There was always a lot of chaos on the set of Daily Liberal Tongue Lashings with Dallas Ryan. To pull off a highly rated show such as DLTL with Dallas Ryan there had to be. But today was a disturbed wasps nest. Tense and imminent explosion was an understatement.
Dallas Ryan was rampaging.
“God damn it, people,” Dallas frothed, coming down from behind his desk. “What the fuck we runnin’ here? A tea party hosted by a bunch o‘ them queens from the District 8?” Jesus H on a popsicle stick!”
DLTL with Dallas Ryan was the highest rated show on the Fox News Network, not this year, but of all time. The network, took a different approach. In 1990’s it was ’fair and balanced’ but found the people were smarter than that, that the station was making their audience out to be a bunch of gun totin', abortion abolishing, gay bashing, redneck imbeciles. And mostly they were right, but they were only attracting this target audience. Not the moderates, independents nor the undecided. Now, they were trying to be up front with their target audience, giving them what they already knew what they were getting. That was utter and complete hatred of liberals. Why not call it what it was. If it walks like a conservative and it talks like a conservative then, well…must be a liberal hating conservative.
Ratings went through the roof.
The biggest reason was Dallas Ryan. By the third season he was executive producing the show and calling all the shots. He made all final decisions on content, guests, set design and what flavor of little smokies were catered in.
He worked his ass off to make the show what it was, and he expected nothing less from his staff. He demanded a lot from his people, and wouldn’t allow anything but perfection. His staff feared him, from directors to reporters and camera men and boom operators. He’d once fired a cue card holder for misspelling ‘fascist’.
The man had clout, on the set and off.
Today, he held everyone’s attention, screaming all the way to his dressing room. No one knew what he was so angry about, maybe someone had eaten the last onion flavored bagel. Maybe Dallas had found out his wife, Jenny, Washington D.C.’s most recognizable socialite, was having an affair with her tennis instructor. Very cliché, but the truth none the less.
Whatever the reason for his diatribe, his crew was staying out of his way as his large body moved off set, down the hall, cussing and yipping like a puppy that had fallen from the back of a Chevy pick-up truck.
Toby Morrison waited backstage in Dallas' dressing room.
Toby was his faithful assistant, a young man of thirty-two, clean cut hair parted to the left, and a Princeton graduate, with the distinction of being numero uno in his class. He was never without his Blackberry, some sort of line of communication open at all times, whether sending off an e-mail or text or checking the latest poll number and DLTL with Dallas Ryan ratings. When he wasn't doing that, he was talking into the receiver.
Toby was at Dallas’ beck and call, twenty-four-seven. Although, times like these, he was less than fond of his job.
“Dallas, it wasn’t that bad,” Toby said.
“Fuck it wasn’t,” Dallas screamed, reaching for a twenty year old bottle of Glenfiddich. “These amateurs we got workin’ for us don’t know their dicks from a mole hole. Plus…plus, who booked that crazy fucker?"
Toby didn’t say anything, but he knew who booked Dr. Stephan Van Gunter. He was booked on his recommendation and was now regretting it almost painfully.
“Did you see that fucker? Sat there telling the world that the end of the world is coming. Changed the god damn'd story. Changed the goddamn’d direction of the show. We were ‘spose to be discussing terrorism. Not fuckin’ martians!”
Dallas was well liked if he was on your side, if you needed his backing on a bill on 'The Hill' or if a particular Senator was running for President and needed a push from Dallas, but mostly he was disliked by most others that weren’t in the room with him. Toby usually understood this, but couldn‘t help himself when he spoke up. “Actually, Dallas, Dr. Van Gunter believes it’ll be zombies that destroys…”
Dallas glared. A menacing force when he was angry, and glaring. The Texan stood somewhere near six and half feet, had a belly the size of a monster truck tire, that was partially hidden during his show, speeches, engagements and at any time that he was out in public, by a man-girdle. He forever wore a Stetson on his head, that was his trademark, a cartoonish version used in all promotional ads, billboards and the opening segue of DLTL with Dallas Ryan. Toby knew to keep his mouth shut at times like this, but sometimes his mouth wasn’t connected to his brains.
“The guy is a fuckin’ menace to everything this country stands for,” Dallas said, gulping at his scotch.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
For $7 and a pack of smokes, a final farewell.
Is this the day you’re going to think me? Huh, baby, is it? I think so, and I’m so sorry!
