Crack Rabbi

      I Met the Rabbi Shlomo for lunch at Yang Chow. He had driven here from Williamsburg, Brooklyn out of fear of his life. Now he was in Los Angeles. He had come to see me for solutions, answers, and a job. I tracked down Shlomo for a man named Avi. He was Shlomo’s brother in law, who by the way is an air conditioning salesman in Tarzana. Avi was deeply concerned about Shlomo’s crack riddled high jinx in Brooklyn. Months after leaving voice messages and unanswered calls, Shlomo finally called me back and was willing to try to stop doing drugs as long as he could come out to Los Angeles.

     Now he sat in front of me. Dirty-faced, rotting yellow teeth, and blistered burnt lips. He was rocking back and forth as though there was an invisible wailing wall that he was silently praying against.

He smelled bad and his habit smelled and looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. His beard had little bald spots in it. And with his thumb and forefinger, he was creating more of these tiny patches of light. I had no doubt this tic was keeping him… somehow… sane?

     “Oh Hymie, the problems.” His lips and cheeks and eyes moved in many directions, like a character from the film Scanners. I imagined his head exploding very suddenly, and the staff just nonchalantly cleaning it up. I knew this place well. The staff was indifferent. It was always packed with guys that worked in the shmata district. Screaming and yelling, cell phones ringing and nickel and diming for fabrics, buttons, cutting and sewing and the micro minutia that make up a cheap suit, a button up, or a dress. So there Shlomo sat, nervously twirling his Payots curls with his right hand, picking small chunks of hair from his beard with his left and rocking back and forth.

I was patient. I know that he was probably high or coming down. I stopped using ten years ago but sometimes it feels like it was yesterday, I too freebased cocaine and shot heroine to come down. I’m not an alcoholic, but I don’t drink because a little Manischewitz might take me down to funky town. I’m clear as a bell ringing 5-0 double up on that one.

     The funny thing is most Jews aren’t alcoholics. Not in my experience anyway, and I’ve played the rehab circuit for years, Jewish rehabs too, from Beit T’Shuva to Chabad.

Kicking heroin and benzos were the hardest thing ever. Eppes with the cramps, the constant pain and the pins and needles really stabbing from inside out just physically devastating. The cocaine was purely psychological. Still, I don’t downplay the addiction to crack. Professionals I’ve spoken to have all come to the same conclusion, that smoking cocaine leaves a blueprint on your endorphins much the way an orgasm, sugar, or gambling, just increase that to the tenth power. Coke really opens the floodgates of those endorphins the recovery rate is about 1 in 10 for crack addicts

“What problems Shlomo?”

     The waitress brought our order, broccoli beef, lettuce cups, and orange chicken. “Sh, sh.” Shlomo motioned with his right hand. Then he seemed to be in deep thought, I knew a little bit about the situation, the problems. He was stealing money from the temple, and Jewish community programs. This was not such a big deal. Some Rabbis did this. Stealing it for crack, hookers, and hotels (oh my) that is a different story. “Hymie, it’s killing me! The money. What do I do? How do I return it?” I listened but was distracted by the orange chicken, it was real white meat chicken, not the grey mystery meat you find at most Chinese eateries. I managed to catch his remarks. “Don’t worry so much about the money,” I looked up at him earnestly. “The crack, the crack is the problem.”

“Oh but the crack.” I watched the Rabbi’s eyes light up. “The crack helps me, it takes away the pain, the guilt, and thoughts of a life of my lying bullshit while in the temple”

“I thought you liked the temple?”

“I do, but when I have a little bit of crack, some girls, it helps. My therapy, my own private Purim.” Now he was digging into the chicken.

“Stop, you are diseased by the thoughts. That’s the crack talking.” I was growing impatient.

“Crack talking, come, my friend, the crack does not talk. Disease? My friend, this is no disease, it is the cure for my problems,” he continued, “It makes me feel good, when I’m done, I drink a bottle of Manischewitz and sleep like a little baby.” He was so convincing.

“Sounds like you have it all figured out.” I didn’t know what else to say, he’s a tough case. Most addicts are. They have all the answers, but not a single clue. I’m a member of Cocaine Anonymous. I hear all the justifications.

“Don’t get smart with me, you know I need to make more money, clean up and figure out what I’m going to do.” Still twirling his curls, Shlomo picked up his soda. I noticed the burns on his fingers. The thumb and index finger were yellow and burnt from all the use and abuse. Hot pipes, screens, chore boy, a burning stem, all the trappings that come with being a slave to rock cocaine.

“What are you staring at?” Shlomo’s hands were shaking. “Nothing, your fingers.” I quickly changed the subject.

     “Tell me a little more about what happened out there in Williamsburg, what went wrong?” He let it all out. He told me about how he would drive around in his Station Wagon. His coat and hat had secret hiding places for the pipe, the chore boy, and spare king lighters. King lighters, they worked best. They had a big flame and you could get three for a dollar.

So there he was, in the Town and Country parading around Brooklyn. Donning habit, complete with Tzitzit, a small rocks tangled in his Payots, and pipes stuffed in his Yarmulke. He kept other pipes and chore boy stashed around the wagon for emergencies.

“Shlomo, slow down.” I pleaded.

