The Ahole Monologue

**The following is a short story i wrote in my last year of university. I wanted to write something that scared the crap out of me to write. I was reading a lot of Freud and a lot of Chuck Palahniuk at the time. Back then i only had the courage to show one person, mostly because i thought it made me sound like a psycho and because frankly it reads like a bad Palahniuk rip off. Now i see it as more of a tribute (remix?). I basically wanted to write a piece about a complete miserable assholes frame of mind. Annnnnnnnnnnd here we go**

Just look around.

All bets are your life is nothing but evasion. Nothing but avoidance.

Television, the internet, cellular phones, computers, pornography, your iPod. All these inventions so you wouldn’t be alone, your friends of technology existing so you can avoid the silence of your own thoughts, the truth of who you really are. Cartoons, instant messengers, reality television shows, video games.

You distract yourself to save yourself from yourself. Virtual realities created to avoid reality. Filling your life with meaninglessness to avoid your emptiness. This is your life, this is what you made, and this is what you bought into.

All bets are this is exactly who you are.

Bets are you wake up to caffeinated beverages and Regis. Toasted bagels and the Today show. The drive to work with the sports news. Fucking Christ the Astro’s lost again.

Work, this great service to the world, this so-called necessary activity of civilization. What is your role? What service do you fulfill? Filling out order slips from fuck knows where to who-cares-ville, that’s what.

Luckily your boss doesn’t know about Tetris on your computer or you wouldn’t get through the AM. You wouldn’t survive this cubicle existence. Three bathroom breaks. One to jack off in the handicap bathroom, so at least you can feel something. Check your email twice an hour.

Lunchtime with the boys; a beer and a burger, stat. The afternoon slips by easier with a buzz. Shoot the shit about who fucked who last weekend. About the bitch at the club who wouldn’t give you the time of day. Fucking dyke. Ramble on about all the moments that you can’t remember. About your conquest of the weekend through obliteration. Damn it, it’s almost one o’clock.

If the morning is numbing, the afternoon is a painful coma. Four bathroom breaks. Check your email again. Bets are those penis enlarging pills would do you good. I mean who couldn’t use more girth? After all, 80% of women surveyed said in secrecy they were dissatisfied with their partner’s unit. Slip into the inventory room, check and make sure you have enough pens and paperclips. Who-cares-ville is depending on you.

The last hour is the worst. Scanning your watch every couple minutes, if it was only daylight savings. Check your email. And your ex-girlfriends. Who the fuck is Randy? Another bathroom break; pretend to shit for twenty minutes. Finally it comes. Your freedom from slavery, five o’clock.

You grab your briefcase and sprint to your maroon 98’ Camry. Peel out of the underground graveyard. Blare the Beatles. Paul, John, Ringo and the other guy…take it away. All bets are you do believe in yesterday. When you played high school football and got to third base in the girls locker-room with Cindy Templeton. Starting quarterback for the varsity team. Nathan Diggs year end party at his parents place. Drunk chicks looking to score with the popular athlete. Shit, what was that girl’s name who gave you her virginity? Like it matters anyway, it’s not like she didn’t know what she was doing. I mean it was high school right? Saying “I love you” to a chick on the fence doesn’t really mean anything, just means you have a dick and you aren’t a pussy. It means you know how to close. Some call it manipulation; you call it strategic word placement. All bets are yesterday is all you have.

Fast-forward to today and look at you. Here in this twenty-thousand dollar moving coffin catching every red light. Prolonging your living wake. The Beatles singing your eulogy. Rush hour traffic, assholes cutting you off. The soccer mom and her fucking mini-van. The college kid with the Jeep Daddy bought him. The old man and in his drivable yacht. All your sworn enemies, your nemesis’, your Lex Luthers, your Darth Vader’s.

Your driveway never looked so good. Your garage, the pussy of perfection. Home. ESPN and a cold one, stat. Bets are your recliner is your best friend. Always there for you, always warm and inviting. Never asking for shit, just company. Just to be used. Micro-wave dinner, Salisbury steak, instant potatoes and the corn you never eat. Pull out the TV tray; the games on. Thank god you decided to get satellite, 400 channels of self-imposed distraction. Another Budweiser, stat. It’s easier to unwind with a buzz on.

Fuck the Astro’s suck. Bagwell couldn’t hit a curve if my life depended on it. Alright another two brewskies, stat. It’s easier to mourn a loss when you can’t feel anymore. How the shit is it midnight already? Remember to set the alarm and turn off the lights. Curl up in your queen-sized therapeutic comfort controlled bed. Flip through the pages of Maxim and wonder what it feels like to be inside Jennifer Love Hewitt, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Lopez. You bet they all love a big cock, love some extra girth. You bet they all love it rough. Not like Patricia your ex, she always wanted to “make love” and then cuddle. Like cuddling ever did anything for the world. Flip the page to the model from Scandinavia on page twenty-six, for sure she loves to be face-fucked, just look at her, I mean come on. They all would if they’d only try it.

