if records meant sleeveless albums of fat neon wax. I couldn’t believe all the shit in there. For a made-up sport, frolf has all the trappings of a real one, including a poster of its friendly jug-eared pro champion, Ken Climo (pronounced KLEE-mo).

The shop’s owner was a slightly chubby but cute chick. For the record I’d rather have fucked the proprietor of this establishment than ever play frolf again. But life has a way of rolling you forwards long after you’ve died inside, so I bought two frolf discs for $15, savoring the $1 discount. The Frolf-chick remembered Mac from his last visit though he didn’t think she would. He’d set himself apart by being stung by a bee in a park. She remembered.

I got rid of Mac fast after that. I had shit to do today and no more time to waste.

I don’t know what to do about frolf. I learned what I needed to know, mainly that I don’t have a secret talent or gift for it. Odds are before reading this you’d never heard of Climo, but as the Tiger Woods of Frolf, he probably makes 30 to 40K a year, not counting endorsement deals.

That’s what I’d like, I think, a well-paying but not too-well-paying career where I’m famous or interesting to only a few and no one else on earth gives a fuck. Kind of like blogging.

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Porn and Ham Versus the Siren Song of Suicide

Friday, 11 January 2008

If you’re the ‘Emperor Of The Universe’ (per another post) why can’t you exact CHANGE on this motherfuckin’ planet, nigga? And by CHANGE I mean you, me, M. Todd, S. Gary, Hip, WBM III, Capt. Morgan, etc., would be celebrated as this moment’s best authors and we would be welcomed with open arms by the hottest bitches we can imagine (and we have imaginations, by god) and millions upon millions would buy our novels, poetry volumes, t-shirts, key rings, bumper stickers, etc., and we’d be nigga rich and living like we should be living instead of working shithole jobs for shithole pay.

— Digital aka Dirty Howie

Hadn’t yet had a chance to add I’ve been downgraded to “Emperor of Only This Room I’m In”.

The practical answer to your question is that I have nothing worth selling, no novel or stories and poems don’t sell anyway. Now you could take the best from AHA and make a book out of that, with all of us pitching in on both costs and content, maybe a third of it new. The technology is now in place to self-publish high-quality books, as few as 25 or even five. A Delaware friend of mine published his own book of poetry that way. It (isn’t very good, but) looks like anything you might find in a bookstore.

The second practical answer is, if you want to publish something to get rich, your best shot is to write a romance novel (second best shot: cook book). I don’t know that most people hate their lives, but even the happy ones want to get away from themselves via the fantasies and escapism of linear storytelling. Even Donald Trump must occasionally watch movies or TV to take a break from himself–tho why would he bother when he’s a living cartoon who can blink anything he wants into existence–but he does.

I’m too disgusted to write seriously (or for long) because, “It’s all been said before, and better”, also not an original thought. There’s a better way to bliss: doing nothing at all while suffering. You have your alk and drugs, Todd has music, alk, drugs. Gary has food, alk, a pension and insanity. I have porn and ham. It would be so easy to just give up. It’s damned tempting. The way we live makes suicide the sanest choice.