the black cocaine

My Business Partner, Neil Patrick Harris.

August 22nd, 2010

doctor stupendous


Rarely can a man reach the end of his life and be satisfied, looking back upon the landscapes, the ups and downs, the loves and losses, without having been, at some moment in that careening cinematic, his own employer. A few months ago I caught the business itch. I caught it bad. I got the indecipherably illogical need to take upon myself a large amount of responsibility and hardship that, in exchange for such a meager payoff, usually destroys, or at best permanently scars, the souls of so many failed business owners, and quite a number of successful ones. Of course, being not completely out of my mind, I decided I must have a business partner, and a reliable one. So there I was, sitting at home on my oversized purple leather easy chair, thumbing through my rolodex, when I suddenly got a fateful call on the Golden Phone. It was none other than my old friend, Neil Patrick Harris.

You may have heard of this character. Neil Patrick Harris is that guy who played the kid doctor on television. He was also the actor who discovered that the giant ugly brain bug was afraid in Stormship Troopers. More recently, he snubbed a plan to aid the starving homeless in order to join a club of ridiculous evil villains as Dr. Horrible. No, I’m not talking about Doogie Howser here. That was a different horrible doctor. Seriously, it would be horrible to have a kid as your doctor. I don’t know what I would do. Probably sue somebody. I’m being honest. That idea sucks.

Anyway, it was by pure and beautiful kismet that the phone rang at that moment. “Yo, Chuck,” said Neil Patrick Harris. “What’s up old buddy?””Not much, Neil Patrick Harris,” I said, “just sitting here at my desk looking through my rolodex. I’m trying to start a business. What about you?”

“What a strange coincidence,” replied Neil Patrick Harris, “I was just calling you to tell you how much I would love it if there was a pizza shop on the first floor of my apartment building, because I am super hungry for pizza right now! I am sitting here in sheer disbelief that some dumbass has not even thought to open one here. We should start one!”

“Wow, that is a coincidence,” I said. “Do you have any business experience?”

“No,” he said, chewing on a piece of food. “Let’s do this. Come over.”

“Where do you live again, Neil Patrick Harris?” I asked.

“You know the giant golden hand downtown holding up that humungous ruby-encrusted egg?


“In the egg. Call me when you get here.”

Within a few days we had a location. Neil Patrick Harris is a remarkably resourceful person when it comes to convincing city officials to go along with his ideas. A storefront out on the main stretch of the arts district became our new shop, and with my money and NPH’s aggressive wit, we had a full working kitchen up in order within 48 hours of securing the spot. “Now all we need, Chuck,” he said to me, “is a name.” He was right. In a business like a pizza shop, the name is what gets people in the door. The food is what keeps them coming back.

“You know, Neil Patrick Harris, I hadn’t really thought about this yet. What about Neil Patrick Harris and Chuck’s Famous Pies? Or what about-”

“Pizza Dick,” said Neil Patrick Harris.

“What?” I asked.

“The shop is called Pizza Dick,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.


So began the pizza parlor known as Pizza Dick. I never questioned the name at first, but business was pretty poor, and we hadn’t even sold 10 pizzas in the first week, despite the fact that Neil Patrick Harris was standing out front the whole time, saying “Hey, I’m Doogie Howser, come to my pizza shop you blowhards. Come on!” I confronted him about it. “What’s the deal with the name,” I asked. “I mean I’m just shooting in the dark, here, but it doesn’t really… grab me. What does it mean?” Neil Patrick Harris looked at me like a velociraptor. “Listen, Chuck,” he said, “it’s simple. It’s from this one time when I ate so much pizza that I was unable to get it up with my girlfriend. I was too full to fuck. I had Pizza Dick. I want everyone to be able to eat so much pizza that they are too full to fuck. And I want to sell them that pizza. Pizza Dick.”

“But aren’t you gay?” I asked.


“I think we need a slogan,” I suggested.

Neil Patrick Harris thought for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “A slogan is exactly what we need.”

“What about…”

“Pizza Dick. Suck It.” he said.

I hesitated to agree, but this is Neil Patrick Harris we’re talking about.

