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.
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.
Well America I got cock punched by the publishing company if you didn’t get the memo. Strangely no fault of mine, normally is. 1,000 dollars spent on the greatest negotiation ever, for the greatest writing contract ever. Sure it was a small publishing company but to have a publishing company find me and say “Lets make some money” gave me a hard on my chubbier followers could swing from. I’m talking a cock made of concrete. I rocked that success erection for three months while I waited for my book to come up for edits. I’m sure you all know how badly I need those. Then one week before my turn at the editor’s brain the owner of the company gets the bad word from the doctor, panics and fires everyone from the sales reps to the writers. It just reminds me of the most common comment I get. “Did you make this up?” No disciples this shit really happens to me. All of it and if anything I tone it down a little.
But what the fuck I’m here to show you how to live right? Today’s lesson is dealing with frustration and set backs. It all can’t be strippers, drugs, sex and boats in this blog. Once I got over the feeling I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire I realized hey at least it wasn’t me with the doctor bad news. Sucks for her hope she is OK. Sometimes you just have to be happy with what you got and remember the Paul theory of life from my book. For those followers who have not bought my book, about 10,900 of you 11,000, Paul was a friend of mine at boarding school. He was from Sudan, AKA God’s asshole, and the tales he told me would turn a black man white. Horror shows of a small kid dodging Ak bullets and grenades on his way to sixth grade. He knew he had to learn English and come to America to fucking survive. Can you imagine being 12 and thinking survival. We are so sheltered and spoiled in this country it’s easy to become ignorant of the issues of Africa. The entire place is fucked but that is not the point. The point is Paul didn’t tell these stories for a pity party. At 16 he had more nobility in his cock then I will ever have. He told his tales to enlighten us. To show us how lucky we are and to thank God for it, but we aren’t on speaking terms since he thought my dad should join him on his porch instead of listening to Eric Clapton on Waterloo’s porch with me. It’s what we have that is important not what we want. Today I got up, had a great day at work where I got to work with my hands and be creative. I love creating. I built six chandelier from nothing that would make any fairies pussy wet. (For the record Taylor Oceans is pro gay everything. If every man was gay all the women would be mine and ever fairy would want to convert me. I would never have to buy a drink again.) I came back to my rather nice apartment. Well it’s a 100 year old moldy piece of shit but I have made it my own. Said high to my alley cats, lamented the lose of my dog, made a rum and coke in the can so no dishes and wrote this. That’s a great fucking day minus not getting a BJ and having sex three times. I have been shot at, run over, almost thrown in a wood chipper, drowned, hypothermia three times, beat cancer, broken my nose during sex, thrown up on, thrown up on myself, mauled by my own damn dog, flipped cars, sunk boats, busted by swat, thrown out of two schools and been suspended from one, faced five years in fuck in the ass state and walked, watched my dad shrivel to 85 pounds turn grey slip into a coma and die of AIDs right in front of me, and a bunch of other shit. Today was a good day. That is what matters. Not what I want. Not what has happened although it has made me and I’m proud of my mistakes. I’m wiser and older now. What matters is today was a good day and the next publisher will work. Keep one eye on my back and one eye on my future and both look good today. A cig in my mouth and a rum and coke in my hand doesn’t hurt either.
Reach for the stars America. Even with your ass stuck in the mud. Sure I’m pissed about the contract falling through. Sure I’m pissed about all the other shit that has happened, but it’s not the burden that matters it’s how I carry it. And God Damn it America this Virginia Gentleman has got some fucking swagger.
Long Live the Writers
Hope I get to travel the world
But I don’t have any plans
America this country was built by Amateurs. George Washington was an amateur and I’m pretty sure he lost more battles than he won. The underground railroad was run by Amateurs. Lewis and Clark were Amateurs. Most our boys who stormed the beaches of Normandy were Amateurs and had never seen battle. Neil Armstrong was an Amateur he had never landed on the moon fuck no one had. Bill Gates, Amateur, started making computers in his mom’s garage. Amateurs have always been the explorers and trail blazers into the future and are immortalized as courageous resourceful Amateurs who like Han Solo Amateur are never concerned with the odds. I am and Amateur. Fuck didn’t even spell Amateur correct. I am the king of the run on sentence and couldn’t put a semicolon in the right place if you put a gun to my head or offered me Brazilian whore. But like my Amateur forefathers who sailed to this country and stole it from the Indians I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Four fucking years ago I started writing. I have filled over four composition notebooks, and lost even more. Four years ago I decided to try my hand at writing and when I say try my hand I mean go straight to the top. Like the phoenix I knew I would rise from nothing and have everything I want out of this life. How did I know I would get it? Faith. But not faith in God, Allah, Buddha, or the others. You have come to the wrong place if you want religion. All I will say on that topic is respect people’s religion. But people with religion, it would be nice if you guys would keep it to yourself and stop dragging the rest of us into faith-based wars. I had Faith that I can do anything I put my mind to. Faith that I am an unstoppable force. A rouge wave of pride, courage, intelligence, resourcefulness, kindness, respect, sexiness, and a fucking Virginia Gentleman.
