chad robuckle

My Summer Vacation by Chad Robuckle

pig silo

As Carlton swung his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the house, I really thought this was going to be the best summer ever.

I could barely contain my glee as I wished him luck and reminded him not to pull out his money until he saw the actual bag of weed. I was sure I was going to crack up and start laughing, but luckily, he was too nervous to notice.

I gave him a few minutes and then took the other walkie talkie out of my own bag and put it to my mouth.

“Officer Jenkins, Officer Jenkins, come in. Can you hear me, Officer Jenkins? Any movement over on 183 Cherry Street?” I asked, in my best policeman-sounding voice. I thought I could almost detect the sound of my own voice coming through the walkie talkie he hadn’t seen me sneak into his bag, echoing out the window of the small house. Those suckers were loud!

Then, all hell broke loose. I heard lots of yelling. Then some gunfire. Then more yelling.

What happened after that, I’m not sure, because I got the hell out of there! And fast!

You’ve never felt pain like the pain you get from running 3 miles through the woods while trying to hold in your hysterical laughter. Not to mention your sides! Seriously, that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!

Stop number one: the quarry. This is what I tell people over and over; it pays not to use your own stuff. Go out, spend ten bucks on a new bag. Then when some hunter finds it in the woods, nobody sees it on TV and goes, “Hey, that’s Chad Robuckle’s backpack!”

The bag, the walkie talkie, the three hundred dollars in counterfeit bills, all of it went in the drink.

Then I made a quick stop, changed into my baseball clothes and it was off to the park for my perfect alibi.

The only problem is, as I got there, the parents were hustling their kids away, because there was a standoff and now the town was on lockdown.

Great!

Lucky for me, my parents don’t give a damn and didn’t answer the phone when the police alert robo-called them.

I strolled home, thinking I was actually going to pull this off, but apparently I didn’t account for the fact that Carlton is a little pussy who sings like a bird.

I stopped quick and darted behind a bush when I saw the black and white in front of my house.

With my phony cash gone, a trip to TJ was out of the question. I dug down deep in my rucksack of acting tools, just like Mr. Johnnsen had told us to do. That’s not a real rucksack, it’s some fruity, imaginary actor thing or something.

I strolled onto the scene, the picture of confused innocence.

“What’s going on, Mom and Dad? They told us we had to go home and our baseball game was cancelled?”

My dad’s face lit up with anger. I guess he wasn’t buying it. I only found out later that he had been in a hot tub with “Aunt Carol” when he got the news that the cops were out in front of the house. Since he usually keeps a few keys of coke in the house, the last thing he wants is the fuzz snooping around, so he had to cut his little party short and head home.

I guess the big “standoff” wasn’t so much a “standoff” as it was “Carlton getting shot in the ass by some teenage drug dealer-wannabes with their dad’s gun before everybody started crying and pissing their pants from fear.”

Of course, once crybaby Carlton and his newly-dissected sphincter mentioned my name, the cops put two and two together and high-tailed it over to Robuckle Manor.

And here I am. It’s barely the middle of June and I’m stuck in B.F.E. with my fucking grandmother on her stupid farm, looking at ten weeks of no internet, no cable, not even any goddam air conditioning!

But, on the plus side, there is a silo full of pig manure and what appears to be Abraham Lincoln’s boyhood radio. Great.

So I paid one of the migrants to write this out for me as I dictated, so don’t blame me if it’s rife with spelling and grammatical errors. Then I mailed it off to Ol’ Hollywood (un)Phunny so he could put it up on his blog and then six people could read it.

So that’s it. My summer is over. Why does this shit always happen to me?

Wait a minute. Shit… pig shit… That’s explosive, right? At the least, it’s gotta be flammable, no? Hmm… Maybe I should send ol’ Carlton a “care” package.

Hooray! A father’s day re-post!

Chad Robuckle’s Dad

Recently, I was reminded of a story Chad Robuckle told me, the summer after we graduated from high school. I remember he took me out in this field and lit a fire and began to dance around it while dousing himself with whiskey. This probably wasn’t the brightest idea but as luck would have it, he never caught fire.

After doing this for about fifteen minutes, all the while chanting what I’m sure he thought was a good imitation of an authentic indian rain dance, he passed out on the ground in front of the fire, completely out of breath. I debated leaving him there but as I was sneaking off to the car, he woke up and called me back.

“Akumbo, my brother,” he said, (I’m assuming “Akumbo” was my sacred Indian name), “Akumbo, now that my soul has been cleansed, I am ready to share my deepest, most darkest secret with you.”

“Oh great, I’m going to get raped by this psychopath out in the middle of nowhere, far away from anyone who could possibly help me!” I thought to myself.

“Oh yeah?” I said.

“Akumbo,” he continued, “Let me tell you why you’ve never met my father…”

Oh god, this was gonna take a while. I pulled up a tree stump and took a swig from the remains of the whiskey bottle.

Chad started his story back in the early 80’s, I’ll leave out the parts about his alleged “abuse”. It sounds like he had things pretty easy, I don’t know, I was kinda zoning out. Anyway, the good part started when his father took Chad for a Sunday drive in his Ferrari.

His dad proceeded to tell him that their sizable fortune had been built on lies. Mr. Robuckle revealed that he wasn’t really a doctor, but had merely been posing as one in order to peddle fake flu shots to schools, hospitals and old folks homes. He would run lucrative “clinics” where he would come out and “innoculate” everyone and charge big bucks to do it.

His dad was fuzzy on what was in those syringes but needless to say, it wasn’t flu vaccine. I guess a couple people got sick, but nothing too bad. Anyway, the point was, he had been found out and was now under investigation for all sorts of things. I guess Chad started to cry as his father described all the horrible things that happen to handsome white men in prison but he reassured him that he would not suffer that fate.

“No Chad, your father’s not going to prison, he’s worked all of that out.” He said, cryptically.

Then they pulled up on the side walk in front of a bank. Without a word, Mr. Robuckle got out of the car, took a machine gun from the tiny trunk and begin firing at random, killing ten or eleven people, on the spot. Chad watched in horror as his father dropped the gun, then climbed into a different car in the parking lot and calmly drove off, never to be seen again.

You see, Chad’s father had figured, rather than go to prison for ten years and get paroled on good behavior after six, he would instead commit mass murder and then flea to Canada, knowing that since he would face the death penalty at home, Canada would not allow him to be extradited back to the United States.

“So your father killed 11 people rather than go to jail for a few years?” I asked in disbelief.

“Ummm, I think it was like 14, a couple people died from their wounds, later.” He replied.

His father had made it to Canada and was welcomed with open arms by that cursed nation of cowards. He had begun life anew, got a new Canadian wife and they soon had a son of their own whom they also named Chad.

“Wow, Chad, I don’t know what to say.” It sure as hell explained a lot, but I thought it would be insensitive of me to come out and say that at this point.

“Yeah,” he said, “I know that fourteen people are dead from this, but I can’t help but think like the real victim that day was me.”

Ah yes, there’s the Chad we all know and love.

“How do you figure that?” I asked, barely masking my incredulousness.

“Well those people are dead. I am left to suffer on. Alone. A boy without his father.” He said this without a hint of irony.

“What about all the children of the dead people your father killed?” I had to point out the obvious with Chad.

“Hmm, I don’t know. I’m not sure if any of them had kids.”

“You never looked into it?” I asked.

“Why would I? I had my own problems. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Akumbo, you grew up with a father.”

So anyway, it went on like this for a while. Chad’s mother had quickly remarried someone equally as rich and morally bankrupt as his real father, so I don’t think he missed him that much. For some reason, Chad always referred to his step-father as “Uncle Steve”. I had always thought it was just a creepy nickname but under the stars that night, I began to wonder if it was his actual uncle.

