The Grim Reapers Toll

 

The way the ship lay still and dank

Will remind you of the day she sank

The people astir all over the boat

Praying to praying that she will float

The sounds of the people wailing and screaming

Praying and praying that they are only dreaming

As the boat began to sink they ran to the stern

They now know the lesson to learn

Don’t be consumed by wealth or gold

For the Grim Reaper comes for the meek and the bold

Then you feel the water rise

Floating there your body dies

Then you are merely a soul

Forever more paying the Grim Reapers toll

 

~Taylor Oceans~

 

Thanks for reading America just broke 11,700 disciples tell your friends. Follow on FB.

 

Gentleman don’t quit

 

America I’m here to show you how to live. In the last two months I have had my heart broken, my right hand broken, and was bitten by a dog. The specifics are irrelevant however I do have to take the blame for all three. The point is I still suited up, took off my cast, put her picture in my pocket and sold a millionaire on my invention. Not only that but I sold him on making me an Executive of his Company and the Creative Director. I looked him in the eye, shook his hand like a Virginia Gentleman and took the pain of him re-breaking my hand. Then I took my check, left, and reset the bone myself on the sidewalk. Gentleman don’t Quit. You shouldn’t either.

There are no obstacles in life. Only challenges. When you get knocked on your ass and your body is broken. Lying alone in the mud wishing you were free of the pain. Your only comfort a tattered picture of her you still carry in your pocket. Gentleman still reach for the stars. Even with our ass stuck in the mud. We get up, lite a smoke, make a drink, and say “Fuck it, I can take it!”. Your dreams only fail when you give up on them and I will never give up on my dream for us.

I don’t care what your problems are America. Trust me we all have them. But stop being such a pussy and Fight. Fight for your dreams. Fight for your future. Fight for love.

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans

Want to read my story? 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

 

IMG_1457IMG_1333IMG_1442

 

If your wondering how a dog bit my arm pit I was protecting my beautiful face. Luckily my shirt was ok.

Oh and a freezer is harder then your hand.

Like on FB

https://www.facebook.com/taylor.oceans.3

 

38. VALENTINE’S DAY DONE RIGHT

For those not celebrating S.A.D. day, here are some plans to celebrate the perfect day for her… First, you will send her to a Spa to have her nails done. A cheap way to do this is only 18 or 28 dollars. At least go for the 28, you cheap bastards. If you expect her to go through the breaking-in period of anal, get her fucking nails done. She can look at them when she bites the blanket.

Second, the flowers. Now I used to be worth half a million dollars at 24 so doing this on discount is new to me so if I can do it, shut the fuck up. I’ve had two strippers fighting over the numby on my cock (drugs are bad) with their tongues so all can do the couple shit if I can. At least get her two roses. Now men since we know shit about the price of flowers, here is a bone. Three red roses from the stand on the street for fifteen bucks is a fuck in the ass without the courtesy of a free drink.  If you don’t plan on going to a florist to get six roses for fifteen, you’re getting fucked. I did not plan, so the bitch on the street got her hustle on and got me good. So this is what you do. Get creative. When poor, I took two roses I paid 10 bucks for (my ass is sore), some baby’s breath, and this cool shit called thistle of life and some cool blue shit I at least talked her into including. Then I bound the stems with some bullshit twine I had laying around, cut the leg off some tuxedo pajama pants I had (don’t ask) and the chain from some dog tags, rolled it like a joint, and served it up well enough to make Martha Stewart’s pussy wet. Because men and I guess gay women, women want you to do shit that makes you think about them for about an hour. Now, when you include some good rum, perhaps some greens (in certain states), and a good documentary about the battle plan of Japan in the Pacific, you can arrange flowers without your balls retracting or packing up and leaving.  

Third, dinner… Her favorite restaurant. Now some would say make reservations. This is wrong. I just discovered this thing called a budget. It sucks. Take out is always cheaper, first and foremost, because no booze and LESS tip. Now fucks. I used to work in a restaurant and tip on take out. Not 20% and that’s 20% America they live on tips, tip 10% and be happy it’s just that shut the fuck up. Do it enough, and that restaurant will fucking love you, give you the best tables, and never spit in your food. Yeah, we really spit in your food, and I’ve seen worse. Try asshole gravy, cheap tip fuckers. We remember you.

