DEAD Dog WALKING (Bourbon Life EP.1 Scene 5)

(Scene opens with Betty staring at a dead mutt that is attached to a bedazzled dog collar and chain that Cobb is squeezing in her swollen hand)

COBB: Oh it’s just a blessing!

Betty: Who?

COBB: You know the thing with the yard

Betty: What?

COBB: You know! The place…with the beds!!

Betty: The House?

COBB: What?(smiling)

Betty: The House, Cobb?

COBB: (smiling) Who?

Betty: The place where you live with your boyfriend and your herpes.


Betty: Yes COBB the house….I’m leaving

COBB: Are you angry? I’m going to the 21 flavors with my dog, I got him a leash today

Betty: I’m leaving and it’s 31 flavors

COBB: NO WAIT!! What they have 31 flavors now? Bless their hearts…8 more flavors

Betty: It’s ten more

COBB: My goodness even better (licking her lips and bending over to pick up the dead dog)

Come on puddles…he is such a good dog Bertha, never barks at anyone! (Looking at Puddle’s dead eyes and talking baby talk) That because he a good Christian doggy huh puddles? Tell Bertha about Jesus my boy…(points the dogs paw at Betty) You’re a sinner! You’re gonna burn hahahahaha …momma is gonna take you to ice cream’s house because I’m a good momma! Even the dog says so Bertha.

Betty: It’s Betty… my name is Betty and the dog isn’t listening COBB! He isn’t barking at anyone because he can’t bark, he is DEAD! I gotta go!!!

COBB: OK uh..uh…don’t you wanna see Puddle’s finger paintings before you leave? I can give you a ride to 21 flavors, I mean I would take you all the way home but I’m broke and the dog doesn’t like to ride in the car!

Betty: But the dog is dead, shall I use hand puppets here?

COBB: (looking up at the sky) ….mmmm hand puppets

Betty: How can the dog….never mind!

COBB: I know but I can tell he doesn’t like it Betty, when I drive too fast on the bridge he falls off the seat cushion. Then he just lays there.

(long pause)

Betty: Fascinating, but I’m due back on the planet earth soooo…

COBB: Hahahaha! You always make me laugh Betty, the planet earth she says! Hahahaha! This is California silly!

(End scene)



“Hey Santa, hit the ho stroll”


Before I begin I suppose some explanation is in order. I have been absent from my post for some time and you Sex Hole Addicts must have found another fix for your weary brains, I do apologize.

The reason for my hiatus is very complex and rather than fill up the Sex Hole (hahaha) with specifics, I shall make a sing song diagram explaining my foolishness and absenteeism;


The Daniel bone is connected to the heart bone.

The heart bone is connected to the woman bone.

The woman bone is connected to the unending pursuit of perfection bone.

The unending pursuit of perfection bone is connected to the alone bone.

The alone bone is connected to the drink and drug bone.

The drink and drug bone is connected to the jail bone.


Hopefully that clears things up.


Ladies and Gentlemen: Sex Hole 15…


Monday: Went to Walgreens to practice my social skills with the common man. While I was wandering the aisles that were littered with Christmas brouhaha, one of the employees approached me to ask if I needed some help. I was quick to respond that the help I needed might be out of her scope of employment but thanked her anyway. I noticed she was wearing an oversized T shirt that said “Get your flu shot” in size 100 font draped over her bean bag frame. It reminded me of the 80s when the crack heads in LA used to rock those “You can’t touch this” joints.


She urged me to get my flu shot. After I chastised her and her thought processes, paradigms of hope and fashion choices, she left me to roam the aisles in peace. (for details on vaccinations and the tomfoolery surrounding the idea of injecting yourself with dead fetuses of humans and cows see )


Tuesday:  Another day at the halfway house and the thievery continues…Yes sweet readers of words, it is true, your humble literary manservant has been confined in a “Sober Living Environment”, my revelries and lust for the drink have led me straight into the arms of the white man and his tricks. After my six-day vacation in the hospital and subsequent incarceration for physically and verbally assaulting the pigs over at the Daly City police department, I entered a rehab in hopes to bridle my inner Hemmingway. Following 28 days of yoga, nature walks, and AA meetings, I was sent off to an SLE where once again the white man capitalized on the weakness of my flesh.


My housemates, which are 9 in number, are mostly decent white folk but there is always one thief in the bunch. On this particular day, as I strolled into the kitchen I caught “Bobby” sucking down my almond milk which I purchased to detour his criminal behavior.

It didn’t work.

Pulled “Bob” to the side and whispered in his ear, informing him of my dubious plans for him and his insatiable appetite for forbidden groceries, “Check it out fat man, if ANY of my food goes missing from here on out you are going to wish your mother never met your father, feel me?”

We haven’t seen him at the halfway house since.

I feel bad, old Bobby was the salt of the earth…fucking gluttonous troglodyte.

Social Note: Never head-butt the police whilst handcuffed, it always ends poorly.


Wednesday: Tolstoy said, “Avoid women at all costs” although this is sound advice I have found it an impossibility, not only that, but Tolstoy was a homosexual so it was much easier for him to stick to his guns, so to speak. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a “Ladies man” but I AM a devout feminist in deed and truth.

As it has been explained in specific detail in so many other Sex Hole installments, I have been speared by Cupid’s pitchfork 20 years ago and haven’t managed to wiggle free from true love and its numerous consequences.

Falling in love with a female tiger who embraces the dogma and sword collection of Genghis Kahn has it drawbacks; if not for my god-like dexterity I may be missing a limb or two.

Due to my poor choices, I have broken the trust that took so many years to establish. In this light, it is very difficult to explain my whereabouts with any smackerel of effectiveness. (word up to Winnie the Pooh nomenclature).

Needless to say, when I informed my Lady of my plans to travel to Reno to get with the homie, Monk McNizzle to finish our full scale musical assault on Santa Claus and his demonic ways in time for the coming holiday, she was less than pleased (growling sound).

Although your humble literary servant was not included in any reindeer games this year, my Tigress didn’t want me crossing state lines for any reason. Since strep throat was running rampant at the halfway house and none of my immediate family was interested in having an opinionated, well spoken, recovering alcoholic at the dinner table, I sought refuge in the bosom of Reno and my faithful outlet for pain and confusion, music.


Personal Note: Need to eat my porridge before I start my day because porridge keeps me peaceful and that is a general blessing to the puny humans who annoy me!


Wednesday evening: After a treacherous 5-hour journey up the 80 freeway, listening to sermons to calm my weary mind piece and strengthen my lion heart, I arrived safely at the Nugget casino in Reno, Nevada, the inbred cousin to Las Vegas.

Christmas time was upon me and I was curious to find out where the sweet folks of Tweaker Town, USA thought of the holiday. I interviewed several of the natives but they were too paranoid of my line of questioning, so I warned them that their sinful ways would only earn them an all-access pass into Hades’ VIP room where they would burn forever and left them to contemplate their collective demise.

I finally caught up with my pal Monk McNizzle, I was happy and relieved to see a friendly face and a full set of teeth. We philosophized upon topics ranging from music to politics then set up our make shift studio in my hotel room.

Inspired by the 2008 Anti-Christmas anthem “DADDA CLAUSE” produced by Conceit starring Mo Classics, my two daughters and I composed a follow up called “Momma Clause”. Much to the chagrin of my Tigress, I was in Reno to catch up with Monk and record some verses from him and some choral arrangements from his young cohorts that were 4 in number ranging from 2 years old all the way to 11 years old respectively.

Monk and the midget crew left the microphone smoking and I was pleased with the results. I was speaking with Monk about the aforementioned Christmas brouhaha and we both decided that economically speaking the Corporate Giants in Amerikkka just needed to get rid of some shit at year end and they needed Santa Claus to do their evil bidding.

We both conceded that Christmas could and should be renamed “We need to get rid of some shit, Santa get back on the hoe stroll”  Admittedly, we need to shorten the name and make it catchier; an anarchists’ work is never done.


Thursday: I woke up to some text messages of cheer from Genghis; she must have thought I needed a boost since I am only 6 months sober, away from my family who wants nothing to do with me and surrounded by liquor. “You are a half ass Dad” “You are a winner” “We don’t fit well together” “Hypocrite” … ah yes I was ready to start my day refreshed and renewed, body, mind and spirit. I made a mental note to make sure she spends the “night in the box” when I returned to the Monkey House of Regret for Christmas Day, “solitary confinement ought to cool her zeal for my demise” I thought.

I surfed the web for a remote sledge hammer that could be activated the next time she decided to text me hate messages but this useful tool existed only in my imagination.

