Change

My message is change America. If you want to change something from the landscape around you to your physical or mental health you can change it. I was a coke dealer. I wanted to change. Yes I was in constant danger, bottomed out at 110 lbs, my eyes sunk into my head and I’m no doctor but I am pretty sure my weak heart had about 30 attacks. However I was made rich, had more hot ass then hot showers, always had a party around me and spending 7,000 on a bar tab was the norm. Frankly I was really good at it. But I wanted to change.

Why? Sometimes I still wonder that. But the money, woman and DEA are gone. Now I’m a carpenter. It could have been me who just built your house, redid your counter tops , designed the local theatre set or painted your building. The point is the worm of change got into my mind and I wanted something else. A woman who I knew her real name, stability, honesty, integrity and a little peace. Some change.

So I quit. I sold my contacts, took my settlement and retired from the game. Kevlar left the trenches. If you think what change your going to make is hard try quitting cocaine. Leaving the life of scar face. Well the good parts. I have plunged my face into a pile of coke. I don’t want your excuses do some hard work it’s time.

America if I can change so can you. What one man can do another can do better. We have to believe in the America dream again. We are the greatest country in the world but only by a fine margin now a days. We need to change with the times we need to believe we can do it. Make the hard decision every morning to be better then you are. We are decedents of the greatest men and woman whoever lived. The ones who cured diseases, created art, monuments, the foundation of our great country. With their own blood and endurance they Conquered. Every day they got up and kicked fucking ass. We need to make those changes. We can do it again and better then they did. Not with technology, not with speed, not with knowledge. We will change with our courage, our tolerance, patience, and our hearts. Because we are going to be the best generation of this country. Generation Y will be the Y the fuck not generation. That is what we need to say every morning. Should I  _______________? Y the fuck not?

I changed America and because I felt like it. Y don’t you?

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans.

Chapter 10: The General Song

One day, back in college, I found myself really high in class. I didn’t even mean to go there that day. I just all of a sudden realized I was in class like one of those bad dreams, but luckily I had on pants. So I tuned into what the professor was saying, and she was muttering something about how it was presentation day. Since I never went to class, I got the shit end of the stick when the day came to pick your turn. I got slot three in a two-day presentation. I asked the girl next to me what the fuck was going on. Looking appalled that I had no idea what the project was about, she explained that we were on the body language chapter and had to do body language to a song. Isn’t college a waste of money? The class was argument and reasoning. I thought Jesus, how stupid and easy is this, and the girl said, “But it doesn’t matter. You are third to go which means you have eight to ten minutes to pick a song and plan a presentation.”

No problem, I thought. I can do a test grade project in eight minutes. I learned three chapters of developmental psychology in four minutes and took the exam. This should be fun. I asked to be excused to the bathroom, and I was gone eight minutes and counting. Now when people say they had to run across the campus, they normally mean something shorter. I literally had to run across the campus. It was a good mile across, with many hills. Six minutes and counting. Somehow I had sprinted, hurdled, dashed, and darted halfway running across the center of campus. Everyone else I saw was just happily walking, whereas I was running as if coked-up, flesh-eating zombies were chasing me. I think I passed Roadrunner, and he stuck his tongue out at me. The coyote screeched over our heads attached to an ACME rocket. Weed is fun.

I arrived at my destination—my jeep, Trusty Rusty. Now to save time, my plan was to hop in Trusty Rusty, go through my CDs on route, and literally drive back across campus to make up for lost time because I didn’t have another mile in me. Four minutes and counting. The first CD was Kings of Leon and the first thing coming to mind was the “I’m Soft” song. Images of me acting that song out were just out of the question. Next, Flogging Molly and I thought without beer, it just wouldn’t be the same. Three minutes and counting. I was cursing across a grassy part of campus furiously switching CDs and dodging students. I didn’t want to honk because that would attract more attention to my already four-wheeling across campus. I put in a mixed CD just as I made a turn and almost ran over a couple.

They were holding hands, her head on his shoulder, probably on acid. This is art school. They were completely oblivious to the jeep bearing down on them. Everyone else heard my ass coming, but they were so in the lovey-dovey acid zone, they didn’t even notice. How inconsiderate of them, huh? So I swerved and took out this bush that didn’t have it coming. I always apologized to that bush as I walked by it the rest of the year. I exited the grass into the theater parking lot.