Get takeout and let her stay in bed while you get it. Tell her to keep it warm. Start watching movies in the warm bed because it is February, get the take-out order and let her stay. She will fight you on this because women are “independent” now but don’t let her. For the record, if shit like this turns into a fight, let her win and come with you.

Get the food and get into bed. For the medal of anal, take a 5×2 board (Gentlemen are carpenters learn on your own time America) lay it at the foot of the bed and dinner is served. Put on the movie of her choice, Pretty Woman is acceptable and dig the fuck in. Since you’re eating at home, you can get your booze at the ABC, saving your money while getting her drunk in your bed. Do the math. The extra I just added tonight is this. Her favorite is Sushi, and you eat it with Sake. The catch is Sake is served at 98.4 degrees F°, Gentlemen. So when you go to the store, buy it, preheat some water in a pot, and put the bottle in the water half way with the top loose so that when it heats up it, doesn’t explode. I am not liable if you blow up, I did this once and the top thing sounds logical but I have no evidence it works aside from the passed out chick next to me while writing this.

Fourth, fifth, whatever is the sex toy. I’m a straight guy with a suitcase; I’m talking rolling luggage, full of toys and a sex swing bitches. Buy one. They rock. Guys, our cocks don’t vibrate at 500 RPMs. No shame in some mechanical help. We use bulldozers for houses, saws for carpentry, and all kinds of mechanical advantages in our over-complicated lives. Why not complicate the fuck out of sex too? Magic wand people. I gave her a cowgirl outfit, doggy style strap for shower sex, and some hot leggings that match the cowgirl outfit. Don’t force her to wear it tonight. Get her off (This may not include you. Valentine’s Day is her day. If she does get you off, she is a keeper), and feed her well. She is waking up, so I have to wrap up this chapter.

Gentlemen, if she doesn’t pass out well-fed, cummed, smiling, and losing her voice from screaming your name in the throes of passion, you’re not a Gentleman on Valentine’s Day.  Spoil her on this special day, and she will return it ten -fold.  Besides, she just wants to brag about getting spoiled to her friends.

I hope you enjoyed chapter 38 from my book and I welcome all feedback

Merry Christmas

Taylor Oceans

Long Live the Writers

41. WHEN SHE BREAKS YOUR NOSE DURING SEX

 

So one night, I’m plowing this chick missionary in my bedroom. Everything is going great. I’m fucking her hard and she loves it. I can tell that her next cum was going to be huge. I grabbed a handful of hair and whisper into her ears, “I want you to cum all over my cock.” As soon as I had articulated these words, she came thrashing around as she normally does till she fucking head-butted me. She hit me square in the nose. I was forced out of her and onto my desk across the room clutching my face. In complete shock, we both just stood there naked. Me with a broken nose expecting the blood to start running, and her recovering from an amazing orgasm, wondering if she should apologize or thank me.

Undaunted by the excruciating pain in my face, I took a swig of rum and coke and got back in there, quite literally. Luckily, my nose was not bleeding and figuring I didn’t really break it, I thought I could take the pain long enough to get mine. So after ten more minutes of sex and her not cumming, I start to notice she is staring at my nose. Realizing I hadn’t even seen myself in the mirror, I turn my head to the mirror on my closet. Gents, put a mirror on your closet door so no matter where you’re banging in your bedroom, you can line up the mirror.

I then notice how truly fucking crooked my nose was. In horror, I pull out and go to the bathroom to the sounds of her saying, “Yeah, sorry about your nose. I may be able to fix it.” You see she has a medical background, so she comes across this stuff all the time. The problem is, I hadn’t realized she had just graduated and had probably done this procedure once before if I was lucky. She applies her thumbs to my crooked ass nose and boooooom. She popped that fucker back in, and it looks OK. Kind of funny because when I nibble on her neck now I can feel how the tip of my nose never healed right. OK fine, it’s still crooked. You get what you pay for and in my case, my nose was fixed by a naked lube covered hotty who just came all over me. My nose fixed, I resolved to pay my medical bill with a few more cums and then go to sleep. I sucked back on another rum and coke, took the pain, and tagged it a few more times.

So class, remember when she breaks your nose during sex, take it like a Gentleman and get back in there. (As long as you’re not bleeding, because let’s face it, that would just be weird pounding a chick with blood all over your face like some horny zombie.)

PART I: TALES OF A BOY

1. 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, and 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.

