Tattoo (or ‘This is awkward,’ or ‘Open for Suggestion’)

Author’s Note:

Yes. I’ve done some incredibly stupid shit in my time.

Below is an actual-for-real email I sent to a soon-to-be former boss (an attractive lady-boss, of course.) and is sadly very close to the top of the Misfit Hit Parade of lame-ass-actions I have perpetrated on innocents.

***

I have swerved into the solution for Drunken Emails.

Who could’ve known it would be this simple?

Street Cred for Vid: Big Play Films

***

From: Moron <lance_moron@misfits.fubar> cc bcc:

To: Lady_Boss@job.yrfired

Subject: Tattoo

Dear Suki,

Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).

It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:

“No!”

Subtle Reminder:

“No! Don’t Go There Lance!”

Brevity? Yes. (‘That soul of wit.’)

“Words have meaning Son,” my father often told me.

And short words, I have discovered, oft hold the most meaningful meaning.

It has been ‘awkward’ (to say the very least) to face you of late.

After my ‘email shot-gunning’ you, off-the-chain escapade of recent shameful regret, but… I did it and today found the courage to read all of what I did send and happily discovered, most were not of the obnoxious caliber of my historical wont.

Thank God and Baby Hey Zeus!

Alas, I wish I had an excuse.

Yet, in searching, there is one to be discovered, but so probably painfully evident that it requires no verbalization:

Two times per year, I get to ‘explore’ my darker side.

Two times per year, I choose a ‘lucky’ recipient to ‘share’ in my darkness.

Two times per year someone gets to be ‘it’.

Guess what?!

Tag!

You won!

You’re the New ‘IT’ Girl!

Congratulations!

You’re in Good Company.

Clara Bow: The Original It Girl, 1927

***

The thing about writers (and those so-called writers who call themselves ‘writers’) is that they are so full of themselves, and vain by nature (it is requisite-with the breed), and every writer and so-called writer I have ever met, are… assholes. All.

Vain, pompous, drinks-too-much, full of sound and fury, and desperate.

“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Desperate for…

Crying for…

Waiting for…

FEEDBACK

I am not (not really) stupid.

I know you cannot ‘comment’ nor even acknowledge, via email, all the posts I posted ‘at you.’

I dare say you would be wise to ignore me and my ramblings, given our professional relationship.

Yet, if you did read even one of the posts on my blog, (actually I think you read the first one I begged you to read—not the ‘best’ one, but one which apparently was on my mind–at the time)

It is a very simple thing to comment, ‘in disguise’ as

‘anonymous.’

Or ‘any-mouse.’

Or simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)

Too easy.

Do that once and I will be sated.

Do it twice and you get a Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,

OR

An Autographed 8X10 Hollywood-Type-Glossy Photograph of Jesus Christ.

Sermon-on-the-mount, highly recommended, and our best-seller

But you cannot have both; there is a limited supply.

Do it thrice:  You should seek counsel.

Professional help.

Honestly.

Never mind…

“Writers are assholes.”

“Lance is a ‘writer’”

“Ergo, Lance is an asshole.”

***

Suki,

There is a point to this post, but most assuredly, I have forgotten my initial inclination in that regard.

***‘Jeopardy musical theme plays***

Oh yes!

Now I’ve got it!

This is my convoluted apology to you.

I am, and shall always remain, an Honorable Military Man.

I am cognizant of the duty (and the mission)

And, admitting I was wrong is something which seems to be easier (and more difficult—same time) to do lately.

My first wife once accused me of aspiring to be “King of the Idiots.”

(She was an idiot savant…well, you’d have to know her to get my meaning, yet, I think–know, that I have posted about her…ON-MY-BLOG)

Back to my point:

Suki,

I am beginning to grow bored with my job.

You are the best supervisor/boss I have had in recent memory. All, and I do mean ALL respect you.

This should be enough for me (and for the foreseeable future it shall be)

But…

I don’t like to shit where I eat, BUT (and this is a curse), I have a opinions and I need to get that tattoo—post haste—and with all due prejudice.

