Book Review & a REALLY Short story...

I never figured myself prolifically educated enough to even bother with reviewing a book; what with all the snotty academia & smarmy elitist assholes out there that could verbiage me into the stratosphere... what possible slur of 'hunt-n-peck' tapping on a keyboard could make a passable impression on a reader to want to re-read something that made an impression on my baked head cheese?

Yet here I sit to make a such a boastful impression none the less. Given the title of the book I'm about to reveal, if the title the blog weren't indicator enough, I can only hope that 'some' leeway will be shown.

That's not to say I'm cowering away from my prior education or social conditioning. I just don't live in a fucked up delusional state as a lot of other people out there do. Cowards that don't comment out of fear of written retribution, snotty assholes who feel they are beneath commenting for one entitled belief above or below my particular beliefs or actually chicken shit to think someone out in the real world would actually recognize them as having read my blog or the book I'm about to blurt out.

My folks went through their entire existence pitching a fevered bitch about my behavior and what ramifications 'my' actions would have on "their" living standards. And for what? My uncle was a hell raiser and a half when he was a kid. From the way he told the stories, he caused them a shit coffin full of pain, yet I don't ever remember hearing shit of his escapades from my grandparents, at all.

My folks would have you believe I was the biggest dope dealing, gigolo, pimp who peddled dope & hookers out of the house while my mom had the ladies over for tea and bible study with the padre, while I simultaneously maintained a preschool prostitution ring from a vacant trailer next door.

Anyway, the book was Tucker Max's “Assholes Finish First”. (((Edit  I was a dick and accidently wrote the title wrong and wrote "LAST" instead of "FIRST here. Tucker could sue me, but I don't have any money so, fuck off))))) The sophomore (which a few readers will say a title supporting a subtext) book of his New York best seller “I Hope They Sell Beer in Hell”.

So here is where I am going to be different in reviewing this book than any other asshole mumbling over his hard work.

One, He'll probably never read this review. Who the fuck am I, right?

After reading the dick-capades of this guy, visiting the blog of a borderline conspiracy fanatic that lives in virtual anonymity is begging to be a stalker of the n'th degree right? The man wrote about it in his book for shit's sake. The difference is, like him, I'm educated, & I don't give a shit.

Oh, I'll drop him a line & tell him I wrote him a belated review that doesn't amount to a hill of shit, but at least I took the time and that indeed a group of individuals out there in their mid 40s and older do like the idea of looking back and reminiscing of their idiot age.

Which IS the alluring quality of this book.

Two, I didn't read his first book.

So many times a second effort gets mired or trashed because a first effort gets pulled from a stone and held to a standard that no one can live up to.  They expect the next effort to another epiphany. Gyotdamnit, it just doesn't work that way. What the fuck are you going to do when you see your god? Ask his/her ass to top it? Assholes...

Quick third step, for those of you new to my blog, yeah, I use profanity...

Besides, I didn't see the book as a continuation (necessarily), but as a growth step. In keeping with 'my' particular blog motif I feel he was being shape charged into keeping the butt fucking money machines at bay by writing another book & a possible movie sequel so the 'money-for-nothings' have their little hope hardons at half mast at least for a little while. All I can say there is, “Be careful Tucker. You're a smart kid, but don't let that pecker of yours get to far out front.”

In this book Tucker tells of a few stories of post riches and 'their' trials and tribulations, which are a nice change from the hidden truths of the assholes that want to keep the mystery. Like there is a "unicorn existence" to living with money and not just anybody can do it. Not that Tucker is doing it, but I can live in a three bedroom house with 8 million dollars in the bank, drive a six year old truck, drink beer, say fuck like it were good on a salad and still rub shoulders with individuals that make more money in one night than I theoretically have in my account, (and here's the kicker) and these fucks wouldn't even know it.

Here's the surprise... I barely have $100 in my account, drive a 20 year old car and I HAVE stood in a room full of the very same executives shooting the shit with no more a clue of who or what I did than a man in the moon. Therefore I cry bullshit & thus this blog exists.  Yeah, I know, all 100+ readers, fuck off.  Rome wasn't built in a day either.  Ask Tucker, he wrote about that too.