I left the house that evening, to get a pack of smokes, but not for reasons that most men leave the house for cigarettes. Not to get away from the kid, or yourself, baby, but because I had a serious case of addiction and I wasn’t going to get my fix by sitting around listening to you bitch at me for not getting off my ass and finding a job.
I’m sorry baby.
That’s a lie. Lying to cover my own insecurities. I did leave the house for the stereotypical reasons. You, the family life, my responsibilities. That was the reason I left. I felt trapped, suffocated. I was feeling jammed up inside by my own self pity, and moving away from the people that loved me most.
So I walked.
The night was cool, late fall but winter hadn’t set in yet. The moon was bouncing off the fog, lighting my way, moving me. Down the wrong road, but moving me none the less.
You need to believe me when I say, I wanted to come back. I did. This wasn’t my intention in the least bit. I wanted to make my way back. I just needed a break.
And maybe I should have given them the $7 dollars in my pocket and the box of Camels but I quickly tired of those fuckers, thinking the world owed them everything and nothing had to be given back in return. If it hadn’t been for my pride, my selfishness or my arrogant ways, I would have done just that. Given them everything I had, but I was just being me, once again, fighting for all the wrong reasons.
It’s funny though. At the time that those two punk were overpowering me, all I could think of was you, baby. The way you softly stroked my fingers while we watched television, or the way you ran your fingers through my hair while we lie in bed, getting sleepier until finally, slowly, your fingers stopped, your hand resting on my scalp. As they kicked me in the ribs, busting me up good, the only thing racing through my mind was your smile, the way you absorbed me as if I was fuel for your soul.
God, I love you baby!
If only I could change things. A lot of things. The moment I walked out to get my senses, my decision to act strong while I they were violently tearing at me, as the knife was plunging deep. If I had instead taken the more difficult route, the bumpier road, if only I would have stayed, resting in your arms that night. If only I had chosen the right moment to be strong, things would have been very different.
Were those savages better than me though? Were they doing less damage than I had done, or were they surviving the best they knew how, or maybe showing me how I was so misguided in the directions that I had taken? Was it a lesson they were giving me and not brutality at all? Were they just showing me the wrong I had done to you?
I don’t know, baby. I’m having a hard time thinking about it, drawing a picture of how it could have been, but believe me when I say, that I would change everything if I could, turn back time. I would give up every possession of mine, fended off my horrible demons to be next to you once again. I would run back to you, baby, instead of walking toward my addictions and downfalls. If only I had that second chance that we always talked about.
If only I had thought of you the way I know you will think of me.
I left the house that evening, to get a pack of smokes, but not for reasons that most men leave the house for cigarettes. Not to get away from the kid, or yourself, baby, but because I had a serious case of addiction and I wasn’t going to get my fix by sitting around listening to you bitch at me for not getting off my ass and finding a job.
I’m sorry baby.
That’s a lie. Lying to cover my own insecurities. I did leave the house for the stereotypical reasons. You, the family life, my responsibilities. That was the reason I left. I felt trapped, suffocated. I was feeling jammed up inside by my own self pity, and moving away from the people that loved me most.
So I walked.
The night was cool, late fall but winter hadn’t set in yet. The moon was bouncing off the fog, lighting my way, moving me. Down the wrong road, but moving me none the less.
You need to believe me when I say, I wanted to come back. I did. This wasn’t my intention in the least bit. I wanted to make my way back. I just needed a break.
And maybe I should have given them the $7 dollars in my pocket and the box of Camels but I quickly tired of those fuckers, thinking the world owed them everything and nothing had to be given back in return. If it hadn’t been for my pride, my selfishness or my arrogant ways, I would have done just that. Given them everything I had, but I was just being me, once again, fighting for all the wrong reasons.
It’s funny though. At the time that those two punk were overpowering me, all I could think of was you, baby. The way you softly stroked my fingers while we watched television, or the way you ran your fingers through my hair while we lie in bed, getting sleepier until finally, slowly, your fingers stopped, your hand resting on my scalp. As they kicked me in the ribs, busting me up good, the only thing racing through my mind was your smile, the way you absorbed me as if I was fuel for your soul.
God, I love you baby!
If only I could change things. A lot of things. The moment I walked out to get my senses, my decision to act strong while I they were violently tearing at me, as the knife was plunging deep. If I had instead taken the more difficult route, the bumpier road, if only I would have stayed, resting in your arms that night. If only I had chosen the right moment to be strong, things would have been very different.