“Oh God, I just remembered something.” His eyes were darting back and forth quickly. “Every time I took the first hit of the crack, I thought crazy things!  like the car, that it would explode Hymie!”

“Shlomo, listen.”

“No, Hymie, I thought the radio would burst into flames. I thought I would melt into the seat of the car!”

“Shlomo it’s called…” Shlomo interrupted, “But so every time I would hit the pipe, I’d run. Hit and run! Hit and run!”

“Shlomo it’s called cocaine psychosis. It’s common with crack smokers.” Shlomo kept rambling on. He was on a roll.

“Then I would find these girls, these hookers.’ He stopped for a minute, his face growing red with humiliation.

“I’d meet them at crack houses, burned out tenements in East New York, Bed-Sty, or a place I’d purchase the crack near Fort Green.” We both sat for a moment in silence.

“They loved me the Schwartzes.” Shlomo suddenly looked so full of himself, almost bragging.

“I always had cash and they never tried to rob me. They thought since I was a Rabbi, I was okay. Good as gold. A good Jew boy. Even the police, Hymie. When they pulled me over, I would use the same excuses over and over.” Shlomo gestured confidently.

‘What would you say?’ I was really interested now.

“Hymie, on the crack I would drive so erratically. I told them I was late to a Briss, a Bar Mitzvah, wedding, on and on. You know these police they’re so mean, but thank God they’re stupid Hymie, nonetheless, they do respect the Rabbi.” Shlomo continued “There were so many other problems in the neighborhoods I was in, they had more important things to worry about.”

“That’s amazing Shlomo, because your car is such a mess.”

“What mess, what are you saying Hymie?”

“Oh c’mon. The newspapers the posters, the clothes, the laundry, the grape juice, the Borscht, the Matzo, and all that Hazara.”

Shlomo quickly butted in, “Oh, that’s because I’m so busy.”

“Busy smoking rock?”

Once again the Shlomo was reminiscing about the past. He told me the really shocking stories. He continued to fulfill his obligations as a Rabbi in the temple while smoking crack. The most significant and unfortunate situation was the circumcision of little Lenny Lehroff. The Rabbi and Eli Lipshutz, the Moil performing the Briss (and also a crackhead) made a terrible mistake during the ceremony and 911 was called. There was a lot of blood and a botched circumcision, but Shlomo claimed it was fine. The Lehrhoff’s beg to differ and filed suit against the temple. It was even on the news. The Lehrhoffs also filed individual suits against Eli and Shlomo.

“Neither one of us has been served. Thank God.” The Rabbi was thinking out loud. The Rabbi and Eli left town, and had not seen each other since. So now I was harboring Shlomo, a Rabbi on the run.

“I will let you work with me downtown Shlomo, but no crack. No smoking crack.”

“I know I can do it.”

“I know you can do it too, but do we have an agreement Shlomo?”

I studied the Rabbi’s eyes closely and felt I was making a mistake.

“Yes, we have an agreement.”

I own a silk screening factory downtown near fifth and San Pedro. My biggest account was “Manny First”, a popular line of clothing in Japan. Shlomo worked in shipping and receiving. He mostly handled big outgoing orders for completed items. Shlomo had to look at hundreds and hundreds of Jeans and T-shirts printed with the ‘Manny First’ smiley face with a bandana on its head.

“It’s amazing what these Shmucks will pay for,” Shlomo said to me.

He did well there for 3 weeks, he really held up. He stayed off the drugs, went to the Cocaine Anonymous meetings, and still everyday was a test. Inside the factory was safe. The area around the building, that was a different story. The area was called Nickel Town for two rasons, the $5.00 rock and the location of it off 5th street. The building was totally surrounded by hookers, winos, hustlers, junkies, pimps, and crack dealers.

One day while Shlomo was sitting in his car eating a sandwich he lowered the visor to block the sun. He felt something bounce off his forehead and land in his lap.

‘Oh, what is this?’ He looked down in his lap and saw it, a crack pipe. He studied the pipe. It was a golden brown color packed with resin. There was a fresh piece of chore boy in the pipe as well. All at once, he was short of breath. Then he gagged, he farted, and his head raced. The thought of that one hit, the one hit wonder as Eli called it, really opened the floodgates of his endorphins. He put the pipe in his pocket, along with the King lighter he kept for sentimental purposes. “What should I do? Oh God, give me the answer.”

He snuck off to the bathroom in the warehouse. He pulled his pants down and sat down in the stall. He farted again in anticipation, and then he shit. He took the pipe out of his pocket. He studied it. Spoke to it.

“Oh, how I missed you.”

He took a small screwdriver out of his shirt pocket. He kept it for repairs around the factory, but now it was paraphernalia, a pipe pusher. He slowly pushed the chore boy through the pipe, getting every crumb of resin. The chore boy was now almost even with the other side of the pipe. His hands started shaking, he gagged. He farted and shit again.

“Oh, God this is too much.”

He held the pipe at an angle so none of the resin would spill out. He held the pipe to his lips, pulled the lighter out, and lit it. Nice flame he thought, king lighters, the best. He drew out all his breath. Then he did it, He took the hit slow and long. He held it deep in his lungs. Next, he squeezed his nostrils together and rocked back and forth while he sat on the toilet. This was a ritual he had learned since the very first time he smoked crack.

