uses for a blog

so I wake up this morning and the first thing that pops into my head are a series of thoughts about what I can and should post on this blog. However, I also realize that I am far too busy to actually make any new content, and so this sudden excitement was tempered by a fear that the whole thing would whither and die before it actually gets off the ground; two posts in the span of an hour and a half and then dead- thats a record even for me.

cut to 5 seconds later, as I am digging through my boxes of shit looking for my winter gloves (because it is fucking cold already. fuck the midwest), and I stumble on a stack of papers from my undergrad days back at UCR, when I was stoned most of the time and had a limitless supply of creative energy. Of course I was entirely unaware of it at the time, but I was just aware enough to save all the shit I committed to paper.

and indeed, most of it is shit, but there are a few gems. this made me laugh: a scene entitled "Sweet Potato Pie" that in fact was part of a larger series of scenes of two mobsters, J and S, who spend most of their time honing their use of the word 'fuck'. It starts out slow, but picks up towards the end; I copied it pretty much directly from the paper. I freely admit that this was me trying to rip off QT, but imitation and flattery and all that jazz. Watch out for the reference to a particular turn-of-the-century UPN reality tv show.

i will haphazardly continue what will hereby be called the 'UCR archive project' by typing up most of the stuff in this stack of paper when I dont have anything new and interesting to say for this blog.



Scene 3: Sweet Potato Pie

two mobsters at a bar

J: Son of a bitch.
S: What?
J: Did you see what Smith did yesterday?
S: No, I was away... at that thing
J: Shit, man, you wouldn't have believed it
S: What happened?
J: Well, you know Johnny the Neck, right?
S: The big fella, right?
J: Yeah, huge motherfucker. Motherfucker drowns out the sun, motherfucker makes the fucking Locksmith look like Betty fucking Boop.
S: Yeah, I know him.
J: The motherfucker cut.
S: What?
J: He cut. In line.
S: What?
J: And our old pal Mr. Smith didn't like it none too much.
S: What the hell are you talking about?
J: You know Mr. Smith, right?
S: Yeah, that short prick.
J: Prick?
S: yeah, that fucking miniature motherfucker with the ego problem.
J: I hadn't noticed
S:Hadn't noticed? Fucker has a short man's complex extraordinare. Fucker makes Napoleon look like a sedated Brawny Man.
J: Hmm...
S: The fucker has screwed me over too many times to count. 'member that job I had up in Vermont? I was all set up, ready to work, and that fucking shitzu decides to have a parade and the cops get spooked and I am stuck, plucked and fucked in Nowhere, New England.
J: D'ya do anything?
S: What the fuck could I do? Motherfucker is untouchable, you know that.
J: Fucker could have an accident.
S: Yeah, well... but anyway, continue.
J: Where was I?
S: Betty fucking Boop
J: Oh yeah. So our Mr. Smith, as you have so delicately pointed out, has a bit of an attitude problem, right?
S: A-fucking-men
J: Well, last night, some fucking bigshot had some sort of gala event at some fucking place or other, but, well, the place wasn't 'equpped', let's say, to handle the number of guests.
S: I dont follow
J: 250 people, 1 fucking toilet
S: Ouch.
J: Well, Johnny the neck decided this would be a nice night to come down with the runs.
S: Fuck
J: Yeah. Huge fucking line outside the toilet...
S: And he cut.
J: Bingo.
S: Fuck.
J: No, it gets worse.
S: Go on.
J: Now Mr. Smith, he's waiting in line, right? But fucking Johnny has fucking gastrointestinal problems. This guys' a fucking bear, he shits fucking mountains. He's a fucking volcano, entire fucking cities get lost under...
S: I get the idea, go on.
J: Yeah, so he don't give a fuck about the line, he fucking walks right up to the toilet.
S: So...
J: So Mr. Smith goes ape shit. You seen those Leprochaun movies?
S: Some...
J: Well, so Mr. Smith gets his bodygaurd guys to hold the fucker down, on the floor like. Now Johnny, despite being such a mammoth motherfucker, he knows he can't touch Mr. Smith, so he tries to explain about his, you know, personal problem, but fucking Smith don't take none of it. He jumps right on to Johnny's big fucking gut and starts stomping him.
S: Oh fuck.
J: You dont know the half of it. Johnny the Neck is fucking laying there, full to choking with watery shit, being held down by a couple of big bodyguard types with a fucking wood nymph prancing on his stomach.
S: What happened?
J: What'ya think? Johnny fucking hemorraged and died right fucking there.
S: Fuck
J: But not before practically exploding all over the fucking place
S: Oh shit.
J: Yeah, thats about right. Fucker couldn't hold it, and it fucking bolted outta him. I mean, like, supersonic. There was a good 10 foot blast radius, it was horrible.
S: Fuck, thats sick, man
J: Yeah, well, Mr. Smith got soaked, along with his girls, his guards, everyone. It was awful.
S: So what did Smith do?
J: Well, see, Johnny fucking died on him before he could take his revenge or whatever, so he left the party seriously pissed off.
S: So? Fuck him, he deserved it.
J: No, see, here's my problem- there's a reason Johnny got the runs.
S: Ah, thats why I'm here, huh?
J: Yeah. See, I, well, ya know, Johnny the Neck, he likes his sweets, you know...
S: Know? The guy was a fucking black hole- stuff goes in and it doesn't...
J: Well, it fucking came out this time. But see, Johnny had a sweet tooth the size of Switzerland, and ya know, the fucker was a workaholic, had no family or nothing else. He was a hell of a guy, you know...
S: Yeah, well...
J: And, ya know... aw, fuck it. I made him a sweet potato pie.
S: Aww, shit, you're breaking my heart here...
J: Fuck you. See, but Johnny the fucking Neck was seriously fucking allergic to sweet potato pie.
S: ... you're shitting me.
J: Fucking-a I am. He seriously got fucked up from that pie.
S: Then why'd he eat it?
J: How the fuck was he supposed to know better? Ain't nobody cared enough to bake him a fucking sweet potato pie before!
S: Never?
J: Who the fuck is going to make a fucker named Johnny the fucking Neck a sweet fucking potato pie?
S: You did, you fucking asshole!
J: Fuck you! So you see why I'm in such serious shit now?
S: Not yet, no...
J: Christ on a fucking moped, man, fucking Smith is a wrathful motherfucker, you know that. he is probably steaming fucking mad right now, and he is just looking for an outlet for his anger. If he finds out that the assload of shit that got sprayed all over him was on account of my fucking sweet potato pie, I'm a dead fucking donkey.
S: Shit, man, how are they gonna know that it was your sweet potato pie?
J: Cuz I'm the fucking baker, man, the family fucking baker! Jimmy the fucking Baker, that's my fucking name, man!
S: Jesus, calm down
J: Fuck you, calm down. You want a pie, you fucking come to me, goddamnit! Of course they know I made that pie!
S: Well, then, a fucking better question: how are they gonna know it was on account of sweet potato pie at all? I mean, fuck, man, it's all just shit, right?
J: Well... I dont fucking know...
S: For fucks sake, man, you aint got shit to worry about. You walked out a shit storm cleaner than a nun's sheets. Consider yourself lucky.