what it be, Bitches!

I’ve been looking through my computer and I found some old writing of mine. I wanted to post it. I will explain the context for each piece then present it.

These first three were written for my friend’s girlfriend who was taking a class on Soviet culture and history. Here they are in their entirety – unedited.

Since You’ve Been Gone

By Kelly Clarkson

Radicals are whack. I know it, you know it, they know…fuck, we all know it. If you’re a radical, chill the fuck out. They’re always like: “let’s be crazy,” but if they were like “let’s be calm” then we’d probably be more productive. Lenin was like: “shit dude, these radicals are all up in my shit, always like: ‘we should have emotion’ and shit.” But we know that the radicals were into more than emotion, like the creation of a giant wind turbine that would power their giant stinky feet smell creator, with which they were planning to take over the world. Trotsky was really into the smell of foot¹ and so it’s a good thing that the radicals didn’t win over, because then the cold war might have been the fight against Athlete’s Foot. Tinactin probably would have made a killing. Plus if the radicals won then we couldn’t make all those awesome jokes/novels about the monotony and sameness of communist culture. All them radicals were really into making communism plausible for people, but we all know that’s not what bolshevism was all about, rather it was the hokey-pokey. So let’s shake it all about and realize that radicals are whack and we should invest in Boom! Tough Actin’ Tinactin.

1: Common Knowledge, dumbass.

Pieces of Me

By Ashlee Simpson

What’s up with this Soviet Shit? I mean seriously. They’re always like; “we’re the utopian society” but they’re not. Like, we all know that. C’mon how can everybody be equal. If everybody works the same hardness then maybe it works logically, but when is that gonna happen, maybe on Mars. Plus, if their shit works then you just have a bunch of drones working like fucking bees. For shits and giggles let’s pretend that Lenin’s dream came true and the flying lion chased him off a cliff, then he sprouted wings and flew into the deep sky. Now let’s pretend that his wishes and desires were also met. Now we’re left with a series of like-thinking worker bees and a flying lion. Nobody wants that. I mean come on. If Trotsky had his shit rollin’ maybe the utopia would look like this: <_>:}~-=, but more likely it would be a bunch of drones just like in Lenin’s utopia only this time they’d have really cool facial hair. Dude, wouldn’t it have been cool if we had gotten the Jew in office. Man, if things had only turned out differently…

Cool

By Gwen Stefani

Trotsky and Lenin just don’t mix, they’re like oil and baking soda. Lenin would be the baking soda because he’s a crusty old man, and Trotsky is like the oil because he’s a slippery Jew. Stalin I guess would be ranch dressing because that always reminds me of nationalism, I would say he’s Russian dressing, but there is no Georgian dressing and I want to be accurate. If you were making a list of people to invite to a party you would have to choose between Lenin and Trotsky. Plus they would probably determine the rest of your party, like I wouldn’t invite Hitler if you were inviting Trotsky for the obvious reasons… their facial hair would battle. Also I would probably not invite either of the Hilton sisters if Lenin were coming because you know that Lenin would be all up in their shit trying to get them to make out. Come to think of it, don’t invite the Olson twins either. But if you invite Stalin, you have to invite Tara Reid the two are like bread and butter: smooth and starchy. To quote amazing lyricist: Ghostface Killah: “I ain’t dead but nine times, bitch/ that’s why they call me fat cat, cuz I’m rich.”² Back to the article at hand. Is it at the right or left? Right? Now it’s in the left. Good try though. Trotsky was never good at magic, which is ironic because he is a sleazy Jew. Lenin on the other hand knew such tricks as: “All right now turn around,” “The nickel behind the ear,” and “Now there’s no penis in your vagina, now there is!” Mastering magic is how Lenin got his grasp on USSR. That’s why Trotsky should have invested in vinegar, at least he would have gone well on salad.

This next piece is a paper I wrote to help my girlfriend finish up her homework. Her assignment was to write about the urban geography of Atlanta:

I like boobies. I like to rub them on my tummy. I want their milky goodness to cover me in yummy liquid. That’s also how I feel about Atlanta. And maps of it.