Tucker had put into several words and seminal fluid pretty much what I babble about here. I just didn't pound down that much alcohol and frankly, though I will proclaim myself to be the “dick of death”, my conquests aren't anything encroaching the Gene Simmons numbers he's implying, nor would my persona really want too. It's not a jibe Tucker, it's just a 'me' thing.

I suppose if I had to pick a fight with Tucker it would have to be with his attitude toward enticing aggression from others. Several times in his book he speaks of shenanigans where he & his group pull some rather, well, I would call them hateful pranks on people. At first I even think they're funny, but knowing myself and the maladjusted mess I still am...   I just know his chapters wouldn't have come to the same conclusions had I intercepted.

Quote all the Greek philosophers you want & get Freudian with all eight 'isms' you want and jump back into your academia training pants it still doesn't change the fact, pushing people to a point of violent behavior – having them right at that verge of acting upon it, only to walk away – doesn't make you a victor. I don't care what verbiage you surround it with.

Is what I'm about to write predictable? Yup... Is it arguable... Nope... Russell's Rules... Sure, there's laws that say, “no, no, Mr. Russell. You can't...” But what stops Tucker from behaving like an asshole? Food for thought.

I know it's not going to change the world, but Tucker got to boff a lot of women and write about it.  It's not a whine, he had to work at both items despite the candor reflected in his book.  It was the road he traveled, he chose it, some will will say wisely.

The following few paragraphs bellow the dividers I've written will be considered ONE of the many chapters of Russell's, “I'll be Drinking Your Beer in Hell”...

I don't expect any of you to believe the story, so you may fuck off at any time during your readership, but remember this... facts is stranger than fiction.

So to close the review, the book was very entertaining.  I did laugh, I did concur on several of Tucker's insights.  I too share several ideas and ideals, but unlike his interludes with passive aggressive individuals...  well, you too might want to read my insert.

Give his book"s" a chance.  Then maybe you'll give my book a chance.  If you'll believe his bullshit, then you'll be able to stomach mine.  Although where his life does seem to follow a pattern and lineage, mine has no rhyme or reason whatsoever...

____________________________________________________________________

I'd finished having sex with my long time girl friend of the last couple of years and wasn't in the mood to just render the stereotypical pull out, roll over and  “I got mine... SNORE". Besides, I had a long nap earlier & the silly bitch drank most of the bar closed before we got home.

Being a 'fly-weight' and chemically imbalanced anyway, I don't drink all that much which always leaves me being the candidate for designated 'dumbass' and band leader for the Pissed Parade. Most of the time I don't bitch due to the fact I make it a habit to start collecting keys mid-way through the drinking process.  This consists of snagging keys and wallets naturally; however, my procedure includes showing me the proper keys and then having the owner of said keys producing some cash for my gas which I conveniently never seem to have enough of. At the time I drove a 1974 Monte Carlo with 410 horse power & a 350 transmission with a B&M shift kit in it; a tank to say the least.  You didn't want to be in a hurry and trying to drink coffee at the same time either, but then gas was only $1 a gallon then too.

Dragging this story out as well as my girls ass along, it was amazing how disproportionately the "open to closed" her mouth got in relation to her legs when introduced to alcohol. It was like the sequence in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" when Indie was trying to figure out the sand to gold ratio for the switch to take place with the idol...  That was me most of the time, pretty much to just get her ass to shut-up.  I wasn't even looking to get laid!  Yeah ladies, go fucking figure...

To some (most?) guys this is tolerable. I considered it to be a pain in the ass. I mean, sure if I'm adventurous that evening, she'd be compliant, but not if it's just for a romantic evening (yes, there are a few guys out there) or god forbid we were arguing (which was more often than not). So instead I get a few ancillary gruntage slamming moments, she squeals in delight and passes out before I get off the bed. Fucking Kodak after glow moment...

So I retire into the living area. There's a deck of sorts off the living room separated by a sliding glass door. Not really knowing just how much noise these cheap assed apartments make in this college town, I use my stealth skills to slide the door slowly and quietly open. How's that done? Their cheap, which means their also lighter than most double paned doors found in expensive permanent homes, so lifting the jamb on the door's left & right hand side, while using the rollers at the top of the door as a guide, will keep the door from rolling on the floor... possibly alerting the folks downstairs that you opened the back door onto your porch.