As you might imagine, business did not immediately pick up. Neil Patrick Harris even stood outside and handed out fliers. I will grant that the fliers were pretty ingenious. It consisted of two pizzas connected to a foil-lined cardboard tube of pizza cheese. The slogan worked into the flier design, too, because if you followed the directions, “Suck It,” and put the tip of the flier in your mouth and squeezed the pizzas, you got a mouth full of hot pizza cheese. I approached him as he was showing the flier to a pair of 14-year olds. “See, kids,” he demonstrated, “the cheese gets hard when it cools down so you have to rub it a lot in your hands to warm it up. Like this.” I touched his shoulder to get him to stop what he was about to do.

“Neil Patrick Harris,” I said, “I think we need to have a talk.”

“You’re right, Chuck,” he said. “Meet me in my office.”

“Speaking of which, when do I get my own office?” I asked.

“When you’re Neil Patrick Fucking Harris,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, I met him in his office on the top floor of the building. As I walked in, he was on his cell phone, feet propped up on the desk, smoking a cigarette. I watched sadly as he tried to shove a burrito into his mouth at the same time as he was smoking and talking, and it didn’t really work, but it looked kind of funny.”What’s so funny, Chuck?” asked Neil Patrick Harris.”Nothing. Just the way you’re trying to smoke, talk and eat at the same time. I thought it was funny,” I said.

“It fucking isn’t,” he said. “What’s funny is our profit margin. Have you looked at this paperwork?” he asked as he pointed to a pink sheet of printer paper.

“I am the one who collated the data, yes, I have seen our profits. They are pretty slim. That is what I wanted to discuss with you,” I said.

“What we have, Chuck,” he began, “is a solid business model, an attention-grabbing name, a catchy slogan, and ingenious promotional materials. What we’re lacking? Good pizza. Our pizza sucks. It tastes like Luke Skywalker just got done eating out Princess Leia on Tatooine, got all that sweaty Romulan juice on his face and kissed his cat in the asshole, which then got eaten by a fifty foot shark, and shit out and puked up all over ancient Egypt, sat around for a few thousand years until it was mummified ancient puked up shit cat, scraped off the pyramid and shipped directly to our shop.” He then stared at me unwaveringly as he took three drags from his cigarette. “Do you know what that tastes like?”

“No,” I replied.

“It tastes like garbage, trust me. What we need is a new chef,” he said.

“No,” I interjected, feeling a wash of courage take hold. “It doesn’t taste anything like that, actually. It tastes good. I like it. It’s actually some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. I would even call it delicious. No, Neil Patrick Harris, the problem isn’t the pizza at all. The problem, frankly, is you. The name of the shop sucks, the slogan is horrible, and the fliers are sexually suggestive and probably illegal. This business is failing because you are a terrible businessman.” I began to sweat. I could feel the laser-like gaze trace the lines of my trembling face. I felt a showdown was imminent.

To my surprise, he calmly put out his cigarette, put down the burrito, closed the cell phone, stood up, straightened his shirt, and cleared his throat. “Chuck,” he said, “Chuck, Chuck, Chuck… old friend. Buddy. Listen. I know. This is a stressful venture we’ve thrown ourselves into. It’s natural to freak out like this. It’s ok. I understand. Listen. Let’s take a little break, to put this all in perspective. We’ll close the shop, go out for some food, hire some hookers and get a hotel. Come on.”

I was taken aback. I wasn’t sure what to say. I agreed. That night, we went out to an Egyptian pizza joint, and had some of the best pizza in town. When I was full, he insisted on ordering more. And more still. He was behaving so generously, paying for everything. I began to relax a little. After eating about four pizzas apiece, we called the hookers, and booked a room at the Ritz-Carlton downtown. “Neil Patrick Harris,” I asked, “aren’t we going to grab some beer and cocaine?”

“No,” he said. “We have to open the shop early in the morning. We want to feel our best.”

I agreed. So, I went to my room at the Ritz, turned on the television, and ordered some porn. A half hour later, the hooker showed up. She was stunning for a prostitute. I mean, she looked like a model. “Wow,” I said. “Neil Patrick Harris doesn’t fuck around.” “No he doesn’t, baby,” she replied. She said her name was Eufrati, and she had an absolutely perfect body that just sent my head spinning. But when she unzipped my pants, something was wrong. There was no evidence I was even enjoying myself. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked. “Need a little help?” She proceeded to offer said help, but nothing. I was confused. And startled. What was happening to me? “I… I don’t know what’s wrong,” I said.”Are you drunk?” she asked.”No.””Been doing blow?””Nope. Nothing. I haven’t had anything but… but… oh god.”