I like you Suki.

I respect you.

I am trying to help you professionally (in my way).

And NO!

I am not trying to ‘do’ anything other than ‘talk’ to you and ‘work’ for you.

To quote Nixon:

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear…”

I am a whore, but only when it comes to my writing.

Nothing else these days (aside from my computer addiction) means anything to me.

Rest easy.

I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, seem.

(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)

Cheers,

Lance

(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)

See you on Friday.

And remember not to work too hard.

Life’s best moments can be fleeting.

Cherish Them

***

Number One

Beautiful Joni

SHITTY PITY PARTY

Lance walks into the ‘Psycho‘-Therapist’s Office and slumps down into a chair…

“Hello. My Name is Doctor Calvin Cray-Cray.”

“Hello!” Way Too Effervescent Psychotherapist blurts out. “And how are WE Today?”

“Shitty,” I answer.

“Oh No!!” he says. “We can never be ‘shitty’, as you say. WE are always ‘Happy’.”

“’Go Fuck yourself’, as I also say.”

“Mister Marcom. ‘WE‘ do NOT Talk this Way.”

“Fuck yourself again Doc, I talk this way AND I am PAYING you so I CAN talk this way. And I shall continue to Talk this way–Deal with it.

“Okay, why then are you ‘shitty’ as you call it?”

Leaning back… wondering how long this court – ordered bullshit must go on, I decide to hit him with it:
“I am shitty ‘cause I have written some good shit on my blog and no one is reading it.”

“Please do go on. Tell me more. By the way, what’s a ‘Blog’?”

“You’re shitting me, right? They don’t let you out much, do they? Well… there is this one about

South Park

‘Kandahar, Afghanistan Version.'”

“You mean J.R.’s Ranch? I thought that was in Dallas.”

“Do you have a Degree Doc?”

“Of course, right over there on the wall. See it?”

“I only see what I want to see, Things that Interest me. What’s it in, your ‘Dee-Gree‘?”

“Phycology.”

“Yeah, guess that would make some sense–How much you pay for it? Did they throw in the frame, or did you have to pay for that too? You obviously didn’t take any courses in Modern Pop Culture Pops. I would have thought that requisite—For a Phycologist.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Never mind.”

“Let us get back to YOUR problem and away from my credentials, shall we? You say no one reads your ‘shit’, but why not?”

“‘t-l-d-r’ in the ‘vernacular.’”*

“’Tee el dee ar’? I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning here.”

“’Too Long. Didn’t Read’ Asshole.”

“Mister Marcom, I must implore you not to continue abusing me with such language. I am merely attempting to help you here. Why is it too long? Do you hate your mother?”

“Well, it took days and days to write, and… My Mother?? Who ARE you? What ARE you? Do you even know what it is ‘to write’? To write well? To do anything well? To pour your ‘Self,’ your very ‘Being,’ passionately, wholeheartedly, completely into something, anything? I severely doubt it.”

“Let us focus on ‘your problem.’ shall we?”

“No Doc, let us focus on yours: I don’t want to be here. I have been compelled, coerced, and constrained to be here. This makes me, right now, YOUR Problem. Try your best to cope. This will be over soon.

“Oh, I see.”

“You ‘see’ nothing. I just want folks to read my shit.”

“I cannot help you there Son. Perhaps though, if I may, proffer a suggestion?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Write some better ‘shit’, as you call it.”

***

As I was leaving I realized I HAD gotten ONE, (yet only one), beneficial benefit from this ‘Court-Mandated Counseling.’ But it was great advice:

“Write Some Better Shit.”