That doesn’t really have anything to do with the story at hand, it just occured to me. I’m trying to be as faithful to my own mindset as possible, while recounting the events of that night.

When Chad was done sharing and the fire was almost out, he gave me a hug and toweled himself off. I checked my back pocket for my wallet but it was still there, so I wondered if perhaps he was being sincere this night.

I only saw Chad a few more times that summer before we went off to our seperate colleges. Over the years we’ve kept in touch as best as we could, considering I hate him and he can’t figure out a way to use me for financial gain, but it hasn’t been the same since high school.

It’s like something died along with the fire that warm summer night. Something born out of the ashes of a terrible secret. Dying only to rise again as the phoenix of my memory is rekindled by stories of flu shot fraud in the news.

Fuck you, Canada.

The Change – by Chad Robuckle

leprechaun.jpg

Yeah yeah yeah, I know you’re glad I’m back.

I had to lay low for a while after my appearance on Dateline, but I am happy to announce that the city of Long Beach has dropped all charges against me! Lesson learned!

(If by “lesson learned” you mean “don’t pick up 15 year olds on the internet unless you know they’re real 15 year olds.”)

Anyway, I was going through his computer looking for his social security number when I realized dipshit left himself logged in to his blog, so rather than have him bore you to death with some jackass “comedy” story, I figured ol’ Chad would grace your pathetic lives with an update.

Basically, my life is shit. Why? Because my bitch girlfriend, Kelsey, is going through menopause.

Menopause!

I mean, what the fuck, right?

The best part is she keeps lying about it and telling me that 23 year olds can’t go through menopause. Probably cuz she thinks I’ll leave her ass if it’s true.

Yeah, just as soon as menopause causes your huge inheritance to dry up.

Speaking of dry, that’s what first tipped me off.

Sometimes when I’m banging her, it’s like jammin’ my wang into a glove made out of sandpaper.

She claims it’s because my verbal and emotional abuse doesn’t get her in the mood, but I doubt that. Chicks love that shit, trust me.

Plus, I’m drunk and I just got done cheating on her, I’m not gonna be all looking to make out and do sweet talk and whatever the hell it is you do when you’re not Chad Robuckle and you want to have sex.

So that was strike one. I mean, I watch TV, I know what they say in those commercials. Which leads me to my second sign that she’s got menopause: irritability.

The other night, I told her to go to Subway and get me a footlong and she started whining about how it was 3 am and she was tired and blah blah blah.

Look, I’m not saying I would have done it for her. Recently, she’s put on some weight and frankly doesn’t need to be stuffing her face late at night. But c’mon, it’s not a big deal to go get me a sandwich. The Subway down the street is open 24 hours a day. The one by the bus station where that girl got murdered by those transients late at night.

I started poking her and turning the lights on and off, but she wouldn’t budge.

Then, not only did she not get me my meatball sub, she wanted to talk about how I don’t respect her or something. If I didn’t respect her, would I have put a pillow over my head and gone back to sleep? I didn’t make you get the goddam sandwich, so shut the hell up already.

A relationship is based on being partners and stuff, it’s not based on being a bitch.

So this brings me to my third clue.

If you’ve watched those ads where some old broad with grey hair starts whining about her hot flashes, you have a window into my world, lately.

Kelly will not shut up about how hot she is every night.

Jesus Christ, I’m sorry I’m not a bizallionaire like your douchebag dad. Not everybody can afford to have air conditioning in their bedroom closets.

It’s plenty cool in bed, so maybe if she would get over her menopause, I’d let her sleep there with me, but since she won’t shut up about how hot it is, I’m not about to let her out and have her ruin my night too.

So that, in a nutshell, is my life.

Just my luck, eh? I manage to pick the one 23 year old super rich hotel heiress with menopause. Nothing ever goes right for me.

Alright fruits, I’m out of here. I’m gonna go hit up some terrorism chat rooms using dickwad’s login name and then call the feds on him. That’ll be hilarious!

The Adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms (repost)

[This is my favorite story I’ve ever written. It’s really long, but if you’ve never read it, give it a try. Thanks! – Eric]

When I was a kid, Chad Robuckle used to love to play this game called “Wealthy Industrialist”. It wasn’t so much a “game” as it was an excuse for Chad to dress up in his father’s suit, put on a fake moustache and try and scam old people out of their money.

I’m not proud of the fact that I tagged along with him on many of these occasions. In fact, not only was I a “criminal witness” to these deeds, but I actually could have been branded a “felony accomplice,” in some cases. But like Chad says, the statute of limitations has long since passed on anything we’ve done, at least from that period of time, so I feel like I can finally share these awful secrets.

Chad’s parents would leave him alone for weeks, sometimes even months, as they went globe-trotting all over the world on one of their lavish vacations, so I spent a lot of time at his house. It was paradise for a 12 year old: no adult supervision, all the cable channels, a pool table and an absent father with a monumental-sized porno collection.

Inevitably, Chad would get bored and start looking for some excitement. That year, his brand of excitement was playing wealthy industrialist. Now, of course, a 12 year old boy with a fake moustache does not look anything like a wealthy industrialist. What the hell is a wealthy industrialist anyway? What kind of 12 year old kid gets his kicks pretending to be J.P. Morgan? The kind who kept his stash of baseball cards tucked away in the back of his closet, underneath some stolen uranium he got from the nuclear plant that they closed down.

The kind named Chad Robuckle.

Luckily for Chad, the primary target of his game (or scam) was the elderly. If you’ve ever been to Florida, you know old people can’t see too well, so I guess it’s not too surprising that they usually didn’t catch on. That last sentence was confusing, I was just trying to make the experience relatable, not imply this took place in Florida.

So one day, we pull up to the local senior center in Mr. Robuckle’s Ferrari and me and “Arthur Q. Pennybottoms” step out of the car to try our luck with the bingo crowd.

Arthur Q. Pennybottoms may have been short and ill-fitted to his suit and his fake moustache might have moved around way too much, but he sure was able to walk into a room and find a mark.

We sat down next to some rich dowager and immediately he starts with the sweet talk. This lady had one of those fake glass eyes that didn’t quite focus on you when she was talking to you. I kinda got this vibe that she used to be really hot, so his attention probably took her back to a better time, before her grandson threw a firecracker at her face, or whatever.

He starts in with his usual rap: he’s Arthur Q. Pennybottoms, wealthy industrialist. He had this whole script he would follow, though he claimed to improvise and tailor what he was saying to each individual “player”. He told her he had made millions in soybeans and now spent most of his time traveling the world in his yacht. Which would explain why he was in the middle of Connecticut at a senior center playing bingo, but whatever.

By the time we’re done having dinner at Sizzler, we’ve invested a good six hours in this broad. I’m bored out of my fucking skull. She’s telling us stories about FDR and doing the Charleston and god knows what else. Chad, excuse me, Arthur is acting like he’s eating it all up; he couldn’t be more fascinated and on her side of things, she probably hasn’t had anyone listen to a word she’s said in 20 years. What’s the harm, right? Well, I’m getting to that.

Finally, Arthur decides that the three of us: Mabel, I think her name was, him and me, his personal attorney, Jerry Leibowitzstein, should all go back to her place for some warm milk. I thought we were off the hook, because at first she looked pretty offended but then she patted his arm and called him a sly dog.

I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden in a 1988 Ferrari Testarossa, but if you have, you know there’s no back seat. There’s barely a trunk, so I really just wanted to go home, at this point. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, ran over to the pay phone and called Mr. Robuckle’s cell phone, which we brought along to make it seem more plausible that I was lawyer. Well, I run back to the table to answer the phone and pretend to have a serious conversation. I tell Arthur that, unfortunately, we’re going to have to cut the evening’s festivities short, because I have pressing business back at the law firm.