Just then the door burst open with a crack, and there standing in the hallway was Neil Patrick Harris, wearing nothing below the waist, his limp junk dangling like a dead worm. Beside him was an equally beautiful prostitute, naked, and giggling profusely. Immediately Neil Patrick Harris, his nostrils coated in fine white powder, and whiskey on his breath, shot out his arm, pointed directly at my face, smiled his trademark smile and shouted, at the top of his lungs:


I realized then that our mistake had been neither the name of the shop, nor the slogan, nor even the pizza itself. No, the mistake had been our entire lives.

In the Shadow of the Centaur (with Robert Downey, Jr.)

July 2nd, 2010

robo downo junio

this is a lunatic.

Traditionally, Sunday mornings are known in the Christian world as the Lord’s day, and as such, in absence of war or famine, should be enjoyed as days of no more than the most pleasant of toils in the eastern countryside of Ireland. Sundays are one of the grateful facilities awarded to those who do good work, and one with which, regrettably, my counterpart, Robert Downey, Jr., is not familiar. Such were my thoughts as I was rousted from a wonderful dream of bathing in a geyser of warm goat’s milk with four beautiful nymphs. I was cranky and did not enjoy being parted from my soft sheepswool blankets in the first light of morning; but there I was, as always, at the service of my friend. “What hour is it,” I asked in a groggy frog’s voice, “and why, by God, are you waking me up?”

“Chuck,” said Robert, “come on, we haven’t a moment to lose. All the unwashed masses in County Carlow are abuzz about it. They’ve found one! They’ve finally found one, I’ve waited all my life for this!” I could vaguely see his soot-smeared grin in the slanted light of morning. A cool tongue of breeze licked my neck, a soothing mingle of sensation against the burn of the sun, and reminded me that I could have been in bed, back in the milk geyser with the nymphs. “Found what?” I grumbled. “Oh, but that is the surprise, Chuck. I cannot tell you yet. Not even the mob outside know yet the wonders they will behold. Come quick, to Ballymoon castle!”

In 1341, the castle Ballymoon in County Carlow was a more impressive sight than it is today. Glimmering portcullis adorned in polished ash and ebony, stables housing beautiful Irish Draught Stallions curtained its flanks, and even a barbican of expertly-hewn stone and a gatehouse stood out front. It was the sort of morning where you have just begun to feel the cool air of the coming autumn and the countryside, though still lit like the summer day, has begun to smell of lavender and smoke, and sends one’s mind wandering back to the droll parties of the harvest. It was only this which prevented me from slapping Robert on the face, spitting upon the dewy grass and tramping angrily back to my cottage. In fact, my mood had picked up considerably and I was almost happily pulled along to the castle. “Robert,” I said, “if you won’t tell me what it is we’re going to see, I’ll turn around right now.” I wasn’t serious, but my curiosity was beginning to win over my freshly stirred mind.

He stopped with a deliberate step and whirled around to face me. “My God, Chuck, it’s true what they say about you.” “What do they say about me?” I asked, with a tone accusing him of being about to invent some hogwash to infuriate my sensibilities. It was a skill he had learned well over the years, and one which I had lately been able to begin seeing through, although he didn’t know that. I played along for the sport. “They say,” he said, “that you’d no more take an interest in the curios of the world around you than you would in the bare walls of your own sleeping chamber. Your sense of adventure is wilting, and everyone can sense it. If you’d rather lie in your squalid little cottage and dream about eating plain bread, you’re no use to me and you can begone right now. I’ve got a discovery to make!”

“Compose yourself, Robert,” I refuted, “of course I will follow you into adventure any day. It is my curiosity which hornswoggles you! What you say is quite the opposite- I would rather die than be bored in this world, but I was so excited to know what this walk will bring that I simply could not wait to know. If you insist, Robert, I will follow!” With that, his face cinched into a knowing smirk and he wheeled back around, hastening his already brisk pace on the path to Ballymoon as my quick feet sent up clouds of orange earth behind us.