Am I different? Yes, but we all are and there is something magical about that. We all have gifts and burdens. But a gift is only a gift if used wisely and our burdens are irrelevant; we all have them and it’s all relative. What counts with your burden is how you carry it. Do you let it break you or do you walk tall and take it in stride. No one is perfect not one fucking one of us. The only thing that we all have in common is faith. Some have less and others more. Anyone can do anything in my world and you should join me America.
I wanted to be a writer. My reasons are mine, but I wanted it and I fought for it. Four years of basing my head against a wall without even shaking it. Four years of my family saying you’re a ridiculous fool. One even said “A writer I just saw a box of books on the sidewalk there is no money in books.” My friends said it was hopeless while others just said nothing. No one said I could do it and I gave two fucking shits. I had faith and that is all you need. It was a lonely road and if I said every day I was confident it would work I would be a liar. Night after night I thought of other ways to use my time. Thought of the odds. Calculated the costs. Gauged my ability as a writer. Good story-teller and worst typeset, and grammar idiot on the planet. I didn’t care I had to try. But not try that is what losers say I had to succeed. Don’t survive thrive. I have never been stopped by any force and damned if I will stop now. I hired and fired 19 editors. One even held my draft ransom saying “This will make money I want to be partner.” Told her to stick it up her ass with a candle on it and rewrote it. However I did take it as a massive compliment. Then I found a girl who worked well with me and got what I was going for. Weeks we spent rewriting and editing the run on drunken madhouse which is my writing. Even more time spent writing this blog which I use as a litmus test for my tales. Over 140 posts and 30 never got posted. Hours, days, weeks, months, years, four years of nothing. I realized I didn’t just need an editor I needed an agent. Over 300 NO’s America. 300 emails I sent out looking for help and all came back “Thanks for your interest in our company. We enjoyed your writing but it is not for us. And sorry for this form letter” So I decided to self publish and did it through createspace.com and amazon. This was well received and America was kind enough to give me a 4.6 out of 5 rating for my very rough first edition. I also had more help from my ladies. A group of loyal assistants who liked my blog and wanted to help. Part time amateurs but they helped me write my form letters and showed me the language of marketing a book. One even went further and helped me get my foot in a door with an online publisher. I submitted my draft and they sent me a contract. I then had to hire an attorney for a grand to tell me what the hell the contract said. He helped me make some changes and we conference called with the publishing company. I sat back and watched him work and he got it all. Every fucking thing I wanted from that contract and they agreed. Now he is writing the final draft and when it’s done I will sign. Hopefully they will still sign and a brick came out of the wall I had been bashing my head into. I now can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just a glimmer, but that is more than I have ever had. I fucking did it America and I’m an Amateur, dyslexic, tech theatre and creative advertising college drop out. I have been thrown out of every school I have ever been to or suspend for five years and I fucking did it.
What one Gentleman can do another can do better America. With Faith in yourself. When your back is against the wall, your cards suck and your almost out of chips you can still win. You just have to play your hand right. Whatever you want out of this life America you can get. Anything is obtainable America you just have to fight for it and fight fucking hard. A little rum never hurt either.
Now stand by for the official announcement of me becoming a published author America. I’m going to shake this fucking world.
And to all my friends and family. SUCK MY WELL ENDOWED COCK i MADE IT YOU DOUBTING CUNTS. And Dad wish you could have seen it.
One new years my bro is in town and I took it upon myself to show him a good time. This is my bro from a different mo and we have been finding trouble since 2nd grade. I guess more accurately I have found the trouble and talked him into following me into it. God bless him, if I did it he was right behind me since the great raptor hunt of 94. That’s right America our seven year old asses having just seen Jurassic Park were convinced a Raptor was lurking in my woods. Armed to the teeth with a BB gun and compound bow we hunted it for days even trying to bait it with dog food. We were unsuccessful however we did find a missing great dane however I’m still convinced that was not was I saw hunting us in those dark woods.
So back to new years, him being from my small town and me being the one who escaped to the big city I wanted to show him the life of lights on the streets and pavement under our feet. Our first stop was to watch the ball raise. In my city like New York we have a ball ceremony however ours raises and is impossible to see when it’s at the top contributing to our seven year in a row incorrect, and late countdown. God bless a criminal city but the education here is staggering. Any who unlike the thousands of people in the streets I have to make the night my own, by climbing onto a roof next to the ball raising with two bottles of bubbly. A minor trespassing possibly considered breaking and entering to some judges, but with all the crime I have committed that slap on the wrist stuff looks like the kiddy ride to a carrier fighter pilot.
