America the book is done. It has finally been professionally edited. I would like to thank the couple hundred people who bought my rough book and gave it a 4.4 out of five on Maybe some day those rough drafts will be worth something.  It all started two years ago. My friends and random people I met said you should write your stories. I blogged them and got over 11,000 disciples.  It’s no secret I’m no writer. I’m here to show you how to live not write. My grammar is terrible, format atrocious, and at 29 I just learned their is only one space after sentences. But I wrote my story the best I could. The point is I was not afraid to make mistakes. To learn, strive, achieve, and challenge myself; that is my theme. Courage America. Weather you want to write, read, start some business or just fuck the shit out of your hot neighbor you need to challenge yourself.  You need to be nervous at least once a day. When you are out of your element, that is when you find out what your made of. That is what I have tried to teach you America. The only way I know how. To use my life as a barometer of living. All of my mistakes, successes and hot ass I have gotten don’t define me. They only provide the starting point of my journey to become a Gentleman. It’s been a great life America. In honor of the book’s completion here is the post that started it all. Now properly edited from the final book.  900+ views in one day. When this story went viral I knew I was on to something. You gave me the confidence to keep writing, keep leading the way. You did that for me America. I will get you back by always telling the truth.  Beautiful or ugly I will be honest with you at all times. Some of you must wonder if my tales are true. All I will say is I will never lie to my disciples or anyone else for that matter. I’m me. I’m Taylor mother fucking Oceans and this happened.


So one night, I invited a fuck buddy to come by for a night of kinky adulterism. I thought I was cool with all forms of sex till I met this chick. First she tried to finger my ass while blowing me. Not cool ladies. I felt a finger go from fondling balls to my no-no spot. After I removed my fingernails from the ceiling and climbed down, she explained to me that she had banged every guy she had been with. And I don’t mean bang in the good way. I told her not this horse. Line one found.

During another night of sexual shenanigans, she asked me to cut her with a dinner knife. Well, as well as she could ask through a ball gag while she was tied up in the entryway. I thought that would look great; the cops come in, see me with a dinner knife; woman tied up, death by thousand cuts, and boom: headshot. Thoughts of me being gunned down wearing nothing but a condom and holding a magic wand in one hand and a knife in the other was not exactly my kind of night. Also, the sight of blood makes me lightheaded and completely de-rected. Line two discovered.

During one night of sexcapades, I couldn’t recall which, we were having some drinks before the roll playing began. She would come in, bringing her bag of whatever hotness she would wear that night. We would catch up, have a few drinks, she would go change in the bedroom, I would set up that night’s fun, and it was on. Well, during one of these drinking and catching up chats we had a little bit more than usual to drink. I have a bar in my apartment, and I was behind it pouring champagne far too fast. We were talking, joking, having a good time; let’s face it ladies, I’m charming. I went to my fridge to get the third bottle of champagne, pull off the foil, wire, aim, fire.

Being the son of a chef and restaurant owner, I am normally one with the cork, but I try to refrain from firing one off in my apartment. You see, I’m a half-assed Buddhist and have a nice Buddha shrine in my living room. Buddha is cool with everything except being shot in the face with a cork and shattered on the floor. I call myself a half-assed Buddhist because I love Karma, but I treat my body like an amusement park, not a temple; hence half-assed.

So, there we are, hotness at the bar, me in the kitchen with a bottle in my hand and off goes the cork. Trying to impress her, I figure I will shoot the cork down my apartment and pour her a glass. In my haste, I didn’t aim properly, and the cork hit the wall across the room. I have both my hands on the bottle when I realize the cork has ricocheted off the wall and is coming straight at my eye at the speed of sound. I wondered what the trip to the hospital would be like. Yes, Doctor, I shot myself, but in my emotional throws, my suicide was foiled because instead of a gun I used a bottle of bubbly. How many times have I laughed at the warning labels on champagne bottles and the funny pictures of cartoons hitting themselves with a cork? Is it possible to have sex with a cork in my eye? I figured she would be a little turned off.