Well what does ol’ Arthur do? He tells her that I’m a liar and I’m not even a lawyer. As I’m sitting there, this kid has the balls to tell this old woman that he feels sorry for me, because I’m not as successful as he is, so he lets me pretend to be a lawyer because I’m jealous of him. He apologizes profusely on my behalf and tells her that we’ll bid her adieu right now, so embarrassed he is by my behavior.

Of course, this only works to play into his favor even more, because she laughs the whole thing off and insists we both come back to her place now. As I’m sitting there, squatting over the hump in the middle of the 3 inch space behind the seats, she tells him that she has many friends who are jealous of her, as well and that people like me should be pitied and not judged too harshly because the poor didn’t have the advantages of a moral upbringing like the moneyed classes.

I know what you’re thinking, but at this point, I’m keeping my mouth shut just to see how far this whole charade is gonna go.

Well we get back to her place and of course it smells like moth balls and Aspercream, but at this point, I’m pretty used to that. Arthur called it “the scent of money”. No wait, it was Chad. Let me reiterate that both these kids were loaded. He had a $1500/month allowance when we were in sixth grade, so he didn’t need this money at all, he just liked to rip people off.

Arthur isn’t through the door more than 2 minutes before they start making out. I took this as my cue to start searching the bedroom for loot. I found the usual crap: stocks, bonds, jewels, pearls, shit like that. Nothing too interesting. If he wanted any of that, he could get it for himself. I wasn’t a thief.

As I was about to leave, though, I spotted a wall safe poking out from behind an old portrait of this lady’s great-granddaughter. For some reason, the picture was painted while she was dressed up for a 1920’s theme party. Anyway, I put the painting on the bed and take a shot at the combo.

I try the old standby: 61 19 26.

Bingo! First try! Matlock’s birthday. I’d need the hands of five people to count the number of times I cracked an old lady’s safe simply by knowing Andy Griffith was born June 1st, 1926.

Well I peek inside and there’s nothing staring back at me but a curled up piece of old parchment. I pull it out of the safe and carefully roll it out on the bed.

A pirate map.

Is she kidding? What hell is an old lady doing with a pirate map? Nowadays, I would have ripped it up and put it back in the safe with a note telling her not to be a fucking moron, but you have to understand this was a different time. We were just a few short years out from the Goonies, at this point, so the lure of a pirate map in the hands of a 12 year old boy was just too great to resist.

I snuck out the door unnoticed while Arthur was busy fumbling with this old woman’s enormous bra/girdle contraption and ran the few blocks back to Chad’s house. Luckily, I knew his parents were one of the few people back then to have their own Xerox machine, so I made a couple of copies of the map, ran back to the old folk’s home and returned the map before anyone had a chance to notice. There were clothes all over the floor in a trail to the bathroom and I could hear the two of them splashing around behind the closed door, so I figured I wouldn’t be missed.

I went back to Chad’s house to examine the copies in greater detail. I knew enough to make sure to copy both sides and scoured them all for clues. Around 3 am, Chad showed up with a smile and a big bag of goodies. He actually seemed pleased that he didn’t have to steal anything this time, seeing as the old woman handed over anything he wanted. I wouldn’t attribute that to relief on his part, for avoiding any criminal activity (besides the obvious fraud and statutory rape), but rather because now he would spend the next few hours bragging about how great he was in bed, going into way too much detail about his exploits.

I told him to shut the hell up and showed him the map to which he made a big show of producing the original from his satchel of booty. My annoyance was quickly forgotten as he launched into the story behind the map. Apparently, it had been a family heirloom stolen from a pirate captain by the Spanish back in 1655. The map lead to a cave on a remote island in the Bahamas that was said to hold a magic lamp.

Sounded like a bunch of bullshit to me, but I wasn’t gonna say so. Not when I knew I was getting a free trip to the Bahamas out of it.

We boarded the Robuckle’s personal Gulfstream III. We took the Gulfstream III because the family’s main jet, the Gulfstream IV was taking Mr. and Mrs. Robuckle to a Japanese island at the time, so we got what Chad referred to as “the filthy leftovers”.

As we took off, he spent quite an amount of time mocking the wide leather captain’s chairs we were sitting in. Apparently the ones in the other jet had heat and massage, these only had massage. Chad was so angry at his parents that when he got sick on all the Dom Perignon we were drinking, he threw up all over his parent’s private bedroom.

I started to yell at him but he assured me there were three other cabins available and we would be landing in a few hours anyway.

So we got to Nassau and our charter boat was waiting to take us to the Island. In addition to the crew of six, Chad had hired a local to follow us around and be our manservant. I guess this guy had a regular name but Chad liked to call his manservants “Jub Jub”. At first he objected to the moniker, but five hundred dollars in cash tends to smooth things over quickly. Jub Jub it was.

I asked Chad if Jub Jub was a sentimental thing, because he always called these people he would hire to carry his bags and spare bowler hats “Jub Jub”. No, he explained, it was simply more humiliating that way. Touché.

After a few days on the yacht, Captain Chad finally located the island in the exact spot the crew had told us it would be, but he wanted to get there on his own, without anyone’s help, save that of the US Coast Guard and the $40,000 satellite navigation system the boat had.

We set down anchor in a harbor and me, Chad and Jub Jub got in a dinghy and headed for shore.

Immediately, Jub Jub started asking for more money as Chad had brought a considerable amount of crap ashore with him and expected this 120 pound man to carry it all. Chad told Jub Jub to quit whining, threw another wad of hundreds at his feet and we were off.

We walked around the island for a while, it wasn’t that big. I didn’t see any cave, though Chad kept referring to the map and his portable GPS while insisting it was just around the corner. There really was no “corner” to speak of, as the island was so small. I think it may have actually been an “atoll”, I’m not sure.

You might be reading this and thought to yourself, “Chad Robuckle had a portable GPS device in 1988? That sounds like bullshit to me.” You might think that only the military had access to things like that back then and you’d be right. They were also the only ones with submarines and jet-packs. So when Chad threw a fit and demanded something like that, that’s where his parents went: the military. But good eye, nonetheless.

Finally, after a few hours of searching and several fainting spells by Jub Jub, we were ready to take a break. The sun was beating down pretty hard and though he was holding an umbrella to block the sun from Chad’s face, Jub Jub was pretty tired and couldn’t hold up his arm that well. Chad was pretty annoyed with the whole thing and took his anger out on Jub Jub.

Jub Jub was pretty pissed off too and threatened to walk. As Chad took out his wallet, Jub Jub told him to shove his money up his ass. No amount of money was worth the humiliation and hardship he had suffered.

Chad tried to reason with him, pointing out that not only was Jub Jub hundreds of miles from home on a deserted island, he was hundreds of miles from home on a deserted island with two 12 year old white American boys with active imaginations and a working knowledge of Bahamian sodomy laws. This seemed to work.

We took refuge under a palm tree and Jub Jub went about laying out our picnic lunch, but after that many hours in the sun, our cucumber finger sandwiches didn’t taste too fresh. Chad started chucking them at a giant tortoise that was lumbering past us, maybe 20 yards away. One of the sandwiches took a weird bounce and disappeared from sight.

Chad and I looked at each other in disbelief. Could it be? We ran over to the spot where the sandwich had disappeared and there it was: the cave! It was little more than a 2 foot wide hole in the ground, but it was a cave, nonetheless.

Chad clapped his hands twice in rapid succession and summoned Jub Jub. He was to lower himself into the cave first, to make sure it was safe. Well, it wasn’t.