After Monk and I put some finishing touches on “Momma Clause” he returned to his room to nurse a cold and left me to my thoughts which is why I’m back at the modern typewriter, placing pain on the page.


Thursday evening (We need to get rid of some shit, Santa get back on the hoe stroll! Eve):

Many moons ago I watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special and Linus quoted scripture from Luke and I remember the sound of Linus’ voice and thinking that this IS a time of true joy.

Even though my brain tells me this isn’t really the “time” when Jesus was born (it was more like September) and suicide rates skyrocket this time of year I still have powerful memories of my family.

I remember the whole family would come to my grandparents’ house in Gardena, where I lived, we would have such a great time laughing, gambling and telling jokes. I don’t remember worrying too much for gifts but I do remember the smells and sounds of Christmas when it was pure.


Mental Note: Take it easy jackass, life can’t be that bad


Friday (Christmas Day): Since I am a union writer I take Christmas day off……PEACE AND ALOHA to you and your families.


That’s all SEX HOLE addicts!! S.H. Number 15 is in the books, stay tuned for more SEX HOLE fun!!! Merry We need to get rid of some shit, Santa get back on the hoe stroll Day!!! Wheeeesh!!! I really need to work on that name.



D.A. Medina



Scene from “The Party” (2017)


Small clean kitchen in a downtown hotel in the middle of winter in San Francisco, cigarettes fill the ashtray as Antonio rolls a joint, Mireya is dancing to house music, It’s 3 in the morning and they are both a little drunk. 

Antonio:  You asked me earlier how you cut people off so easily…you know (lights the j and inhales deeply) In my heart…you know, what I mean… people I have loved. Whatever you were there…you fucking remember

Mireya: (still moving her hips to some trance music) Yes – I did- I was (laughing) how can I help you?

A: I have been up late…thinking and writing until the early morning…

M: (still dancing) …like always

A: A valve …I use it. I mean I fucking have it!

M: (interrupting) Valve? Wait…ok go…(they both start laughing)

A: Yes love…please let me finish- OK in my mind there is a valve…fuck! This sounds so fucking stupid (Mireya is looking him in the face as he stares out his small window) I turn it in my mind, I mean when I’m trying to disconnect baby…see? this sounds so lame 

M: Please …(grabs her drink) I have to hear this…

A: (Looks Mireya directly in the eyes intently and gravely) When I turn the valve shut I have no feelings for that person anymore, I don’t need to speak with them…I just do not care about them anymore no friendship, no coffee, no updates…none of that. My own Father, I shut the valve on him, I don’t hate him, I don’t care it’s like…. 

M: I mean I’m sorry Antonio…you know how I feel about you, you are my best friend… 

A: (shrugs and forces a fake smile) You know the sad part Mireya? 

M: (slowly) Hmmm? 

A: I have never been able to open the valve once I have closed it…it’s a damn curse! It’s like a mechanism just like writing….it just is…I have been proud of that! ….for so many years (looking down) 

M: Baby…I love you (smiling drunk)

A: Yes Mireya…let me finish, I always thought…..shit Why am I spilling my bullshit all over you?

M: because you love me (smiling and still moving to the beat) 

A: (smiling with his eyes) umm I have always thought it was a just a tool or a way of strength to deal with life’s sorrows and…you know… let downs…disappointments , sounds so cheesy right? 

M: No its not cheesy baby…I mean …I am not so strong 

A: Part of it is because I am a Libra… 

M: Holy fuck! You lost me

A: Libra is the only inanimate sign…inanimate means…

M: (interrupts) I know what inanimate means, without life? The scales?? The balance and order all that bullshit…are you saying…(Antonio is shaking his head yes) …you feel like you don’t have life? Fuck Antonio you are one the most…

A: (cuts her off) Yes I am saying that is exactly how I feel ….. or don’t feel.  

M: (takes a long drink, sits up in her chair, grabs his face..) Well then you are lucky baby! I wish I could do that. 

A: Yeah (takes a long drink and looks down) 

M: So…I mean I have known you in the biblical sense of the word ( Antonio laughs)

A: Hey fucker that’s my line! 

M: I mean we have been friends and lovers for so many years….why haven’t you… Why are you telling me this Antonio? 

Long pause… Camera is on Mireya’s face 

A: Well this is the fucked part…Mireya…two…two reasons…I’m telling…you (sits up in his chair and clears his throat) I have cancer in my bones…. I have cancer Mireya…(looks up at Mireya) Jack ass doctors…they say I got like 6 weeks…(Mireya is sobbing, Antonio holds her long hair in his lap) 

M: I…I love …(crying softly she loses her voice…) 

A: Don’t you want to know the other reason?…Mireya? 

M: (barely audible) Sure mi amor 

A: (lifts her head from his lap and holds her face)Because Mireya , I could never turn the valve on you my love…(Mireya weeping uncontrollably) That’s why I always called you….(his voice cracks)…I mean I tried to…but I couldn’t do it baby, I have always loved you…from the start

Mireya crying loudly as Antonio holds her in his lap….Antonio looks out his small window as the rain begins to fall….END SCENE 

Pilot for “Bourbon Life”….small kine scene

Pilot EP Scene 4

Scene opens in a pristine import auto showroom, Chuck Knudsen (pronounced Kuh-Nude-son) is sitting with Q the finance manager. Chuck is the owner and he is one of those guys who was 6 foot tall and weighed 200 lbs in the fifth grade and whipped everyone’s Caucasian ass, then he just grew man boobs and got chubby, he has that baby boy face and giant paws.

Chuck: I know you think I don’t know what’s going on around here, but I got news for you B, I do.

Q: It’s Q sir…

Chuck: What is?

Q: My name sir, it’s Q.

Chuck: I know that

Q: You just called me B

Chuck: Right…ok, so are these the final numbers for the month?

Q: I don’t know what that is; it looks like a stack of blank paper, wait…It is a stack of blank paper!

Chuck: I know that

Q: So…why did you ask me if-

Chuck: Listen B…

Q: Its Q

Chuck: I know that…Q you are really going to have to adjust your attitude, if you want to continue working here!

Q: Attitude sir?

Chuck: Yes your attitude, it’s all about attitude Q…So as I was saying, are these the final numbers?

Q: (Smiling) Yes, if you think they are sir

Chuck: Stop calling me sir, this ain’t the Navy! And you know what else? These aren’t the final numbers (sifting thru a stack of blank papers) what the hell are trying to pull over here? The wool over my eyes? Huh?

Q: Excuse me sir?

Chuck: GODAMMIT B! Stop calling me sir and where are the final numbers?

Q: If you stop calling me B, I promise not to call you sir and…(smiling) there are no final numbers because it’s the 15th of the month.

Chuck: (cracks a big smile) Well done Q! You see…it’s all about attitude.

Q: Thank you Chuck, you are a born leader

Chuck: (Smiling) Oh stop it you’re embarrassing me now B…So… let’s get together on those numbers after lunch, I’m getting so damn hungry. I’m gonna get some hamburger lunch, what do you think?

Q: Great idea!

Chuck: Listen B..I mean Q…I know I’m hard on you, but I run a tight ship over here and I know more than you think I know.

Q:OK sir

Chuck: So you will have the numbers after lunch? No more screw-ups Q…

Q: Sure Chuck, no problem…(Q walks back to his office) I hate my life.

Foolish Fools (Car Salesman’s test-drive from hell)

Foolish Fools

By Daniel A Medina

Some lessons are never learned. Some would call people fools who don’t learn from life’s many miscues and blunders. Those who garner wisdom from bad experiences and poor decisions are considered wise. By this standard Ramon should be the modern King Solomon but he wasn’t. The only constant in his life was drinking alcohol.

He had to write to keep the demons out of his head. Those bastard thoughts fathered by unknown men, could make Ramon go insane if left unkempt in his weary mind. Ramon didn’t care for success anymore he just wanted a simple life free from debt and worry. He was beginning to think that did not exist.

“Maybe there isn’t a simple life, worry is a useless verb, the results of any situation are out of my hands”, the bastards began to stir.

“I should stop drinking, I’m killing myself and my Angelitas, I need to sell a car and stop gambling!”

“I owe so much money, I haven’t done my taxes and maybe I will be thrown in jail like the tax commercial on the radio keeps telling me”.

The words kept entering his giant Mexican head, it was like the morning after Thanksgiving when they open the doors at Best Buy. Hundreds of shoppers looking for the same items, hundreds of words all trying to do the same thing to poor Ramon…they were trying to kill him!

