America we have no idea what the road holds for us. I’ve been up, down, rich, poor, together and alone. And what have I learned? It’s about the journey not the destination. You can’t fight change. You not getting any younger and your days are numbered. We want to think our lives will be perfectly linear from birth to death devoid of problems. I’m going to work this job, raise my kids, retire, get old and die. Or at least most of us. But I’m different America. I think every day is precious. You never know when that drive by is going to get you. That drunk driver is going to smash you. The doctor gives you the bad news. Or a piece of slate falls off a roof and kills you. When I was in High school I was walking to the library and a piece of slate falls off the roof plummeting four stories and smashes it’s ten pound razor sharp ass right next to me. I mean inches from my head America. I realized then we have a lot less control then we think over our fate. I saved a piece of that slate tile to remind me to live every day to the full. To live my dreams with no regrets and always say why not instead of why. Don’t be so busy making a living you forget to make a life America. Some day that piece of slate is going to hit you. And all that will be left… Our tales.

Long Live the Writers



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.

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans


I love this review, exactly what I want to hear from you America.  Just pulled it off amazon.  Be sure to try my book Playing Your Hand Right:  Showing America How To Live.  Nine customer reviews on Amazon.com and they give my book a 4.7 out of 5 FUCK YEAH!  Not bad for someone who has basically failed, been suspended or thrown out of every institution he has been in.  The comment…  

5.0 out of 5 stars Weird, funny, rather brilliant – laughed my way through this!, February 16, 2014
Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Playing Your Hand Right : Showing America How to Live: Anyone who can’t admit a mistake hasn’t learned from it yet. (Paperback)
I ordered this book, had no idea what to expect, opened it and found myself sitting there laughing my head off! Now the guy who wrote this obviously lives a lifestyle I have no idea about and don’t, well, totally approve of, but as drug-crazed, sex-soaked, alcohol-frenzied stories of wit and wisdom go, this is just genius!! I would recommend it to anyone with a funny bone.
Thanks for your review Rose and I hope all of you will try my book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live.  Available on Amazon.com Link follows.
Long Live the Writers
Taylor Oceans
P.S.  Send your book reviews to playingyourhandright@gmail.com if you dont have an amazon account and I will post them on the blog.  Us Self Published Authors can use all the help we can get.  Follow on FB  https://www.facebook.com/taylor.oceans.3  About to break 100 books sold so keep buying and tell your friends to buy a copy.  I wrote it, I need your help to make it known.  Clearly you like it so far America.  



I make a six foot snow cock. Gentleman can have a good sense of humor with the rum and coke. Shenanigans. Two snow storms in Virginia this is great. And my runt ass was the only one that could lift the head to the top. Do some push ups America. Shit was heavy for my runt ass. Drive safe America and be sure to not be to busy making a living you forget to make a life and six foot snow cock.

Another review of my book. Now get out your wallets and buy a copy.

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


Written by Pua Nani check out here erotica and nice legs at http://eroticapoetica.wordpress.com/.  Thanks for the review cute thang and taking a chance on my book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How to Live available on Amazon.  4.6 out of 5 rating.  Available here  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  Tell Your Friends.


I know I’m a long shot but sometimes long shots pay off big.  Try some indie tales.

Long Live the Writers


Taylor Oceans


Be sure to pop in tomorrow to https://www.facebook.com/momlovestoread?ref=ts&fref=ts for my first fireside chat.  Saturday from 6 to 8 est.  Will give all there a sneak peek at a bonus chapter from the book, spread some good music, maybe tell you guys about the time I went to mars on mushrooms, whatever comes up and whatever you ask.  Also this is to raise books for the organization Books for Troops created by ebony who is hosting my FB take over.  Hate the government, support the troops, and donate your old books for them to read at Books for Troops.  Link Follows.  https://www.facebook.com/groups/booksfortroops/



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.

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

Taylor Oceans



America I am reviving the old days of the presidential fireside chat. I have been invited to take over a Face Book page for a few hours on Saturday the 8th. I will be on Ebony Simone McMillan’s face book page embarrassing myself and releasing one of the bonus chapters for your reading pleasure. It will only be up for the event after which I will delete it and you will have to go buy my book to get it and the other bonus chapters not on the blog. Ebony is a very nice person who runs Books For Troops an organization that sends your used books to our troops. I may hate the government, but I always support our troops. So before you go out Saturday night have a pregame with me on FB from 6 pm to 8 pm est. Ask me about my tales, read the bonus chapter, and maybe get Ebony’s address to send some of your old books to our troops. I sent two of mine. See you there.  O and be sure to brink your booze and music, leave your inhibitions, religions and politics, and put on your thick skin we are going to have some fun.  Now Suit Up!  Lets start a tradition.

Here is a link to Ebony’s page and Books for Troops



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.