“Make every hit count, Rab. It may be your last.” Said one of the many prostitutes he had sex with. Then he let it out slowly through his nose, so slowly. It was good. There was a heavy buzzing sound. Familiar. There was an internal numbness. Familiar, and good. He flushed the toilet, he heard a deep bubbling below him. This, not familiar. Paranoia set in quick.

“What is that? Oh no!” He thought about the explosions, the bubbling got louder. “Please God, No.”

The toilet water suddenly shot upwards, like a volcano. His shit, along with everybody else’s showered his lap and splashed all around. His chest and lap was covered in excrement and pieces of toilet paper.

“My god an explosion, it really happened. What have I done?”

He ran out of the bathroom, pants down and mortifed. He was still clutching the pipe like it was the only thread left to his sanity. This is where I stepped into the situation.

“Hymie! Hymie! Help me, the toilet, it really exploded!”

He ran through the factory tripping twice on his pants. He was peppered in sewage, smelling like a port a pottie tipped over on him. His stench permeated the air everywhere in the factory.

‘Shlomo, pull up your pants!’ I noticed the pipe that somehow stuck out, even behind the blanket of excrement.

“What is that in your hand?” The factory was so quiet.

The pipe dropped from Shlomo’s hand with an innocent-sounding clink on the concrete. “Forget about my hand, my pants, Christ Hymie the toilet exploded!’” The workers couldn’t hold their laughter. Ink mixers gagged from the stench.

“You can’t smoke crack here Shlomo. What’s wrong with you, what about our agreement?” I was pissed off, at myself, at Shlomo, at the disease of addiction in general.

“Agreement, Shmeement. Look at me, covered in crap! Like I’m some Bellview meshugga mental patient.”

Now I was livid. “Get out, get out Shlomo!”

“But Hymie, the toilet, please.” Shlomo pleaded. I had my fist balled.

“Shlomo, fuck the toilet. Get out of my warehouse.”

Shlomo walked out of the warehouse, pants still down around his ankles. Then he stopped in his tracks and had a startling revelation. It was the first time he only took one hit and didn’t so desperately crave another. Maybe there was a chance.

‘Lude & Lathargic

Loaded, drunk, and talking teenage shit. Every day. That’s what we did. Just a blurry contorted reality. Surrounded by what looked like an E-ticket ride of the lowest uncommon denominator, which is my favorite.

Hollywood High. We sat on the concrete wall, on the corner of Sunset and Orange.

It was the designated smoking area of the high school.

We marveled at the pimp and hooker and activity across the street at the hotel.

Just weeks ago it was illuminated with lights and cameras. They were shooting a movie with George Segal and Denzel Washington. ‘Carbon Copy’ was the film. I walked over to the set and slurred to George Segal how much I loved Omega Man. He thanked me. We stood and looked at each other for a moment, then I turned and stumbled away.

I was ‘luded or on loads and drunk most of the time. I would leave school for lunch and trip around Hollywood Boulevard smoking cigs, eating Two Guys from Italy Pizza or cheap Chinese food, and flirt with the tourist at Graumann’s Chinese theater. Once in a drunken state, I walked onto a big tour bus filled with Asians and screamed, ‘TOURIST GO HOME AND LEAVE YOUR DAUGHTERS!’

They all took pictures of me. I felt like a star until the driver grabbed me and threw me off the bus.

One morning I stole a full bottle of ‘ludes from my mother’s boyfriend. I ate two and I’m really numb. Dave Petrie comes up and asks me if I’m stoned.

Dave is always asking me this question and never has his own drugs. ‘Yeah man, I took two of these.’

I got a pocket full of quaaludes and everything is all right.

‘Shh, Mr. Munhall will hear you.’ He says.

I hand him two Lemmon 714’s. He chews them up, and then he swallows them.

‘These taste nasty.’ Making a lemon face.

‘Wow Dave, Those are going to hit you quickly.’

Ten minutes later we’re watching a film on single cell amoebas and the like.

Dave whispers, ‘Man, I’m coming on like I drank a six-pack.’

‘Yeah. These things are fucking magical. It is like a beer buzz, without the beer belly.’

‘Wow. These things are fuckin’ cool.’

Munhall looks over at us. He’s sitting at his desk with a penlight in his mouth looking over some papers.

‘Shh, be quiet Dave, fuck man. Shut up.’ I say.

‘Mike, I want to walk around on these things. I got to Get UP.’

‘NO, just sit and enjoy Dave.’ I hate this guy right now, he’s classic blow it case type shit.

‘Fuck that.’ Dave is restless.

Munhall is staring at us now. He has the penlight pointed at dave.

I’m really buzzing. My whole body is numb and the narrator of the film isn’t making any sense. The film is scratched and pops occasionally like a cap gun.

Dave stands up and attempts to walk behind the projector. Munhall follows him with the penlight Dave’s face looks curious, tragic and happy all at once.

I try to grab him. Munhall quickly shines the penlight on me, I quickly pull my arm back. He puts the micro spotlight back on Dave. He stumbles, reaches the projector for support.