“My hair is thin and grey; I think I have high blood pressure and diabetes… possibly cancer”.

“I’m nauseous, I need to eat but I have only five dollars and I owe so much money plus I haven’t done my taxes!”

That was all Ramon could take, he had to write. He had to flush the demonic thoughts and ideas from his complicated brain. He began the furious tapping on his Blackberry phone.

Since Ramon didn’t bother with up loading apps and so on he would just tap out a really long email to himself and deal with the details later.

As he wrote, keeping one eye on the beat up asphalted car lot, the worry began to fade in the winter breeze. His troubles shrunk back to the normal sized woes of the common man. His heart rate slowed and fear became a stranger once again.

Time to sell baby!

Those of you sweet readers that have never been in sales might not understand the tension and stress of the salesman. The used car salesman is the most despised and pigeonholed salesperson in the history of sales, even hookers selling their “you know what” get more respect than your local “used car guy”.

Why are they treated so miserably in society? Most would say they are dishonest, pushy, classless and above all deceptive. These general indictments of this sub sect of salesman simply can’t cover all used car dealers.

Ramon’s technique was the soft sell, he applied very little pressure and lots of smiling. He spoke clearly and intelligently about almost any subject so he got along just fine with just about anyone. When he sensed the client was ready he lowered the volume of his voice which automatically opened his client’s ears and somehow made the situation just a bit more serious. He learned this whispering technique from his Uncle Rogelio.

Uncle thought it ironic that when a man or woman yells or screams most don’t want to listen but when you take the volume down to a whisper people want to hear what you have to say.

Ramon only struggled with his co workers, they were constantly complaining about their workplace. There is a nasty technique widely used in the automotive sales industry it’s called “krappin” somebody out.

This occurs almost every day and the idea is to “krap out” your fellow man by complaining him into feeling bad about selling used cars thusly improving your chances of selling a car. There is always the outside chance the used car guy gets so down he just throws in the towel and quits which also improves your chances to sell a car (mathematically speaking of course).

Here are some examples of “krap out” lines;

“This place is dead, I’m thinking about going to XYZ lot down the street!”

“Oh you want to share my desk with me? That’s cool, I’m fuckin out of here anyway this place sucks!

“We paid 8000 for this truck and I sold it for 15,000 and I only made 200.00 bucks, they are stealing from us”

This is a two part “krap”.

Salesman #1: “Wow its dead today huh?”

Salesman #2: “Dead? This is a busy day for us…you haven’t seen dead yet!”

Fighting boredom and cynicism are the main obstacles Ramon faced over the years but Ramon loved the spontaneity and unpredictability of the business.

You never know.

That is the motto of any salesman worth his weight. One moment you are leaning on a truck writing a poem that no one will read, broke as a joke and the next moment somebody saunters onto the asphalt playground and your whole day changes.

It is true that selling involves a bit of luck and Karma so Ramon was always very careful with his words and actions.

He never stole from anyone and despised dishonesty. All bad seeds make bad fruit, good seeds make good fruit and that is what Ramon needed. He couldn’t afford anything to go wrong in his bounded up budget. He wouldn’t steal a nickel candy, he couldn’t lie about anything, not because he wanted to be pious or conceited, he just wanted to sell lots of cars and win boatloads of money gambling.

One day a young lady was walking down the street in front of the car lot where Ramon worked. She had dark black hair, white teeth and wore a white dress with white boots. She was walking a white dog named Princess.

Princess was a terrier and a long lost cousin to “Terry” the dog who played the role of “Toto” so well in the 1939 feature film “The Wizard of Oz”. Terry turned in an Oscar worthy performance all the while nursing a broken foot.

What a small world.

Ramon was in good spirits; his team had covered the point spread and lowered his considerable gambling debt by 750.00.

“You know you could be driving instead of walking”.


“Sure…I have a white Camry that matches your outfit and your dog”


Each time she said “Really” the pitch of her voice crescendoe’d and rose higher and higher. She sounded like Mariah Carey or a dolphin.

“My name is Ramon, welcome to Toyota Miss”

“Thank you…can I really buy this car?”

“Of course, why not? Let’s take it out for a nice drive…what’s your name?”

“Norma…sure let’s go!”

“We can take it on the freeway, if you’d like”



They turned the corner onto Van Ness Avenue and proceeded to the 101 southbound. The day was clear and fresh, the traffic was moving quickly in the mid day sun. Ramon hated test drives but they were unavoidable. The most dangerous part of the car salesman’s job is the test drive.

As they pulled around the flat grey concrete onto the circled on ramp Ramon’s mind began to speak, “This girl is a fool…a foolish fool, she can’t drive…I can’t stand small dogs”

His body looked over at the smiling black haired chimp and shrugged his shoulders, “it is what it is”, said the mind.

They slid through the San Francisco skyline; two strangers on a wild ride underneath the psychedelic clouded canopy of blues and whites. The wind was clean and purposeful, guiding Ramon’s spirit to fly freely and his mind to settle in its nest.

As they left the city’s remains in the sparkle of the rear view mirror, the sun beamed upon them like God’s divine pinky ring bling.

“Oh my God I have never been on the freeway!”


Ramon’s body was cringing.

“This is great! Wait…the sun is in my eyes…oh my God”

She stopped.

“Hey..go….GO! GO!…” Ramon grabbed her knee and pushed it on the gas pedal. Ramon’s alleged high blood pressure was banging and zipping through his body like a cluster of hopped up bumble bees buzzing through arteries and veins. Meanwhile cars, trucks and vans flew by them honking and swearing in the mid day sun.

Within seconds, that seemed like hours, they were back to highway speed,

Ramon let loose of her knee and the car began to slow again. “Hey don’t…!” The girl’s knee disconnected from her thigh…she had a prosthetic leg.

Ramon hadn’t noticed her false leg upon first glance; she hid it well under her white boots. He remembered her gait had the slightest of wobble to it but Ramon wasn’t interested in her sway but in her ability to buy. A test drive from the depths of hell; Ramon had to hold the fake calf down on the gas pedal until they reached an exit where Ramon took the wheel.

Norma was deep into frenzy mode. Her body was filling itself with endorphins and began screaming; at that point Ramon was convinced she was at least part dolphin. Princess started barking and even though they couldn’t understand the cotton balled pooch it was clear she was angry. During all the chaos, Ramon forgot to give her leg back, he had her plastic foot and calf combo in his hand as he jumped out of the car to switch places with Norma.

Poor Norma was hopping on her good leg as she moved across the back of the car to the other side.

They looked like two maniacs involved in wild Chinese fire drill; Ramon running around the front of the car holding a leg and Norma hopping earnestly with spare boot in hand.

To Princess’s credit she did not take part in the parade but instead remained buckled to her seat.

Ramon buckled his seat belt and handed the leg to Norma. Ramon’s body was fried from the pseudo-hypertension.

“That was unbelievable! Kind of embarrassing for me but the brakes work great and we accelerated and got up to freeway speed in a jiffy!” “I’m totally sold, let me just get my leg and boot situated then we can go back to the dealership”.

Ramon’s mind, body and spirit were baffled and neither of the three reacted in any way until the body was safe on the showroom floor.

“Ms Norma, it is very difficult to know what to say” said Ramon as he pulled out a chair for the woman who almost killed him.

Ramon’s body began to relax and his mind reminded him of the task at hand. “This girl is crazy Ramon but she is licensed and very soon will be insured by Ali and off in her new car” said the mind.

Ramon smiled, “It’s very exciting isn’t it Norma? We sell cars everyday so for us it’s a job but we must not forget that buying a new car is exciting”

“Please promise me Norma you will take a few driving lessons before you get out onto the freeway!”

“I will”

Ramon kept smiling, “You must promise me or I will not sell this car to you and your dog!”

They both started laughing. Ramon was laughing because the girl was just walking down the street minding her business walking her dog and 2 hours later he was making his rent. Norma didn’t know why she was laughing but she had a good howl. Princess didn’t think any of it was funny at all and was shocked her foolish owner just decided to buy a car after that performance behind the wheel.

Luckily for our hero, Princess didn’t speak English or the whole deal might have imploded.

After all the paperwork was signed, Ramon shook Norma’s hand and thanked her for her business.

“Well Ms. Norma that was an adventure I will never forget”


Norma was one of Ramon’s only customers who left him speechless. Ramon just smiled and told her congratulations. As they drove off, Princess poked her head over the back seat and barked angrily at Ramon.

Ramon made over 1700.00 that day including his gambling money and within four hours he did his job, he covered the rent again.