From the darkness, we heard Jub Jub scream out in pain. Apparently the floor of the cave was covered in sea anemones and Chad had demanded Jub Jub remove his shoes so as to make sure he didn’t crush any of the pearls or valuable gold trinkets with his feet.

We scurried down after him and even in the little light drifting down into the cave we could tell there was blood everywhere. Chad remarked that it was too bad they hadn’t brought any morphine, which was a lie. There were three or four vials of it up with the picnic basket, I think he just didn’t want to waste any time going back up to get it.

Chad urged Jub Jub along, promising they would take care of his feet after the treasure was found. I can’t help but think that if he hadn’t been so eager to find something so he could go back and tend to his horrible wound, he would have easily seen the tripwire that had been laid along the floor of the passage, but he didn’t.

Real booby traps aren’t like the ones you see in the movies. They’re kind of lame. At least these were. The large wooden spike was not even traveling that fast when it pierced poor Jub Jub’s abdomen. If his brain had been getting the blood that was instead dripping out of his feet and covering the ground, he would have had the mental wits to dodge it or at least put up his hand to deflect it. That’s probably all it would have taken. Like I said, me and Chad easily defeated the next six or seven booby traps we encountered and we were only 12 years old.

As Jub Jub clung to life, we promised him we would find the magic lamp and use it to save him. He gurgled something about not leaving him there alone and that we were a couple of pricks, I’m not sure exactly. Anyway, we raced ahead, merely jumping over the trip wires and walking around the deep pits with spikes in them. We encountered a dead end where there was simply a wall in front of us. We noticed there was some sort of clue or riddle written in Spanish on the wall that I think we were supposed to solve, but instead we just kicked at the bricks until the wall fell down.

And then, we saw it. The magic lamp. I nearly shit myself out of surprise. I was almost as sure of the fact that there was no magic lamp as I was that there would be only two (living) people riding that dinghy back to the yacht that afternoon. I began to question myself, as I often did when I hung around with Chad. Had I misjudged him? Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all. I knew I was lying when I told Jub Jub we would be back to save him with the power of the magic lamp, but Chad had seemed to believe in the lamp all along. Maybe he really meant it?

Chad walked up and carefully pulled the lamp down from its pedestal in the middle of the room. We heard some rocks moving around in a side compartment somewhere but whatever booby trap they had been designed to power, it had long ago stopped functioning.

He held the lamp up and examined it in the streaks of sunlight that managed to shine through from a mysterious outside light source. He took the lamp in his shirt and lovingly caressed the side of it with the fabric when suddenly, smoke poured forth from its end a giant bald man of Middle Eastern origin appeared out of nowhere.

I shit you not, it was a fucking genie. He launched into some big spiel about how he was the seventh son of Agra bah, king of Arabia, and he had been entombed in this magic lamp for sixteen centuries, yadda yadda yadda. Apparently, Chad sensed the urgency of the situation and told him to shut the hell up. He cut to the chase and asked if we were getting some wishes or not. The genie said that we did indeed get one wish that he would grant with his magical powers, not three like we were thinking we were entitled to. I’m sure if there had been more time, Chad would have wished him back in the lamp until we got three wishes or a million wishes or better yet, infinity wishes, but like I said, time was of the essence.

Chad looked at me and gave a sigh. He told me he knew what he had to do. I had never seen Chad so serious in his life, but this was a big moment for him. He was about to do the one unselfish thing he had ever done in his whole life.

Or so I thought.

When we got back to the yacht, some of the crew members inquired about Jub Jub, but Chad threw some cash at them and said he wasn’t familiar with anyone named Jub Jub. They seemed to catch his drift and didn’t bring it up again. For my part, I didn’t speak to Chad til we were back on American soil and I knew he couldn’t strand me in some foreign country to explain to the local police and Jub Jub’s widow what had happened.

I was fed up. Sure, I laughed when Jub Jub cut his foot in the cave, but murder was something else. And that’s what it was to me: murder. Chad had the power to save someone’s life, but instead, he used his one wish on himself. Not only that, he wished for something so ridiculous and stupid, I can barely repeat it. If he had wished for a giant penis or the power of flight or something like that, at least I wouldn’t have been that surprised. But to let a man die just because you want the ability to tell which celebrities are secretly gay? That’s just plain awful.

Of course, eventually I forgave him. He agreed to send Jub Jub’s widow a letter explaining what happened on the island and where she would be able to find his corpse. I made him put in some stuff about how he was a great guy and he died valiantly, saving some babies who were trapped down in the cave. Chad didn’t like that but he knew I was seriously pissed about it, so he did it.

In the end, I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that Chad will always be my best friend. More than a best friend, he’s like family to me. Not in the hokey sense, of “you’re my brother and I’d do anything for you”, but in the real way. You can’t choose your family. They may be terrible murderers who cheat old women out of their retirement savings and laugh hysterically when a man’s stomach is punctured by a sharp wooden spike, but they’re family.

Chad Robuckle is my family. Sure, Jub Jub had a family too: a wife, six kids and several infirm old relatives he took care of, but he wasn’t my family. And while I’m sad he’s gone, you’ve gotta look out for your own family, not some immigrants who you barely know.

Congratulations, women – by Chad Robuckle

Well, you’ve done it again.

If there was one thing in this world that was impossible to screw up, you would think it would be “chicks getting naked”.

But you’d be wrong.

I am speaking, of course, of burlesque.

Burlesque, simply put, is what stripping would look like if it had been thought up by women. I think this is a fair definition that even the most fervent supporters of this terrible act would probably agree to.

The part we disagree about is whether or not this is even remotely entertaining or erotic in any way.

My answer? No. Not even close.

The problem is, broads have a different idea than we do of what is sexy. And by “different” I mean “wrong” and “awful”.

Burlesque, as I have gathered, is supposed to be vaguely empowering. This is why you are not allowed to throw dollar bills at the dancers. You have to put the dollar bills into a hat. Classy!

“I’m showing my boobs, hooray for feminism!”

“I have these men in the palm of my hand!”

“My sisters are supporting me!”

Blah blah blah.

Did I mention there’s no real nudity in this thing? Yeah, that’s right.

“Hey Chad, wanna go look at some chick’s boobs?”

Sure, I say.

“But you won’t be able to see her nipples, cuz they’lll be covered up, isn’t that great?”

That, my friends, is a quick lesson in “How to get your neck snapped by Chad Robuckle”.

And you can forget about seeing any beave altogether.

I can’t stress to you how non-sexy and tedious all of this is.

I know what you’re going to say, “But it’s sexier when there’s a little mystery!”

Wrong. It’s sexier when you get completely naked as fast as you can.

“But lots of guys have told me so!”

Those guys (see dipshit in picture above) were lying to you because they thought it would get them laid (and they were probably right). Let’s face it: the truth is, you want some attention and you can’t really get it with your clothes on. On the other hand, your parents are still alive. So what’s a girl to do?

I know! Dress up in some stupid costume and dance around for six minutes, then, right at the end of the act, take your top off and flash your breasts for 3 seconds.

Seriously, what is the point of this?

Do you really think any (straight) guy in the world is interested in how many rhinestones you’ve got on your hat or where you got your feather boa?

I know, in your minds at least, there is some sort of “artistic value” to all of this, but trust me, there isn’t. If your face was a little manlier, I would think I was at a drag show. Why? Because they also don’t show any trim there, either.

The whole thing is so exagerrated and campy, it would make John Waters blush. There is this element of “comedy” to the enterprise, where the awful host comes out and “teases” the audience with what amounts to a terrible Mae West impression. Actually, the last time I was at Cheetah’s, I remember thinking, “You know what this place needs? For these stupid bitches to start telling some fucking jokes.”