It tumbles sideways. Dave goes down with it, Munhall follows him with the penlight. I watch the amoeba change shape slightly.

It shoots across the wall – the image is gone with a loud crash.

The lights go on immediately. New environment. Paranoia.

‘Dave? Dave? Are you all right,’ Says Munhall, whom, by the way, also teaches physical education. Now all eyes are on Dave.

Munhall is a heavy set guy who always wears tight white polyester shorts, has tree trunk coach legs and a potbelly.

I imagine he has a La-z-boy chair and a big color console television in his living room and random trophies in a special cabinet. I also Imagine his wife is totally subservient, she serves him fatty meats and Coor’s beer.

Dave gets up and stumbles. He mumbles something incoherently.

He falls on Michelle Tanner’s desk, she is disgusted with everyone and everything, but particularly Dave.

‘Ewwww!’ she cries bluntly while falling back in her chair while simultaneously holding herself.

Dave is on his belly on the desk. He’s swimming in the air trying to gain his footing. His Converse can’t converse. Like a robot that has fallen sideways, or doing space work like a bad vaudeville act. The whole class is quiet and I start laughing uncontrollably like a Tommy gun.

‘Ah ha ha ha ha, ah ah ah ah ah ah!’ My eyes are tearing and I’m ready to piss my pants. Now Munhall is livid and red-faced he screams, ‘SILENCE!’

I can’t stop laughing and crying. My side hurts, even with all the

methaqualone in my 15-year old body.

I feel his beefy hand on my shoulder and he smells like Brylcreem,

and old spice. I hear his angry voice in my ear,

‘Marcus, God damn it. Shut up.’ I was looking out the window

suddenly wishing I were walking on Hollywood Boulevard skateboarding or bogie

boarding at Zuma, anywhere, but here.

I would like another Quaalude. Munhall walks up to Dave.

Dave is now laying face down on top of Michelle’s desk, he’s given up

the swimming routine. He’s splayed over the little desk table, he

looks dead or passed out and she’s leaning back in horror.

Munhall puts the beefy hand on Dave’s shoulder (which I’m sure has

some sort of death grip if provoked).

There is a long pause.

‘Dave. Are you on medication? Hello? Dave?’

It’s church mouse quite and I’m hoping Dave is passed OUT.

It feels like an eternity, and then,

‘No, I just wanted to get up. I wanted to…’ he’s slurring bad.

‘Dave are you are you on drugs? Have you been consuming alcohol?’ He makes his way to his feet,

‘Yes, Marcus gave me some pills.’

‘Is this true, Mr. Marcus?’

‘I don’t know what Dave is talking about,’ slurring a little. I hated maintaining so much when I was loaded. I look over at Michelle for support she looks back at me with her face contorted, as if she literally smells bullshit, she’s sneering. I flip her off.

‘I think you both need to go see Mr. Whitehead.’ Now he’s writing out referral slips.

‘Why?’ I’m sitting at my desk, hands folded back erect.

‘Because I think you’re both on drugs.’ He says staring me dead in the eyes.

‘This is a bullshit!’ I yell, pointing my finger to the heavens.

A few students laugh, with me, or at me, it doesn’t matter at this point. Mr. Munhall hands me the slip. I get up out of my desk. I hold the slip at my side shaking my head back and forth. We exchange looks and I stop at the door and then I address the whole class.

‘This is total bullshit.’

Mr. Munhall starts walking toward me. I’m sure he’ll punch me. ‘Fine, I’ll go.’

‘I’m going home,’ says Dave.

We both walk out.

‘Dude. You fucking snitch. You piece of shit!’

He starts to run. I run after him, Munhall grabs me from behind, and Dave is gone. He escorts me to the Principal.

As we’re walking up the hallway I pass the multi-purpose room. I open the door and look in. Craig McKean is sitting by himself staring at the ceiling.

‘Craig McKean,’ I say in my best Irish brogue trying to imitate his Father.

He slowly looks my way and I know he’s on something because like me, he’s always on something. His lips move but I have no idea what he’s saying. He moves his hand back and forth. He’s staring at his hand. He’s on mushrooms or acid or maybe dust? He keeps moving his lips and nothing is coming out.

‘MARCUS, GODAMMIT,’ I turn and look back Mr. Munhall is standing in the doorway of the admin office with balled fists.

I walk past him and go straight in.

Mrs. Kratzel, the assistant principal looks me up and down with disgust and asks me to take a seat.

She seriously has the yester-year looks of an Aryan schoolmarm and a slight German accent. Sharon accused her of being a dike once. Nervousness set in, I need another ‘lude. I didn’t swallow and with a mouth full of spit I snuck a pill out of my pocket and put it into my mouth.

‘Uh, Michael’ Mr. Whitehead said as he stood in front of me. He seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was wearing tight beige polyester pants and a grey velour sweater vest. This was worn over a puffy sleeved yellow shirt. So I laughed.

‘This isn’t funny, give me the referral slip.’

We walked into his office at the same time and we both get stuck in the doorjamb.

‘Ha, ha, like all in the family.’ I say.

Mr. Whitehead looks really serious and points a finger at the chair in front of his desk.

‘I don’t want to hear about All In The Family. Where is Dave Petrie?’