As we approached the fortifications of the castle I could see that a crowd had gathered out front, as Robert had said. Not a huge crowd, as not only was County Carlow sparse in numbers back then, but communication was quite slow. In this countryside it could be days even before anyone in the entire county would hear if the crown had changed heads. But there was a good mob of villagers here, I estimated them to be three score and ten, give or take a farmer. The pair of us made way for the portcullis, which was raised into its groove. If Robert was to be no help, then, I decided to inquire of the villagers. “What is the commotion,” I asked a muddy maiden in burlap summer gowns. “Did not ye hear?” she shrilled back to me, “they ‘ave ’em a real loife centaur, up in the belfry, and no mistakin’ this toim! ‘Es a real one, I seen ‘er! All tits ‘n ‘ooves!” “A centaur, you say,” I replied, my brows furrowed. “Robert!” I yelled into the swollen crowd ahead, “surely you don’t believe in this nonsense! A centaur? A fairy-tale animal?” I was accosted by a farmer in his thirties. “Aye, an if ye dun believe, ye can git ye a glimpse shortly, me lad! They’re aboot ta crack ‘er outta the tower, jost ye wait!” Disgusted by his breath, I coughed into the crook of my elbow and tried to keep up with Robert.

The throng was unruly and foul, but by hanging on to Robert’s hand, I was led by the sheer force of his will through the crowd and right up into the bell tower, where a small cavalry of uniformed men stood about, holding everyone back. “Have ya got her out yet?” screamed Robert over the noise. “Not yet, mister Downey Junior, sir, but they’re aboot ta loosen th’ stone right now!” It would appear that two carpenter men on wooden ladders were prying at the stone ceiling of the tower with iron hooks, sending chips of grout to sprinkle over the hay floor.

“You see, Chuck,” Robert said to me as he stared up at the ceiling, “the poor thing got spooked a few days ago by a couple of drunk teenagers over at McAllister’s, who chased her all the way here, to Ballymoon castle. She was so full of the fear of God that she managed to gallop right up into the top of the bell tower and crash through the scotspine drainage gate. But the drain port on the side of the tower is too small for even a badger to squeeze through, so she’s been stuck in there since. The night watchmen were alerted to her presence by the incessant scratching of hooves and cries for help. At first, their bosses shrugged it off as a ghost tale, but after the teenagers at McAllister’s came forward, there was no doubt about it- a centaur was caught in the Ballymoon belfry! So you see, Chuck, we had to be here.”
With that, a deafening crack was heard overhead, as the two men with hooks bent over double on their ladders and shielded their eyes from the sudden shower of grout and stone chips. Following the crack was a heavy, bowel-shaking groan, and I could see the huge stone ceiling of the bell tower rock in place as one end, then the other, came falling right through thin air, and a pregnant second later hit the floor with a quaking thud that sent us all scrabbling for a wall or a peasant to grab ahold of. As the dust cleared, there appeared in the center of the stone a large figure, human but not so. From her waist up she was a woman; that much was obvious. But the lower part of her was certainly equine, covered in a thin layer of brown fur, her four muscular legs ending in dusty, scratched hooves.

I gaped in awe. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Was it true? Was the mythical creature of children’s tales really laying here before me? But there could be no mistake.

Before I was able to fully register what I was seeing, Robert bounded forward, past the shouting guards and kneeled right beside the creature. He bowed over her like a lover discovering his deceased spouse, sliding his hand to the back of her head under her hair, and caressing her cheek with his thumb. Everyone paused and watched, as we were now sure there must be something more to the story, some connection between Robert and the beautiful beast. Not a breath was drawn as he put his face close to hers. Suddenly, he looked up at us. “Still warm!” he yelled. And with that, stood up and untied the rope holding up his trousers, which dropped into the settled dust, revealing his prominent wangsausage. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life!”

And to our horror, the substance fiend known as Robert Downey, Jr., fell to his knees behind the creature and befouled her most aggresively, pumping her like a mad hare, as though nobody were watching. The crowd reflexively shrank back, and Robert grabbed the centaur’s hair as he sped up his ritual. And then, as if noticing the crowd, his head turned to us, and without missing a stroke, he yelled, “CAN I GET A LITTLE PRIVACY, HERE?”

Of course, Robert, you wonderful creature. Godspeed.

My Vacation with Oprah Winfrey.

June 4th, 2010


oh god.