But the part of burlesque that I find really offensive is that there are actual classes for this.”Hey, I’m gonna pay 300 dollars for some lady to show me how to pretend I’m a stripper!”

Don’t even get me started on “that lady”. Let me just say that this whole venture is very offensive to the real strippers out there. And I know, because I bang a lot of them.

Newsflash: if you want to be a stripper, don’t spend money on some stupid classes, do what a real stripper does. Have sex with your dad. That doesn’t cost you a dime (financially).

The blood of democracy…

gun
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

The voice was calm. It emitted absolute authority.

Mark DePonce woke his wife, Cheryl. As she came to, she saw the four armed men in masks standing in a semi-circle around her bed and she screamed. Mark put his hand over his wife’s mouth.

“We just do what they say, honey,” he assured her, as her eyes grew wide with terror and she thrashed against her husband as he held her still.

“Yeah, this bitch would do well to listen to you.” Only the leader spoke.

“I will not have you speak like that in my home–“. He was trying to be a toughguy, but the sawed-off shotgun to his temple put an end to that act.

Mark DePonce shut up and urinated all over himself and his wife, but neither seemed to notice.

The four men motioned for them to walk downstairs to the living room where two more men were waiting with the three DePonce children.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” asked the middle child, Jessica.

“It’s gonna be OK, baby. Just be quiet and do what these men say, OK?” She nodded.

Jessica held on to her little sister, Megan, who was only six. Their older brother, Matthew, had his arms around both of them. He was protecting his little sisters and his father swelled up with pride until he noticed the lack of urine on his son’s underwear, which stood in stark contrast to his own soaked pajamas. His pride was quickly replaced with shame.

Mark’s mind was going a mile a minute. He looked for any sort of blunt instrument he could use to turn the tables. Not finding any, he reminded himself he was no Steven Seagal. No, it was best to play along, do whatever they said.

The family stood there for a moment, not sure what was coming.

After what seemed like a whole lifetime of waiting, the leader produced a 9mm handgun and issued a command to Mark: “Choose.”

The children looked to their father, confused. He couldn’t look back at them, though. He knew all too well what the man in the mask was asking him to do.

“I can’t… I can’t do it,” he pleaded in a tone of desperation that sent shivers up the spines of his wife and children. This was their father, their husband, their protector. He sounded like a scared, little child.

“Fine. Then I shoot them all. All but you,” said the voice.

“You bastard!” Mark grew a sack and lunged at the leader. It was futile. Two others grabbed him and a third hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his shotgun.

Mark felt his face against the cold floor, the knee of one of the men on his back. The face of the leader loomed large above him.

“You fucking coward,” he said with disgust, “you wanted us to shoot you. You go out the hero and you don’t have to make the decision.”

As he said it, Mark realized the man was right.

“Pick this piece of shit up,” he commanded.

The others roughly pulled Mark to his feet. His wife and children were crying now.

“Listen up, buddy boy, no matter what you choose, someone’s gonna die. And it ain’t gonna be you. You’ll live a long life, grow old and have to think about this choice you’re going to make for a long time. I’ll see to that.”

Mark hung his head. How could anyone make such a decision?

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“Fine, they all die.” The man raised his gun to Matthew’s head.

“Daddy?” he sobbed.

“No!” Mark yelled, “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” said the man.

“Cheryl, I’m sorry,” Mark said through his tears.

Cheryl felt immediate betrayal. This was her soulmate, the man she loved. But in the seconds that followed, she realized she would have done the same, to protect the children.

“I love you,” she mouthed to him.

“Wrong,” said the man in the mask. “You choose one of them.” He motioned towards the kids.

“Goddamit!” Mark cried out, “Have some fucking mercy, they’re children for Christ’s sake!” The kids crying got louder.

“5…” the leader counted down.

“No, I won’t,” insisted Mark.

“4… 3…” Continued the voice behind the mask.

“2…” He cocked his gun.

“1…” He again raised his gun to Matthew’s head.

“Wait! Fine! It’s Megan! Shoot Megan!” screamed Mark DePonce, motioning towards his youngest daughter.

“What?!” came the words, so primal and frenzied from Cheryl DePonce as she struggled in vain to protect her youngest and most-treasured daughter. “Why not Matthew?” she asked, not realizing what she was saying.

Matthew looked up at his mother, who was so quick to feed him to the wolves, but before he could say anything, the man in the mask cut him off.

“It’s done. You made your choice.” He strode over to the little girl, held the barrel of his handgun against her forehead and squeezed the trigger.

“Click.”

They all stood there. Not sure what had happened. There comes an acceptance in the last few moments of your life. An acceptance of the finality of things. And this finality had been disturbed.

“What the–” asked Mark, speaking for the group.

The man in the mask knelt down by the littlest girl and did something odd: he hugged her.

He flung his arms around her neck tenderly and held her head against his face and whispered in her ear as she sobbed.

“It’s going to be OK, none of you are going to die. But you must always remember: they picked you. They love you the least.”

And with that, they were off. The family remained standing there, in a trance, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Outside in the van, the leader took off his mask. As the guys congratulated themselves on a job well done, he called someone on his cell phone.

“Hello?” asked the voice, groggy with sleep.

“It’s done,” the man said.

“Chad?” I asked.

“I did it, buddy,” he said with pride.

“Oh God, what did you do this time?” My mind began to wander the universe of terrible possibilities.

“I got even with that no-good son-of-a-bitch who stole your presidency!”

Albert Johnson of 1629 Bluebird Lane had ran against me in the election for leader of our town’s Harvey Danger Fan Club. Things had gotten pretty heated and it seemed like someone had been spreading rumors about me and my past involvement with a loose association of people who traded tapes of Dave Matthews shows. Chances are it wasn’t even Albert, but one of his supporters who was behind it.

Anyway, like I said, Albert lived at 1629 Bluebird Lane, right next to Mark DePonce and his family, who lived at 1633 Bluebird Lane. When my “good buddy”, Chad Robuckle, heard about my loss in the election for presidency of the Harvey Danger Fan Club, he took it upon himself to “fix things”, concocting this elaborate revenge scheme on Albert and his family.

Of course, after months of planning, it never occured to Chad to make sure he entered the correct house and hatch this scheme on the right guy and not some innocent bystander whose wife was now filing for divorce and custody of two of her three children.

But hey, that’s Chad for ya.

The time I lost my way – by Chad Robuckle

my quiz
I am a bitter, broken man.

I believe in nothing.

Hope. Love. The will to live. Foreign concepts, every one.

I would say that my only friend is myself, but I actually hate me more than you do.

It wasn’t always like this, though.

Some people live their whole lives surrounding themselves with the idea that everything is great. Then one day, they wake up and they’re 70 and they see it’s all been one, big, cruel joke.

Life fucks you over and you don’t even realize it. There’s no single moment you can point to and say, “That’s when it all went to shit.”

But I can.

I attended Westbury Elementary School in Tuckertown, Connecticut from the time I was four until I was ten.

In third grade, my elderly teacher, Mrs. Tanzarian, had to leave for six months and we got a substitute we all called “Mrs. Wubble You”, for reasons that are lost on me today. She used to give us candy if we got 5 gold stars on our homework and stuff. Nice lady.

Actually, I once got caught stealing homework candy from the bag she kept on her desk. Like all the monsters of the world, I was only following the lead of my friends. They had it all worked out: you went up, asked her a question, dropped your pencil into the bag “by accident” and when you took it out, you grabbed a piece of candy along with it. Brilliant, no?

