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.


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


Find me on Face Book


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.


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

The Book Coming Soon

Pardon the Hiatus.  Playing Your Hand Right the book coming soon!

Available on amazon.com end of this month.  Time to show America how to live.

Long Live the Writers


Bottle Dance

Quick one before she wakes up. Gentleman make your women laugh when they are sad no matter how much of your pride and rum you must risk. She was having, mother of all, bad days none of your damn business what, but she was so sad a back scratch was not cutting it. Bit the bullet and put on her favorite movie. All three hours of Fiddler on the Roof. Still not cutting it. To make her smile I put a hat on, bottle of rum on my head, and frankly nailed this dance drunk as fuck when it came up, just to make her laugh.  Didn’t drop bottle once, I rock.  Spoil your woman and pets. Only way to treat them.

The Dealer

Running across the street loading his illegal pistol the dealer only worries he gets there in time.  Only seconds ago he received a text, “Help someone is in my house”.  He had been enjoying another lost soul on his couch.  Drunk and drugged out of there minds they caressed, fondle, and please each other trying to escape there reality.  Her a stripper looking for a good time and a discount on coke, him a coke dealer just trying to forget.

Suddenly there embrace is interrupted by the sound of a text.  The dealer knows a text at four in the morning only means one thing. Trouble.  Trouble had become his new ally. Trouble distracted him, Trouble please him.  Trouble was a possible way out.  The dealer reads “Help someone is in my house”.  He knows the number.  It’s the girls field hockey house across the street.  He reaches back finds his integrity, and without another thought rushes off his stripper, grabs his gun, cloths, and a last look at his dog.  He rushes through his door dressing and loading.

He knows what has happened.  The dealer warned those girls they lived in the wrong part of town.  Realtors are fucking liars.  This house is filled with some of the hottest, riches, naive woman the dealer had ever seen.  He was jealous of their cookie cuter lives and cookie cuter families.  Broken homes raise bitter kids.  He was close to one of the girls, but the rest pegged him true.  A coke dealer.  She saw something else.  He had warned them time and time again lock your door your not in a gated community anymore. There are worst people then me around here.  The dealers warnings always went unheeded.

He rushed up the front steps to the front door hoping he wasn’t to late.  How long had they been in there?  How many are holding the girls hostage?  Are they armed?  Why do I do this shit?  He may have lost his hope, but he had never lost his integrity.  He gets to the front door says “God hates a coward” and rushes through the door.  Of course unlocked stupid bitches.  He charges through the front door not caring what is inside.  He will get to her bed room.  Damn all in his path.  His gun tightly clenched the dealer scans the house through the sites as he rushes upstairs.

Half way up the stairs he realizes she moved her bed room to the dinning room when her other friend moved in.  These girls were packed in this house like hot Mexicans.  God bless field hockey skirts.  The dealer screams her name to find her.  Echoing back is his name screamed in fear and pain.  He knows he is to late.  He charges back down the stairs still poised to fire at anything not sexy.  He gets to the foyer and is abruptly stopped by two shadows in the kitchen.  Two very large figures much larger then him or any woman in the house.  He aims and sees one of their faces through the sites.  Its to dark to see details but they lock eyes and the dealer reads fear.  The dealer squeezes the trigger ready to take a life.  He didn’t care about the repercussions, only the wronged woman.  Damn these men to worst pain then the dealer could imagine.  Servile swine.  The gun cocked and before it fired into the mans eye he turned, ran out the back door, diving over the railing his accomplice on his heels.

The dealer roars her name again and she responds from the dinning room.  He kicks the door open lunges in gun drawn, ready awake and he sees nothing.  He whispers her name.  It is met with the most tender, hopeful, grateful, voice.  The dealer had never heard his name said in such reverence. He still couldn’t see her when a hand emerges from under the bed covered in laundry.   Then a field hockey stick.  Then her smiling, crying face.  The poor girl was hiding under her bed with her field hockey stick.  “You came!  Where are they?”  The dealer thought and wasn’t sure.  They ran out, but the back door was still open.  The house house is dark they could be any where.  Did they come back?  To keep her calm he says there is no one.  A noble lie.  But the dealer tells her to get behind him, stay behind him and stay close while he sweeps the house.  With her hand on his shoulder and her head down they move through the house.  The dealer shielding her from any incoming fire with his body.  Three stories of dark house to sweep.  The dealer guides her to he back door.  He closes it locks it and moves to the basement door.  Her hand on his shoulder he turns and says calmly “Stay close. Stay behind me. Stay quiet.”

They enter the dark basement.  The dealer knows they will get off the first shot from the dark.  They could be anywhere and they know he is coming down the stairs.  He can’t dive for cover he is covering her.  He will stand.  He will take it.  He will return accurate fire.  The Dealer repeats this to himself over and over again.  He will stand.  He will take the bullets.  He will give them back.  She will survive.  Good death.  Basement clear back upstairs.  Foyer clear.  One more flight.  Her hand still on his shoulder.  Upstairs to the other girls bed rooms.  Clear.  Clear.  Every door he opens he knows could be his last.  The dealer will stand.  The dealer will take it.  The dealer has already taken so much pain.  Lost everything but his life and dog.  He will take it and return accurate fire.  He will see his Dad at the end of the bar drinking chivas regal.  Clear.  Two more doors.  Clear… Is that one of the girls boy friends cowering?  Wow she got a keeper.  Last door.  “God hates a coward”  he says her hand still on his shoulder.  Will this be it?  Will this be the end of the pain.  Clear…  Not yet Dad save me a seat…

He did it. He finally did something right.  Something he could be proud of.  Something he would want to remember.  The dealer put foot to ass for some one in need.  His triumphant revaluation was interrupted by her saying “Where the hell are the cops I called them before you.”  A shudder went up the spine of the dealer.  He is holding an illegal fire arm. He is coked out of his mind.  So high off purple he is looking down on the space station. So drunk on rum a pirate would way easy matey.  You called the cops the dealer whispered hoping it a lie.  “Yes” she said

The dealer returned to his cold reality knowing he must flee.  He shouted to everyone I have an illegal firearm.  You all know what I do.  I was never here.  He takes another look into her eyes ashamed of the choices he has made and he returns to the shadows.