Now there was a huge median about four feet wide and eight inches high, separating the Theatre parking lot from the computer lab parking lot, which was next to the writing building. I hit this median going about thirty, bouncing nicely into the air, and landing comfortably in the Comp Lab parking lot. Just one more median to go and I’m there. Two minutes and counting. The entire side of the parking lot was packed with cars except for one spot, so I planned to punch the gap, as I went from parking lot to parking lot paralleling the road. I hit the second median, barely squeezing through, just as this poor professor was trying to park in that spot. I come flying through, and we lock eyes as I soared through the air in front of him. Bear in mind I have my music cranked, my jeep is covered in mud as usual, and I’m high as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. The professor was frozen in terror, completely shocked by the defiance of physics and parking code 302. I kept burning ass across the parking lot, slammed on my brakes parking like a glove. Ace Ventura would have been proud. As I ran into the building, I saw the professor still frozen in his car, staring at me as I apologetically cheese it. I got to the class just as the second person finished.

I caught from the end of theirs that yes, we had to illustrate our use of body language as future speakers through a song of our choice. I picked “The General” by Dispatch while driving forty in the computer lab parking lot. My presentation was the best. I marched my high ass around like a soldier in the song, across her classroom and back, jumped on her desk, knocking over some of her papers as if I was jumping into bed and it was great. I just let loose, had fun, and the weed helped my endeavors. After I was done, my professor asked me balls out. She knew me. All of my professors knew me. I was the smart kid who did the bare minimum. Not on any lazy sentiments but I felt if I grasped the core concepts, why should I waste my time on homework? It was just redundant, so I was the kid with the A or B test grades and the zero homework and pop quizzes my whole life. So she asks me, “Mr. Oceans, did you do this project just now, because you look a little too out of breath for one song?” Without hesitation, I replied, “Yes ma’am. When I went to the bathroom, I ran to my dorm, drove my car through the green, picked my song, dodged students, and killed a bush.” She thought for a few seconds on the repercussions of her next words. She said, “Nice work, A. Next presentation.” I did nail it better than any of those stodgy fucks. They wanted to be politicians; I wanted to be an ass.

So the moral of this story is when you don’t have your homework, ask to go to the bathroom and think fast. Don’t give up and remember anything late is better than nothing.

I had recently heard this song and man did it take me back.

To buy the entire book check the link below kindle and paperback available.

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

Long live the writers

Oceans

Reflections

Looking at this person I feel pity. Red eyes, grinding teeth, wrinkles, and not a hint of color. A pale white figure clearly addicted and will be dead by 25. Then I realize its me…

America lets talk about change. I use my story to better illustrate that anyone can change. It is easy to say change I do it. I’m here to SHOW you how to live. Today I’m in great shape, I make legal money and good money. Still get laid. Got a nice rum buzz at 2:30 in the afternoon. The tunes are blaring to ear bleeding level and the AC is cranked with the windows wide open to let out the smoke from my reds. Return of the Jedi VHS on mute the cherry on top. I would like to add I am in great shape and my plan to make 30 look good is totally working. I’m fucking sexy America. Never had muscles before due to the chronic laziness, and drugs. At least that and the sex kept me from getting fat. Ah to be young again.

Its funny how your life can change and seeing that change as you live it. I don’t even recognize my arms in front of me due to the extreme tan. Pitched a new client today and nailed it. Lets face it I could charm the pants off the virgin marry America. Good day.

It was not easy. It started with locking myself in my apartment with my last gram of coke. I screamed “I’m better then you” at it for a month and came out a new man. Will I ever do it again? Lets face it probably I mean what the fuck else do you do in Columbia but climb under a pile of blow and hookers? Everyone had a dream vacation. Will blow run my life again? No. I wanted other things. I saw myself in the mirror and said god damn you look like shit. I had the most (I hate this word but) epic 20’s of anyone alive. A debouched madhouse. But, a creation of a boy off a farm who had just lost his dad and the farm. So I said fuck it. I whipped my dick out and cock slapped the city. With gusto I might add.