There I was, the “Master” trying to pour a glass of champagne for the “Slave” and the dipshit “Master” is going to blind himself with a cork. Premature corkulation. Why couldn’t my parents have said, “Be careful with the bottle of champagne; you’ll shoot your eye out?” I was great with the BB gun. The cork is getting closer to my face and now she realizes I’m about to be Kennedy-ed. Forget the magic bullet, look at this fucking cork. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her cover her mouth getting ready to laugh, scream, and sympathize. However, this turns out.

Suddenly, I realize time has stopped. I look at my dog, and a drop of drool is floating in the air below him frozen in time. A hummingbird is flying outside the window, and its wings are still.

All these thoughts and sights overwhelmed me, yet I couldn’t react to the damn cork about to headshot me. Frozen in time, unable to move, I awaited my inevitable corky fate. Time began again, and the cork closed in on its target. I braced for the impact of my masochistic bottle opening, when out of the corner of my eye I see a hand. Moving faster than a fat kid running down an ice cream truck, this hand rises to protect my face. I realize it’s my hand moving, and I’m drunker than I thought. I have somehow caught the cork.

Staring at my hand, like a kid who just caught his first fly ball, completely amazed by my subconscious drunken reflexes, I turn to her. She is sitting on the barstool staring at me as if I have just cured cancer while climbing Everest to save her from the abominable snowman. Wet. She couldn’t believe it. Had I done this on purpose or accident, she thought to herself. Is my “Master” really this good? Not sure what to do, I came to a sudden conclusion. I handed her the cork with all my misplaced bravado and simply said. “You like my new trick?” And it was on. 

I still try to catch the cork when no one is around…

I’m never even close.

 My most popular tale America. The rough book will be for sale on amazon for around another week. Frankly till I update the over complicated program, but since I’m legit not I’m busy as shit. It takes forever to make an honest buck. So stand by to buy the finished book sometime next week or take a sneak peek at the rough for only three bucks.  Digital copy. The rough will never again be printed so own one of the few copies in print. Because I’m not stopping till I run this fucking writing biz just like I did in the coke trade. 11,000 followers without even trying, advertising, or knowing their are only one spaces after a sentence is a good enough start for me to own it. Fuck I rarely get the there’s right.

Long live the writers


Taylor Mother Fuckin Oceans


Now go out there and fuck your hot neighbor in the ass America. Make her scream “I’m a slut” right before you let her cum. Be sure to get “Thank you sir” when you are done with her body.

Link to my book on amazon below


Only in dreams

I look over and there is Dad bullshitting with some girls and my friends. He has his brass bat (weed device to non smokers) in his hand and is causally packing it out of his bat box (dug out to hippies). It is good to be home. Everything is better on my farm. The air smells like weed, great cooking, and old wood from the 200 year old house. Everyone is happy smiling, getting fucked up. A normal day on the farm. The only rule on the farm is no drunk driving. Well only I can but I can’t leave the farm. 256 acres to off road on and I knew every tree, hole, cow path, ravine, fence and barn. Tom petty playing, we are all upstairs chilling on the couch and standing around. Watching Dad interact with my friends and those women I realize we are the same person. The same walk, swagger, tone of voice, story telling, we both even love to wear white. I walk over to the couch tell the person he is sitting next to to get up and I sit next to Dad and give him a big hug. The drunken Oceans family bear hug. He is much bigger then me. You could say I was the runt of the litter but I was Dad’s only son. His big fat chef arms completely envelope me. My little arms never got all the way around him. Weed, great food and skin bracer after shave that was Dad’s smell. But your dead… And I wake up.

Only in my dreams can I see him again. Only in my dreams can I go home. I lost them both when he died and I was far to young. He was my by best friend, teacher, bro, jedi, smoking buddy and partner in crime. He told the best stories. Stories that were so good you have to ask if they were true. Just like mine. We were so much alike. The most immature, delinquents around. But at the drop of a joint we would risk our lives for our friends and family. We are the coolest, chillest, most accepting patient people. But we will rip your eyes out with our bare fucking hands laughing while you scream if you fuck with our loved ones. Everything else goes on the farm. Her name was Waterloo and she was the most peaceful piece of land in the world. Even the cows were happy I swear to God this place had an energy.