Maps are split into fun parts. Much like the booby. There is the full fun-bag-‘o’-fat. That is like the metropolitan area and suburbs. Sometimes there is a mole on the booby. I like that. It makes me feel like there is a whole new nipple. That would be something like a significant suburb, like Douglasville. The Appalachian trail is like the cleavage. Though they act as opposites in terms of up’n’down, they both are separators from the other metropolitan area. In this case it is the boring stuff that is in Tennessee and Alabama. So, it’s like the shitty booby. Because, there is always one booby that is shittier than the other. That is what I call the Tennesee-Alabama booby.

The areola is the metropolitan area. It’s beautiful, you can go around it and around it, and it just makes the city thrive.

Then the nipple. The city center. The thriving capital. With it’s high skyscrapers/pointy chilliness/horniness. And the more you play with the entire city area, the better the city center does. Just like a nipple. Just like a booby. Because I like boobies. And I like Atlanta. Or as I like to call it: The Dirty Tits of the South.

This was a piece I wrote while in Toronto and then attempted to send to McSweeneys:

LETTER FROM A 5^TH GRADE ELIOT SPITZER TO HIS TEACHER

I am sorry I cheated on your vocabulary test, Mrs. Bunglesworth. As self-appointed class monitor, I should have known better. In the past two quarters I have single handedly implemented the “Super-Spying-Catch-the-Cheaters Initiative,” where we have faux students paid to sit in class and just watch for cheaters. In my term as class monitor cheating has decreased by 85%.

It was only through my deep investigation that we were able to discover that the cheating ring of our 5^th grade class was bigger than we could have ever imagined. 6^th and 7^th grader’s former tests were being shipped across the playground for large sums of money. Sometimes as much as one full week’s lunch allowance.

It was during my investigation that I became behind on my studying. I’m sorry to say, Mrs. Bunglesworth, that by test day I was unaware of the definitions of the words; advent, meticulous, and steadfast. In order to keep my reputation as a strait G+ student I utilized my connections to the cheating-black-playground and procured a copy of this week’s test from a 7^th grader who has kept all of her tests since 3^rd grade. It cost me 3 weeks allowance to have the answers read to me via a very quiet baby monitor stolen from the 7^th grader’s mom. That was okay, as I had stopped eating lunch to work full time on my investigation.

Even though I knew it was wrong at the time, I was unable to resist the satisfaction of getting 100% on your vocab test. I can only ask that in the advent of another quarter of school you keep in mind my meticulous work in the field of cheating. If you remain steadfast in your decision I will understand, but I hope you recognize my ability to use vocab words correctly in sentences.

This was a piece I wrote originally was going to post on my travel blog when I was in L.A. but decided against it. Not sure why:

I couldn’t help myself. I went and saw “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.” It sucked and was good in all the ways that I thought it would be, and you can imagine what that means, so I won’t bore you with my review. Near the end, Michael Cera fingers Kat Williams. After he fingers her, he pulls his hand out of her pants and pulls the gum out of his mouth and then puts it back in her mouth. His hand was not gooey. In any way. She just zipped up her pants and they got on with their lives. I was so pissed off.

Everyday I wake up and head out of my room with my beard still dripping water because I’m too lazy to fully dry it. My shirt; the same one I wore yesterday because the more shirts I wear the more shirts I have to wash. My athletic shorts pulled out of the pile of dirty clothes I keep next to my bed. Across the hall is a girl who always seems to leave her room at the same time as me. She has so much make up on that I have no idea what her natural ethnicity is. I think she might be Asian. Everyday I walk by this costume shop where the mannequins all have huge fake boobs. I guess you just have to provide an accurate depiction of your customer base.

I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of not seeing the gooey gross parts. I’m tired of the maximizing of potential.