Flip the page.

Come to think of it you could use the complete Gillette skincare product line. Bets are your face could be clearer.

Flip the page.

Pull your dick to Hillary Duff. Somehow it’s always easier to come when you can pretend to teach a young chick how to suck dick. Clean up your unborn children. Bets are having a self-administered orgasm just isn’t enough to put you to sleep anymore. Pop your daily sleeping pill Lunesta, formerly known as Estorra. Turn on your 42” television to the nightly news. Pass out wondering what the hell Ted Coppell is bitching about now.

All bets are this is your life.

Passing by a day at a time in a walking coma, a distraction of a distraction of a distraction. Ad infinitum.

Lather, rinse and repeat. Five days a week.

Strung Out Babysitters

Strung Out - Exhumation Of Virginia Madison

Okay so one band that I used to be OBSESSED with was California’s Strung Out. They basically make fast paced pop punk with some metal influences thrown in for good measure. I remember going to see them and the Mad Caddies at the Multicultural Centre when I was 18, not having a ticket but figuring a friend and I could either buy a ticket once we got down there or scam our way through the doors. Turned out about 40 other kids had the same idea. Like any self-respecting 18yr old I was absolutely lit before we got there so there was definitely some confidence in my game, if not subtly.

Anthony and I found the band’s tour bus behind the building and we figured we would just ask them to let us in. Makes sense right? It’s only how they make money…ha. A handful of other kids already had the same idea and were yelling for the band to let them into the bus and the show. As we walked up to the crowd someone opened the bus door yelling “Look, NO ONE is getting in here unless they have coke!” My friend and I looked at each other and started to laugh. This rock star move was something pretty foreign to us and to the punk scene we knew. As the door started to close I yelled “But I’ll suck your dick!” intending for it to be ironic and deprecating of the bands rock star attitude. A really awkward silence from the crowd followed. Meh, still funny to me.

I remember as we walked away my friend mentioning how he could call his girlfriend because “her brother does a lot of drugs and might know a coke dealer”. Somehow in our state we were able to see the error of that thinking. We pushed on, determined.

As the show time neared we pounded on the one of the abandoned back doors. A huge tattooed bald guy opened the door with an angry scowl. Turns out it was the fiancé of a girl I used to drink with quite a bit, he let us in to the show for a small fee. Mission complete.

*No rock stars dicks were sucked in the making of this story*

Bad Babysitter – Princess Superstar

Alright so I was never trusted to be a babysitter (which is pretty ironic now) but I think every kid had some bizarre things happen to them when they were put under the trust of someone else. I remember babysitter’s boyfriends coming over, eating an entire bottle of Flintstone vitamins while watching a movie and finding out the graphic details of Jack the Ripper case as a ‘go to bed’ scare tactic.

Princess Superstar is all kinds of awesome. Originally signed to the Beastie Boys ‘Grand Royal’ label she went on to form her own label and does most of her work from her apartment. At the same time she’s a white female rapper and definitely plays up the stereotype to the nth degree. She travels the world as a DJ. Could probably beat me up mentally and physically. And to top it all off she’s pretty as sin.

The Lesbian Freedom Fight

Liza and Louise – NOFX

Ok so when a guy is 16 lesbians seem totally kick ass but as you get older the whole concept starts to run pretty thin (at least to me). What is to explain the shift in thinking?

Well there are two main reasons. One, actual lesbians don’t like guys, it takes two hundred or three hundred attempts but sooner or later you start to realize that you are maybe barking up the wrong tree.

Two, girls totally ruin it. A few attention hungry ladies quickly realize that guys love the concept and start to play it up like some sort of circus act at bars. Like a “Girls Gone Wild” stepsister, you typically find these girls in middle of the dance floor grinding into each other while they subtlety check out who’s checking them out.

Maybe it’s just me but that somehow seems so unpure, forced and lame. More importantly this side show makes life hard on actual lesbians, the precious pillow fighting things. Making out in bars is retarded period, guy on girl or girl on girl. Maybe more so girl on girl.

“Ok Destiny when we there, let’s grind each other, make out and then guys named Tony will buy us drinks and eye fuck us all night. Deal?”

“That sounds perfect Porsche. Let me just grab my glitter lip gloss”

It’s kind of the equivalent of riding a unicycle into a bar “Look at me! Look at me! Look what i can do!”

BTW what the shit is with guys on unicycles at Universities? JESUS. I don’t care how ‘challenging they are to ride’ it’s a geek circus act and you’re not helping yourself in any way riding around campus on that thing. Why don’t you just juggle on the first date?