So they pull this off without a hitch for weeks. At first, I can’t get up the nerve to do it, but the sight of them stuffing their fat faces with candy was too much. So I whipped out my tiny, 8 year old testicles and strode up to the teacher’s desk. First time, right off the line, I get busted.

“Chad, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Stealing candy. But Meredith and Rick were doing it too.”

Let that be a lesson to you: I will sell you out in a heartbeat to save my own skin if you dare to make the mistake of trusting me.

Anyway, before the candy-stealing incident, me and “Mrs. Wubble You” were pretty tight. Until the big spelling test, that is.

I call it that to make it sound more dramatic, but really it was just a quiz. Every week, we were given 20 words in our book. We had to learn them and spell them correctly each Friday. Simple enough, right?

Well, apparently this book felt that the correct way to spell the singular form of the word “cookies” was “cooky”.

What the fuck, right?

So even though I know that’s how they spelt it in the book, I write the correct way of spelling it on my quiz. “Cookie”; for my developmentally disabled readers.

I get my quiz back and sure enough, it’s marked wrong. I got a 95.

I march up to the front of the classroom and inform “Mrs. Wubble You” of her mistake.

Au contraire, punk, she told me, as she produced the book, backing up her original assertion that I had spelled the word incorrectly.

As I retrieved the dictionary, in an attempt to tell this bitch to shove her stupid book up her fat ass, she cut me off.

I can’t remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that the quiz was not a test of actual spelling ability, the quiz tested us on our ability to memorize what was in the book and then later recall those facts.

I shit you not.

To top it off, I think she tried to buy my silence with a piece of candy.

Nobody would back me up on this one. Not my classmates, not the principal, not even my own so-called “parents”. God forbid anyone get political or the tiniest bit controversial and dare to question the mighty bureaucracy of the Tuckertown Public School System!

Is it any wonder I joined a gang shortly thereafter? When you’ve got nothing to believe in, what’s to stop you from punching an old lady in the face “just for kicks”? Society? Morals? The Bible?

Please.

I do what I want. If I see something I want, I take it. If you bust me stealing candy these days, I won’t punch you, I will shoot you in the face with a sawed-off shotgun.

One of my professors in college described me as “the personification of the unbridled id”. Guess what happened to that fruitcake? That’s right: shot in the face.

When my parents had their “tragic accident” at Legoland a few years ago, the lead detective on the case came to my apartment and brought up the fact that when they dragged the bodies from the bottom of Adventure Lagoon, there was significant evidence of cranial damage from what appeared to be a sawed-off 12 gauge. That was right before I shot him in the face.

So, to sum up: for all the teachers out there, molding these impressionable young minds, remember that seemingly innocent decisions to make your job a little easier may have far-reaching consequences.

And you may even wake up one morning in heaven because someone has snuck into your house and shot you in the face.

The Assassination Factory

chad's mom
As I employ literary constructs in an effort to shape the Chad Robuckle mythology and build venture capital for my novel, one thing that comes up, over and over again in the focus groups is Chad’s mother.

People want to know about her. What’s her deal? Where was she when all this was going on? Is she hot?

I guess this is the same sort of fascination people have with Hitler’s mother. They want to know what someone who has birthed pure evil is like. Are they evil themselves, raising their seed to be the same or is it rather a genetic anomaly, a force upon itself? You know, the usual “nature versus nurture” bullshit that is all the rage in the stand-up comedy clubs these days.

The truth is, I haven’t really spoken of Chad’s mother for two reasons:

First off, while in the greater sense, she played a very big role in shaping who Chad would become, she did so mostly by her absence. She carried him inside her for the standard 13 months, pooped him out and was gone, not to return for 27 years.

Secondly, it’s actually a pretty sad story. We can all laugh at Chad’s antics because he seems so incapable of feeling human emotion. But there’s just something so universal and sorrowful about an unwanted child. I just didn’t want people to empathize with him at all.

Not that you should feel sorry for him or refrain from passing judgment on him because it’s “not all his fault”. I think you will see that his path was indeed chosen by him through his free will.

But enough psycho-analyzing. “Why don’t you tell the damn story, already and let us decide for ourselves, Eric?”

You’re right, imaginary voices in my head. So without further ado, I give you “The Sheila Robuckle Story”.

Sheila was a wealthy socialite who met Chad’s father at a cotillion. Or maybe it was her coming out party, I don’t really know/care.

Anyway, they met, fell in “love” and were married soon after.

It was the 70’s and they were pretty heavy into the swinging thing. I know there was a lot of concern on Mr. Robuckle’s part whether or not the child was his, though I am pretty sure all doubt of that has been erased in the time since then.

The Robuckles were also heavily into drinking and drugs. Now, before you get all uppity, remember, it was a different time. People didn’t know about the dangers of smoking, drinking, doing drugs and getting triple-penetrated by a team of soccer players from Brazil while you were pregnant back then.

I’m not going to defend them and their actions, but I’m sure if you ask your parents, you probably rode around with your child seat facing forwards before you were 9 months old are something else on par with the mistakes the Robuckles made.

Sheesh, I keep getting off track here! Focus, Eric!

One night, the Robuckles are out partying, I believe this was close to the beginning of their fourth trimester, when Sheila decides it will be a “larf” to go and get a psychic to talk to the fetus.

Back in the 70’s, that thing was all the rage and people actually believed in that crap, so Mr. Robuckle agreed. As soon as all the mescaline was gone, they take off in their dune buggy and drive around looking for an all-night psychic. Luckily for them, the party let out right around 11 am, so they didn’t have too much trouble finding one.

The psychic is playing her hokey little game, dressed up like Stevie Nicks with the flowing scarves and all that. She takes Mrs. Robuckle’s hand and starts her incantation in that “spooky voice” they all seem to use, when suddenly, she goes stiff as a board, her face gets as white as a sheet and she wets herself like some other cliche I’m too lazy to think up.

Mrs. Robuckle freaks out and tries to pull her hand away but this lady has a death grip on her. Mr. Robuckle tries to help out by smashing a chair over her head. Apparently, he thought if she was dead, she would release her hold on his wife, but no such luck. Even though she’s bleeding from her ears and mouth, she won’t let go.

Finally, she starts speaking, no longer in the sing-song Scooby Doo villain voice we’re all used to. This is deep, low and robotic. The voice tells them that they will give birth to a son and the son will bring darkness upon the world. He will signal the coming of the anti-Christ and herald the arrival of the Four Horsemen.

Well, the Robuckles were pretty freaked out. Even for them, that was some pretty fucked up shit.

The lady comes out of her trance, lets go of Mrs. Robuckles hand and collapses onto her chair. She has no idea what has happened and can’t understand why her head hurts so much.

Being a man of action, Mr. Robuckle throws a twenty at her, grabs his wife and they get the hell out of there.

Well the whole drive home, Mrs. Robuckle can’t stop talking about what she just saw. Mr. Robuckle, on the other hand, just wants to forget the whole thing. He tells his wife that it’s all just a big act to spook people and she needs to shut the hell up and give him another beer as he’s almost done with this one.

Well, Mrs. Robuckle isn’t so easily swayed and behind her husband’s back, she seeks out members of the clergy and other spiritual leaders, asking for them to consult her on what she should do about her demon child.

Most of them laugh it off but a few take her seriously and realize that if she’s been carrying a baby for 11 months who isn’t dead from all the harmful chemicals and strange penises she’s put in her body, their might be some validity to her claims.

Now, they’re in quite the conundrum because they know what the answer is, but they have to weigh the good of the world against the teachings of their faith.

Finally, a rabbi of all people, tells her flat out that she needs to abort that thing, ASAP.

