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A glass half empty of bullshit is still a glass full of bullshit


I found this in my drafts folder from August of 2012.

I got suckered into reading this. It's bullshit. It's so obviously bullshit that I can't believe it was printed, much less spread throughout the innertubes as some kind of wistful, nostalgic look back at the fun we had in our twenties and thirties. First, let me be absolutely clear, I'm sure this woman's husband did stop drinking. Do I think that they spent hundreds of dollars on bottles of imported absinthe? No. Do I think they were Boho squatters in East Fucking Germany? No. Do I think they spent years in Portugal? Maybe a vacation or two, max. Do I think they wore linen and sipped G and T's while barefoot at their "wedding shower"? What the FUCK is a wedding shower? Most importantly, who in the name of god decides to become a bicycle racer, quits drinking, and only rides twenty miles a day? Twenty miles? He rides half an hour a day and is competitive? Does he have one leg? Is it a unicycle race? Let's fix this pile of bullshit to look less like someone's rejected late 80's college novella: "My husband and I used to have a great party every year until we had kids. We'd drink too much when we went out, and we'd fight when we got drunk. He decided to start up a health routine and quit drinking. I didn't. He doesn't care that I still drink. He was more fun when he wasn't a fucking health nut". Everything else in this "story" is bullshit. It's a goddamn shame that instead of writing "novels" and "stories", everything nowadays has to be a "memoir". It's even more of a shame that after so many "memoirs' have turned out to be total bullshit; "A Million Little Pieces", "Broken Glass", "Angela's Ashes", "Dreams of My Father" etc... we are still stuck with this shit at the top of the charts. It's time to dial back on the misery and romanticism of said misery. I blame the high school English curriculum. Everyone read Fitzgerald when they were 14. He was a very romantic guy. He had a great story. He was a FANTASTIC writer. But when Fitzgerald was taught to us back in the early eighties, it was his story that was taught, not his writing. I can sum up my Sophomore year American Lit class: Early novels, Hawthorne and Melville, Impenetrable slush. Later came Wharton and James, over done, Dickensian, and booooring. After WW1 comes the good stuff, Dos Passos, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald and Faulkner. Books you might actually want to read, some of them are entertaining, some heavy-handed propagandist bullshit, all well-written. The best written are also the most entertaining, Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Hemingway. Fitzgerald, is by far the most entertaining. His books are the John Hughes movies of their day. Politics are backgrounded and the books themselves are deeply personal. His stories aren't memoirs, but they are taught as if they are. That's a problem. High school kids are insufferable romantics. The ones that decide to become writers almost always do it during the "Great American Novel" section of the syllabus. They all want to be the romantic dissolute, running around the left bank, moaning about lost loves, good times past, and bad choices. The problem was that they don't seem to realize the difference between WHAT Fitzgerald wrote and WHY Fitzgerald wrote. Fitzgerald wrote his romantic stories for MONEY. He wrote stories that SOLD. He was a PROFESSIONAL WRITER. He wrote for magazines, radio, novels, movie studios... he wrote commercial. Fitzgerald was also a real-life alcoholic, married to a bi-polar mess. He was a celebrity for a bit, then a has-been. Nothing really romantic about the way he ended up. His books may have been romantic, but they always had an ending. He died of his alcoholism in late middle age, his characters died young, or stared off wistfully into the fog of the great depression waiting on their inheritance. He spent years begging for money from his friends, denying he was still drinking and getting fired for producing unreadable dreck. My point is, only an asshole would want to model his or her life on this train wreck, and only a bigger asshole would lie about it. Most of the shit on the best seller lists are attempts to turn the author's life into some version of "The Beautiful and the Damned", only that book wasn't a romanticism of the type of characters the modern "memoirist" pretends to be, it was a fucking indictment. It was also FICTION! Just like the modern memoir. If you want to have a good time with a pretend drunk, head to a frat party and watch the freshman girls. If you want to write a good story, write a story about people who DO something. And for God's sake, stop bullshitting everyone.
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I wish

I wish I was one of those people that was so good at my job that at any moment some Army colonel would show up at my door and kidnap me away from my family in order to fight aliens, or terrorists, or an evil corporation, or the Catholic Church, or any combination of those. Like that River Monsters dude. I know that if, for some reason there was a giant fish eating kids who got too close to my frog pond and I actually wanted it caught and eaten, I'd call the River Monsters dude. He would show up a day later, with all the right equipment, wave his dick at the pond and that giant fucking fish would jump right out and die on the spot. He's the guy you call. I want to be that guy.