Were those savages better than me though? Were they doing less damage than I had done, or were they surviving the best they knew how, or maybe showing me how I was so misguided in the directions that I had taken? Was it a lesson they were giving me and not brutality at all? Were they just showing me the wrong I had done to you?
I don’t know, baby. I’m having a hard time thinking about it, drawing a picture of how it could have been, but believe me when I say, that I would change everything if I could, turn back time. I would give up every possession of mine, fended off my horrible demons to be next to you once again. I would run back to you, baby, instead of walking toward my addictions and downfalls. If only I had that second chance that we always talked about.
If only I had thought of you the way I know you will think of me.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Kenny Pt. 1
Kenny had been to the 'pen' one time and he sure as hell didn't want to go back. The day he'd walked out of Walla Walla, a free man, all of twenty-one years old, he knew that he was a changed man. Some thirteen years later, that way of thinking was about to change.
As a kid Kenny had committed dozens criminal acts, mostly kid stuff, and mostley misdemeanors, and he’d only got caught once.
This he chalked up to stupidity. He was only seventeen. He and his buddy, Dwayne went into 7-Eleven for some smokes, and while inside the store, Kenny got thirsty for a case of Bud Light. With only a five dollar bill in his pocket, and not being old enough to actually purchase a case of beer, Kenny grabbed the beer from the cooler, and casually walked out the front door. The young lady working behind the counter screamed for him to stop, but instead of stopping, Kenny just turned, flicked open his Zippo lighter, lit a cigarette and flashed the most evil, psychotic smile he could muster. Kenny and Dwayne, both laughing, walked directly to the car. Kenny tossed the beer in the back seat and began to hop in the drivers seat when the clerk came running out of the store.
“Stop!“ the lady clerk said from just outside the convenience store door, once again, her voice tinted the color of fear. She was probably somewhere in her thirty, twenty pounds over weight. Her face was puffy from too much booze over a short life.
Kenny stopped, slowly shut the door to the car, noticing for the first time that the clerk was holding a gun.
Dwayne, stuttering, said, "Kenny let's get the hell out of here."
“I called the cops,“ she said, her hands, the gun, shaking fiercely.
“Is that right?” Kenny said, calm considering the store clerk was pointing a large hand cannon at him. “Why did you go and do that?”
The question seemed to confuse the woman.
“I mean, we just wanted some beer and smokes,” Kenny said, inching closer and closer toward the clerk. “Is that such a crime?"
“Stop, please,” the clerk weakly pled.
“Haven’t you and some friends ever been thirsty on a Thursday night? I’d bet your life that you have.”
Kenny had got within ten feet of the scared 7-Eleven clerk when a sudden explosion and the most intense pain that he'd ever experienced shot through his body. He fell to the ground, his left leg a bloody mess. A puddle of blood grew larger and darker underneath his faded jeans.
To this day, Kenny still can't figure out why his only thought at the time was what a lucky son of a bitch he was to be alive. Especially considering how scared the convenience store clerk was when she shot him. Had she been steadier and whole lot less scared, she probably would have got a larger piece of him than just his leg. The paramedics might have been hosing up chunks of his half blown head off of the parking lot concrete.
“The fuck you shoot me for?” Kenny screamed at the clerk, but she didn’t say anything, shock setting in.
Not only was the first and last time Kenny had been caught committing a crime, but it was the only time he’d been shot.
Kenny had intended it to keep it that way on both counts.
Yet, here he was, in the midst of a completely idiotic, and most likely, impossible crime.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Constructive Critism Needed, Check Your Badger at the Door
The reason for this blog is to write in a fictional manner, only writing what the voices in my head are telling me to, only using 'real' in the manner of surroundings, weather patterns and dilapidated memories.
I have been writing for many years. In notebooks, bar napkins, several word processors and even an old electric typewriter that had a short in it that made me afraid to use the 'e' key. I had to use the '@' button in place of said vowel and as you might think, it was @xtr@m@ly irritating.
Those days are behind me, but I continue writing.
I'm a whole lot older now, and may or may not have grown as a writer, and I certainly won't label myself as an author just yet, but one day that is the goal.
I read continuously and voraciously. Newspapers,biographies, RollingStone magazines, self-help books, blogs and shampoo labels while taking care of 'business' if I've forgotten to bring a more intriguing masterpiece. For the most part, I read fiction. I've gone through many genres of fiction; the Beat Generation, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Bukowskit, Kurt Vonnegut, and the Harry Potter series! Michael Crichton, Stephan King, Raymond Chandler, John Grisham and Shel Silverstein.