But, some day you have to grow up. You have to evolve and better yourself. So every day I do just that. I make myself better. I study history, exercise, work my legal job and wonder if these people only knew who I used to be. That is the message of my writing. Watching the boy turn to man and finally the Gentleman. Why do I write? I guess to face it every day. I’m Taylor mother fucking Oceans and I can do anything. So can you if you only would try. If I had a mic this is when I would drop it.

Long Live the Writers

Oceans

aka The Best

Link to my book below

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

11,601 FOLLOWERS

Well America just looked at my stats and I’m blowing up. Just wanted to say thanks for reading, commenting, liking, and all the other digital shit these crazy contraptions can offer. As long as I live I will never understand them all. To say thanks here is a chapter from my book Playing your Hand Right: Showing America how to Live. Give it a try if you have not yet. Available on Amazon. Link below.

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

PART I: TALES OF A BOY

                                                                                     Boy VS Nature

When I was about 13, my mother and I were walking on the beach. Many years later, I would have wrecked the car on the cliff above, but that day we were walking and enjoying the sand, the sounds, and shooting the shit. Suddenly, I lock eyes on a 250-pound piece of pole: driftwood. It looked like someone had cut three feet off a big telephone pole and thrown it in the water. Stupid, right? Well to the craziest, most imaginative boy in the world, this wasn’t a huge pain in the ass, with getting it up the hill, and then dragging it a mile or two down the road to the house. It was the greatest chopping block in the world. It was the perfect height, width, and circumference but was a piece of gray-white driftwood. I thought I had found gold and, damn the cost, I was going to get this 250-pound pain-in-the-ass home, which already had a perfectly good chopping block.

The quest began. Now, cliffs flank the beach we were on and the only way up it was a path through the woods that went up a thirty-to-forty foot hill. So mom and I turned back and continued to talk about whatever the hell. While we are walking back, I kick and push the log along the beach. When I was 13, or really all my life, I have been a small dude. At the time, I probably weighed 80 pounds soaking wet. So this log was wearing me out after rolling it over five hundred yards of sandy beach.

We entered the path through the woods. In my hometown, we have poison ivy and briars, not woods. Remember the poor guy in Saw who was surrounded by barbed wire. Yeah, that guy brought back memories but I had to push that log through my self-inflicted hell. After a hundred feet of natural acupuncture, I reached the hill. I knew this would be the culmination of my quest. I had heard the story of Sisyphus and knew he spent eternity pushing a boulder up a hill over and over, and I would not repeat history. I was better than that log and smarter than Sisyphus.

I sunk my flip-flops (poor choice of footwear) into the dirt and put my shoulder to the log. I could put my shoulder to the log, which was probably two feet off the ground because I was three feet tall at the time. Remember just before you get your growth spurt? Well, imagine it never hit.

So runt, log, hill. This was not a perfect geometrical 45-degree angle hill; the beginning was easier but got steeper and steeper towards the top. The first third of the hill went past pretty easily. When I get to the middle, I rested for the big push to the top and my inevitable victory over nature. This path was dirt and a little damp underfoot so my flip-flops were not working well. I finished my rest, told myself, “You’re better than the log, gravity, hill, poor footwear, and genetics” and pushed on. When I was 75% of the way to the top, still slipping my ass off, the log looked to be winning. At three times my body weight, it was like a midget trying to push a football in the Coliseum, only on a hill and me in flops. I said, “Fuck” and let the log roll back down the path.

I paced, swore, paced, swore again, and the whole time my mother was watching, coaching, and trying to control her laughter as her tiny part-Serb son was bested by a log. I’m sure she was torn between feeling pride for my tenacity, pity for my being small, and laughing her ass off at the sight of her tiny son fighting nature.

I regained my vigor; reminded myself that I’m a Serb, English, Scottish, Irish mutt. I’m the crazy, rule the world, fight like hell, and fight like hell while drunk product of shoddy breeding. I put my shoulder to the object of my rage and rolled that mother like a fine joint. I was halfway there and was not stopping. My Serb forefathers started World War One.

I didn’t even need a break. I bent the world and nature to my will like my English forefathers shouting, “Make the world England.” I was 75% there when the Scott in me came out. I saw the green hills of my forefathers, the dirty rainy crap hole where they lived and kept pushing myself as if I were a participant in the Highland Games. Scenes of Brave Heart flashed before me, and I thought Freedom! I got to the final feet and could see the top.