Ramon caught the train back to his neighborhood. His mind kept replaying the scene of the terrier speaking her mind behind the rear window.

Two weeks later Norma wrecked the car on the freeway, she stopped because the sun got in her eyes. She broke 25 bones and couldn’t walk for two months.

Some lessons are never learned.

Princess wasn’t in the car at the time of the wreck, wise dog, foolish fool.

Scene 9 Pilot Episode “Bourbon Life”

(Scene opens with Betty staring at a dead mutt that is attached to a bedazzled dog collar and chain that Cobb is squeezing in her swollen hand)

COBB: Oh it’s just a blessing!

Betty: Who?

COBB: You know the thing with the yard

Betty: What?

COBB: You know! The place…with the beds!!

Betty: The House?
COBB: What?

Betty: The place where you live with your Polish boyfriend and your herpes.

Betty: Yes COBB the house….I’m leaving

COBB: Are you angry? I’m going to the 21 flavors with my dog, I got him a leash today
Betty: I’m leaving and it’s 31 flavors
COBB: NO WAIT!! What they have 31 flavors now? Bless their hearts…8 more flavors

Betty: It’s ten more
COBB: My goodness even better (licking her lips and bending over to pick up the dead dog)
Come on puddles…he is such a good dog, never barks at anyone! (Looking at Puddle’s dead eyes and talking baby talk) That cuzz he a good Christian doggy Huh puddles? Huh babyboy…momma is gonna take you to ice cream’s house because I’m a good momma! Even the dog says so Betty…

Betty: The dog is dead COBB! I gotta go!!!

COBB: OK uh..uh…don’t you wanna see Puddle’s finger paintings before you leave? I can give you a ride to 21 flavors, I mean I would take you all the way home but I’m broke and the dog doesn’t like to ride in the car!

Betty: But the dog is dead!
COBB: I know but I can tell he doesn’t like it Betty, when I drive too fast on the bridge he falls off the seat cushion. Then he just lays there.

(long pause)

Betty: Fascinating, but I’m due back on the planet earth soooo…

COBB: Hahahaha! You always make me laugh Betty, the planet earth she says! Hahahaha! This is California silly!

(End scene)

Sex Hole 9


Ramon had finished reading another book and he was staring at it as it was lying on the second hand, yet chic, coffee table. The coffee table was deep brown with heavy iron claw-like legs. One side had been cracked during a wild party when Angelitas and Maribel decided to use said coffee table for dancing instead of coffee drinking.

Although the coffee table was a bit scuffed and carried a few mental scars from the late night merriments in the Garcia household, the 3’ x 3’ table stood bravely and even organically on the hardwood floor.

Unbeknownst to Ramon, who purchased the table from the Salvation Army four years prior to this writing, the coffee table’s original owner was a German tailor who lived in San Francisco.

The old tailor’s name was Chico, as his parents were avid Marx Bros. fans from their days in vaudeville. Chico bought the table, brand new, from a furniture store on California Street. When Chico owned the table it was never used for coffee drinking or dancing. Chico used the table for its storage capacity as the table had 2 small doors on top, one on each side, which made it very convenient. The table was about 4 inches deep and Chico used it to store boxes of needles and thread along with the occasional dirty magazine that would usually be thrown away after Sunday sermons and then purchased again or fished out of the garbage around mid-week.

The deep brown table served Chico and his business well, not only was he nice to look at (apparently the table has become a male) he was indeed most useful and quite stealth.

When Chico closed his business many years later, he and his wife lifted up the big brown coffee table, placed on the Salvation Army truck and said a sad but inaudible goodbye.

The table was sad and did not understand why he was being tossed aside. He was nervous and uncomfortable on the long ride to the Salvation Army drop-off station and decided best to close his lids (per se) and take a nap.

So after his long journey, the big, deep brown coffee table sat or shall I say stood in the middle of the moldy smelling Salvation Army “showroom”. He stood near the microwaves, glassware, VCR tapes and VCR tape players. He tried to converse, unsuccessfully, with the numerous non-flat screen TVs abandoned by their owners and rubbed his iron elbows with shitty oil paintings and discarded lampshades. The table became jaded and joyless until Angelitas and Ramon purchased him 2 weeks later.

He was more than ready to leave. You must know, sweet readers, that the coffee table was steeped in German opera music and Neil Diamond records. He always remembered Chico’s accent and the soothing hum of the sewing machine motor.

The teenagers who worked at the Salvation Army talked too much and they talked too much about the most boring things…other teenagers. The music they played was both infantile and raunchy. Needless to say the old brown table was ready for a change of scenery.

The old, brown, iron-legged table had found a home with Ramon y Angelitas. He loved Ramon’s piano playing and singing. Angelita’s dance music and Italian crooner tunes made him happy again; he had found a home. The graffiti books and fictional paperbacks sat happily on the sturdy, yet opinionated, table’s head. All was well. All that being said and I may have said too much, the coffee table “really tied the room together”, for all you achievers out there.

As I was saying…

Ramon was staring at the book he just finished that was quietly lying on the table (which has been so eloquently detailed in a rather long-winded fashion).

The book was “Player Piano” by Mr. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. and it was lying on the table, dead. Ironically, just a few moments before said staring and meandering began, the book was alive in Ramon’s mind. The tale, crafted by that genius from Indiana, was about the role or roles that machines play in our daily lives.

Books of fiction lie, they are consummate liars and those of us who write poems, tall tales, and short tales and yes, even folktales are some of Earth’s best liars. Most writers of fiction do not lie like the politicians, to advance personal agendas and swollen campaign fund accounts.

Of course sweet reader I am using the words “lie” and “lying” quite liberally here to make a point.

Most of us writers are more storytellers than liars; we are more creators than fabricators.

Most of us writers are, unfortunately, mentally unstable, not in the way your table at the taqueira is unstable, more like the instability of Francium (Google it).

This fact has been well documented in psychology books, bar rooms and that digital demon also known as the world-wide-web.

Our relief is in the pen and the paper, reading and writing, and for some of us it is more than necessary, it is vital. (I am veering off on a white -dashed tangent, will be back soon).

Not that I am the type to sit in humid confessional booths spilling my guts to some creep who demands I call him “Father”. However, I do find a deep, comforting solace in letting the poison ooze from my pen covering my sins and insanity, if only for a spell.

For the sake of good taste and decency, I make it my practice to filter my vile thoughts and ideas before they land on the page. NOBODY, not even yours truly, wants to see, smell or taste the mind-vomit of a 21st century mad man in Chuck Taylor sneakers and Dickies pants. After all, we MUST strive to behave as human beings even though we are shackled to our failing flesh.


Ramon’s body had been “lying” on the tan sofa for way too long; he had become a larger version of himself. As it has been said reading and writing do NOT make an Olympian. “You need to change something soon or you will die fat and young…so embarrassing!” said Ramon’s mind.

The mind went on to compose a doo-wop style song entitled “Fat and young” but we will not veer further off the SEX HOLE highway.

The mind continued, “ Are there not short stories that you could be working on?” “There are two books and a screenplay that need help” “How many of these projects will you begin and never finish?” “Are you one of these meth-head types who tear up bathrooms and hallways yet never complete the tasks at hand?”

“Hey! Lets finish that science fiction story you started back when you were 16 years old!”

Ramon’s body stayed on the couch looking confused.

The mind was beginning to idle quickly now, “The one about the Cyborgs you big dummy!”

Ramon’s face smiled and his long left arm reached out for the pen and pad. “Well…if I’m going to be “lying” around I do believe I’d be happier “lying” whilst lying.

And with that Ramon set out to finish a story that started 26 years prior in Uncle Rogelio’s loft. The name of the story was “Cyborg Whores”.

This is the story…

“Sector seven one zero, column blue, 10 GB of gospel tracks, 10GB of Life Application Bible Preaching, 10GB of Christian Living program 562”.

The cold garbled voice ran thru the main programming room in sector seven one zero.

“Man oh man…I thought that girl last night was human, boy oh boy was I wrong Hector…I do believe she had at least 15gigabytes of bull rider programming!”

Dante Hightower spoke like a boy telling lies at recess.

“Hector! Hector! Hey man did you hear what I said?” cried Dante.

“Yes Dante…I just don’t care”. Hector continued speaking looking Dante directly in his bloodshot eyeballs.

“Listen Mr. boy oh boy, we have serious work here and I think you just lost that last upload in column blue”

“Dante have you been smoking again? You know it’s illegal on the job, if they test you and you come up dirty, you are dead”.

Dante Hightower was a class two-bio plasm engineer. He went from a class two womb to a class two schoolroom. He was 100 percent human and therefore 100 percent fallible.