Of course my bro is the respectable one. He teaches your kids America, God bless the public school system. He was not sure of this roof climb, due to the possible 20 foot fall getting up there, and the booze already influencing our balance. It had been years since I had seen him but like we were 7 again hunting the raptor I climbed first showing him the way and after a few adolescent taunts his drunk ass was climbing. The problem was going around the chimney due to a barbed wire fence on the roof keeping people off. I almost fell. Last thoughts to cross my mind. Fall back first hugging the bottle to protect it. Will want to get drunk after I lose all feeling in my legs. Before I ask bro to beat me to death with the empty bottle since I wont be able to use Sir Gordon Johnson on hot ladies ever again Because you got to have goals America.
The roof climbed, bottles primed, we await the countdown. Looking at the smile on his face as he looked down on all the people and the people cheering up at us, I could see why people deal with my ass. Sure I’m rough around the edges and a mixture of archer, barney stinson, and hunter S. But, I show people how to live and have been called every name but boring and monotonous. Live every day like it was your last. One day it will be. The countdown begins, the ball raises, and the corks fly into the crowd below us. Drunk, cheering, feeling like Gods atop our tower of bubbles we were happy. Right up till that cop car entered our Korbel realm.
When the party was winding down the cops show up to help clear the drunks from the streets. Convinced we were atop Olympus drinking with Zeus we did not notice that cop car emerging from Hades’s ninth ring. Virgil what the fuck? Drunk bastard. Suddenly me and my bro snap out of our drunken chants. We see a cop car next to the girls we are shouting at and a chill creeps up our spine. Yes your honor I was drunk on that roof and I loved it! The cops sees the girls looking up, follows suit, and sees us. Feeling the tremble in the force of my bro I silently whisper “own it and raise your glass with me to the cop”, as I mentally plan an o shit run off the roof plan B. My bro reverting back to 7 says nothing, stands up straight, and raises his glass with me to the cop woman. She smiles, waves and drives on. What a country. My bro turns to me speechlessly asking “how in the fuck?” I look at him and say bro I’m a criminal run and they chase you raise your glass and stand tall… We look like we own the building. Look like your supposed to be there and cops ignore you. Yes officer this is my T.V.. Yes officer this weed is medicinal. Yes officer I was drunkenly sledding on this hill using an art museum sign as a sled, I own this place. Well at least plan B worked on the sledding one.
Drunk enough to barley walk but not drunk enough to land a controlled fall we hit the bars with the mortals. Our souls baptized in champagne of Olympus.
America I want to thank you for giving a retired drug dealer and master of mistakes a voice. I can’t thank you enough for the 2,900 wonderful comments, over 80,000 views, countless reblogs, sexting and urging me to write my book. Its been a long first year, over 100 posts and now 11,000 disciples. I can’t say how grateful I am so I will show you. I always believed actions were louder then words anyway. My book PLAYING YOUR HAND RIGHT: SHOWING AMERICA HOW TO LIVE is about life, love, sex, crime, and when she breaks your nose during sex. I wanted to make America laugh and maybe class the world up a notch.
During this year I have gotten countless questions on how I got so many disciples. To say thanks for following and buying books I’m going to give you my opinion on how to blog. FOR FREE. Although I wouldn’t mind if you bought a copy of my book. 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
My blog is clean and neat. No widgits, gidgits, gadgits, esoteric nonsense or the other techno babble I will never understand. When I was at art school I had a great professor who really got into the psychology of web design and I listened close. First always use a white or subtle yellow as background it is the easiest on the readers eyes. No moving images, white font on black or the other A.D.D. options, they make the text hard to read and tire the readers eyes faster making them unable to read more then twenty min. I want people to come to my blog and read my writing not check the weather it’s distracting to the reader. K.I.S.S. Keep It Simple Stupid is my message on layout. Get rid of all the background and extra crap. We are bloggers not web designers. But we can learn a thing or two from them.