‘I don’t know, he just walked outta’ class, he left, just like that.’ Now Whitehead is pissed, he has white dry spittle around the corners of his mouth and he is sneering.

I giggle and he shifts in his chair.

‘This isn’t funny Marcus, you could be expelled for dealing drugs.’ Now I’m paranoid and pissed. I didn’t sell that asshole those ludes, but Whitehead doesn’t even know that.

‘I didn’t sell anyone anything.’

We look at each other for what seems like an eternity and he raises he hand in a gesture of dismissal. Marcus, I don’t want to see you again. I breathe a sigh of relief.

That’s right Whitehead, Petrie’s trippin’ around the gym, the track field or somewhere in Hollywood,

but not here to rat on me again.

I walk out of the admin building to my next class. History class. There is a film in progress, something about Columbus. I nod out on my desk and wake up in a puddle of my own spit.

Disgruntled Client.

OCT 3, 2017

WOW! Where do I start?

I’ve been to about 26 rehabs, no need to list them here, but feel free to ask my mother. There’s a thread of etiquette and a sense of decorum that comes in the world of rehabs, sober livings, and sobriety in general.

It might serve you to make a poster or placards for all to see, maybe hang it in the common areas. That being said (with the exception of the piss soaked, shit stained bed bug ridden county dumps that I’ve experienced) this is quite possibly the worst rehab I’ve ever been in. Hands down! Kip Garman, my case worker, therapist, whatever it is he claims to be (I have yet to see any credentials.) He just sits and blows vape clouds and looks out the window while I’m telling him my most intimate of secrets! Then makes no comment whatsoever, except, “good work I’ll see you next Monday.” HUH? What the actual fuck!!! He has the emotional depth of a bird bath! Also that scam artist in accounting, Candy, she double bills my insurance!

Well, I mean my mother’s insurance, but still! Now to the residents. Just selfish fucking little assholes! They never clean they’re up after themselves, AND staff just sits there looking on and don’t say anything. WHAT THE FUCK! It’s like the staff is intimidated, or scared they might get fired if they say something to these little shits! Stop coddling these little fuck sticks. Tough love works! Make them scrub toilets! Clean up dog shit at a local dog park! Why do I have to clean up or move things around because these brain dead millennials wreck havoc throughout the place!

There is a dishwasher, fuckers! Load it, fill it with cascade, turn it on, and goodnight! Then, in the morning, empty the fucking thing! Nobody loads or unloads it except me! They all live out of the dishwasher and then load dirty dishes in with clean dishes so there’s never a complete cycle of anything being clean or dirty, fucking so sick of it! These people have zero living skills! The same goes for the washer and dryer, these little assholes just live out of the dryer like it is their drawers or closet. And then I have to pull that shit out and put it in their room because otherwise I get yelled at for putting it in the common areas!

They keep the volume on the TV at like the highest possible level! I have to listen to the Friends theme song at maximum volumes. And there’s a DVD collection of every season of “Friends” in the common area? AND Who even watches that shit? I’ll answer! They do! Because they’re on suboxone or Librium or Seroquel! They sit there drooling and droopy-eyed, most of these assholes never even had a real habit or have had to truly hustle to keep from getting dope sick!!

Also regarding the tv. My bedroom wall is right on the other side! IT’S SO LOUD! The common areas are a disaster too! Half-eaten bags of Doritos and cookies and burritos on the coffee table. Gummy bear fruit bullshit stuck to the sofa, a motherfucking half glass of almond milk sat there for so long it turned back into an almond! It is disgusting and I am about to call the board of health. The techs sit around and try to pass all the shit off to the next tech and they just walk by something that has been there for DAYS! Why oh why the fuck don’t they say anything!?!?!? The smoking area is a health and safety disaster too!!!

These halfwits leave lit cigarettes on the edge of the wooden benches or fill up the but cans with so many cigarettes it finally just burst into flames. Nobody says or does anything it’s just one big fucking free-for-all. They vape frantically like they’re going to the electric chair. ALSO, I overhear people talking about cheating on their fucking Piss test, sneaking out at night and drinking. One guy (some wanna be wigger ex-con who’s never done a day in jail) said he had his girlfriend smuggle drugs in that she had “stuffed in her pussy.” I was like, “hey dip shit this ain’t pelican bay! I mean this place is 20 grand a month! the fuck am I paying for? I could be spending that in a crack house. Anyway, I want to just talk about the most glaring cases.

#1 Phillip Eckstein (trust fund self-entitled little fuck bird who lives in his OWN room)! He’s constantly leaving soiled peanut butter spoons knives forks (apparently whatever he can use to scoop it out) then open jars of everything and crumbs on every surface of the god damn kitchen! He walks around saying nigger this and nigger that like he’s from the ghetto. A white dude! This motherfucker is a refrigerator white trust fund dude from Holmby Hills for Christ sake! He never flushes the toilet when he defecates and makes remarks like, “My parents are paying top dollar for me to be here, I think the staff could at least clean up after me.” You believe this little douchetard! I finally let him have it when he used a washcloth to wipe his ass and then he just throws it behind the toilet like nobody knows! I swear to God I’m gonna beat this kid within an inch of his fucking life if something is not done about him. And the worst Fashion sense fucking kid wears three different decades of styles. Plus I think he’s banging that other resident Tempest that hippie broad. Don’t give me started with her constantly slathering coconut oil all over her body just a creepy cookie brought with hairy armpits. She says she doesn’t use deodorant because it’s unnatural but if you smelled her that’s unnatural.