Being the last few days of the month of spring classes the weather hadn't turned to complete humid shit, so cool weather was a welcome feature to walk into. I rested my elbows against this half assed 2x4, red wood stained apparatus that was supposed to serve as a railing and looked over to see my car below. The sulphide gas charged lamp buzzed annoyingly from the opposite side of the parking lot casting a yellow haze onto everything.  I allowed the jaundiced light to pierce into my brain as I continued to reflect on the last few hours which then turned into previous months of my life.  I had to shake my head in amazement as to what the hell it is I wanted in life and whether I'm doing it right. Not to mention if this shit was too heavy for someone who was only 23/24 years of age at the time anyway...

My attention was drawn to a couple who seemed happy with each others attention walking under the lamp. 

My concealment consists of of the deck being eight and a half feet to the ground, the parking lot is another 3 feet further.  The parking lot is 30 feet in length till you hit a 4 foot strip of 'lawn' that has a sidewalk through it, then another four foot of earthen strip which then empties into five lanes of traffic. All of which runs parallel to the back of my apartment.  Just outside to the left of my parking lot is a simple two lane street that empties into the aforementioned traffic area or backtracks into another neighborhood. To the right of the parking lot is a privacy fence that runs about fifteen feet covering the back of a single story brick apartment building. I didn't see the couple until they emerged from behind the fence, which leaves them exposed for approximately 20/25 feet prior to intersecting the parallel two way I spoke of.  This leaves them exposed for another 75/80 feet further down the street till another apartment complex blocks the view.

Given the buzzing of the damned light and the intermittent traffic I couldn't hear anything the couple were saying, so I kept my silence and remained still so as to not disturb the love birds. All the lights in my apartment were turned out for the evening including the terrace/deck, so why bug them. I mean a shadowy figure moving around in your peripheral vision is startling.  I'm an asshole, not a voyeur cock blocker looking for cheap thrills.

However, upon closer scrutiny, what I thought “looked” like a tender embrace by the couple was actually the female holding a cloth on the male's head in an attempt to stop his bleeding from an apparent head wound. I didn't know this immediately as they had traversed several feet across my field of vision before I witnessed six drunk black males chastising the couple, who had now cleared the fence some several feet behind.

I knew they were being called names, but I didn't get involved... yet. I knew they were drunk... I saw the beer bottles. I'm not aware of any reason 'why' these individuals would be berating this couple.  Did one of the couple make a racial epitaph? Did/do I care? The group made it to the two lane street and the six males had now surrounded the couple.  The six individuals had then made their intentions made and as of yet, no one had made a move to help them.  One of the individuals (I'll call him #1) double armed shoved the female heavily to the ground, the male of the couple had now been hit with a beer bottle and knock unconscious...  

"All that is necessary for evil to triumph is that good men do nothing"... Edmund Burke

Vaulting the railing, I landed on a neighbor's car hood.  I combat rolled into the parking lot and within three strides I have landed both feet into #1's back. Had it not been for adrenaline & anger I would have laughed at the sound of this asshole hitting the ground. Think of a large hunting dog getting the wind knocked out it and then large wet knuckles popping under meat. This, pictured with a crazy white goon standing over two fallen individuals. One of them is your buddy.  This white boy has a mean ass stare that can cut 1/4 inch steel plate and a Cheshire grin aimed right at you, "Come on asshole...  Let's dance."

Asshole baby, I've named Beer Bottle, decided he wanted to stick with his weapon of choice.  Apparently, his training that evening had served him well, so swing like an idiot he did. Wild as malaria he swung at me and I simply allowed him.  With a simple swing at me, I leaned back four inches, allowing his arm to pass by unmolested and then pushing his elbow with additional force in the same direction, avoiding the bottle but continuing his swinging momentum. What he thought was a controlled swing was now an uncontrolled wild pendulum clocking the shit out of homey #3, who thought he was going to come in & get some ethnic buck-up digs on the 'would be' downed whitey.