***

Why So Many People Want To Be Writers

Credit: The School of Life

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Bonus Added Value: “Reasons to Remain Single”

Credit: The School of Life

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Hanne Boel: “Can’t Run From Yourself”

Vid Share Credit: Johncoyote:

(https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/2572839/posts/3392151511)

& Елена Елистратова

***

“Better Off Without A Wife”
–Waits

*****

This Concludes My “Self-Help Session”

“Self-Help is The Best Help”

(“Because it is generally more effective and lasts much longer”)

—Lance Marcom, Not-So-Famous WriterYet

“And it won’t cost you a dime. Just send me one dollar, Postal Money Order for my advice.”

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Want More ‘Crazy Lance?’

Visit Here

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*TLDR

“Too Long. Didn’t Read.”

Frequently used acronym by lazy, ignorant people in Internet Forums, where their urge to type something exceeds their ability to read something or if they generally lack semantic ability to either comprehend or respond to a post due to underdeveloped brain.

Stating that they were too lazy reading someone else’s post just confirms the ignorant attitude and also often destroys the discussion in the thread.

The average IQ of people typing TLDR in Internet forums is about 64.

“Since I am a lonely masturbating boy with no brain I have no capacity to read all you said, but due to my lonely social life I still feel like typing something in this thread, I will type TLDR.”

–by foopp May 05, 2009

Via Urban Dictionary:

https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=TLDR

Delirium Tremens Man Showed. And This Time He Wasn’t Playin’

Chapter One Here

Sunday Morning, one A.M. and I had just run out of booze.

Bad News.

Can’t buy booze until noon on a Sunday.

So at one o’clock a.m. the count-down began.

I was resolved to weather the approaching storm.

Tried to keep my mind occupied by watching YouTube vids.
Listening to ‘Happy’ Songs.

Drinking coffee.
Reminiscing of all the beautiful women I had known.

None of these activities were working.

Dread and Impending Doom loomed larger and larger in my head.

“And how slow and still the time did drag along.”

                –Huck Finn

I was counting down the hours until noon.

Surely I could make it.

Hell! I’m a ‘Tough Guy’

I had ‘almost’ become a Navy SEAL!

Twice.

(I was wrong)

Heard heavy footsteps approaching around 0900 hrs.

DT Man!

No point in locking the door; he had his own key.

I heard the key in the doorknob and in he strolled.

Good Morning Cowboy. How’s Trix?”

“Go fuck yourself,” I said. “You only have three hours before I kick your sorry ass to the curb.”

“An awful lot can happen in three hours. And I do mean ‘AWFUL’” He said.

“Well you just hide and watch, but you are wasting your time here today.”

“I got nothing better to do at this moment, nor any other place to be, so I accept your invitation.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

Approximately ten o’clock the shakes had begun mildly at first, about a two on the Richter Scale.

By eleven, up to a six.

I looked over at DT Man. He was reading my copy of ‘Huckleberry Finn.’

“Hey Asshole! Who gave you permission to read my books?”

“You did, when you were foolish enough to let yourself run out of booze.”

Eleven-thirty, up to a nine on the scale. Shaking very visibly now.

DT Man said, “Hey, I found a great passage. I will share it with you.”

Then he began to read aloud:

“I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek–but I couldn’t see no snakes.

He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering “Take him off! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him.

He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:

“Tramp–tramp–tramp; that’s the dead; tramp–tramp–tramp; they’re coming after me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me –don’t! hands off–they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”

Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket.

By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up.

Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself.

Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.

So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.”

***

“Ring any bells?” He said.

Twelve o’clock. FINALLY! And a solid ten on the Richter Scale.

It took me five minutes to get to my feet and grab my car keys. They jingled against my house key and my rent-a-shed key, making a terrible music. My legs were shaking so badly I thought I was going to collapse right there.

DT Man said “Well, my work is done here.” As he was walking through the door, he turned and said,

“Have a nice day.” And left.

***

Astute enough to realize there was no booze run in my future, if I even had a future, I managed to find my phone and dial 911. Then I tremble-walked over to my door and opened it, leaving it so.

Staggered over to my bed, collapsed, and waited.

About ten minutes passed and the Paramedics entered my room.