Example #2 Cassandra Levin: Why o’ why the fuck do I have to listen to every traumatic event that occurred in he life? “Oh my uncle fingered me, I was beaten by my stepfather with a frozen turkey in a pillow case, my mother dressed me up like Brook Shields in that movie Pretty Baby, and trotted me around Old Town in Pasadena. I gotta listen to this shit while I’m watching episodes of CSI in the Day room…REALLY?!?! Bitch if Brooke shields got over it you can get over it. Then the food! Just like momma used to make except she didnt shit in it! How about something a little more complex then meatloaf, pasta, baked chicken, and potatoes? Every week the same shit!

Look, I know I’m here on a scholarship and I’m grateful for that but GET IT TOGETHER HERE! I really hope you address some of these issues my sobriety is at stake here.

Observations At The Gym

Never gets old.

The huge shirtless guy with cystic back acne and pink angel wings tattooed on his back. He is constantly told by staff to put his shirt back on, but then quickly removes it again to display “Winged Bacne.”

The emaciated girl with a tit job and ass implants that is so done up with foundation and mascara that she makes absolutely sure not to sweat at all.

The guy at the squat rack who grunts and screams like he’s getting ass raped or doing a deep knee bend on a 19 inch dildo.

The wanna’ be gangster dude who is buried in a hoodie and oversized sweats, occasionally peering out of his hoodie and mad doggin’ every one. Then goes back into his little hoodie cave for self involved enrichment.

The Lilly white granola eatin’ hippie girl with stinky dreadlocks, hairy armpits and a yoga mat, living in her little world of spiritual make-believe.

The ‘roided out guy that tries to intimidate everyone like we’re all on the yard, but then gets seriously put in check when he tries that stupid shit on me. TRUE STORY!

The hipster fellow who walks the treadmill in what looks like ‘Newsie” or “Steam Punk” turn of the century fashions.

The slack jaw, gamer / hunch back postured, body like a tube of toothpaste guy, who can barely bench press what looks like a 1/3rd of his own bodyweight.

The ‘roid red rosacea little queeny man who obsessively compulsively cleans up all the loose weights and dumb bells, while passively aggressively saying, “Ok. Are you done with that?”

The chubby gay Perez Hilton guy with the skin-tight deep v t-shirt and Dolphin style shorts, saying “GIRL” to his like-minded and similarly fashioned friends.

The rude guy/girl who sits on a machine texting or talking or doing who the fuck knows what on their cell phone while people (spineless people who don’t have the balls to say anything to these inconsiderate machine suckers) stand by sighing. By the way – I ask immediately ask if I can work  in. I ain’t there to watch you kibitzing on your (smart) Phone while I stand there with my dick in my hand.

The dude who uses community locker blow dryer on his nuts, for what seems like hours, in the locker room. The other guy that washes his clothes in the sink, then uses blow dryer on them. Then blow dryer  burns out, then never works again.

The trainer who has his clients doing the most awkward and bizarre exercises on equipment that is clearly used for a completely different purpose.

The high as fuck towel dude at the entrance of work out area that has extreme difficulty multi-tasking, i.e. validating parking tickets and checking memberships and passing out towels. This guy constantly being told by staff or gym members “Um, dude. Towel.”

Wakayama Fembot Love


A couple of years ago I was doing some business with a small telecom concern in Osaka. My partner at the firm was a man I’ll call Yoshi. After a night of karaoke and drinking into oblivion, Yoshi said he wanted to take me to his house in Wakayama.


“Oh? To meet the family?” I asked. He turned very serious. “Uh, no. No family. This house very different, for working only.” We jumped in his car. “Jack, long ride coming. You want to wake up?” He pulled out a long vial of what looked like coke. “Sure,” I said. He sprinkled a nickel-sized pile between his thumb and index finger and took a loud snort, “GENKI,” he yelled while pumping his fist. Huh? I’ll have to look that one up in my ‘Japanese For Dummies’ guide later on. He hit the other nostril and yelled it again. He quickly went from being passive and docile, to totally loose and untamed. 
He turned up the music, it was Foghat’s “Slowride”. He sang along.

He gave me the vial, I was no stranger to nose candy. Although I was a little paranoid about doing it in this country, which carries a 1-7 year prison sentence for possession…

for any amount. Yoshi seemed very connected with some of the Prefectural Police, which I’m sure would not benefit me in the least. Fuck it, I set the vile in my lap and quickly grabbed a bill from the breast pocket of my sports coat, I rolled it up. I opened the vial and tapped a nice pile into the vial’s cap. I hit it. It burned worse than any coke I’d ever done. “FUCK! What is this?” He kept singing. “YOSHI WHAT IS IT?” “JACK, he screamed, IT’S SHABU! SHABU!” Huh? I’ll have to look that up later in my guide as well. BOOM!