Beer Bottle, dumb founded by what just happened, stood for only a moment trying to ascertain WTF, giving me more than enough time to iron strike him to the base of his skull. Didn't do my knuckles the slightest bit of good, but it took his ass out of the line up for the rest of the night. Is it possible I could have killed him? Yup. Now ask me I give/gave a shit. I don't even care if he has brain damage to this day either. I still have no idea what the condition of 'his' victim is after all these years, so this fuck-ups well being is by-far 'black hole' less than paramount. So no, I have no sympathy for him or what I'm about to describe to the three remaining assholes.

Two minutes in, six have turned into 3. Two may have brain damage and one has at the very least shit his pants. #4 has stepped up to test his moxie and seen fit to grab my right shoulder and arm, just above the elbow. He's the closest to me since Beer Bottle and #3, as they were on my left. This is a bad move on #4's part, he should have made his move right before Beer Bottle made for his patented home run swing. Reason being is that he may have had the chance to hold on longer, thus prolonging his idea of having actual control over the situation me (sorry, none of them had control over the situation).  Although, it is a proud moment.  He's the only one that actually 'laid a hand' on me.  Sadly, it was my plan.

#5 & #6 are still standing with a bit of amazement that 'honky' is inflicting all this damage but are starting to come around and thinking about joining the fray. With both hands occupied, I look #3 in the eyes and bellow, “DO SOMETHING MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

They train you in the military to NOT do one thing above all... DON'T hesitate. #3 did the VERY thing I wasn't willing to do. He predictably gave me that patented dumb assed look of “what” on his face.  I only had to pull my arm partially free, about 6 inches was all I needed... and then promptly planted 'that' elbow firmly and most deeply into his face. Aiming primarily for his nose. Blood literally shooting everywhere.

#5 & #6 stopped dead in their tracks as #4 grabbed his face in a muffled kind of 'yelp' or 'yarp' and then literally dropped onto his ass. Fear was now their mantra.  Fight surprisingly gone even though numbers still being on their side. Drink and stupidity were certainly still there and I'm certainly not one to deny them that. Pure positioning was no longer on my side as these two were now on my weaker fighting side and the typical “have your enemies surround you” technique was no longer an option. Plus these were the cowards of the bunch.  Not to mention, I'm standing in a virtual sea of bodies here.

The last of the bunch are always going to use sneak tactics and use flight techniques to gain any advantage they can to get the upper hand. These are the guys I like to toy with before hurting the most. Naturally chides of motherfucker this and motherfucker that pierce the darkness like mosquitoes on an un-inoculated newborn, not to mention these two fucks weren't just going to leave their busted up retarded friends so they HAD to go down as heros or full on ass-up elephant sodomized bitches.  It was going to be one or the other.

Sweating like a Taliban undergoing water-boarding, I was going to have to move fast.  Being drenched like I was, was my only 'bullet proofing' if any kind of weapon came out of hiding so I had to act soon. Cooling off meant drying out and that was going on while these guys played Cracker Jack, Captain Crunch, cock sucker, Mo Fo run and it might get me put in a box too. Not to mention the fact that this guy on the ground needed a doctor.

Watching Slick & Snide, I took up my stance and glided backward toward the fallen female who was finally catching her breath, still shaken and in shock. “Are you hurt?”

Female: Nnn No..

Slick or Snide (just cause I don't give a fuck): Motherfucker you gonna be da one huttin...

Me: Get up. Cross the street. One block over. You know the police station over there?

I'm helping her to her feet and guiding her the direction I want her to go, all the while never taking my stance or eye off frick and frack.  And yeah, can you believe that shit?  A fucking police station within a block of where this shit is going down.

Female: Yes...

Slick and Snide: We be gone fo dey get here mu fucka

Me: Tell them to immediately call an ambulance and the morgue. Your boyfriend is hurt and there are six dead men over here...

I shoved her in the direction of the police station. Two steps I was between Frick & Frack. I know I promised Mr. Lee to not use what he taught me for evil or for misuse, but what are you going to do. I wasn't going to kill them. I'm not superman nor do I want to be, but I'll be damned if I'll put up with somebody being mistreated. In less than 5 minutes I dispensed justice that months of judicial bullshit would only roll off their backs as so much water off a duck. Then only to have it culturally dismissed as whitey's bullshit and lofted onto possibly another innocent. Horseshit! 

Maybe there's another crazy white boy out there like me. Or maybe, just maybe, we're all that way.  And luckily, there is a statute of limitations on felonious assault.