Tags and Categories
This is one of the most unused easy things to do for us bloggers. An old web design trick is make the spiders work for you. We call spiders the search engine programs and they are designed to find key words your searching for. Using the Tags and categories is an easy way to get more traffic. Will this get you 11,000 followers? No but it will get you two more every day and if your a good writer those two will tell two and is spreads. First and for most add “sex” to your tags and categories. Sex is the most searched for term in the internet and word press will even make you laugh by telling you what funny dirty thing people search for. Here is what my site brought in today “tight hand and sex, lighting farts on fire, sxe amerka, sex live in america” Makes me giggle every day what it says. So with sex find 20 other categories your writing falls under and post in them. I have a list I just copy and paste into the tags section no matter what I have written about. Well, lets face it, most of my writing is about sex, drugs, boats and crime anyway. If you cant think of any here is my list to get you started you just copy and paste into the tag section (Antares 44 I, blog award, boats, Busted, cancer, car accident, car break down, Cars, change, children, Cocaine, college, Cops, crime, Dad, Death, Drinking, Drug Dealing, Family, Father, funny, growing up, hash, humor, inspiring, journey, Life, Playing Your Hand Right, quest, robbers, robbery, Sailing, Sex, sex toys, strip clubs, Suicide, Survival, SWAT, Taylor Oceans, Uncategorized, Valentines Day, Weed) These tags are vital when your starting out but now I rarely use categories anymore although I should. So no more posting in only uncategorized America, noob mistake make the spiders work for you. I hate the bastards and they scare the crap out of me but in the digital world spiders are my friends.
Yes America the world is full of haters the key is to ignore them. Do not fight back they are not worth your time, will never change, and all your doing is dropping to their level. I know that sounds like something you tell a four year old but this is a digital world. If someone said this shit to my face I would have them knee capped while I stand over them laughing, smoking and drinking rum. Since you can’t beat their ass just trash the comments. I receive about one a month. Some person who has spent there entire life is the suburbs and believe they know everything without any real word experience. I get the drug dealers are trash, kid killers, and poster children for abortion once a month. I’m sure I attract more then your average blogger given the controversial topics and my background, but simply put. You will never make everyone happy and like you so give up now, be yourself. Raise your rum and say :To all those who wish us well cheers. To all the rest may you burn in hell.” Just accept that some people will not like your writing and would love to make you quit. Now let me tell you a tale. After the first two months of my blogging I got a hater. He commented on every post and trashed me. He told people not to follow me, and plenty of other garbage. I posted his comments with my rebuttal. I then made the mistake of not checking on my blog for three days. In that three days I had trashed all the work I had done. It took me 2 months to get my first 200 followers and I went back to 50 in three days. America did not like my rebuttal. I deleted it, his comments and basically started from scratch again. That was the first wall I had to put my head through to keep this blog going and it will not be the last. Don’t waste your time with the haters and trolls, just delete, ignore, have a cig, rum and coke, and maybe some good hard fucking. Write more the next day. Sometimes you have to go away to come back. We are here to write not, argue with America.
Far be it from me to tell you what to write. You want to write about scifi, cars, politics, what ever go for it, but give the people what they want. What they want in those categories I have no idea I write about crime and fucking. I write about me unpolished and you guys clearly eat up the shit where I hold nothing back, and tell it like it really happened. Many times I want to keep some of myself or my failures out of my writing and portray myself as Don Won on Viagra. However when I get the rum in me and tell it how it is you guys love it. I hold nothing back and expect nothing in return. But I wouldn’t mind if you bought my book.
So that is my quick class on blog success. Keep your format simple, use spiders, be yourself and ignore the haters. Don’t like it kiss my ass its free. But I’m here to show you how to live and I figured I might show some of you a trick or two about blogging. We all need a little help from time to time.
Accidentally on Purpose
The last secret to my success was this post. Accidentally on Purpose was a post I wrote that went viral hitting 965 views in one day. Now you can use all the tricks of the trade. My B.S. and all the other crap they are trying to sell you on the internet on how to blog right. But what it comes down to is turning heads. I have never done anything by following the rules and I’m not about to start now. Grammar, social norms, and doubters can suck it, I live, fuck and write my way. Find out what the people want out of your writing and give it to them. Do they want to feel secure, enlightened, ashamed, passionate or informed? Give the people what they want and they will stay, read, and follow. The categories, tags, format, and other shit only get them to walk in. You writing must make them stay.
Now for your reading pleasure here is accidently on purpose the post that America made me write a book after reading.
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: head shot. 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 go to my fridge, get the third bottle of champagne, pull off the foil, wire, aim and 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 I am in my kitchen, hotness at the bar, 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 hits the wall across the room. I have both my hands on the bottle when I realize the cork has ricochet off the wall and is coming straight for 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 dip shit “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 is realizing 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, 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 head shot 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 bar stool 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.
As always if you like that take a peak at my book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How to Live and read what America has said about it. 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
America rewind my life tape back ten years to senior year of High School. I’m 18 and the Activities Vice President of my school. I decided to run for student body VP while at dinner with my Dad. Being sent to boarding school it wasn’t uncommon for parents to be sympathetic and take you out to dinner to save you from the terrible food of dorm every now and then. We were having a very nice penne chicken Alfredo with salted garlic ham cubes. I still use the recipe try it. We were cowing of this dank pasta and I sit up and say I think I’m going to run for VP. Supportive as always Dad replies “Sure you can, when is the election.” A quick glimpse at my none existence watch and I say “O about sixteen hours.” Dad chuckles knowing the procrastinator in me all to well and says “Well I guess you can try, but don’t get your hopes up.”