“Can you stand up and walk Sir? “One of them asked.

“That would be a ‘No’” I answered.

“Okay, just sit tight while we bring in the gurney. It’ll just take a minute”

“I got no pressing engagements at the moment, so sure, I’ll ‘sit tight’”

They wheeled in my little ‘Four-Wheeled Chariot’ close my bed. Stupidly, I tried to stand up. Immediately collapsed back down on the bed.

The two of them, one on each side, helped me to my feet and steadied me alongside the gurney.

“Think you can lower yourself onto it?” One of them asked.

“I can try, but most likely I’ll miss then you will have to pick me up off the floor.”

Using some brute strength, they succeeded in planting me on the thing, then strapped me in.

And off we rolled.

Once outside, I noticed they had fetched along a fire truck along with their ambulance.

“You Boys thinking I had set my place on-fire? For Fuck sake, I couldn’t strike a match even if my life depended on it.”

“No, just standard operating procedure.” One answered.

Just before they loaded their ‘precious’ cargo (That would be ‘me’), Deb appeared and asked if there were any I wanted her to call for me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Call my bookie–he’s in the book–his name is ‘Guido‘, and tell him to cancel all my bets. Oh and tell Cynthia I won’t be needing any toilet paper for a while. Other than that, no, there is no one. Catch ya later.”

They wheeled me into the ambulance.

And off we went, (The driver finding every pot-hole along the way,) headed to the Hospital I presumed / hoped—as opposed to that ‘Other’ Place.

As one of the paramedics stayed in the back with me, taking my “Un-Vital Signs,” this song kept playing in my head. I sure did hope it were true.

Chapter Three Coming Soon…

HOSPITALS. (“Plural”) Thirteen Days Back-To Back

This is Just the ‘Trailer’

Full Movie Coming Soon To A Theatre Near You.

Soon, Very Soon

Keeping as a souvenir: (I’ll Never wash that wrist Again!)

***

Here is a Clue:

Cred: ‘Scared Sober with Delirium Dirk – Real Delirium Tremens and Alcohol Withdrawal

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Street Cred:  ‘Christy Moore’

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Street Cred: Kris

***

Oh HELL YEAH!

Kinda Made Me Wanna Stick Around For Another Month

***

Don’t Even Ask…

****

Footnote to This Story:

Today I sent these Flowers (and two boxes of Chocolate)

And these Heart-Felt words :

“Thank You All For Taking Such Loving Good Care Of Me.

I Shall Never Forget Your Kindness And Your Graciousness.

My Very Best Wishes,

Lance”

Chapter Two Here

Left-Over Food. Left-Over Dreams. Left-Over White Trash King!

My Fridge:

Left On my Bed. Instead. No worries. I can sleep around it.

I’ve got enough left-over food (some weeks gone-by of age-Waste not. Want not!) in my fridge to ‘Feed Cox’s Army’

‘Feed Cox’s Army…’ An expression Janet used to hurl at me upon often occasion.

Anyway… I got NO Room! No ROOM! For my Beer! But I don’t care!

I am sorta European in this regard.
I LOVE Warm Beer!

Yes! Yes! Yes! I know:

I am pure-dee Bona-Fide White Trash.

And I LOVE TV Dinners!

(If the sauce is not too blue)

Astute observers will note the Ouija Board in this below video.

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Added Value:

Houston, We’re Screwed.

Pondering, Reflecting, Dissecting,

Thinking back (Yeah, I do that sometimes)

The thinking part

Whilst ‘Thinking’ …

I came upon the stark realization that I have been perpetually ‘online’ since 1990

First Step: Admitting You Have A Problem

(The Admittance Part is The Hardest Part—Guess That is Why it is First-On-The-List
Once You Get PAST That…
Rest is Gravy
)

Or Just Gravity

Street Cred for Vid: Luke Combs

******

P.S.

A word to some wise:
“I’m not the Droid You’re Looking For

Not I

Not me!

Not ME!

Never me