I’m not going to get too graphic here, let’s just leave it at this: she tries and nothing works.

And I mean NOTHING.

So despite the best efforts of 19 different abortion doctors, six dentists and 3 demolition derby drivers, Chad Robuckle is born into the world and his mother splits from his life, soon thereafter.

For 27 years, Chad is raised by his father and his ever-changing roster of girlfriends, nannies, butlers and street-wise prostitutes that he befriends while skipping school. And I think we all know how that went.

Fast forward to a few years ago, Chad is at one of his lucrative speaking engagements, regaling the crowd of underclassmen at Vassar College with his famous “I hate Matlock” speech when a lone figure slips into the back of the auditorium. Nobody really noticed the middle-aged woman in her blood-red robes as she stood against the wall for a few minutes, before discreetly pulling out a high-powered rifle and doing the sign of the cross. Certainly, everyone was unaware as she softly incanted, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti” and took aim at the stage.

What they definitely did notice was the gunshot blaring in their ears and echoing across the hall as Mrs. Robuckle missed her target by a good 15 feet, splattering the brains of Dean Oxham-Chipperly across the stage.

Panic ensued, but Chad was ready. Before she could get off a second shot, he had sprang forth from behind the podium, producing two Glock 9mm handguns from the inside pockets of his jacket.

As he ran towards her, shooting from both guns John Woo-style, he shouted at her, “You missed me, bitch, just like you did with that coat hanger!”

Unfortunately for those 14 or so audience members who lost their lives that day, while it looks cool in movies, shooting from both hands while running is not the most accurate way to take down a target.

People screamed as the Robuckles exchanged gunfire, Mrs. Robuckle getting off a few more shots, until she was out of ammunition.

At this point, Chad was a mere 3 feet from her, they were shooting at each other from behind the opposite sides of a chair.

Triumphant, Chad held his gun to her temple and locked eyes with the woman who had both given him life and tried to take it away so many, many times.

“You’re out,” he said.

“So are you,” she replied.

He pulled the trigger and heard only a click. She was right. He was out of ammunition.

They stood there for a few seconds before the tears started to well up in her eyes and she began to smile.

In spite of himself, Chad couldn’t help smiling too. He threw down his gun and they embraced, laughing heartily.

“How did you know?” he asked her.

“You’re my son, you know you can always count on me!” she replied. They laughed some more at her joke which would have made even Michael Bay cringe.

“You mean you can count on me!” was his witty comeback.

More inane laughter.

It went on like this for another twenty minutes before the SWAT team arrived. Chad and his mother, now arm in arm, explained the situation to them.

“You see, officer,” said Chad, “it’s all been a big mix-up. One big mix-up.” He looked fondly at his mother, “Surely you wouldn’t take his mother away from a fella, now that he’s just getting to know her?”

The officer thought it over. “No, I guess I wouldn’t, young man. Gee whiz, I’d have to be some sort of monster to do that. Pack it up, boys, we’re going home!”

And with that, it was over.

15 people lost their lives that day. 7 lived but will now be at least partially paralyzed from their wounds. This is what I mean, this asshole does what he wants and never has to face any sort of consequences! It’s infuriating!

I’m a good person, I haven’t killed a single person! But if I park my car for 63 minutes in a one hour parking zone, you can bet your ass I’m gonna get a ticket. And I will have to pay it, because my car isn’t stolen and I have a license and insurance. UNLIKE CHAD.

Wait a minute, a baby! That’s the cliche I was looking for. The psychic wet herself like a baby. God, it’s so obvious. I’m sure I could have thought of it if I was Chad Robuckle. I’m sure I’d have a Pulitzer Prize by now, if I was him.

You know what? Fuck it, I’m done. Have a nice life.

Immigrants gone wild – by Chad Robuckle


You know, a lot of attention has been focused on the subject of illegal immigration, especially here in Los Angeles.

Immigrants state that they play a valuable role in society, often performing the jobs regular Americans won’t do. Their opponents claim they undercut American workers and de-value the marketplace.

Of course, real-world issues are never this black and white and the truth often lies somewhere in the rich shades of grey in which we live our daily lives.

When we think of immigrants and the jobs they go to every day, we often think of them working on farms, picking beans, or perhaps bussing tables or doing the dishes in a restaurant, but this is only one side of the picture.

Immigrants are involved in many facets of the American workplace and I want to speak about one of those today. A side not brought up in the media, one that you may not have thought about before.

Would you believe that immigrants are fast becoming a force to reckon with in what has now become a 14 billion dollar industry in America?

Like I said, when you think of ‘ol Pepe or Juan jumping the fence down in Tejas, you probably say, “Well, chances are they’re not going to take my job: I’m a high-paid banker with a brand new Porsche Cayman that I consider my daily commuter, which I say with a smug laugh every time I tell someone about driving it to work.”

OK, fair enough, your banking job is probably safe. But you’re a banker, right? You’ve got a lot of cash floating around. Your wife is probably getting fat and your bastard kids drive you nuts. Your mother-in-law has been riding you for months, asking you whether you’re all coming out for Thanksgiving even though when you do, she complains about too many people being at her house and she’s a terrible fucking cook and you just want to have a nice, quiet Thanksgiving for a change and not deal with all that bullshit.
You’re stressed and you need some “relief”.

So you call up the local escort service and you answer the door, expecting the big-boobed blonde from the ad, right?

Nope. Instead, you get “Yessica”: a 23 year-old mother of sixteen from Guadalajara, whose feet are still muddy from traipsing through the shallow waters of the Rio Grande. At least you hope that’s mud.

You see, not only are foreign immigrant sex workers undercutting their American counterparts in the price department, sometimes drastically so, they are also introducing a host of new sexual services (and parasites), often heretofore unheard of on our native soil.

Think about it this way: you’re an American who picks corn for 30 bucks an hour or whatever the hell minimum wage is these days. Along comes Tito and Jesus offering farmer Ted to pick his corn under the table for 17 cents a day, which is a King’s Ransom back in Mexico.

You’re shit out of luck, right?

Well now imagine that not only will Tito and Jesus pick the corn for less than you, they’re willing to stick it in their asses while they do so. And they tell Farmer Ted it’s cool if 99 of his farmer buddies come over and throw those stringy corn husk things in their faces as they do it.

Call me old fashioned, I just long for the days of yesteryear, when you could drive over to the black side of town, pick up a normal, yet dangerously young-looking girl for some regular sex, pay her a decent, but fair amount of money and be on your way.

I also remember a time when you could “settle disputes” with these independent contractors and not have it turn into a federal hate crime case, but that’s neither here nor there.

Look, I’m not blaming the immigrants. I know that for a long time, American prostitutes have had it easy. They have been sheltered from the outside world by a society that protects and cherishes them. Within the global economy, competition is relied on to set prices. Supply and demand dictate the specifics of the situation.

The system works and I’m not one to call for restrictions placed on a free-market economy, but I’m sorry, it just makes me a little sad. I can’t help but get nostalgic when I think about the way things have changed.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good Dirty Sanchez as much as the next guy and anyone who’s gone to TJ with me knows my first stop is always the donkey show, but I guess what I’m lamenting is the fact that as much as I claim to love dehumanizing people, especially women, I can’t prevent my heart of gold from shining through.

We all know prostitutes aren’t real people. At least that’s what we tell ourselves because then it makes it easier to beat them up, but that’s because we know that no matter how close to the edge of life and death we take them, they’ve got things like health insurance and OSHA to fix them up as good as new.

When you’re knocking some bitch’s teeth out and she’s pleading with you to stop and think about her children, you keep going because you know those kids are Americans and Americans go to college. Hell, they’ll probably write their thesis on women’s studies and cite as examples all the times their whore mother got her ass kicked by some coked-out psycho who just couldn’t deal with the shame of his own erectile dysfunction to prove how women are still second-class citizens in our society. The irony is delicious!