My only regret is I wish I remembered more of our time. Like my parties he coached me through. My Dad taught me cheap beer at the bottom of the cooler. Working in his restaurant at 12 years old. I was so short I had to stand on dish racks to use the dish washer. Meeting his many girlfriends. One a millionaire tried to get us to move in with her and I went up in the remax balloon. Yeah that bitch in the commercial I have been in one with a PT cruiser hanging from in on a 100 ft rope. I swear when you beak it down we were two of the least attractive poor mother fucking pot heads around but the ladies love us. My Dad looked like a fat Harrison Ford, and I’m a runt Joseph Gordon Levit. But fuck are were charming. I don’t know if you would call it a dream or nightmare, but it was good to see him again and get that bear hug. Good to be home and safe. Nothing bad ever happened on that farm till my Dad died on it.

Long Live the Writers
See you at the end of the bar Dad

Taylor Oceans

America cherish your friends and family.  The time we have with them is to short. Call your Dad today. Say thanks for making me the Gentleman I am today. Mine was no hero. Left me and mom when I was 2 and came back at 12. But he was my Dad.  He was me and we should respect that, forgive and move on together. No one is perfect and that was Dad’s greatest lesson to me.


I’m here to show you how to live

America I do all of these things for you. Because those who can’t do teach. I don’t teach I show. Here is another one for you. Currently I have a wicked fever and if it last much longer I will only be as smart as a nobel prize winner. I’m shaking, shivering, and totally sick out of my gourd. I have snot running out of my face. It feels like there is a pool ball in my throat, and lets just say I have a book in the head. Thats bathroom to you guys in kansas. The fact I forgot to pay my health insurance has no bearing in this what so ever.
So what do you do America when you need antibiotics but cant go to the doctor? Ask a retired criminal. Currently I have no medical degree and only have my masters in slave training. PHD in BDSM. I am only a doctor of love and you should do your own research on top of this. On top of me will do. No fatties. I am not liable for this advice due to allergies or any other shit you litigious fucks may think of. And all that shit.
Aquafish, and fish mox. Look it up. In this country you can get these drugs for people for hundreds of dollars and an expensive trip to the doctor or you can go to you local pet store and get 250,000 mgs of amoxicillin in 100 250mg pills for 60 bucks. I know can cure my cold 20 times. Fish amoxicillin is the exact same and people drugs in some cases. Some off brands have different cutting agents. How do you check this? Every pill in the country has a cod on it. From tums to percicet every pill has an id number on it. wc730 is the pill code of aquafish. Google it. It is the same your doctor gives you.
now im going to go get back in bed. remember the zombie apocalypse can happen at any time and antibiotics will be hard to come by. Now you know America. I will follow this up when my fever breaks and let you know how it works. Because I show. I don’t teach. But one thing I can’t show you is grammar. Go somewhere else.

Long live the writers and gun fighters

Taylor Oceans

Taylor oceans is not liable for complications due to this advice is currently this fever makes my opinon null and void.

Finding Our Family

It is when we lose our family we look for another. Mine was taken away from me at 18. The rest of it followed at 21. So many times I looked around for the questions only my father could answer. The riddles my mother could only unwind. The support provided only by a loving sister. When we lose those connections with our blood we feel our veins will empty.
In our journeys and as time passes we find another family. The guidance of a father. The support of a brother you want to look up to you. The love and touch of a woman. Soon our veins fill and throb. Life returns to our hearts with a rush of energy. The dark path gets a little brighter.
When that light shines on our faces and we bask in its warmth we find peace. We find that family is not just blood. It is not titles, relations, or relatives. It is those close to you. Those you trust. Those you sacrifice for. Those you love. “And against our own will comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.” Aeschylus