His vices were numerous; gambling, drinking, whore-mongering, pot smoking, sodomy, snorkeling, golf and Bingo. Dante, a slave to his desires, was an uncharacteristic class two human.

Nonetheless, Mr. Hightower was an outstanding engineer and was applauded on more than one occasion for his expertise in Cyborg biology.

On this afternoon, however, high on Northern California sativa, Dante accidentally uploaded at least 10 gigabytes of Life Application bible and the ability to “preach it brother” into a cyborg call girl.


These half human half robots could suck and fuck with the precision of a brain surgeon, with all the lust of a seasoned porn queen and were programmed with the stamina of a bona fide alcoholic. All cyborg dong lickers were programmed to please their clients and collect their pay by any and all means necessary.

Dante hatched the idea of programming the cyber-fuckers with 20GB of Kung Fu.

This eliminated pimps, made collection of cash much easier and streamlined the earth’s oldest profession.

Cyborg call girls were not programmed to cry or laugh. They were unbiased, without feelings or opinions on any particular subject.

All the half human half machine hookers were programmed this way…all but one.

Jessica King

“Verily verily….” she hummed to herself as she rode an old Vietnamese importer/exporter. At this particular moment, however, old Dong Hu was only interested in exporting end of his business.

She laid her pale white, diamond laden, sausage fingers on his transparent rice paper skin and he delivered his load, duty-free, directly into her porthole.

Jessica Kings’ porthole accepted any and all vessels with or without bill of lading assuming the trick had the cash. Dong had cash, a small marshmallow vessel and a most satisfying deliverance. Unfortunately for Mr. Hu, Jessica wasn’t finished. The cyber whore wasn’t interested in orgasm; she had bigger fish to fry.



Dante Hightower had just received his government marijuana and hash. Each month the O.G.G., One Globe Government, would sent every consenting citizen an ounce of OG, O.G.G. and a gram of OG, O.G.G. hash. Most citizens consented and used the OG O.G.G. and global peace and nonchalance reigned.

Alcoholics were a thing of the past, AA meetings were ancient history, their coffee stained teeth and good intentions left molding in the underbelly of modern society. All the “sponsors” were gone…. reformed, power tripping, higher power loving alcoholics who would light the weary pathway to the 12 steps.

Sadly enough the 12 steps were gone…. just a high flying memory, like a ragged, wind torn amerikkkan flag left on a broken concrete porch. All the female alcoholics were sober now so all the male alcoholics had no reason to attend meetings.

Alcohol was illegal and no longer produced, bottled, or devilishly marketed to the masses. Nobody got drunk because there was nothing to drink. No DUIs or DUI classes or jack off DUI class instructors. No more men slaughtering other men with 8500 pound SUVs because they were drunk at lunchtime.

Blackouts were blackballed.

Disgruntled and dissatisfied husbands and wives were without that magic elixir that hid their disgust and disdain like a giant gown made from martini olives and gin dust.

Sadly enough, no skinny acne faced college freshman would get laid at one those unoriginal beer soaked frat parties. Never more…. never more.

Those poor bastards in the beginning of the 2nd millennium A.D.; they had no government grass crutches to support their collective insomnia.

When the bill was passed that made alcohol illegal and was properly endorsed, sanctioned and enforced, there were millions of people with a mean case of the bends.

These people had no hash haven to run to, no Chocolate Thai to dip their frightened feet in, no OG for the DTs. They all had to kick at the same time…. what a delirious mess.


It is what it is…or was what it was… In any case, Dante had his “medicine” and was ready to tackle life once again.


Meanwhile…back at the King Cave….


“Dong…do you know what happens when you die?” Jessica queried.

The rebuttal programming waited like that proverbial snake in the tree. Mr. Hu was confused…”I’m gonna be dead man?”

“You are soooo smart Dong baby.” Jessica hissed.

“Do you think your soul will go to heaven or hell?”

She asked as she sprayed herself clean with Windex and Fabreezed her portal.

“I’m gonna be dead man?” Dongs confusion morphed into fear. The old man thought maybe she had poisoned him and his heart or brain might explode right then and there.

“I’m dying?” Dong muttered.

The Cyborg whore coldly comforted him, “No, no honey…. don’t be afraid…you’re not dying”.

She continued preaching.

“WHEN you die… will you go to heaven or hell?”

She buckled her boot and gave her lips a hotshot of collagen.

Jesse’s lips were always faulty from day one; a programming error by Mr. Hightower (emphasis on High). Jesse (her nickname used only by her regular bible believing clientele) and her loose lips originally designed for sucking and licking, were always getting her into trouble.

As it has been clearly stated, Jesse wasn’t a normal hoe, she preached the Word of God from those floppy lips. It has been said many a time from many a pulpit on many o’ Sunday that” the Word is sharper than any two edged sword!”

Jesse had girded her slushy teeth wrappers around Mr. Hu’s marshmallow less than 20 minutes ago and now her bright red lumpy pillowcases ushered the holy words of God into Dong’s brain like so many tardy moviegoers into an overcrowded sweaty theater house.

The combination of poor English comprehension and post coitus gospel preaching whirled and warbled thru his shrimp stick frame; his slim carcass bent like an old lamppost inhaled the foreign cocktail of brimstone and salvation.

Jessica continued…

“If you were to stand before God on judgment day you would be found guilty of Adultery!” Jessica yelled out from the bathroom as she pissed out 2 red bulls.

She wiped and walking straight from the un-flushed toilet to her black leather bag pulled out a giant, gold and silver studded bible.

“This! … She slapped the bible with her fatty hand (the bible didn’t like that too much) Mr. Dong Hu is what you will be judged by, not meeeee or Mrs. Hu or the guy down at the dock; the Word, Dong Hu. The Word will judge you and you will be separated from God and burn in Hell forever”.

Silence fell over the hotel room almost like a courtroom before a criminal receives his sentence. Jessica gargled with peppermint Listerine…”Gulllby…” She gurgled as she spit into the white hotel sink…”Guilty Dong!

“All have sinned and come short of the glory of God and the wages of sin is death….eternal hell fire!”

Dong knew pain and torture. Dong was found guilty of some other crime he knew nothing about many years ago. He was tortured for 15 years.

“At least my punishment had a beginning and an ending, thought Mr. Hu, this girl is talking forever”. He was no longer confused but still scared of hell and her endless fury.

Jessica continued…

“But there is good news my friend…the gospel message!” Dong stood up as straight as he could. He looked like a crooked hairless blue-blooded pedigree way past his dog show runway glory.

Jessica checked the mirror and looking at herself, dead- eyed, entered the final phase of her program. “God came to earth as a man over 3000 years ago and died for your sins Dong… mine too!” “He was a perfect sacrifice, the Lamb of God without spot or blemish, and He died on a wooden cross for your sins!”.

Dong smiled….”So I am NOT going to burn?”

“If you died right now, well, yes, you would burn for eternity BUT if you admit your guilt to God and pray with me you will escape the fires of Hades!”

Mr. Dong Hu smelled the stink of sales pitch (he heard it every day, not in the same manner but it smelled the same).

Since it was the only way out of the room and he was getting very hungry, Dong consented and they knelt by the bed still soiled with useless seed and prayed in the name of God’s seed for deliverance of Mr. Hu’s soul.

As Jessica prayed out loud holding Dong’s only good hand (the other had been bitten and disfigured in pre OGG Vietnam) Dong’s mind, preoccupied with hot soup lunch, prayed a silent prayer; to never ever have to pray again.

Hey folks it’s Limerick Time!!!

Jessica King….Jus suck a King…Jess Suck ing…

What an unfortunate name,

What iron knee in her frame.

She was made half steel that was the deal.

Then Dante programmed her wrong;

She started preaching instead of just sucking dong.

All the men were satisfied, horrified and saved.

They got the gospel message when they were just trying to get laid.


She called her BFF.

Jessica: Praise God! Another soul saved…1500 credits on my RF chip…going to lunch!

Amy: Praise Jesus…I am just really going thru it Jessica…. I feel so bad about last night…We should have kicked that jerk’s head off…he needed the Lord…

Jessica: It is what it is….

Amy: I knew when I sat on his face that he would not receive the truth, like…he had that face you know? Like he was too smart for us or something.

Jessica: Yeah…. he was too smart for his own goodnesses

Amy: I love to hear you talk Jess you are so much smarter than me.

Jessica: So…. you wanna shop?

Amy: Oh my heavens you are like a mind reader.

Jessica: Something I wanted to tell you…now I have lost it…. let me plug in and check my file history.


