Hell, I Can Make It Anywhere, Even If I Am A Fuck Up

In the world of Politics and Hollywood, you're confronted with a mass majority of liars and thieves. I like to pride myself on being a fairly honest type of person.

In the world of Politics and Hollywood, those who make it are generally successful and well off. I work in an office and have been running on a debt treadmill for years.

To be successful and well off, you've got to be a liar and a thief. Of course, just because all successful people are thieves doesn't mean all thieves are successful. I have family members who can attest to this; you've got to be a smart thief.

I'm not sitting here telling you I want to be rich and famous; I'm not so vain or greedy. But, I AM telling you that I want to be rich and famous. Because I hate working, I've chosen writing as my craft, and motherfucker I better be paid if I'm not working.

I could see myself as a miser. I'm already an antisocial loner - unless I'm drinking, when I magically transform into someone who can tolerate and indeed enjoy the company of others - I might as well have the big house and the money bin. It really doesn't take all that much to make me happy. I'd see the world, buy a few Amoeba's worth of CDs and DVDs, take up every hobby under the sun that doesn't involve potential bodily harm. What I'm really saying is: round-the-clock hookers. Fuck 'em, feed 'em, and throw 'em out the fuckin' mansion! Am I right, Mothers Against Drunk Driving? Damn skippy I'm right.

Of course, I could also see myself as a happily married man who comes out of his hateful bitter cocoon and starts smelling the fucking roses. In which case, I'll probably relish small talk, I'll be the first one to greet a co-worker as we pass in the halls (as opposed to being the first one to avoid eye contact and the second one to mumble a monosyllabic retort), and I'd stop praying for my morning commuter bus to flip over on its side so I can finally see if those emergency windows really eject outward when you pull the red levers like the directions say.

As I was running today, a cute girl on a bike smiled and waved as she passed me. It doesn't take much to make me happy; a fat slob sweating through his beard and dark blue tank top while wearing over-sized headphones connected to the world's smallest iPod.

More than anything, I just crave excitement. I'm dead tired all fucking day until 11pm rolls around, then try to get me to fall asleep! I'm writing on here like a ninny when I probably should've went to bed an hour ago. It's just so hard when you feel like it's never going to change. This is your life for the next howevermany years. There's no regret, there's only morosity. I made my bed, and it's not the worst bed in the world, but the fucking matress sags in the middle and there's a pee stain next to the coil that pokes me in my dick. I'm not sleeping on hot coals or fire ants, but it's a far cry from memory foam and a down comforter.

You eventually have to realize what you are and fuck the delusions. Is it too late to run away to Hawaii and take up surfing?

The whores approached Palace Defcon like Moonlight Jehovah's Witnesses and Captain Barnabas could never say no to the gospel. On the rolling hills of Malibu, or wherever the hell they have rolling hills and swanky mansions, Palace Defcon was always open to the public, even when Captain Barnabas wasn't around. Often he wasn't, soberly tiring of the phony hangers-on when he dropped the drink from his hand. But, when he WAS around, no one could be more beloved. Or more loathed, depending on his mood at the time.

Captain Barnabas, or C.B., or just Captain, Cap, Barnabas, Barny, or Barnables, hired his best friend Aaron Thompson to do all the things that needed to be done, but which he couldn't be bothered with in the slightest. It wasn't a hard job - keep the alcohol and food stocked to the gills, order things as requested, facilitate buxom rendezvous with local talent - and indeed Aaron often had a better time with the lifestyle than Barnables ever could. Really, the only hazard that came along was dealing with C.B.'s absurd and often confrontational demeanor.

Of course, when sober, Captain Barnabas was now known by only the closest of acquaintances as Kurt Roswell, author of the new century's most popular double-trilogy: "Dark Horse, Avenger of Awesomeness." Written over a decade prior as a satirical send-up of fantasy and sci-fi aficionados, it was quickly assumed by the masses as a straight tale of redemption and adventure. Five more books followed, each generating greater fanfare than the last, until finally "Dark Horse, The Final Countdown," saw the supposedly immortal hero killed by the Sword Of Irony. The audience saw this as an intolerable stab to the back; book signings swiftly turned into mobbish burning rituals; but at this point the first four films were already completed and Kurt Roswell had more money than he could ever dare to spend. A series of successful investment deals only made him more stable in his wealth, to the public's chagrin, where in Middle America his books were banned in libraries, where among the Literati he was a total sellout, and in media circles he was the author who looked down on his erstwhile fans.

But he could throw one fuck of a party, and if the locals can appreciate anything, it's free booze in a swanky building with a pool AND a grotto. So, Kurt grew a massive beard, started eating nothing but Crazy Bread, and walked around wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. His graying chest hair particularly stood out on his bronzed skin. Tonight, the party was much more low-key. The aforementioned whores would see to liven that up a bit.

Aaron asked, "Red-head or blonde?" like a grocer would ask what type of bag he wished his groceries to be stocked. The Captain rubbed his chin and took a pull from a bottle of rum. "Why not both?" "An excellent choice. Will you be needing the Viagra tonight?" "Leave it next to my mirror; I HAVE been drinking ..."