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans


America I’m here to show you how to live. Not teach; show. A long time ago I I was in a very rough place. I had just been thrown out of art school for weed. I lost my scholarships, my dreams, everything I had worked for was thrown away with the whisper of a nark only trying to save herself. She didn’t Karma bitch. To top it off my Dad was dying of AIDS because he refused to take his meds. This left me alone on a 256 acre farm, 20 and alone for the first time in my life. My mom was in Canada after marriage three failed, my half sister lived with her dad across the country and I was alone.
Now I have been a sailor my entire life. I love the America’s cup suck it world longest winning streak in sports history. Blow me football lets see a team win for over 100 years. Along with that fact no one knows is the fact that the first solo race around the world ended in disaster. One guy won, one guy committed suicide, and another didn’t come back for three years after telling his wife and kids he is no longer of that world. Being alone got them. I knew I wouldn’t be alone for a race I would be alone for life. Could I take it? Being one of complete over complicated immediate action I told my friends to not come to my farm I needed alone time. I disconnected my phone, internet and became a true island like those sailors. Just me, a book on the Louis and Clark expedition ( yeah I’m a history dork read america) (just realized you read this), my dog, a freezer stuffed with beef, four horses and my farm.
I was alone. I read, listened to music, watched old movies and started a project. A road to the pond with a parking lot big enough for four cars. I’m not even sure how it started to be honest. Frankly I was also high as balls on the space station. I stocked up on that too. Every evening I would go out drive my jeep to the build area, pop the back hatch and crank the tunes till the frogs overwhelmed the music at sun set. I just dug and dug. Clearly the effects of stoned, drunk, post traumatic stress, but there was a silver lining. Days turned to weeks the weeks turned to a month. 30 days no human contact.
One day I was digging and I realized what I had done. I had moved a hill. One wheel barrow at a time. I realized then I can do anything alone. Sure being with people helps but if you can’t be alone with yourself and your thoughts what is the point? I realized I would move mountains in this life because I had moved a hill in my youth. One wheel barrow at a time.
So that is what I do now America. I better myself one wheel barrow at a time. Change is not over night. And I had plenty of growing up to do after the hill. Lets not forget right after that I moved to my city and became a coke dealer. I moved a mountain of blow. Not a good choice although the sex was great. The point is every day I try to be a better Gentleman. I want to be a writer and I want to live on a boat. Will I be alone? Not the point but I will be fine if I am.
The point is today I got a reply about a writing job. Sure it could fall through like some of the other deals. Shit I could die in my sleep tonight. But I never give up. And I sleep well because of that. I can take anything tomorrow throws at me and with swagger God damn it. Every email I send out is one more wheel barrow of dirt. One step closer to my goal. Do I know when I will get there? No, but I can keep going. I will never stop. I’m taylor mother fucking oceans. Yes I have made mistake in my life but that does not define me. I have also done great things in my life. But that does not define me. It just shows me where I began.

Long live the writers


As always edit nazis go fuck yourself your not paying for this so I’m not sobering up to edit it.

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a [GENTLEMAN], my son!



America I have been through a lot. I’ve traveled in many circles from dinning with governors to having hitmen in my phone. I’ve been to some of the best schools in the nation and some of the worst. I’ve sailed half a mill sail boats and been in fire fights when deals went bad. I’ve carried wounded friends and they took fire for me. I’ve saved lives and had mine saved just by doing the right thing for once. I have stayed in sweets and almost been thrown in a wood chipper. I’ve beaten cancer and gotten concussions running from museum security drunk. I’ve put back together a broken family to watch it die of AIDS a few years later.
Have you ever wondered why we are here? Some has been my doing while others were just in my cards. Some people would bitch. Others might choose suicide. Some might have stayed a drug dealer or died during those close calls. Others may have chosen a better coping mechanism to dealing with a fathers death.
As they say in this show Red vs Blue. “Your past doesn’t define you. It just gives you the starting point.” All of these cards I’ve played have made me an amazingly divers person. I can rub elbows with Governors and talk stock tips. I can talk about body disposal to killers. I’ve sailed, ridden horses, gotten a good look at the workings of a wood chipper, can nut up or shut up, cook one hell of a dinner and my back scratches are the best. Only a sailor knows how to navigate a woman’s body.
The point is I wear my past on my sleeve with pride. Have I made mistakes? Absolutely. I stubbed my toe once. We all make mistakes and anyone who says they are perfect are full of shit. Or just really boring. What mistakes have you made? Fucked up your family? Eat to much? Break a heart? Steal something? Ignore those in need? Not tip the guy who pushes your cart at martins? Lack empathy? Overdose of selfishness?
If I can say no to making 500,000 dollars a year covered in blow and woman for something more productive you can change too. My past does not define me. It gives me the starting point. When are you going to start your life America? Do it and the world is going to know your name because discipline, confidence, swagger, understanding, class, maturity with a good sense of humor, dedication, ambition, education, exploration, and Gentlemen are in short supply. I’m going to show you how to live.