Jessica reached for the USB cable and plugged in.


Jessica: OH! Right…ok Amy…. if you are going to shit at a jobsite you have to flush OK? And its better if neither one of us starts witnessing until we are all cleaned up.

Amy: So human of me, my bad was it black? Because I have been reeeally stressed lately and I smoked a little last night but it just made everything…like…. like…

Jessica: Worser?

Amy: YES!!! Oh my heavens you are my other half Jessica King. You like always know what to say and just how to…like…say it.

Jessica: So…shopping?

Amy: Can you come get me? I got too high last night and threw my keys out the window. The kids are with their Dad and I am like so…. so happy we met. I really needed the credits, I have to get these white boots…I don’t know…. Praise God.

Jessica: Oh my Lord I lost my keys out the window too but my site manager brought them to me, stupid Gentile I have worked on him so many times. Oh well many are called…

Amy: only a few are selected??

Jessica: Ummmm…yes…. sorry I am driving now…get ready Amy after shopping I have Women’s Bible Study.

Amy: Praise him, Jesus…holy…yes Lord…. yes

I just praise him…OK I’m getting ready…. yeah! Do I have time to smoke?

Jessica: I told you about drugs so many times. It’s in the Bible…sorcery? Thou better not sorcery, you play with magic

Amy: I’m gonna get burns I mean burned? Ok thanks…thanks Jess I will call you tomorrow

Jessica: WHAT? I am outside you are so letting the sorcery control you.

Amy: OH? Huh? Right, ok I’m getting ready…praise him. Hungry….


SEX HOLE PART 8: Grab your hairspray Bon Jovi! Meet my Gun Makers! Thor is my Grandpa x 18!

SEX HOLE PART 8: Grab your hairspray Bon Jovi! /Meet my Gun Makers! Thor is my Grandpa x 18!

Sunday: Had breakfast on an airplane bound for Southern California, the place where I was born and breaded, deep-fried and burned. I was worried I was going to be late to meet up with my close friend Jon Bon Jovi and his hairdo. We were slated to talk about his band’s new album, “What About Now?” and his somewhat newly found humanitarian costume he has been parading about so pompously. In 1984 his band, Bon Jovi (such an egomaniac) released their first album entitled’ “Bon Jovi” (ego whore), since then the group and Mr. Jon Bon Jovi have made paper millions.

I have known Jon for over 20 years now and I am surprised he still shows up for our meetings in L.A. as I verbally and philosophically have been bashing his music and hairdo since meeting number one back in the 80s. Jon is what I call “a little feller”, he might be 5 foot 2 inches tall without his 80s mullet that stretched him up above 5’10. He loves his tight clothes and Crest white strips.

Sunday (noon): Jon Bon Jovi’s security pats me down before I enter his hotel room which infuriated me but was wise on behalf of the guard. In 2010, I hit Jon with a pipe wrench when I found out he was not only consorting with the President but had been appointed to the White House Council for Community Solutions where he would be helping “underprivileged” (I detest that word) young people find jobs. So we sit in the living room of his hotel and he rants a bit about the new album which was, unfortunately for me, buzzing in the background as we spoke of matters both big and small. I pulled out my notepad from the last meeting we had, “Any luck on getting ahold of Roberto?” I asked.

“My brother, you ask me that every time we get together, Roberto Duran does NOT want to come out of retirement and fight ANYONE ok?”

Needless to say I was a bit perturbed, I went on to goad him about his lack of clout and “juice” in the world. Why couldn’t he get my childhood hero to “lace em up again” he plainly did not possess my superfluous mouthpiece or salesmanship abilities.

We moved along to new business. I opened with a passage from the Bible, Matthew 6:4, “That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly”.

Jon sat in his oversized chair smiling “Right on” he said as his little feet swayed back and forth, not quite touching the carpet or her fibers. I knew he was confused and I would have to translate.

“This Humanitarian thing you are doing Jon, must you have cameras around whilst you are giving your alms/ doing your thing?”

I continued, “It is grandiose my amigo, not to mention that you are flying your flag of altruism in the face of God’s holy word”.

He stopped swinging his feet. “WHAT?” “Dude, I spend hours and hours of my time with these people…why do it if it can’t be recorded? I mean for posterity sake, you know what I am saying?” he said as he ran his fingers thru his hair and checked his IPhone.

“Yes… I do know what you are saying and that is why we meet up every so often Jon, you need constant counsel and I am your humble yet opinionated “consigliere”

“I am not saying stop helping these poor kids but let’s drop the vanity, leave it at the door along with the hair sprayed egotism”

Jon was nodding his tiny head in agreement, “You are right D, I need to do these things privately and like it says in the Bible…I will be rewarded openly!” his face changed from one of introspection into a face full of glee and overly whitened teeth.

It was amazing to me that this man would be on any kind of “Council”; it was shameful of him to accept the President’s offer back in 2010. A council on grooming, yes, I would accept, anything else is and was absolutely futile.

“Great Jon, hey listen I really have to go, I’m meeting up with Big Kev from USA Today on the other side of town and I do not want to be late”.

We shook hands, did the “guy hug” and I told him I was very proud of him; the security guard chuckled a bit sensing my sarcasm. I reminded him of my other requests; Gap Band for my birthday party this year and music lessons for our oldest daughter, her teachers could be Bonnie Raitt for voice lessons or Raul Midon for guitar lessons…Oh and don’t forget we are going to get the A-Team back together as soon as we find “Face”. I gave him a priority schedule and a Word document listing my favors. Persistence beats resistance.

And with that I left Jon to ponder his evil ways and headed to the Westside.

Sunday (early evening): I make it my practice to stay in touch with my schoolyard friend Kevin Johnson who is a journalist (term used loosely) for the USA Today Newspaper (which barely qualifies as a purveyor of journalism). I am secretly jealous of his title; as I myself have had dreams of being a journalist. These dreams may have been well served in their proper place for if they were manifested I’m sure I would have been fired…and frequently fired. Who wants an overcrowded resume’ filled with short-lived dreams?

Big Kev walked into the bar on Santa Monica Blvd. and I shook his hand and we exchanged normal boring conversation for a few minutes. I opened the February 27, 2013 front page of “USA Today” which read “MEET THE GUNMAKERS”. He looked at me circumspectly, “What you like it…or should I get ready for a sermon dude?”

“Yes I did enjoy the information and Big Kevin made the front page, congratulations Broham!” I said.

I continued, “I just have some questions and I know you are more than qualified to answer them Kevin”

He sensed my tone was indeed condescending,

“Come on D…can’t we just chill and have a few drinks without the constant questioning and never ending tirades about the quality of my newspaper?”

I waved over to the bartender, “I will have a Bohemia and my dread locked friend here will have a…?”

“Cosmo!” I laughed a bit and at his order and pulled out my notepad once again.

I have never seen a man order a Cosmo, I guess I haven’t been out in some time; apparently the metrosexuals have made their place in society, especially in the bars on the Westside of L.A.

“The article explains how Stag Arms has built and I quote “a thriving business” on the AR-15 semiautomatic rifles…is that correct?”

Big Kev sighed, “Please don’t start with the lawyer jargon…”

“What lawyer jargon?”

“Is that correct…and I quote?” “Like this is a deposition or something, we are just having drinks!”

“Yes…I (pause for effect) am having one of the finest lagers ever produced in Mexico, you (pause for effect) are having a girly cocktail…I am sorry about my tone Kevin, I tend to nerd out on these topics, please FORGIVE me I have elementary school children and don’t want them to DIE in an AR-15 rifle shoot out whilst they are playing hopscotch!” I raised my voice like the lion-hearted man that I am.

Kevin swallowed his sissy drink, “Ok OK!”

I continued, “Stag is making a mint on AR-15 rifles and they have a 2 year back up of over 70,000 orders!”

“Correct D”

“Are they selling directly to the Houston Police force?”


“Are the back orders all private buyers?”


Sidenote: Why do we need to be so heavily armed dear friends? I am afraid I am a pacifist deep down inside and will not subscribe to the NRA hoopla and the rapidly increasing fervor for weapons that were NOT meant for hunting game but for shooting humans.

I pushed on…

“He seems very proud that his Stag rifle was used to end a gun fight involving the Houston police department, he keeps a note taped to his wall proving that his Stag rifle was used to shoot 3 three armed suspects, right?”


“Did you ask him if he has any notes taped to his wall showing the Stag AR-15 helping cuckoos slaughter youngsters and teachers?”

“Of course not!” Kevin started laughing.