My mother was jumping up and down shouting, “You got this. You can do it; come on. Make me proud.”

The Irishman in me kicked in, and the fight was on. But wait, I’m 13. I had no liquid courage, AKA Irish fuel. And the machine ran out of steam. I slipped, and the log rolled over my 80-pound body, down the hill, off the path, and into a briar patch. I rolled down the hill, flip-flops flying everywhere. It was like a B-52 strike in Nam. I got to the bottom of the hill, resting comfortably on my face.

I snapped back to Serb. I was nuts, enraged, and I erupted with profanity, obscenity, and disgust at how this piece of shit log would not heed my will. “Why won’t you go home? Are you too good for my home? Answer me, log!” I rushed up the hill to my waiting mother who wanted to say, “Watch your language”, but was probably just happy I hadn’t broken every bone in my body when that huge damn log had rolled over my face. I spoke with my mom as we were going home down the road. She started to console me with “It’s OK. You’ll get bigger; it was a big hill. That was a huge log; the honor is in the attempt.” I cut her off.

Hell no. I’m not done yet. I need shit. I need pants for briers, boots for the mud, gloves to protect my hands, my stepdad’s jeep, a really long line off the boat, and my scrawny Serb mad scientist ass!”

She agreed to my plan. We got into the jeep and returned to the beach. I hopped out, grabbed the rope, and George of the Jungle to the log in seconds. I tied the rope around the log, got my ass back up the hill, attached the end of the rope to the jeep. Before my mom could get out of the car, I was already dragging a 250-pound log behind my stepdad’s jeep, on a fifty-foot piece of rope down the road, shouting, “Fuck you, nature. I win this round!” God made us different, but Henry Ford and Sam Colt made us equals.

So guys, remember never to give up. Sometimes you have to go away and come back to solve your problem. With a good plan, the proper equipment, and the little crazy Serb mad scientist screaming to get out of all of us, you can do anything.

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

Long live the writers

Taylor Oceans

Everything is all right!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well America as my mother has always said I am the only person to step in shit and smell like roses. All is well again in my life and even better then before. But I’m saving this tale for Book 2. Try my first book if you have not yet. The comments about it could not make me happier. Link below.

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans

I SEE FIRE

O America I see fire

Another tragedy is in my life. Haunted by nightmares for the last 25 days I face my end. 10 more nightmares to go. When I close my eyes I see my death. Why and how is not the point. I’m here to show you how to live and if necessary die as Gentleman. All I will say when all kneel at the end I will stand. I will be the one who takes it fighting with a smile. You should too. I stand for what I believe and I believe in myself. My destiny. Tragedy will always find you. Pity and apathy is for the weak. How you walk into the flames is what defines us as Gentlemen. Destiny is inevitable for us all. We all will lose, we all will fall. We all will die. The only thing we can be thankful for is the time a place. The time on this earth and a place to die. Know that whatever happens I will stand tall. I will not bow, I will not bend, I will look my fate in the eyes and roar. I’m a Gentleman. Stand with me America no matter what the cost. We are Americas the best country in the world its time we act like it.

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Mother Fucking Oceans

Our words are the only immortality we will have. Our dreams the only reality we will know.

The book is done america buy one and tell your friends

After three years of toil it is finally finished. The rough draft books are gone to the past. If your the one of 100ish who got one save it. It will be worth something some day. Thanks again for the great comments along with the one hater. You know you going somewhere when you have a hater stalker. So come one come all and enjoy my tales. A properly edited book for sale on Amazon.

If you don’t buy my book remember this. It is not the burden you deal with. We all have them. It is how you carry it that defines you. Walk tall with swagger America.

 

click the link below thanks for the reviews

 

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

 

Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase

Absolutely loved this book. The tales were humorous yet so real. He has such an interesting outlook on life. Great writer, hope to see more.

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful

By Nikki K 

Format: Paperback

Taylor takes you with him on his adventures. His style of writing brings humor to the most simple of takes. Beer pong and dealers, sex toys and Mitzvahs, fires and and log rolling…oh my!

You’ll read about the boy turning to a gentleman. The kid turning to an adult. The Nieve turning experienced and all in 200 pages. This book is a compilation of stories that will grab your attention and make you take notice.