Long live the writers

Taylor Oceans

P.S. I’m also a dork and the cuts are from red vs blue the longest running internet show around. Available on youtube. 12 years of great writing. Watch this show for a great laugh, great morals, and to see the worst soldiers in the galaxy go the distance. Congrats to them and all there success. Reach for your dreams. Even if your ass is stuck in the mud.

Be students
Be teachers
Be politicians
Be preachers
Be believers
Be leaders
Be astronauts
Be champions
Be truth seekers
Be Gentlemen


Stand tall America and get what you want. In this bullshit blog you wont find what you should do with your life. That is between you and your balls. Here you will find how to do it. I get up. No matter what you want out of this life. A crime boss, student, lover, roll model, sailor, joker, smoker, or midnight toker I have been them all. Should you be them. No, yes, hell yes, god damn right, hold fast, live laugh love, grip it and rip it, and pass that shit while doing it doggy. But enough about me. The point is I get up. Right now I want to be legal. I want to be a master carpenter and electrician. Which is currently rocking the fuck out of. These hands cannot only count money, turn pages, give god a high five and bring down his wrath on the fine asses he has made, inspire greatness with a handshake, sail the fucking groove, tickle a smile, and roll a joint on her ass, but they can build incredible things and light the fuck out of them. We should all be passionate about our goals no matter what they are. We should smile on our way to work, we should take pride in what we build, and we should swagger off the job site no matter how sleep deprived or hung over we are. Or sore from a pulled groin fucking all night. Strut America. For a little while I’m going to be a humble carpenter, trying to legally fund his inventions (patent pending) It is something to be proud of. Something that will make the world cleaner, richer, and better to sail, fuck, ans strut on. One thing I want to be pure to maybe pay for the shit I have seen. Not done because frankly my fellow college students were going to blow line with or without me. I just humbly used their parents money to help pay for what my scholarships didn’t. Ok maybe it was a little fun too but who doesn’t like two strippers doing lines off their cock and fighting over the numby without using their hands. I was 22 straight off the farm and my Dad turned grey and died of AIDS in front of me call it coping.
Any who I give those little honesties (a word?) so maybe you will be a little more honest with yourselves America. With those around you. So that one day we can be proud of ourselves. All of our hands are bloody. We all have to give back. This earth is rich and should provide for all of us. Like I said it’s not what I have done it’s what I have seen. Rape, murder, hungry American’s going through my trash for a meal, uneducated, irresponsible, entitled, users, beggars, who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. We all have turned a blind eye and I want to be better then that. Not only a man but a modern Gentleman. I want to play my hand right even with these shitty cards. All I have is a dead family, a down town apartment and the circle of friends I can count on my fingers and toes. I wouldn’t trade it for a royal flush. I want a challenge and I don’t want your sympathy or help. I want to climb the mountain I want to sail the seas and I want a 15some while doing both. Because my balls clad brass, a kick ass pad and my friends I would take a bullet for and have is one hell of a hand. I want to achieve, dream, create, and stupefy those around me. The American dream. Manifest destiny bitch. I could have done it with coke money. But I quit. Maybe it was to easy. Maybe I was just really fucking good at it and smart enough to fight the law. Maybe I grew up. But I did it on my terms. It’s in the past and for some reason I reasoned a new life. If a retired crime boss, scholarship art student, damn good lay, under dog, skipper, character, pot head, ass slapping joint passer can change. The crime boss part everything else rocks lets face it. Why can’t you better yourself? Be more compassionate, read something other then hustler, loss some weight your fat America it will help your endurance, substitute reason for fear courage for anger, sail! fuck motors!, smile a little, and maybe toke one. Just a nickle bag, (Taylor Oceans does not endorse weed in the current litigious American and will deny all tales in an court of law)
I have not had a regular job in a long time. I just worked 48 of 56 hours because I get up. When I’m knocked down, dead drunk, sexually exhausted, or coming down I get up and get the mother fucking dust off my shoulder because I get what I want. The drug money is gone and although I could have my boss killed and body hidden for 2,000 dollar I want legal money to improve my world, leave something behind when I sail away and maybe get a stature. A small one just marble, ten feet tall of me on a throne wearing an admirals uniform from the 1600’s with a big fucking hat and chalice. You have to have goals.