Then it hit me. It was that hardcore, scalp electrifying, instantaneous no man’s land of awake feeling that only methamphetamine brings. “MOSHI MOSHI!” I yelled, while pumping my fist. He repeated the words and laughed. We made our way to Wakayama. My coworker, Pete Cavendish, called Wakayama “The Bakersfield of Japan, with hidden secrets.” We went through a couple of tolls. Foghat’s ‘Slow Ride’ repeating over and over which was starting to disturb and annoy me all at once. We finally arrived and we were in a small garage, the door closing behind us very quickly. It looked like a bunker. We got out of the car and Yoshi led me to a heavy steel door.

He put his thumb on a small pad on the wall, and it beeped. The door gently sprung open. We walked into a very large ‘gentlemen’s club’ like atmosphere. It was lit with strong overhead fluorescent lighting. It had two dancing stages complete with stripper poles. There were small tables and black and red velour couches and chairs. Yoshi picked up a remote and worked some buttons, the bright fluorescence was replaced with music (Ravel’s Bolero) as well as soft red, green, and yellow lighting. Then from out from behind the stages, beautiful women appeared breathtaking birdies in all shapes, ethnicities, and sizes.

They all wore sexy lingerie, one looked like Betty Page, another like Marilyn Monroe, and yet another like Raquel Welch. “Yoshi! What?!” He sat and sad nothing. Then more beauties came out! One looked Like Sophia Loren another like Jayne Mansfield. The detail was impeccable. Then a Natalie Wood and a Barbara Eden (complete with I Dream of Jeannie wardrobe) Then an odd sight, there was one that looked like Yvonne De Carlo who played Lillian on “The Munsters.” Which might be a real blast to fuck for the sake of novelty. But I was fixated on the Sophia Loren. Another one that looked like Mansfield. “Jack, you want?” He waved his hand across the club.

I knew they must have been models or prostitutes. Was it a brothel, a private strip club? This was an expensive little operation, regardless of what it was. I summoned the Sophia Loren and the Monroe. They both approached. They had still, wet, doll-like eyes. Their lips were full and moist. They both wore lingerie, the Monroe in period-perfect hose and garters. The Loren in a “Merry Widow” style bedtime outfit. Artificial intelligence? Robots? No, a robot is an inappropriate word. “Hello,” I said, “My name is Jack.” “Hello,” they said back in unison. Their voices seemed to match the starlets to a tee. They sat on either side of me and said no more.

Very quickly their hands were all over me, pulling, tugging, and stroking. Suddenly we were all naked and I couldn’t find a blemish or an imperfection on either one of them, they were anatomically correct and totally life-like. They both moaned occasionally saying things like “more, oh so good, oh yeah,” He didn’t quite have the intimate vocal component totally correct, but so what. They literally sucked me dry. As I dressed to leave, more of them came at me, with the Barbara Eden Bot leading the pack saying, “but master, wait.”

They cornered me and the Yvonne De Carlo bot (Lillian Munster) grabbed me from behind, they ripped off my clothes and I very quickly succumbed to the electronic nympho succubus’. Finally I couldn’t take anymore I screamed for Yoshi, “MAKE IT STOP! ENOUGH!” There was a high-pitched buzzer sound and they all retreated, I tried to put my suit back on but it was ripped and shredded. Yoshi came up and patted me on the back. “You ok?” I was more than ok. “You want more sex?” I had to think for a moment, I may never get this chance again. “Maybe later,” I said. “Maybe we have Ramen and Yakatori?” That sounded fantastic. Then maybe a little Shabu and a crack at the Mansfield Bot.








Suicide Pros Inc. 

I’m Steve Marsden. I’m the owner-operator of Suicide Pros™.  (Patent Pending – soon I hope to have hats, shirts, and coffee mugs.)

So a couple of years ago I was wrought with suicidal ideations. Just this insatiable obsession to commit suicide, I tried with the old hose in the exhaust pipe, got to coughing like I had tuberculosis and quickly exited the car. Main reason for this attempt, I was distraught saddened by the death of my cocka-a-poodle “Fleming.” In my grief, I did a horrific amount of drugs, drank copious amounts of alcohol, hell I even went on a sex tour to Thailand. But nothing could fill the empty hole that the passing of Fleming left. I called a couple of different suicide hotlines.

I found them very trite, mundane and just outright insincere. The anger and intolerance I was experiencing while talking to these ‘suicide professionals’ actually saved me from killing myself. I went from suicidal to homicidal in just minutes. Then it came to me. Maybe people need to be angered and pissed off in order to turn their thoughts from suicide? Maybe that whole tender loving care thing was the wrong approach. Maybe people need to be put in check. Especially first world shitters that have everything they want and need, and basically just complain and are sad because their souls are so empty and they have nothing but material belief in their cockamamie little minds.

Let’s face it, the dead western soul is the reason for the dead western mind, which is no doubt the springboard for suicidal ideations. Whoa, how’s that for some shit bird street philosophy. So but anyways I volunteered at a couple different suicide hotline locations, they fired me. Anyway it was voluntary and I needed to get paid, plus they didn’t like my style. Apparently I was to ‘confrontational.’ So I started my own suicide hotline.