Running down the stairs to the front door he hides his gun in his pocket and opens the front door.  “Freeze don’t move or we will fire!”  Frozen the dealer raises his hands.  Time stops and he ponders his choices.  Do nothing…  They search me illegal firearm five years.  Search warrant for my house five to ten distribution.  Illegal firearms with distribution five on top.  I will get out at 40 if I’m a good little bitch.  Not acceptable.  Draw, aim for the knees, suicide by cops…  Not fair to cops or the girls who will watch me die like robo cop on the front porch.  Not acceptable.  Bluff…  Shout I’m the neighbor, with  hands up, get in there and help the women and one pussy guy.  Acceptable.  “I’m the neighbor, I’m so scared, there are criminals in there help get in there!”  They brush the dealer aside hoping for some action.  He is left there amazed at the shit he has found himself in.  He says “God hates a coward” mockingly shaking his head walking by five police cars across the street to his old life.

The dealer didn’t quit that day,but he never forgot the sound of his name said by someone he saved.  A few years and many more mistakes down the road he did clean up.  He decided to write.  And he wrote this for you today.



She shuddered from the force of the storm. The skipper at her helm keeping her facing the waves. The crew’s knuckles white holding on with every fiber of there body. Blinded by the sea spray the skippers eyes are the only to penetrating the storm. She shudders as another waver breaks over her bow. Water rushes over the decks enveloping the crew who strive to hold on. There life lines wipe in the wind. A half inch nylon rope lashing them to her deck. The crew’s only insurance from the freezing seas. Three minutes in the icy waters will cause hypothermia five minutes death. The storm is so strong the skipper could never turn her and recover a lost crew. As soon as anyone hit the icy waters they are claimed by the sea. The inevitable fate to those who live on the oceans. No head stones only the faceless sea and all of her disciples. Another wave breaks over the bow deluging the crew in icy water. They shiver as their dry suites are penetrated around their necks.

For six hours they have fought the storm from her carbon fiber decks. Exhaustion sapping the strength of the crew but the skipper remains vigilant. He has never felt more alive and content. He knows this is his place doing battle with the Oceans. Keeping her facing the storm he steers through the waves. She rises over another thirty foot wave only to drop into another’s belly. Emotionless demons grabbing at her rigging and decks. She strains to rise again and she explodes through another peak. The crew tack her sails as she turns through the waves. She tells the skipper to go more starboard. He commands the crew to dress she is luffing. They lash lines to the winch drums and the gears turn. Her hydraulic’s ache as thousands of pounds are pulled in. The water is forced out of the soaking lines from the tension. Her sails are full again as she drops into another wave. The sun is setting now and the crew know storms are infinitely more dangerous in the dark. Its harder to see the waves coming and in these confused seas she must face the waves head on or she will swamp. One wave over her stern will swamp her. Flooding her cabins locking the sail handlers below while she sinks. A deadly embrace as they dive together. The crew would reach for there leg knives to cut away from her sinking decks. Her lines grabbing there limbs as they try to swim to the surface. Only to freeze to death in minutes. The skipper wouldn’t cut away, not with men below. He orders raise the storm jib and prepare for night sailing. A flurry of activity ensues in perfect unspoken coordination as sails are dropped switched and storm jibs are raised. The skipper rests his crew as he and his girl enter the storm. Blinded by the darkness he must listen to her as they dance through the waves. She moans and cracks as she is hit by waves telling the skipper to adjust his course for each wave. He feels her roll through the water and he keeps her level. Every ten seconds another rise and another fall. As they cross the ocean together. The electronics have been flooded so with no navigational gear except his compass, glow stick, and intuition he steers her through the storm. Her body language his guide.

Hours pass yet the skipper is attentive to his girl. The crew exhausted from weeks of racing and more weeks to come try to sleep below deck. The utmost confidence in their skipper and his girl. The skipper takes another drag off his e-cig since the sea spray extinguishes his Marlboro reds. He has been awake for 48 hours predicting a path through the storm as they approached it. Holding his girl on course they have gained three hundred miles in the race by his navigation through the storm. Only three other racers entered the storm one lost a mast and was forced adrift. The other turned and ran out the way they came after losing two crew to the indiscriminate depths. The skipper and his girl have taken the lead around cape horn and the final leg, of the Atlantic, is all that remains from victory for his country his crew and his girl. The sun rises and he sees a break in the storm “Not yet he says” The oceans don’t want him yet. The warm sun hits his face, he closes his eyes caresses the wheel and thanks his love. Aurora has gotten him through another storm. Some day they will go down together but not yet. Not yet…

P.S. This was the epic music I found today to help me write this. Wanted the epic tale so needed the music to match.

Sail hard disciples…