It’s not for the faint of heart and requires all who venture forth to strap in and keep your hands inside the car. Once the ride is moving there’s no turning back.

There is something in this book for everyone. The war with his friends. The fire that takes his eyebrows, the Valentines day special. For every vice a fix and every itch finds a scratch. From glass pipes to glass dil*** and glasses of scotch. College buddies and drug buddies and f*** buddies alike…Taylor proves life is there for the taking, you just grab hold and enjoy!

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful

By twa2r 

Format: Paperback

Secretly, we want what they have and we want to be able to do what they do. And this boy can get as bad as we can imagine. He does it with gusto and a sense of pride in ownership. He owns what he does and it makes him great! It makes us envious.

Where are our guts? Hidden deep within our limitations. Taylor exposes his inner self with no holds barred. Sexually, he sounds like Don Juan run wild. Who wouldn’t want to be in his shoes? Some of his statements make me feel like I’ve never even had sex, and I’m old and should have tried at least a few of his suggestions by now. Physically he is small, but there’s a Goliath beneath the tiny frame, and David would do well to run from this giant. He doesn’t give up and he doesn’t give in.

When can I have a drink with him? I want to hear and learn more.

Robert

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful

By Keri B 

Format: Kindle Edition

I got this through CreateSpace and it’s effing hilarious. Hopefully this book does well enough through indie publishing that he can get picked up by a traditional publisher, because it’s a funny book and I see no reason why — with the marketing and editorial resources of a traditional publishing company — and it couldn’t reach a wider audience.

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful

By Dave on 

Format: Kindle Edition Verified Purchase

As a follower of Ocean’s blog, I couldn’t wait for this book. It has become one of my beliefs that we should be as candid and open as possible and he’s done just that. Excellent stories and I never got bored reading it. I will say though that I’m not a fan of the last paragraph. You’re at a point where most people barely figure out that there is a life to be lived. You’ve kicked ass, taken names but what kind of stories do you think people want to hear about your next 27 years? Think twice about living that ‘family man’ life… Keep life amazing man!

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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful

By tamaramalya 

Format: Paperback Verified Purchase

Taylor is a classic American hero for the millennial generation — a rebel, an outlaw, a self made man, a Gentleman. His rambling collection of hilarious anecdotes interwoven with thoughtful yet tongue-in-cheek dimestore philosophy has a striking poignance to it, the sweep of an epic. This book is funny as hell and I was laughing out loud, but it also made me think (at times). There are some utterly brilliant lines here, on sex, drugs, rock and roll, and the like, real gems of insight.
This book was a charmer and I can’t wait for the movie version. I hope Taylor plays himself so I can get a look at that ladykiller.

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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful

By Rose 

Format: Paperback Verified Purchase

I ordered this book, had no idea what to expect, opened it and found myself sitting there laughing my head off! Now the guy who wrote this obviously lives a lifestyle I have no idea about and don’t, well, totally approve of, but as drug-crazed, sex-soaked, alcohol-frenzied stories of wit and wisdom go, this is just genius!! I would recommend it to anyone with a funny bone.

My First Exhibition

America the book is ready and just a few days till its updated on Amazon. They move like old people fuck so in the mean time here is a chapter from my book to wet your whistle.

 

4. MY FIRST EXHIBITION

One night while my family vacationed at Virginia Beach, I went on one of my first adventures. Perhaps with some foresight I could have seen that I would live a crazy life, but, hey, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Time machine to 2001. Life was good; I was 14 and like many families in America, my parental units would communicate with elevated voices. During one of these information exchange sessions, I asked to go cruise the strip. Luckily, parents, no matter how much they care, can’t think about information exchange and child safety. I used this to my advantage. Some kids went and cried during a parental unit discussion, I got a new bike and leather jacket. They always just said yes. Why did no one else notice this?

It was midnight at Virginia Beach. The good old days. Hookers on the corners and crack heads mugging people in the alleys. As a 14-year-old from a village, all this fascinated me. I walked twenty blocks looking for something to do when I came across laser tag. Dear diary, “Jackpot”, said this 14-year-old boy. I walked in to find a girl, 16, with her little brother. Addendum to the diary, “Gigidy! Gigidy,” said this 14-year-old boy. Having had an older sister, I had learned the secrets of dealing with women at this young age—get the little brother in your pocket, and the older sister will eat out of your hand.