The next day I break into the school office and print off four color copies of my election banner. “If you want parties like this vote Taylor Oceans for Activities VP” with a picture of a rave under it. I moved them around campus, had them pencil my name onto the voting cards, and I never even got to give a speech. Won it by three votes, losing in the first counting, fuck yeah! Which gets us closer to the plane.
Now as Activities VP you plan the prom and all other “mixers” (being a mostly guy boarding school they shipped in women from our all girls sister school once a week so we don’t turn gay) and as the drama tech guy I knew how to work all the lights and wire just about anything. Hey, at boarding school you have to do a winter sport. Wresting, the sport of ear pads, rashes and tights… Hell No. Basketball, yeah kiss my ass I’m short and blew my knee in soccer two years prior. And drama, the only sport the girls could do in the winter aside from girls basketball. Dear diary jackpot. If my lighting booth could talk. Any who, as VP, I wanted to have an illegal rave on campus, have 100 girls shipped in, no chaperons, and my high school, boarding school, blue balls in the middle of it. I did, even built me and friends a VIP section. First politician in history to keep his word. I would have been thrown out of school, but I bet they couldn’t because then it would be public that a student conned them into not only catering his illegal rave, but endangered the sister school. My school would have never been able to have a mixer again. It worked, with a few other extortions and creative language.
This brings us to the plane. During the preparation phase of the rave I got off campus to go pick up the six foot black lights for the rave. Go hard or go home America ever seen what 14 six foot black lights can do? While driving back to campus me and my partner in crime pass an air field and I blurt out I want to fly a plane. “He says want to I’m a pilot?” As always “Do pigs lie in shit?” is mine Using his pilots licence, the rest of the money I embezzled from the school, a huge insurance policy and the lax regulations of this back country airfield, yes we rented a P.O.S. Cessna (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cessna_172). While fueling the plane I notice the tricycle landing gear is so light it moves when kicked, my go cart had bigger tires, the doors are so thin I bet I could fuck a hole in it, the walls are made of the same material holding our beer that weekend, and the interior looks like something they thought was ugly in 1970. A flying, tacky, death trap to put nicely, but I figure who wants to die in bed. During take off the piece of crap sounded like it was going to fall apart and I really regretted getting my partner in crime, now my pilot high with me. Suddenly we are airborne like a fat metal turkey. The view was amazing and we decided to tour the county. We flew over campus, the highway, and when we got over the river my buddy says ok find something to put in your hand like a pen. I find a screw driver and say now what? He says “I’m going to dive the plane and when I say now spin the screwdriver in the air it will float.” Not sure how to spell the sound of a plane going down but that sound zooooooom. The plane is diving, I’m screaming profanities and he shouts spin it. Such mind shattering awesomeness! Weightlessness! The fear is gone, the sounds, the doubts, the emotions, my entire life has vanished from my mind. All I can focus on is a screwdriver floating in front of me. Suck it apple guy, gravity is my play thing today bitch. Transfixed by the daunting defiance of gravity our stoned asses fail to realize we are plummeting to the river from 5,000 feet at about 200 miles an hour. Simultaneously we both look past the screwdriver and see the river about to screw me and my driver. Profanities, as we both grab the sticks and pull back as we are eye level with sail boats. Twenty feet. That is what we got to. 20 god damn feet off the river as low as sail boat masts.
Our buzz fully gone, and pants properly soiled, we decide to return to the safety of the ground. He tried to teach me how to land but with no head wind he needed to take it in. Love those single runway airstrips. He had to crab the plane to slow us down for landing. This is basically Tokyo drift in a fucking beer can with a tricycle under it. 50 feet off the runway im looking at the runway through the side window, and just before touch down he turned the plane straight and nailed the landing. And that’s what happens when stoners fly.
One year in the bag America it’s our Anniversary, ladies get in line hotties with bodies get first dibs. One year of my tales, stupidity, sex, crime, more sex, and then my stupidity during sex followed by drunken typos. What? I’m only giving you rough drafts on this blog and holding the good tales back for the book. You know you wouldn’t buy books if I didn’t and thanks for buying. Holy shit first year done, one book written rated 4.7 out of 5 on amazon thanks America, 10,433 disciples, 2742 total comments, 110 posts, 1,002 comments on my life, 76,625 total views, and the top day 965 caused by my post Accidentally on Purpose going blog viral. As a thanks here is Accidentally on Purpose for you new guys. When the book came out four months ago I cut off the ending and made it a teaser for my book. What Gentleman need money to. Ladies are expensive and worth every penny. Also the other most popular post Sex life of America for your reading pleasure. This was just an over sexed rant I went on one day when America yet again made me want to Jihad FOX news (Secret Service this is a sarcastic comment and I would never blow up those no talent, scare tactic, sex deprived, ass clowns on Fox news). Seriously America get your head out of your asses and fuck the world. Sexually and in a sense of accomplishing your dreams. Grab the world’s hair, slap its ass and show it…The Gentleman has arrived. There is a Gentleman in all of us. Thanks for making it one hell of a year America. Wear a Condom.
42. ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE
So one night, I had 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: head shot. Thoughts of me being gunned down wearing nothing but a condom and holding a magic wand, not to mention the sight of blood makes me light headed 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 go to my fridge, get the third bottle of champagne, pull off the foil, wire, aim and 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 I am in my kitchen, hotness at the bar, 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 hits the wall across the room. I have both my hands on the bottle when I realize that the cork has ricochet off the wall and is coming straight for 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 dip shit “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 is realizing that I’m about to be Kennidied. 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, sympathize, however this turns out.
Suddenly, I realize that time has stopped. I look at my dog and notice a drop of drool floating in the air below him frozen in time. A humming bird was flying outside the window and its wings were still. All these thoughts and sights overwhelmed me, yet I couldn’t react to the damn cork about to head shot 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 bar stool 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 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 again when no one is around… I’m never even close.
Well America you have done it again. You have made me sad to be an American. Am I the last person in this country who honestly enjoys sex? I don’t bang for my relationships. I don’t bang because its been a week and we need to once a week. I don’t bang because its my birthday and she is letting me get some. I bang because I fucking love it. When ever I can where ever. Three, five, seven times a day if we both have the day off. I love the feel, the sweat, the screams, the look in her eyes when she says thank you after every cum, the sound of the hand cuffs clattering, all that great shit. I fucking love fucking. Seriously, aside from sailing which can and should be done during sex, what the hell else would you rather do? Nothing. Really I never have and never will get it. I’d be banging right now but my buddy is out of town.
Sex is the most fun you can have without laughing and you know what good sex involves laughing once in a while. When she cums so hard she head butts you and breaks your nose. Laugh. When your banging her in the sex swing and the lube you spilled on the floor makes you slip and fall on your ass wearing only a condom and shameful grin. Laugh. When your both lying next to each other covered in sweat, consumed by the wonderful tingling feeling you get after great sex. Laugh. Sex is fun and you will make mistakes so laugh at yourself and get back in there if you know what I mean. You will pull off the condom to fast with a couple pubs. You will have to stop because the lube bottle slipped out of your hands and rolls under the bed. You will break furniture of all kinds. You will be caught. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. You know what you do laugh and bang some more. No shame I have done all these countless times and told all 6,500 of you. Read my stories. The broken nose was a bitch. Its still a little crooked.
When did sex become such a taboo topic America? We all were born with equipment for it, we all know it feels really really really really really really fucking good, and shit America its a great workout and many of you could use one. So put on a condom grab the woman next to you (go gay guys to I guess) and bang her/him where ever you are reading this. In the living room? Bang. Bedroom? Bang. If she is in the kitchen cooking get in there turn off the stove and bend her over the counter. On a plane? Get that mile high club. But stop planning, scheduling, accounting, rationalizing, registering and calculating sex. We are all eating, shitting, fucking animals. And anyone who says they aren’t is a eunuch.
So why have I gone on this rant today well here is “Breaking News” on CNN. All the shit going on in the world Americans want to hear about a couple who had sex every day for a year. This is pathetic. I have done this by accident for at least three years of my now 28 (birthday a week ago I’m old) life. What do people do in college? Study? Any way here it is
Now get out there and please your woman America. Bang the crap out of her. Give God a high five and bring down some wrath on the fine asses he made. Wear condoms.
Well America its been a wonderful year. Thanks for reading, commenting, helping me make my first FB page, (all of you are way to dependent on technology the world got along just fine without a computer chip up your ass. All of my tales occurred without the aid of FB, now ignore the hypocrisy of that comment since I’m a good little FB whore now to move books… Be sure to check out my fireside chat on FB on Saturday at 6 est https://playingyourhandright.wordpress.com/2014/02/03/fireside-chat/ I’m a dirty Gentleman FB whore) buying my first book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live, and giving me hope that this mad dash to become a writer before completely bankrupting myself might just work.