If only these whiny liberals knew how good they have it.

In summation, I join the long line of pussies who long for a simpler time while simultaneously accepting the fact there is nothing that can be done about it. Sure, I can urge you to “buy American” but I know that the second your wallet is feeling a little light, or your tastes skew to the obscene or bizarre, your ideals will go out the window. Morals are fine but only if they don’t affect the bottom line.

And when that happens, they’ve won.

It’s sad, but we all know it’s true. In the words of W.C. Fields: “A hole is a hole is a hole.”

The Bachelor Party


I didn’t want to let Chad write this blog, but he said he would kill one member of my family if I didn’t. Anyone else, I would consider it an idle threat, but with Chad…

So anyway, here it is, he gave me a little preview of what he’s going to write about and it’s pretty bad, so if you’re sensitive or one of those relatives whose life I may have saved, stop reading now—

OK, Chad Robuckle here, that pussy wouldn’t shut the hell up so I shut him up. With my fists.

Just kidding, I actually threw some orange juice in his face. How come I never film this shit? There’s your reality show. Trust me, it was hilarious. “Oh shit, my eye! You got it in my eye! It burns!” What a douche.

So anyway, my buddy Marcos is getting married soon and I decided to throw a bachelor party. I know what you’re thinking: “my buddy Marcos” sounds like an oxymoron for ol’ Chad “Let’s Keep Our Borders Strong” Robuckle and you’re right. I can’t stand those types, but what I can stand is strippers.

So I volunteered my services and naturally, there was some resistance at first. This nutbag named Jeremy who works over in accounting was like “Hey man, me and Marcos have been best friends since high school, I’m his best man and I’m throwing his bachelor party.”

I was stoked cuz I love getting in fights at work, but all I had to say was, “Well Chad Robuckle doesn’t care who you were best friends with…” and this pussy totally backed down. He was like “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize who you were, Mr. Robuckle, I’m really sorry. Of course you can plan the bachelor party, Mr. Robuckle!”

I guess word spreads fast once you’ve slammed some dude’s head in a closing elevator door. Especially if that dude is already in a wheelchair. It’s funny that they’re all scared of me, because we all know I’m really just a big teddy bear. I think if you look at the facts of that situation, you would see that crip totally had it coming.

So I planned the festivities, got someone to “volunteer” their house for the occasion and even sent out an Evite to all my friends and some of his too. At first, some of his pals seemed reluctant to partake and things got pretty heated, but they saw the error of their ways eventually. I don’t even remember what I said to most of them that made them change their mind, I was tweaking pretty hard.

So the big day comes and I’m way under budget, by 3 or 400 bucks. How did you achieve this miracle of financial wizardry, Chad Robuckle, you ask?

Simple, I took the stripper money and spent it on something else.

But that doesn’t make any sense, Chad Robuckle, you just told us you love strippers.

That is true and if you question my authority one more goddam time I am going to throw you through a plate glass fucking window on the second floor of this building because I don’t want you to die on impact, I want you to be a fucking vegetable who is a burden on his family, causes them to go broke and lives on for another 40 or 50 years. I want your wife to resent the fact that she can’t divorce you cuz she’d look like a heartless bitch. I want your kids to hate you for the lives you were never able to give them.

Are we clear?

So anyway, I love strippers. What I don’t love is Mexicans. And paying for strippers. So I don’t.

Everyone gets to the party and they’re pretty impressed. They’re all asking who’s house it is and beats the fuck out of me if I know, so I make up some story about my uncle and tell nobody to go in the master bedroom, that yellow police tape is there for a reason.

Things get pretty uncomfortable as everyone realizes they’re in the infamous “McKenzie Murder House” they have heard about on the news. See, that’s the difference between me and everyone else. I see opportunity, I see a free fucking house to have a party in, where they see “the mansion that was the scene of a brutal quadruple murder/suicide”.

They start talking about “bad vibes” and getting freaked out but just as I’m about to tell them they’re going to get some bad vibes real soon if they keep that shit up, the doorbell rings.

The stripper comes in, alone, which is one of the perks of having a real nice house. The escort service figures they’ve got one over on you, coming to your nice house in the richest part of town. They know you’re not going to screw them over because then you’ve gotta explain to the cops why you’re having strippers over to your house on a Saturday night while your wife is out of town visiting her sick mother while you’re forced to work the whole weekend.

So she comes in and she’s pretty hot. Everyone is really excited and Marcos, who is pretty drunk, comes up to me and tells me that he was honestly pretty worried when he heard I would be throwing his party, but that he is now really impressed that I pulled it off.

Normally I would “pull off” his fucking tongue for speaking to me like that, but I figured, hey, he’s drunk and it’s his bachelor party. He’s getting married, he’s gonna need that tongue, so I let it slide. Like I said, I’m a softie.

This girl is a pro so she immediately starts asking for her money, but that was part of my plan from the beginning. I low-ball her by 200 bucks and she makes for the door to go get “Bunny”, claiming this is a non-negotiable deal.

I put my arm around her and assure her that everything is negotiable. I can tell she’s about to freak out so I offer up some of my coke stash and that seems to calm her down. It was very important to my plan that she got that “coke” in her body and washed it down with plenty of “vodka tonics”.

Well that definitely got her in a better mood and she decides she’s going to dance for the agreed-upon rate, but I really wasn’t interested in that. Luckily, the Dilithium Pentasocal I gave her kicks in pretty quickly.

She excuses herself and runs off to the bathroom. The guys are all riled up at this point and kinda bummed they’re gonna have to wait another five minutes but I tell them not to worry, the party is really gonna get started right now.

I flip on the big screen and at first everyone is kinda puzzled as to what they’re looking at. But once she walks into frame and drops her knickers around her ankles and sits down on the pot, they see what’s going on.

Immediately, five or six of Mark’s buddies head for the door, exclaiming that they’re going to be sick. “Have fun sucking each other off in the driveway, you fags!” I tell them as I settle in on the couch with Mark to watch the festivities.

Well at this point, he leans over and pukes all over the floor. Lucky for him, he didn’t get any on my shoes. Things kinda go downhill from there.

I guess I gave her too much Dilithium Pentasocal cuz she sorta falls off the toilet and proceeds to make a pretty big mess. The worst part is, the way she was lying on the ground, you couldn’t even see any good stuff.

Pretty much everyone else makes a beeline for the door at that point. A few suckers stay to make sure she wasn’t dead, I tell them I’ll be there in a minute.

Naturally, the sight of 20 guys fleeing a mansion 15 minutes after a hot stripper enters it is going to be cause for some alarm in the mind of any chaperone for such an event and Bunny was no exception.

He grabs me, as I’m the ringleader and demands to know what’s going on. I decide to be honest and tell him that two jokers showed up and thought it would be funny to slip this bitch some Dilithium Pentasocal, only they didn’t trust the guy in the van down by the park when he told them to use just a little so they gave her the whole thing and now she’s passed out in the bathroom and they’re trying to have sex with her.

He hears this and off he goes. I figured everything would just sort itself out and as I was getting into my car, the gunshots I heard confirmed my assumption.

Work has been pretty great since that day, which was an added bonus. No one dares finger me for the whole thing, because they know they’d go down with me for sixteen to seventeen months minimum and these guys all have families and shit.

A dead stripper and two paralyzed friends is a small price to pay for Mark’s happiness. And by happiness, I mean me telling his fiancee about the whole thing and she deciding to call off the wedding.

You’re free, pal. And you’re welcome.