Long live the writers and fuck the edit nazis im drunk and have slept 9 hours in four days because I’m the best at what I do. You should be too. Mic Dropped I’m going to bed and will edit this before I charge you for it in book 2.

Taylor Oceans


We are the ones in black. We are the few that entertain the many. The men and women behind the scenes. We make the lights work. Without the techies their would be no sound, no lights, no smoke, no fire, no foam, sets or stages. We are the few that make it happen. With long hours, great heights, power tools, complicated boards, miles of wire, hot lights, and short circuits. We are the sweaty, the chafed, the deaf, the dumb tired, hung over and underpaid. We are the stage hands, light board operators, sound guys, light guys, pyro guys, drum techs, guitar tuners, truck drivers, carpenters, electricians, props, and costumes. We don’t sing, we don’t dance, and we are not here for your amusement. We are here to work and hit the after party. We stir our drink with our dirty stage hands and cheers to those not seen. We bleed, we are electrocuted, we are crushed, smashed, rolled over, impaled, driven over, blinded, burned, broken and we don’t stop the work. “The show must go on!” is our battle cry but you will never hear it. Break a leg and Merde is our luck. When the plan fails we fix it. And you never know we were there. What can go wrong, will go wrong, our prayer. We laugh at problems. The sky is the limit, and if you can imagine it we can build it, wire it, hang it, fly it, hid it, rig it, and make it appear in a crowded stadium from nowhere. We can pack it on a truck, drive it across the country, and whip it out in an hour for all your eyes to see.

Your Welcome
The Techies

Not my normal thing America but who the hell knows why any of us write what we do. I guess we write what we know and my part time, hobby job, that keeps me in shape, sharp, and covered in saw dust, turned into a fucking work fest for the past month. Fucking beat America but it was my major in college right up to the point SWAT kicked in my door. You never know where life will take you. So sit back, pour a drink, get a blow job and enjoy the ride America. There are no redoes.