Long Live the Writers who buy my book. Link below. Kindle and paper back copies available
America I have horrible nightmares at best once a week. I’m talking wake up covered in sweat and physical tired from running in my dream. I have woken up with scratches on my face, bruises on my body, and once a dislocated shoulder. Somebody please figure that one out. I beat the crap out of myself at night and its the major reason I don’t like to let woman sleep in my bed. Nothing to do with my fear of commitment and abandonment issues almost done with those. Its all about accidently beating the crap out of her while I’m sleeping. But why am I telling you this? Regret. You see my reacquiring dreams are all my gruesome death. I have died in literally every way conceivable, Shot, burned, stabbed, hung, skinned, poisoned, run over by a car, truck and train, hack to pieces, fallen to death and shot to death by zombies with guns while covering my friends escape but that one I actually liked. Zombies with guns how cool would that be? What a good death it was epic I stayed alive to fire off every bullet I had as they riddled me. As I died I could see my friends escape. What a death but moving on. Is it a nightmare if you like the death? Anyway…
What I’m getting at is regret. I’m not a dream interpreter and it doesn’t take a shrink to figure these out anyway. I have seen a lot of death cut and dry. I just want to tell you about a dream I had a week ago and one last night which reminded me. Last night I dreamed of putting my dog down again. Ze Arnold Scarface in my arms, his soft hair, drool everywhere and his odorous stink. God I miss his stink. It was so real and painful to see him slip away after 23 great years. I spent more time with that dog then my father and that’s not an exaggeration. Got the dog when Dad came back and stole the dog when I moved away. God I loved that dog and as horrible the dream was it was nice in a sick pathetic way to hold my big bro again(my entire life the dog outweighed me and I always wanted a brother).
This reminded me of a dream last week where I was being brutally murdered on my farm. Remember the scene in private ryan when the jewish guy has a knife stabbed through his chest incredibly slowly yeah had that dream and let me say not fun. That one was up there with the killer clown hacking off my limbs as I go on a run away roller coaster or being pined down with no food in a rice paddy by charlie and they try to temp me out with well rice paddies but the edible kind not swamp. Any way what I’m getting at is while attempting to slow the knife entering my chest I was home on the farm. I could smell the wood beams in the house, the smoke of the wood stove, I could see the funny old doors, and all my Dad’s CDs. It was all so real and nice to be home even with a knife being stabbed into my chest. I have not been home in four years. Really only twice in six. Once to go to Dad’s funeral and another to pick up my stuff. This leads me to my only regret in this life of mine. Leaving my Dad to die. No nicer way to put it. I was 23 my Dad had AIDS and he wanted to die. Not only did I have to leave to save myself mentally I had to leave because everyday I risked getting AIDS being his care giver. I cracked, we fought, I told him I wanted him to live, but couldn’t watch him die anymore. He had been in bed dying for years at that point. I left him to die in the care of nurses and we never even had a legal drink together at a bar. This, in my eyes, has been my only failure in life and I never want to forget it. To save myself I abandoned my father and moved to the big city. It started well enough, I got back into college was working a legal job as a hotel engineer, but when he died I knew I left him and the crime began. We all left him the entire family. Some could make the excuse I was the youngest of the cowards or we are all responsible for our own lives, but I feel age is not as significant as most Americans and we should always help each other no matter what the risk. I study the old days where 15 year olds were midshipmen on frigates in charge of four guns in a battle or the battle of warsaw during WW2 where little kids ran ammo and messages to the front lines. I never want to forget leaving Dad because I failed. You never leave your loved ones no matter what and here I am five years later, the farm gone and no family. A hard lesson to learn, but one I honor for my Dad. I will never run again. I will never live with this burden of regret again. Left only with memories and nightmares all I can do is mourn in my dank little down town apartment.
Learn from me America that’s what I write for. The only sin in this life is regret and fuck I sinned. But I will never make that mistake again. Fight the hard fight America. Stick with your loved ones family or not. Even if you save yourself a piece of you dies with them.
P.S. I dont want any comments about o that’s sad poor guy. Don’t be pussies America and get your heads out of your asses. Just want to illustrate the importance of fighting the good fight and I use my life as a catalysis to smack you in the balls and get your attention. Don’t get all lifetime channel on me just trying to prove a point. Now go fuck something America. Give God a high five and bring down the wrath on the fine asses he made, Wear a condom. Peace Out.
Long Live the Writers
O yeah and buy my book America only way your getting edits. Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live 4.7 out of 5 rating on Amazon.com. Link Below. Help spread the word of the new indie author. Lived by me, written by me, and sure as shit not edited by me. I mean look at this America I had way to much good times and sex in school to focus on grammar. Worth it.
I LOVED this book!!! I discovered the book when it was donated to project that I run. This is the most REAL book that I have ever read. Taylor Oceans has lived one hell of a crazy life and has an amazing way of retelling it to his readers. This book had me on the floor in hysterical tears. It also left me with some very valuable life lessons. I would absolutely recommend this book to anyone, especially young people!!! I want to also send a huge THANK YOU for sharing your story with the world to Taylor Oceans.
