Monday, January 09, 2006


James Frey, the author of the fictional novel "A Million Little Pieces", has been accused of fabricating wholesale sections of his Oprah-book-club-selected "memoir". In fact, the linked article reveals that he had attempted to publish the work 17 times as a piece of fiction before an enterprising publisher decided to buy it and sell it instead as a work of non-fiction. Since Frey has a tattoo on his arm that reads FTBITTTD (which stands for "Fuck the bullshit, it's time to throw down"), does that mean he's going to have to fuck himself, or throw himself down, or do whatever it is to bullshit that the tattoo on his arm is threatening to do to bullshit? I will say this: although I haven't read Frey's novel, won't read Frey's novel, and could care less about Frey's novel, his inspiring story of riches to even more riches has prompted me to get a tattoo of my own, which reads FTMFBMFIMFTTFTTBTIWPRTD ("Fuck the motherfucking bullshit, motherfucker, it's motherfucking time to fucking throw the bullshit that I was previously referring to down").

Now that I have my awesome tattoo, I have no excuse not write stories that are real, raw, and unhinged. All I have are my addictions, my tribulations, my personal demons - and fuck them, for they are bullshit. Here's a scenario I've invented in which I have reached the proverbial bottom and I have no place to go but up.

I'm outside the clinic and the snow falls and I pick up some snow and look at all of the snowflakes. Bill stands me next to me, he says Fuck the snow. I open my pants and pull out my penis. I shove the snow down my penis hole and I say You mean Fuck the snow like this, you Cocksucker and he laughs. I ask him if he has any heroin but he doesn't and then I get mad at myself for asking. I go inside and smash my head against a wall until I can't feel anything. Just warm blood rushing down my cheek, which has a hole in it, inside my mouth and down my throat and then I cough on it and choke and I wake up in a hospital. I pull out of the wires and get up and put my clothes on. I step outside my room I see a nurse who tries to chase me down and I collapse. My body is so worn out. I haven't hit the wall, I've hit the wall and banged my head against it until I started bleeding and I've fucked the wall. Fuck the Wall. The nurse falls on top of me and starts kissing me. We fuck in a closet and I ask her to give me as many drugs as she can or I will fuck her again so we fuck again and then I threaten to kill her and she gives me a bag of the best stuff in the hospital. I step outside and drink an entire bottle of something. I flag down a taxi and punch the driver in the face I'm so fucked up. I pull him out and get in and run over him and then I drive back to the clinic and I see Bill standing outside muttering Fuck the snow to himself under his breath and I think Same old Bill. And about how I missed this place.


Ok, well, here's something else that is pretty fun and weird - turns out I'm not allergic to shrimp. Or so says my new allergist. In fact, according to him, I'm more allergic to potatos than fucking shrimp. This is either the greatest or worst news I've ever received.


King Koopa said...

So, how many times have you swelled up and almost died from eating fries or potato chips? That just doesn't make any sense. But, if you attempt to eat shrimp as a test, I request to be able to be on speakerphone throughout the post-ingestion period. I've got the cell-phone minutes if you've got the balls to pop a few poppers...I'll keep LA's food poisoning hotline on the other line.

Ofc. Krupke said...

Same old story. Give a guy a little heroin, and suddenly he's Hunter S. Thompson.

It's why you can't walk around downtown anymore.

Trevor Jackson said...

I don't fuck the bullshit so much as Wine and Dine the Bullshit in the Hopes that the Bullshit Will See What a Sensitive and Intelligent Man I am and Beg for the Love-Making to Commence.

This is why my fiction remains as yet unpublished.

Anonymous said...