“Not the time for laughing…do most hunters use AR-15 rifles to hunt game?”

“I doubt it, I didn’t ask”, he was holding back his giggle.

“So it’s safe to say that AR-15 rifles are used to shoot holes in human beings”

“Sure…whatever man…damn check out that one over there in the short shorts!”

“Whatever my ass!” “I should have known your shit rag of a newspaper would NEVER ask the important questions!” “The owner, the guy you quote at the end of YOUR front page article says and I quote “I’m all for making stuff safer. I have two children. I want to make the safest (products) possible” “How do you keep a straight face when you scribble this crap down in your notebook?”

“Stuff?” “Products?” “Why can’t he just say rifles?”

The sun was setting and Santa Monica Blvd was shrouded in gold and orange lights as the buildings casted their shadows over the psychedelic, smog infused light show.

Kevin was stoned and he ordered another round, “I knew you were going bring that up…I knew it when I wrote it and I knew it would be worse if it made the front page”.

“You got a follow up with this jack ass?”


“Ask him a few more questions…for me and my little girls”

“Dude… you are one in a million, so dramatic!”

“You may be correct, just get tough, go off the record Kev!”

“Ok D, just remember this isn’t your script to write, I do what my editor tells me to do that way I keep my job and you can keep coming down here acting like you are in the movies asking me ridiculous questions”. Kevin shook my hand and headed for the door.

I put away my notepad, finished my drink and said goodbye to Kev. I thought to myself and it sounded like Samuel Jackson for some odd reason, “This IS…MY script, mutha fucka and MY story, mutha fucka and I… am the HERO in MY mutha fuckin stories…little dread lock mutha fuckin sissy BOY!”

So I mumbled for a few minutes went back to my hotel called the family, wrote some crap poetry and fell asleep.

Monday: Woke with a terrible thirst.

Ah! The chalice of the devil,

muddy …water, hops in the rusted mug…Alas!

A beer in the morning!

So wretched a man am I to indulge in the brew whilst the witches are still simmering in their slumber;

far from their crockery and yellowing grins.

The idea is planted in the brain

of a bender around 430am,

A seed,

watered with the foulest language and

then sprouted in the morning toilet.


she comes to fruition in the mind around 9

30am whilst the hashed browns are snuggling with their eggs and sour toast,

waiting for coffee conversation.

The beer was so cold and I sipped her so slowly and perfectly that some would have thought me a madman.

Monday (afternoon): The afternoon beer buzz makes a person believe in dreams; the budding actress becomes Dunaway, the sophomore singer becomes Sinatra and the local fishmonger believes he is Valentino (wearing another man’s cologne).

I fell asleep on the Metro on my way to Downtown but awoke in time to hear a furious tail end of a strange conversation that must have been stretching from the Long Beach station to our current location.

I vaguely recall them speaking of the major motion picture, “The Wizard of Oz”. A name you cannot say without coaxing the darkest youth from his frowning.

The two ladies had been complaining about our beloved Oz flick because of one of the last scenes, where the Good Witch comes and tells Dorothy she could have went home all along if only she were to click her shoes 3 times and repeat the words “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home”.

“Oh hell no!” “That bitch coulda beeeeen told me that about the shoes an’ shit” one gal complained.

The other, like a tennis player with her retort perched upon the net’s line, “And she went through all that bullshit with the othah mutha fuckin witch and the mutha fuckin flying monkeys?”

“Oh hell no bitch!”

Their voices leaped thru the air with a strange grace, sliding up and down ghetto scales with all the proper changes in time signatures, moving through neck and hand gestures, they waltzed, skipped and sometimes spit.

The song of the two gals rose and fell as we clicked and clacked our way to downtown. They made pacts to never watch that movie ever again.

I got off on the downtown exit and handled my business, arranged a rental car for my drive home and fell asleep in the hotel bar, woke up, went to my room and went to sleep, again.

Tuesday: Dear Diary…I guess one could say this is a diary of sorts, but I wouldn’t be the one to say that. This isn’t a diary simply for the fact that diaries are non-fiction and these writings my dear sweet readers are most definitely bullshit.

The sweet people at Avis car rental lent me a 2013 Ford Focus to drive back to San Francisco from the smog filled, traffic laden plastic world of hipsters that is Los Angeles and I mean that in a good way. In order to cut through the thick wooly blanket of boredom that comes with any six-hour drive, I decided to riff on the Motown double CD by the Master Blaster that is and was Stevie Wonder.

The idea was to write in my head as each track would come and then go. No rules bro, just jamming!

I pulled the Focus onto the 5 freeway headed north and plated the first track on the album, it was Love’s in Need of Love Today. Stevie starts by saying that he is our friendly announcer and he has some serious news to share with us, when I say “us” I mean the Focus and I.

He recorded the album in Hollywood (1975-76) and in the Bay area, which was super dope as I was traveling in between these two areas of California. He also recorded some of the album in New York just in case anyone is back checking my research, which I am quite sure “they” are not.

So with the musical stars aligned per say, I began my ranting.

Love IS in need of love today as it was in 1975, 7 out of 10 Americans don’t like or hate their jobs and since we spend a large majority of our lives on earth working it’s a fair assumption to conclude that most of us Americans are NOT happy.

The record sales of anti-depressants and opiates are the wet cement cooling in the wind of my one-man debate.

The government has not changed and we are all in debt in the same way that a man drowns in a storm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

There are no love songs. Yes, sweet reader, there are a mountain of songs about mounting each other like beasts in an unknown club somewhere whilst sipping champagne with women with over-sized bubble butts, BUT there are no love songs according to the Daniel Dicktionary (emphasis on Dick).

Oh Stevie… Love is lost my friend and in need of GPS and of course in need of more love.

The next track was “Have a Talk with God” and it is filled with wisdom, however, when it comes to Stevie’s spiritual and lyrical references its hard to tell what the hell he is referring to.

The songs on the album are so infectious that I spent more of my time singing than riffing on their respective topics. I skipped a few tracks; “Pastime Paradise”, as we all know, Koolio has forever tainted Stevie’s track with his version and I refuse to play that song as an informal boycott to “Gangstas Paradise”.

I also skipped “Saturn”, the lyrics are so awful I can’t bring myself to sit through them. I mean I can’t even give you an example, as his writing would then become my writing and I can’t have that my dear sweet readers. Just Google the lyrics and you will be not only laughing but in agreement with your humble literary manservant.

Ok… here is one way I can let you smell the lyrical dung heap with out staining my silver page pan. He talks about living on Saturn; people live to 205 years old, there are rainbows and orange snowflakes, people can fly and are constantly smiling on Saturn. He makes a comment regarding the air quality claiming it is much better than here on Earth as well. He keeps reiterating the fact that there is no violence or hatred on Saturn, everyone is happy in complete opposition to the “unhappy” people on Earth!

Someone should have spoke with Steve before he released this turd; I will only spend a small amount of time on this topic. Each year on Earth it takes 365 days to revolve on it’s axis around the Sun, when this happens we all get cake and cards.

It takes Saturn 29 and a half years to make one rotation around the sun, so if you can miraculously live on Saturn for one year(29.5 years) you will celebrating your birthday song once every 29.5 years and they don’t have the Cheesecake Factory there to help you and your friends welcome another year of life.

I must say if you lasted (which scientifically speaking is impossible Stevie) for 29.5 years on a planet where the normal temperature is 306 degrees Fahrenheit and winds clocking 1100 miles per hour you would be as my L.A. friends would say “ super stoked”.

Not to mention there is no television, pornography or “smart” phones, most of you bastards won’t even read up until this point of this writing, what in the Saturn makes you think you could last on any planet without modern conveniences? The only point I can agree upon is that we here on Earth are unhappy.

But I digress.

Back to the road trip my sweet reader.

There were so many giant freeway signs up and down the 5 Freeway and none of them offered a tiny slice of comfort. One in particular caught my eye; it was a sign for a mortgage lender. Mortgage is French word meaning “dead pledge”, strange etymology on that one…anyways. The sign read: “Give us a call and we will inform you of our plans to own your home!”

Talk about a Freudian slip.

We need more encouraging freeway signs, something that will lift the spirits of the weary traveler not signs that remind him of the hole he is in.

I will volunteer to write the text if someone will put up the cash for the sign and running time. “If you are alive then celebrate life, you beat all the other sperm to the egg some time ago, meditate on that victory, out of thousands of sperm you swam the fastest…forget about your troubles and live”. We could be easier on our selves and just put up Jack Johnson lyrics and let it go.