I hate shitting after a night of eating jalapeno filled burritos. I hate the smell of my own cum. I hate the feeling when someone’s grinding with you and your foreskin rolls back all painful-like. I love biting into a juicy mango and having it all go into my mouth.

You know how you can’t feel good unless you’ve felt bad. Without the bad, you have nothing to compare it to. Nowadays I don’t see feeling bad, people are constantly showing the best part about themselves, and suddenly nothing feels that good. Everything just feels… blah. That’s why we should all show are worst parts. We should all minimize our potential. If we all try for a constant of bad, then the good parts feel like the gemstones that they are, instead of kidney stones.

This is another entry I started in L.A. but never finished:

You see a lot of people walking down the walk of fame, and you can tell a lot about them based on what they are taking pictures of. There’s the fat guy whose wife is begrudgingly taking a picture of him dopely smiling over the Simpsons’ star. There’s the family trying to convince the father to take a picture near the Chevy Chase star while he tries to downplay his love for the star of the National Lampoon adventure movies. There’s the guy with oversized sunglasses, faux-hawk and Abercrombie and Fitch shirt kneeled down like a member of LFO over the Nicholas Cage star. There’s the group of Japanese tourists taking pictures of the Johnny Depp star, the Tom Cruise star, the Michael J. Fox, the Oprah Winfrey star, the big billboard, etc.

Here’s another piece that got rejected by McSweeney’s:

Dear Member of the Pen 15 Club,

We regret to inform you that your membership has expired. In order to rejoin we will need proof that you are still an active member. We have included a prepaid envelope for you to mail back a picture of your arm which should still have “Pen 15″ written on it. We would also like you to include a sample of some of your latest documents on which you have written “Pen 15.” Copies are accepted, though originals are preferred. With the renewing of your membership you will be sent a card allowing you to enter the secret “Pen 15 club” meetings. Also with your renewed membership, your chances of going out with Suzie Welterstien will improve and her friends will think you are cool.

Please address all mail to:

Pen 15 Head Quarters,
80081 E 5th
Blow, ME 69420

Sincerely,

Jack Mehoff
President of the Pen 15 Club

And another, that I’ve also posted here:

I’M PART OF AN INTERRACIAL COUPLE AND LOVING IT

I may be a part English and part German from Kansas whose family has been in America for at least six generations, but my girlfriend is anything but White! My girlfriend is half Black and half Indian. And not the American type of Indian, the curry and Gandhi type of Indian.

Yeah, maybe we get a lot of looks when we walk down the streets, but it doesn’t faze me. I love being part of an interracial couple! When we go out to eat at Indian restaurants, she knows exactly how to pronounce everything! And she knows exactly what to order when we go to KFC. She’s so racial! One time we were walking down the street holding hands and some guy screamed “Terrorist” at her. We all know that those are the Arabians not the Indians. Some people are so ignorant. Not me, I’m part of an interracial couple.

Last month I went to visit my half Indian, half Black girlfriend’s parent’s house in Oregon, and what an experience! Her mother is a real Indian! She speaks Indian and everything. That means my girlfriend’s grandmother is from the motherland. My girlfriend has even been there!

Her father, the Black one, had great-grandparents who were “freedmen.” Sometimes in their house they even listen to Jazz. I told him that I loved his music and he burned me a CD. It had all kinds of great Black artists like Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Benny Goodman. I listen to it every morning when my girlfriend and I carpool to work at Wells Fargo Home Mortgage. Sometimes she wants to listen to her Black people music like Common and Jurassic Park 5, but it’s too scary for me. I keep telling her; “baby steps.” I still love being in an interracial couple!

Pretty soon I’m gonna go with her to her little sister’s Sweesix-teene, which is like a bar-mitzvah for Indians. I know all about bar-mitzvahs because I have a Jewish friend. His last name is Cohen and everything! I met him in college and I don’t think he’s a communist or anything.

Did I mention that I love being part of an interracial couple. Don’t tell her, but I’m gonna surprise her with a Kwanza celebration this year.