 

Long live the writers

Oceans

42. ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE

Well America book two is wrapping up. When I say that it’s 3/4 done which means 6 months-ish due to financial restraints. Tragically I’m still a carpenter and a poor one. But buy my book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live tell your friends and make me a writer. In honor of book two coming out I will be releasing some of the chapters from the first book. If your new to my blog you only get the unedited drunken free writes here. For the full on copy you have to pay the terrible price of 3 dollars for a kindle copy 9 for print. Available on Amazon.com link follows. 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. As I was saying book two is almost done so in honor of that here are the professionally edited fully revised chapters of book one. So sit back, make a drink, pack your bowls and enjoy the first of many more to come. This is the last chapter in my first book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live. Personally it is my favorite but I could probably say that about most of them. Leave me a comment below, I love feed back and if your feeling very adventurous try my first book.

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 as April. 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.

As always long live the writers

Taylor Oceans

Link to Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live

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

Find me on Face Book

Reflexes

Well America as you know I have gone legit.  Every dollar I have is legal. Whether this is good is still be determined but hey I figured I would give it a go. I will say Jesus you guys work a lot for very little money. Or at least the working class and that is where I find myself currently. Moving on.

Today me and my buddy were demoing a brick keystone arch. It was about 15 feet high so we had a basic ladder scaffold set up and are bashing the shit out of this wall drinking beer and having a normal day. It is a bud of mine and we combined our companies and can do just about any build you can think of. With epic lights should you choose that was my side of the biz. So brick wall, shaky scaffolding and terrible beer. Since masonry is my buds side of the biz and we both know carpentry he is point man on this job. We are trying to support some of this arch while we demo it in pieces so the entire thing does not fall and kill us. That is not the way I like to get stoned. So we have this crazy plan, or he did, and we went forward. For the record I said the entire thing would fall on us. I take out the support exactly as he said and Issac Newton covered his eyes with my Dad and everyone up in heaven watching the ridiculous life I lead. The support goes and my bud goes “O SHIT!!!!” The weight was to much and this idiot is trying to hold the entire thing himself.

This is when my reflexes take over. Before I know it instead of running for my life I’m under this fucking wall trying to hold it with my bud. So there we are 15 feet over cement on shitty scaffold with about 400 lbs of brick and mortar about to kill us. At least the shitty beer was safe in the cooler. (Side bar America. I don’t like to up products but the Yeti cooler will change your life.) My reflexes are running me and I still am not in control the Jedi in me is. Or Sith Lord Vader did a few good things. Just think a condom would have changed the entire movie.

Suddenly the arch gives. It is falling apart over us. Now since I was cutting the support I was not directly under this thing when the fun started. My bud is on my right, centered under this thing. My side caved first but he was under more of it so again reflexes take over. First they get me under this fucker instead of back at the beer cooler laughing saying I told you so as I call the ambulance. Now the arch is disintegrating around us and again I should have bailed off the ladder. A fifteen feet fall is much better then a fifteen feet fall with bricks coming down on top of you like the fucking Coyote. So the bricks are falling and my side caved and I dodged it. My bro is a bigger dude and not so fast. His side caves and his arms are still in the air holding two fucking bricks as this arch rains around him. Fucking Virginia Gentleman reflexes take over again and I shield his face from these big fucking bricks some still stuck together in big 8 brick 40 lbs fucking boulders with my left arm because my right is keeping me from falling.

So my left forearm fucking kills America and I typed this through the pain to tell you this before I drink to much and forget. Rum and coke now for the record. Fuck beer.

Our reflexes define us America. Fight or Flight mother fuckers. We are Americans bitch all of us should fight. In all walks of life. We should try new things and be afraid everyday. We should be more tolerant to each others ideas and beliefs. We should fight to preserve what freedoms we still have in this country because they are going fast America. We need to fight every day but not for ourselves we need to fight for each other. We need a weapon of mass construction. We need to fight to build a better America for us all. Also I wear condoms. Magnums for the record ladies. You dudes with kids should be the one telling me this message. Fight for those little bastards.

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Mother Fucking Oceans

Like what I wrote? Think I’m full of shit? Got a good story? Write in the comments below.

As always tell your friends about Taylor Oceans and should you want my book link below. Because I don’t edit this blog I write it. Surprisingly my book has a great rating on amazon but don’t listen to me read what America said about it 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

Buy a book I promise to spend it on women, drinks, and condoms. The rest I will spend irresponsibly.

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

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