I was on the northbound 280 around 5pm when the “signs” idea left me and was replaced with the manic feelings of incompletion. I needed to finish my book and my script but I have/had no formula to my psychosis and I can’t afford an editor until I make some bread first.

I walked into the house around 530 p.m. it was so quiet that I tarried awhile in the living room and resumed the reading of my new “used” copy of Villa Incognito by Mr. Tom Robbins of Seattle and New York Times bestseller fame. I swear nine dollars was well spent, plenty of pleasure, laughs and inspiration (if that word still exists).

My lady came home from her workhouse in a heap of nerves, she was lapping the room and lapping the table before she sat down and pulled out her research on the wild turkeys that somehow infiltrated her dear sweet Antioch, California. “Hey Angelitas, where is my sugar? Da me un beso!”

I have stated previously that I have been gainfully employed as a tiger trainer for the last 5 years…SHE is said tiger. My motto is “Tread lightly and carry a thick whip!” Imagine a female tiger that speaks English, drinks vodka and is handy with a blade, if it weren’t for my god-like dexterity I may be missing a limb. Needless to say, it’s impossible to find a Hallmark card that can encapsulate the comings and goings in our strange universe of love. Back to La Tigra…

She stopped pacing (get the whip) stared at me for awhile (get the fucking whip) then out of character, gave me that smile that always kills me dead in my sneakers. I put the whip away. Her lips are the softest I have ever kissed and I used to work the kissing booth at the San Francisco Zoo. Her lips are like small baby goose feather pillows that some nut would make for the ultimate dollhouse bedroom set and her breath is definitely, at least, two notches above the Orangutan.

So we kiss and start to plan the strategies for the rest of the night. We ended up playing Monopoly, and she beat me handily, we ate some leftover pasta brushed our teeth and waddled off to bed.

Wednesday: Woke up with thoughts of debt dangling in my head but I was determined to be stress free and pleasant. Three days until Marvel Comics releases their new book about the end times called “The Age of Ultron”. That idea calmed me a bit and sent me into my reading socks and cup of coffee. I believe the writer should read far more than he/she writes. So I crack one of the three books I am reading now days, it’s a history book dealing with the genetic makeup and location of the “Mexican” from the 1500s on the Iberian Peninsula (modern day Spain) clear to the year 2000 in the United States it’s called

Mexicanos ” by Manuel G. Gonzales.

Wednesday (Lunchtime): Had lunch with my good pal Chucho a homeless man I have befriended over the years. We go to lunch once a month, if he shows and we speak on all topics from world economics and politics to literature and religion. Chucho was an All-State champion wrestler and earned his bachelors’ of science degree, he was very intelligent and engaging. We met on the boycott line at Walgreens on Van Ness Ave 5 years ago and have been friends since.

He was in a bad mood because he didn’t get a job he had applied for at SFSU as a janitor. Usually we philosophize our way out of the doldrums but this day was different than the others and we could not quell his sorrow. So I bought him and I a grape soda and we ate our lunch in silence. I was sad for Chucho, he managed to get clean and sober on the streets without the convenience of a home to get his act together not to mention he was using public transportation to get to meetings and meet with his sponsor.

I know plenty of people that can’t get 3 years clean with all the modern luxuries of life and a bank account that doesn’t resemble the eyes of an owl. Bravo Chucho! We need more human beings like Chucho in this world.

Thursday: Barely made it, no comment.

Friday: Same shit

Saturday (Noonish): Watched the major motion picture “The Avengers” as I was prepping myself for the comic book release of the Age of Ultron. Not too many people know this but I am related to Thor. My great-grandmother was 1/16 Norwegian, which makes me 1/128th Norwegian and blood related to a god (small kine).

For this tale we need to go back to 12th century Norway, Bergen, Norway, and a fishing town.

Christianity had taken hold only 100 years earlier and folks were beginning to unglue themselves from the oily residue of paganism and were collectively learning to “walk in the light”. My 18th generation (or if you prefer Grandma18)

Grandma Ethel was a barmaid in a local tavern near the fish market. The town was buzzing over the shortage of fish and they tumbled into Ethel’s barroom yelling and screaming for steins of beer.

The bar was dimly lit with candles as the sun had made her way to meet the moon for that one last goodbye wink leaving the Earth dark and lively. The smell in the bar was earthy; the odor of the fishmonger’s dry sweat and the gambler’s lucky paw, the fingernails of the working man and the faint perfume of the working girl.

Ethel and her barmaids went to work straight away serving up sudsy conversation and smiling at the drunkard’s pinch. No one complained about working conditions in those days, as there were no other conditions to compare them to. The folks, back in those days, were indeed a tougher, more calloused breed of humans.

Now it was true that the city was facing famine if something didn’t change and all those present in the bar knew it, some spoke boldly about other propositions while others looked for the answer in the bottom of their steins, still others looked to their new found faith to deliver them from famine.

“If Thor and Odin would come back they would settle this matter for us” cried one of the fishermen. “Do not speak that name, we are Christians now and we must petition our God for help in times of need” answered the local deputy sheriff.

There ensued a fistfight of epic proportions, which gave Ethel some time to imbibe in the spirits herself.

Around midnight the fighting cooled and all the countrymen made peace, hugging and kissing one another as they guzzled beer and sang Old Norse folksongs.

It was just past one in the morning when Leif came in with his herbal tea bottle. Leif had found psychedelic mushroom patches in the valley near the barnyard and commenced to develop his tinctures a few years ago.

Ethel was feeling the effects of four or five (she couldn’t remember) steins of beer and she welcomed Leif with open arms and a quivering clitoris. “Welcome Leif, will you care for a beer?” Leif smiled precariously as Ethel had beaten him with an empty beer stein last week when he could not pay his tab.

“Yes Ethel that would be nice” Ethel brought him the beer and asked him about his teas. “What do ya feel when you drink these teas you make Leif?”

“Oh my dear sweet Ethel, I cannot describe the feeling just as neither you nor I can describe love or hate or bewilderment” “You must try some with me one day!”

Ethel looked at him circumspectly. “Yes maybe one day” her sex drive began to rustle.

Leif went back to the outhouse to do his business, as he was walking out he saw Helga the barmaid tapping another keg of beer. When she put the keg down on the wagon Leif snuck around the back and poured his entire bottle of mushroom tea into the tapped keg, Helga came back and plugged the keg before rolling it into the barroom. “Now she will know, now they will all know how it feels to be free!” Leif thought to himself.

The party continued in the barroom well into the night after the “special” keg was tapped the party changed drastically.

Ethel was feeling strange, more than strange, her barroom became fuzzy, the Vikings in the oil paintings began to scream and the rain fell as the ship breeched the stormy sea. She started singing an old folksong and the “baked” crowd began to sing along… that was when Ethel first started to laugh. She laughed hysterically no other Norwegian barmaid has ever laughed so impetuously in the all of ages before her. Ethel was only 22 years old at the time but her sexual appetites were that of a large man and her clitoris was like a swollen cherry especially with the “special” beer.

The fishermen, the hunters and the gamblers laughed. The working men laughed as they mounted the working girls who were also indulging in never ending orgasmic laughter.

Never did a Norwegian seaport saloon see so much foolishness as it did that night. One of the politicians proposed the townspeople “take a break from Christianity for the night” and get back to their pagan roots. He stood on the bar, “Here now listen town folk, let us caste aside the ever tightening restraints of the Trinity and call upon Thor and Odin to help us in our time of need!”

“Yeah!” they all screamed.

Leif produced the key to the room that held the special horn that was needed to call said gods.

They all went outside the bar near the dock laughing and drinking. They sounded the alarm; they blew the horn ad infinity they woke the gods from their slumber.

At once Odin and Thor appeared in the bar demanding beer and explanations.

Ethel brought them two steins of beer, Thor’s mighty paw touched Ethel’s hand and sent spasm though her back and in between her legs. The mushroom tea had her in its clutches swaying her like a wild demonic babysitter swinging her back and forth.

The townspeople explained the situation to Thor and he threw down two more pitchers of beer and ran out and dove into the freezing waters. He worked out things fairly quickly with Neptune and was out of the water looking for dry clothes when he saw Ethel coming out of the outhouse. She saw him there bare-chested and wet under the moon glow and her clitoris almost jumped out of her granny panties.

The moon and the tea had her and so did Thor. He came to know her in the biblical sense of the word and they had twins; one boy and one girl. The girl was my great, great, great etc. 17th generation grandmother.

That is how I am related to Thor. The blood of a god runs through my veins and I feel the Norse power in my bones especially when confronted by evil powers.

Stay tuned Sex Hole addicts…more to come.