Thank you Ebony for the wonderful comment. After two years of writing, doubting, listening to the doubters, and betting everything financially on myself, the long shot. I will admit to a few moments of weakness. But I like to say bash your head against the wall till it comes down or something useful comes out of your head. I think I just might have pulled it off. Bet on yourself America who the hell else will. And if you feel like trying something new try me and my tales Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How to Live for a good laugh and life lesson. Published only three months ago and available on Amazon.com. Be the first of your friends to discover my tales. Thanks for reading.
Long Live the Writers
P.S. The organization was Books for troops (link below) send them your old books to be forwarded to our troops. Support our troops, Hate the Government.
BOY VS NATURE
When I was let’s say 13, my mother and I were walking on the beach, where I would later wreck a car on the cliffs above. We were walking and enjoying the sand, the sounds, and shooting the shit when I lock eyes on a 250-pound piece of pole: drift wood. 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, getting it up the hill, and 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, circumference, yet it was white because it was driftwood. I thought I had found gold and damn the cost I will get this 250-pound pain in the ass home, which already had a perfectly good chopping block.
The quest begins. Now, cliffs flank the beach we are 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 turn back and continue to talk about what ever the hell and while we are walking back, I’m kicking and pushing 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 is wearing me out after rolling it over five hundred yards of sandy beach.
We enter the path through the woods. In my hometown, we have poison ivy and briers, not woods. Remember the poor guy in Saw surrounded by barbed wire. Yeah, it brought back memories but I had to push a log through my self-inflicted hell. So 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 again and I would not repeat history. I was better than the log and smarter than Sisyphus.
I sink my flip-flops (poor choice of foot wear) 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. You know just before you get your growth spurt? Well, imagine it never hit.
So runt, log, hill. This is not a perfect geometrical 45-degree angle hill; the beginning is easier and as you get to the top it gets steeper and steeper. The first third of the hill I get past pretty easily. When I get to the middle, I rest for the big push to the top and my inevitable victory over nature. This path is dirt and a little damp underfoot so my flip-flops are not working well. I finish my rest, give myself the you’re better than the log, gravity, hill, poor foot wear, and genetics pep talk and push. I’m 75% of the way there and slipping my ass off. This log is three times my body weight and it’s winning. Have a midget try to push a football Coliseum. Looked the same but on a hill and in flops. I say, “Fuck” and roll the log back down the path.
I pace, swear, pace, swear, and the whole time my mother is watching, coaching, and trying to control her laughter as her tiny part-Serb son is bested by a log. I’m sure she was torn between feeling pride for my tenacity, pity for being small, and laughing her ass off at the sight of her tiny son fighting nature.
I regain my vigor; remind myself 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 roll that mother like a fine joint. I’m halfway there and I’m not stopping. My Serb forefathers started World War One. I don’t even need a break. I will bend the world and nature to my will like my English forefathers shouting “Make the world England.” I’m 75% there and the Scott comes out. I see the green hills of my forefathers and the dirty rainy crap hole they lived in and kept pushing as if I am a participant in the Highland Games. Scenes of Brave Heart flash before me and I think Freedom! I get to the final feet and see the top. My mother is jumping up and down shouting you got this, you can do it, come on, make me proud. The Irishman kicks in and the fight is on. But wait, I’m 13. I have no liquid courage, AKA Irish fuel. And the machine runs out of steam. I slip; the log rolls over my 80-pound body, down the hill, off the path, and into a brier patch. I roll down the hill, flip-flops flying everywhere. It was like a B-52 strike in Nam. I get to the bottom of the hill, resting comfortably on my face.
I snap back to Serb. I’m nuts, I’m enraged, I erupt with profanity, obscenity, and disgust at how this piece of shit log will not heed my will. Why won’t you go home? Are you to good for your home? Answer me, log! I rush up the hill to my waiting mother who wants to say watch your language, but is probably just happy I didn’t break every bone in my body when the huge damn log rolled over my face. I tell my mom we are going home and start down the road. She starts to console me with its OK you’ll get bigger, it was a big hill, that was a huge log, the honor is in the attempt, and that’s when I cut her off. I say, “Hell no. I’m not done yet. I need shit. I need pants for briers, boots for the mud, gloves to protect my hands…
Does my new plan work? Who will win when I return the Boy or Nature? Buy my book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How to Live. Self Published only three months ago and available on Amazon and Kindle. 4.8 out of 5 rating on Amazon so buy this puppy and spread the word of Taylor Oceans. My book is 200 pages of my funny tales, my sexy tales, my insane tales, and my other tales you wont believe are true. And don’t think its all on the blog either. Bonus chapters only in the book. Got to get you guys to buy the book somehow right? So put down your bongs, pause the porn and click on the link below to get your hands on a page turner.