I can just imagine... it's mid-afternoon, I'm wandering the house in my sweats with my headset in listening to a conference call when, from out of nowhere, there's a knock on the door. I ignore it, of course, thinking it's either UPS, FedEx, or some asshole who wants me to do something or pray or whatever. Then, as it continues, I begin to get worried. So I sneak out the back door and around to the driveway side of the house to see if it's the mailman or the cops. (Sad thing is, I actually do this when someone's knocking and I don't hear the delivery truck.) When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a vintage 90's Crown Vic in Army green idling away at the top of my drive. As I tiptoe backwards I bump into a full bird who somehow used his Army ninja power to sneak up behind me.
"Mr. dad?", he says, "Mr. mad dad?"
"Um... yeeeeees?", says I.
"I need you to stop what you are doing and come with me."
"You are maddad? The proprietor of Like a Train Wreck? The blog?"
"Who's asking"
"Sir, please get in the car."
"Am I under arrest?"
"No. Sir, we understand that you are the world's foremost expert in bad typing, poor grammar, penis jokes, and just plain douchebaggery."
"So I'm going to need you to come with me."
"Am I being detained?"
"What? No"
"I need to talk to my lawyer."
"That's not necessary. Get in the car."
"I'm not getting into the car."
"Sir, I am authorized to place you under arrest if you don't comply."
"Get in the car sir, it's a matter of National Security."
"Fuck you."
"Sir. Turn and place your hands on the hood of the car, I'm placing you under arrest."
"No. And fuck you, I'm calling 911."
"Wait! Sir. Hold on. Let me make a call, I'm sure we can clear this whole thing up."
"Yeah, well, while you're doing that, move this car and your ass out of my driveway and off my property, I'll be inside with my gun waiting for the rest of the "Army" to come and "arrest" me. Assholes."

As I go back inside to gather ammo and load my Mossberg pump, the colonel backs the car down the driveway and calls a special number from a super secret looking satellite phone. "This is Force," he says, "Colonel Rock, of the 45th Special Interdiction and Defense calling for the big Cheese. Relay, the duck is in the haybales. Repeat, the duck is in the haybales." Smash cut to the operator on the other end of the phone who grabs his headset, listens intensely, and whispers, "Jesus" before turning to the officer standing behind him. "General", he says nervously, "you're gonna need to hear this".

Some minutes later, I've finally found the key to the goddam breech lock and rustled up three or four shells for the shotgun and I've started to make my way to the driveway again when I hear the thump thump thump of helicopter blades. Soon, over the rooftops, Marine One comes into view and makes a majestic landing in my front yard. Once the blades come to a halt two tall men, one with surprisingly small hands, climb out and looks around. The small handed one looks at me, still in my sweats, and not having showered in so long you can smell my balls through my pants and says to the other man, "He doesn't look like much, are you sure he's the one?" The other man shrugs a bit, but doesn't speak. Then the small handed man turns and addresses me.

"Hello maddad. I'm President Trump. This is my top scientific adviser, Bill Nye. We need your help with a matter of National Security. In fact, it may involve the extinction of all life on earth."

"Huh", says I.

"Yes maddad. All life. And only someone with your special skills in douchebaggery and dick jokes will have a chance to save us. Will you help us with this menace? It's really huge. It's a big menace. The biggest."


"Really big. And we can get you what you want. We're really good at that kind of thing, the best."

"First things first then. That asshole," I point to Bill Nye, "is an engineer, not a scientist. So fuck him. He's an asshole who's been trying to fool the morons out there into taxing themselves to death so he can have sex with underage polar bears. Two. Get that fucking thing off my lawn. I swear to God, you will pay to have it fixed. And thirdly, I want a billion fucking dollars and the pothole at the bottom of my driveway fixed. Oh, and last, I want an apology from Colonel shithead over there for not knowing anything about the law and from you for the same, you ignorant shithead. You could have called and offered me a job like a normal fucking person, but NO! You didn't! And you are just DAMN LUCKY that the HHUUUUGGGGEEEESSSSTTT menace in the fucking UNIVERSE is MY DICK otherwise all this waiting around and flying in helicopters would be a real fucking problem, wouldn't it? Gotta phone? Can't make a call? Maybe all of us dying would teach you a lesson. Sending the Army... Jesus Christ you fucking jackass. Know what? Now I want two billion dollars. Fuck you. Pay me or go away. Shitheads"

Bill Nye turns to the President, "Oh yeah, he's the one."

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Tomorrow is the day


so I want you to understand this, no matter what you think is going to happen? It's going to happen. It'll be OK eventually.

Also remember this; Arthur Miller wrote Death of a Salesman, complete, in six weeks AND within ten years was married to Marilyn Monroe.

The sonofabitch lived for almost a hundred years, had three plays I consider worth a damn and, again, was MARRIED to Marilyn Monroe.

Arthur Miller was an asshole.

Just remember that.

A guy who should have been a sweetie was a depressive asshole who wrote shitty, depressing plays. Why? He fucking had it too good. So the next time you are upset because nothing in your life seems to be turning out right, remember that Arthur Miller was depressed... while he was fucking Marilyn Monroe.

You'll be fine.

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