I love a humorous read with even quirkier characters. Tim Dorsey, Carl Hiaasen and a Pacific Northwest bred Pat McManus come to mind. Tim Sandlin, Christopher Moore, Douglas Adams and Harry Crews and....well, the list goes on.
The point of this post is to inform you what I'm doing with my newest blog though, which is, more than anything, trying not to scare you off. I want to spew, make-up, create and delve into a world that isn't based on fact. I have my other writings, over on that other network, scuzzymoney.blogspot.com, where I like to go off on, verbally assault and throw monkey feces at politicians, actors, ex-girlfriends and American Idol finalists, but this blog, launderedscuzzymoney.blogspot.com isn't that.
It's fiction, and depending on my mood, what is consuming my thoughts at the time, the characters, the plot...they will change from post to post. Whether it's in first, second or third person, or if I have a fleeting idea that I think can be so much bigger, then I might throw it out there.
Most will be short stories created at that particular time, but some might be taken from older writings of mine, in hopes that I can tweak 'em, re-write 'em, and possible TNT 'em. Who knows.
In doing this though, you need to understand that I'm exposing myself, at my weakest and showing you my naughty parts, if you will. So, that being said, this is where I need your help. Give me feedback, people. Good, bad or just plain ugly...I would love to hear about. Don't be polite. If you hate it, tell me. If it's decent, tell me. If you simply hate me and want to see me die a painful death by rabid badger, let me know. I can take it. But most of all, if you could possibly spare something constructive to help in my pursuit of what I really love, please, please and please, let me hear about it.
This will be the last post where I'm not making shit up, so at this time I must go, the voices are calling and won't leave me alone, but in conclusion, I hope ya likey!
I have been writing for many years. In notebooks, bar napkins, several word processors and even an old electric typewriter that had a short in it that made me afraid to use the 'e' key. I had to use the '@' button in place of said vowel and as you might think, it was @xtr@m@ly irritating.
Those days are behind me, but I continue writing.
I'm a whole lot older now, and may or may not have grown as a writer, and I certainly won't label myself as an author just yet, but one day that is the goal.
I read continuously and voraciously. Newspapers,biographies, RollingStone magazines, self-help books, blogs and shampoo labels while taking care of 'business' if I've forgotten to bring a more intriguing masterpiece. For the most part, I read fiction. I've gone through many genres of fiction; the Beat Generation, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Bukowskit, Kurt Vonnegut, and the Harry Potter series! Michael Crichton, Stephan King, Raymond Chandler, John Grisham and Shel Silverstein.
I love a humorous read with even quirkier characters. Tim Dorsey, Carl Hiaasen and a Pacific Northwest bred Pat McManus come to mind. Tim Sandlin, Christopher Moore, Douglas Adams and Harry Crews and....well, the list goes on.
The point of this post is to inform you what I'm doing with my newest blog though, which is, more than anything, trying not to scare you off. I want to spew, make-up, create and delve into a world that isn't based on fact. I have my other writings, over on that other network, scuzzymoney.blogspot.com, where I like to go off on, verbally assault and throw monkey feces at politicians, actors, ex-girlfriends and American Idol finalists, but this blog, launderedscuzzymoney.blogspot.com isn't that.
It's fiction, and depending on my mood, what is consuming my thoughts at the time, the characters, the plot...they will change from post to post. Whether it's in first, second or third person, or if I have a fleeting idea that I think can be so much bigger, then I might throw it out there.
Most will be short stories created at that particular time, but some might be taken from older writings of mine, in hopes that I can tweak 'em, re-write 'em, and possible TNT 'em. Who knows.
In doing this though, you need to understand that I'm exposing myself, at my weakest and showing you my naughty parts, if you will. So, that being said, this is where I need your help. Give me feedback, people. Good, bad or just plain ugly...I would love to hear about. Don't be polite. If you hate it, tell me. If it's decent, tell me. If you simply hate me and want to see me die a painful death by rabid badger, let me know. I can take it. But most of all, if you could possibly spare something constructive to help in my pursuit of what I really love, please, please and please, let me hear about it.
This will be the last post where I'm not making shit up, so at this time I must go, the voices are calling and won't leave me alone, but in conclusion, I hope ya likey!
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