So America I try not to talk about my deals as much as possible because some of these people are still alive and still have guns. But as life strangles my past to death and kills off more and more of my acquaintances I can talk more. Back when I was a coke dealer I was very much the new kid on the block(excuses the reference). I was straight off the farm, my Dad had just turned grey, slipped into a comma, and died in front of me so I figured “why not” from then on. Any risk, or experience I was the first one in. Cops, dealers, strippers, Hoes, DEA, and the NSA were in my phone. I did everything a 22 year old could get his hands on except a fat chick. On everything but roller blades I became a city boy with pavement under my feet and lights on my streets. Six month before this I had had my own horse and a living parent.
Any who one day on far to many drugs I came across my business partner. A 350 lbs six foot tall black man, who made the most awkward partner in crime a 5,7 150 lbs wet cracker runt could have. How we first met frankly I have no idea. I started writing because one day I realized I had no idea what I had done the month before. Maybe it was a year. Total drug, sex, drunk over load blank. For christ sake I forgot a stripper threesome. Who does that? I figured I needed to write my story for either my memory or eulogy whichever was cool with me. So me and the dude had a meet. He said meet him at the barber shop (name omitted). I suit up and let the dice roll. I roll up in a suit, hidden gun, and bullet proof vest under my cloths. Which led to my alias Kevlar. I was cool with dying, but gut shot me and I’m returning fire. I enter the barber shop and everyone stops talking. Do I have to mention I’m not only the only white person in their I’m rocking a coke suit? The dude comes out of a door in the back and calls me in as everyone starts talking again, pegging me for the next mark. I follow him down the darkest hallway with dark doors on both sides. Anything or anyone could have snuck up on me. We walk down this hall which enters a chop shop in the back of the building. Saying to myself, “God hates a coward” I lay out the doe in a oil drum in front of 16 (quick count) criminals. 10,000 reasons to kill me and throw my body in the river. The dice came up snake eyes. No sooner had the money hit the greasy oil drum then 16 guns were pulled on me. A quick count showed 4 Aks, 3 macs, and god knows what else.
Like a cocky farm fuck who has broken horses and sailed hurricanes I smirk and say, “We doing this or not?”
Speechless they all look at the dude, awestruck by my brazen disregard of their shock and ah shit tactics. The dude looks at me for any sign of weakness to see only a farm boy with nothing left to loose. I’d of taken six of them with me, as I shout I’m from a farm bitch boooooooom head shot, but I only had six. A reload with 30 bullets in your body is tough. Shit, scar face couldn’t even bust a reload or hold onto his gun.
The dude looked me up top and bottom. Suit, obvious body armor since I’m so small and my chest was so big and a suspicious bulge in my pants and jacket. Yes my gun can be fired with an erection. The dude looked at his boys who looked at him completely taken back and a little nervous to see what made me so cocky. Why was this suit wearing runt so self assured? They lowed their guns and me and the dude make 500,000 each over a two year period becoming such good friends he saved my life once. My fair city was never the same. And of them all I was the last man standing.

Long Live the Writers

Link to my book on amazon below.  Rated a 4.6 out of 5.

I dont quit

I would love to say that in my travels I have learned something about this world. That I know how you can make your life better using the lessons of my life. What I learned is about myself. I don’t quit. Ever. When I get an idea in my head I make it a reality. Sure some of those decision are wrong. Very wrong. Yes I was a coke dealer and yes I was a great one thank you. I got out of it with some money in the bank, a 0 body count, and no time served. I put that in the win column.

I didn’t quit when I was a kid rolling that log up the hill.  I didn’t quit when I had cancer.  I didn’t quit when they wanted to throw me in a wood chipper.  I didn’t quit when she broke my nose during sex.  I didn’t quit in the battle, on the coconut tree, in a wrecked car, lost in the woods, busted by swat, with hash in the court room, my apartment fire, with the girl field hockey team, in a drinking contest with flight attendants, on the blue lady or when a cork almost took my head off .

Shakespeare said “This above all to thine own self be true” and it has stuck with me since my high school teacher forced open my skull and stuck it in there.  What I have learned is the only things you can know for sure are about yourself.  I’m great in bed, an even better sailor, not a bad dancer, and have been called highly intelligent.  I’m terrified of spiders really bugs in general, don’t like heights, and am short due to severe scoliosis.  I’m great around blood as soon as I’m done throwing up, and one hell of a dirty fighter.  I want to live on a sail boat and I spell at a sixth grade level due to dyslexia.  I’m Taylor Oceans and I’m a Gentleman.  Got a problem with me and I’ll prove I’m one hell of a cold blooded shot too.

What do you know about yourself?

I don’t know where I will be in a few years.  Up down over and out.  A puppet a paper pirate poet pawn or a king, but I do know that wherever I am, whatever I’m doing I will not quit, and I know I will be good to my neighbor.  Especially if she is hot.  Generous, compassionate, flexible, speaks two languages, green eyes, short, dirty minded, great sailor, kinky, plays an instrument, doesn’t have a southern accent and has the stamina of a wild horse…  But I’m not picky I just know what I want.


As always thanks for reading my rough drafts and if you would like to try my book, link below.