So, me, laser tag, midnight on Atlantic Avenue around 13th Street, cute girl my age, gigidy gigidy, and the little brother. Now she expected me to go and hit on her but that is a novice mistake. I go up to the kid, say let’s play, I’ll buy your ticket, and the game was afoot. Ever see Barney Stinson beat on little kids in How I Met Your Mother? Well, here was a 14-year-old holding down an 8-year-old shooting him in the chest. Even if I didn’t get laid, I was getting that high score and prize. So we finished our game; the kid was abused just enough to be able to walk, and I got the high score. Legen… wait for it so the little kid can get a glass of… dairy.

I left the arena to find the girl leaning on the pool table giving the fuck-me look. She told her 8-year-old brother to go back to the hotel, and I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t have cared less about his safety. I had just hit puberty. I knew women were involved, and I wanted it. Whatever that may be. The kid left, she looked me in the eyes and asked if I wanted to go swimming? Do pigs lie in shit? I asked myself. Absolutely, I wanted to go swimming.

We crossed Atlantic Avenue, hit the beach, the clothes disappeared, and we are in the water. Now I’m man enough to admit that I hadn’t had sex before then, and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I will sadly claim to have dunked her once. I mean what the hell do 14-year-old kids do with girls? I had no idea. Porn took an hour to download just one picture in those days. Luckily, she took over and started to give me my first BJ. I have heard Navy Seals can hold their breath for six minutes, but she could have taught the school.

There I was, naked in the ocean, getting my dick sucked next to the fishing pier, looking at all the hotels when I noticed a flashlight coming down the beach. It was a good hundred yards away, but they were going to walk right by me. I was only in waist-deep water getting blown. That was when I discovered that I didn’t mind a crowd. I wasn’t going to stop her. Who cared? I was getting blown here. This entire time she hadn’t even come up for air. Probably because she was afraid I would dunk her again. So the flashlight got closer, and I saw that it was two people walking towards our pile of clothes. Closer, closer, still getting blown, closer. Holy shit, it is two cops. Closer, closer, and the light hit the clothes. I knew I was fucked. Just then, the light switched to me, and I was a naked deer in headlights getting a BJ. They shouted, “What the hell are you doing out there?” I replied, “Swimming!” while she sucked the hell out of me. I was so close to finishing.

Well, get the hell out of the water. There was a shark attack last week, and they hunt at night,” they yell.

I’m cool,” I reply.

Get the hell out of the water, kid,” they repeat.

But I was so close to cumming in her mouth. I thought, who cares about the sharks. This was the greatest moment of my life.

Get the fuck out of the water. You’re next to the fishing pier for Christ sakes. That water is filled with bait,” they said.

Greek tragedies know not my grief. I tapped her on the head, and she sucked harder. I continued to tap, and I guess, thinking she was getting closer, she just kept sucking harder. The cops began to whisper to themselves God knows what while I continued to tap her head harder and harder as she sucks harder and harder. Finally, I started to back away from GI Jane, and she comes to the surface. As she gasped for air, the cops began to die laughing. She was naked and tragically, waist-deep water didn’t cover her goodies. The cops were keeled over laughing while shouting, “Get out of the water, sharks.”

At the word “sharks,” GI Jane pulled a naked Jesus and proceeded to run on the water back to the beach bare-assed. I, rocking a hard-on she could have swung from, was more apprehensive. Sure, I will fuck in front of people, but to stand naked? What am I, a fucking art model? Then I remembered my favorite James Bond line, and I knew I would never get another chance to use it. As I walked out of the water, I raised my hands and said, “Sorry, you caught me with more than my hands up.” The cops fell over laughing, and I got dressed. They asked us for our information and frankly, I have forgotten her name. She will always be remembered as the chick at the beach or GI Jane for her breath-holding skills. The important part was her age. I was 14, but she was 16. Wow, an older woman who can drive; aren’t I a stud? The cops let us go and told me to go back to my hotel. On my way back, I was intercepted by my stepdad who told me my mom was driving her black Volvo on the boardwalk shouting my name looking for me. I was grounded for a long time, but it was well worth it.

AMERICA I’M FINISHED

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 amazon.com. 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.

42. ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE

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

 

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

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.