So far no one has offed themselves, and I’ve got three and a half stars on Yelp, but even the bad reviews are good because the bottom line is they didn’t kill themselves. My confrontational style and sincere lack of care (based on the fact that you’re somebody I don’t even know) has created a business model that has turned the suicide hotline business upside down! One survivor (who called Suicide Pros™ many times) even gave me a room to live in her house. I’ll call her Margaret for the sake of anonymity. She’s one of these old ‘Sunset Boulevard’ type broads.

Her resentment and anger of not being the young vivacious screen gem of yesteryear brought on suicidal ideations that even a contract from Louis B. Mayer couldn’t lift. I put her in her place, and I told her who she was, where she was, and it was time to give up all that bullshit maybe take an improv class, or do standup comedy, or tell the stories of yesteryear on The Moth or some other bullshit public forum. Live for now and stop all this whiny old starlet horseshit. It worked. She has an improv troupe (The happy old shit heels) that tours the country and they’re all 60 or 70 somethings.

People love them because they’re real and they act their fucking age, they get lots of laughs at all the childish games that they constantly come up with. I get a lot of schmucky little millennials calling me as well. Sad or angered over mommy and daddy’s divorce, being bullied at school, or not even being able to reach the next level in some shitty video game. Hey whatever the case, they need to get put in check as well. Sometimes I threatened to do a three-way call with their parents (like I even have the parent’s number). So for $49.95 (PayPal only 5 day guarantee) Suicide Pros™ is your best bet for value, to save your life, and to start anew, or leave the planet with a clear conscious.
Real enrichment. Check for our (Tell me why I don’t like Mondays) special.

Hollywood Shit Show.

Due to complete financial need and desperation, I’ve been an extra on a couple of different television programs, commercials, and reality shows. You get paid to sit around and wait to be herded to set or location…

It can be up to $300.00 a day, or it can be minimum wage. This particular day it was minimum wage, I was to be an extra on the Tim Allen show. From the moment I drove through the gates at CBS Radford my stomach started to turn, and I felt an incredible amount of anxiety and fear. It was the same way I imagined ‘Damien’ from “The Omen” must have felt as he got closer to church.

I was given a parking pass and told to park on the 6th floor visitor parking garage, then to walk to soundstage #9. Sounds easy enough. It was 9:00 AM and already eighty degrees and I was wearing a black wool suit. I parked, and started leisurely walking to the elevator, I heard footsteps running up behind me at a fast clip. “Are you an extra on the Tim Allen show?” she asked me frantically. “Yes,” I said. “Oh My God! We are so late!” I push the elevator button. “What? The call time said 9:30. It’s 9:05.” She whirled past me garment and duffel bag in tow and started running down the stairs, “You didn’t get the e-mail? The call time changed to 8:45!” I hate being late.

I started running down the stairs behind her, “What e-mail? When was that sent?” She was already down a couple of flights of stairs. “This morning, at like 8:15.” she screamed. I started running down the stairs behind her in my wool suit and dress shoes. I had a vision of slipping and falling down the stairs and how that would look in an obit, “He was to be an extra on the Tim Allen Show. Unfortunately lost his footing and tumbled downstairs. He broke his neck and died instantly.” I slowed my roll I wasn’t going to kill myself to get to a soundstage for minimum wage, plus my feet already hurt in the dress shoes I was sporting for the big occasion.

As I walked at a fast clip down the last flight of stairs I saw that she was already 100 feet ahead of me, she looked back and said, “you better hurry up, they close that stage door and the red light goes on we don’t get paid, we are fucked! No money!” she screamed as she ran past a group of truck drivers sitting around on a tailgate lift eating donuts and drinking coffee, reinforcing and reppin’ the teamster stereotype. They laughed out loud at her. I ran behind her I already felt like a douchebag, I didn’t need validation from the Teamsters. I looked up, I was passing stage 3, I had six more stages to get to, it was nowhere in sight, it was easily a quarter-mile from where I was, I walked at a fast clip. I was sweating, my feet hurt, and I felt a rash starting in my crotch from the wool trousers.

I cursed myself and started focusing on all the bad life choices that brought me to this moment as I ran past stage 6. Now I was sweating profusely and pissed off. I gave up and started walking very slowly, “Fuck it.” I yelled aloud, which received a high sign from an executive walking by. I got to the soundstage, a woman greeted me with, “I’m Elizabeth. The production manager. Didn’t you get the second fucking e-mail? You’re late!’ I walked past her leisurely and through the door. “Go wait with the other background players, first room on your left!” I walked into the room.

It was hot and jam-packed with extras. The lucky ones were seated in those old grammar school style desks, others sat on the linoleum floor, even more leaned up against the wall. All waiting. The ‘craft services’ table was an absolute abomination. It consisted of paper bowls of Doritos, mini boxes of Milk Duds, and Good and Plenty, and old brown bananas and played out apples. It also featured Mexican candies and Mexican baked goods, I guess that was for our Latin background friends. The production manager popped her head through the door, “settle in kids Mr. Allen is running 2 hours late.”    “Cool man. Overtime,” a guy next to me said. I made my way to the craft service table and grabbed a handful of Doritos and a couple of boxes of Milk Duds. “Fuck it,” I said again under my breath.

Getting Through It All