It is not often that I am able to tear myself away from work these days. With my full-time job, and all the projects that I am involved in on top of that, I scarcely have even a Saturday afternoon to lie in the proverbial hammock and drink proverbial lemonade under the proverbial sun. A vacation, however, when thrust upon you, is not something to ignore.

Several weeks ago I received a call from a mysterious woman named Gale King, whom I did not know, but who got my phone number somehow, probably because I am internet famous these days. She dialed me in tears, obviously in a chasm of distress. When I tried to put on my soothing voice to comfort her, she only responded in anger. It would seem that her best friend, Oprah Winfrey, had told her that they were not best friends anymore, but that I was now her best friend, and that Gale was only her second-best friend. “I am just calling to tell you,” she sobbed, “that the boat is coming to get you… MY BOAT!” She then continued wailing hysterically, tears spattering all over her doubtlessly ugly dress. “What do you mean,” I inquired. “I paid for that boat with my own money that Oprah gave me! But now Oprah wants you to go on vacation with her instead of me, so… so… just… just go! Oh, and… bring your gun. And only two bullets.” And she hung up. I was a little confused, but I did not let it distract me from my strip poker game with Megan Fox, who was definitely already naked.

We were at that stage where she had nothing else to take off, so when she lost her next hand, we were trying to think of something she could do. This triumphant moment was destroyed when I heard a knock at the door. Annoyed, I got up and approached the door, wearing nothing but a shirt, tie, dinner jacket, top hat, monocle, argyle socks, shoes, and white gloves, but no pants or underwear. At the door was a yacht captain, who informed me that Oprah was aboard and that we were to set sail immediately. “Aboard what,” I asked. “What yacht? We are in Kansas, a landlocked state.” “Ms. Winfrey has provided transportation,” he told me. Behind him was an above-ground water channel which had been built right to my door, in which were three glorious dolphins. On one of the dolphins sat the wicked billionaire herself, Oprah Winfrey, in a dazzlingly grotesque one-piece sequined rubber bathing suit. She waved at me. “GET ON YOUR DOLPHIN, CHUCK,” she screamed, “WE’RE GOIN’ TO THE SEAAAA!!!!”

After apologizing quickly to Ms. Fox at the table, who was definitely as naked as you can get, I threw on some shorts and ran out the door, being sure to grab my revolver from the secret drawer of the china cabinet in the foyer. “You won’t be needing that firearm, sir,” said the captain. “Oh yes we will,” I replied, using that tone mostly because I was completely drunk from all the whiskey I had drank off of Megan Fox’s body. I hopped aback the shimmering cetacean and we were off. The water channel was meticulously constructed and led all the way to the west coast, which was a very long journey to go to a yacht, I thought. “Don’t worry,” said Oprah. “But how will they make it to the coast in any reasonable time,” I asked. “That is like two thousand miles away!” “No,” Oprah said, “these are special dolphins. They were purchased from Robert Downey, Jr.’s special dolphin ranch.” For a moment I failed to realize what this could have to do with the stamina of the dolphins, but then it made sense. “Oh,” I said. “Yes,” said Oprah, “they are full of cocaine.”

When we arrived at the coast, a yacht made of ivory and gold awaited us. Oprah’s dolphin flipper kicked her aboard, but I opted to use the ladder. The captain back flipped off of his dolphin and landed at the helm. “Where to, Ms. Winfrey?” he asked. “Just take us out to the open sea, Jeeves, and I’ll take it from there.” “Excuse me, Ms. Winfrey,” he said, “take it from there? But I am the captain.” “Yes,” said Oprah, “but when we get out into international waters, I am going to demote you to first mate.” The captain did as she asked, because she was vice president of the world somehow, and we set sail for the open waters of the pacific.

When we got to about 25 nautical miles off the coast of San Francisco, Oprah, with opalescent margarita dripping from her lips, turned to me and said, “I trust you have that gun, Chuck.” I did. I said that I did. “Give it here, ok?” she said. I caught the crazy in her eye for a moment, but I was unable to refuse the world’s most powerful woman. I complied, reaching into my waistband and withdrawing the revolver. With the power of a gun athlete, she removed it from my hand and stood up, placed the gun at the back of the captain’s head, and blasted his confused thoughts all over the pearly steering wheel of the yacht. Fragments of his scalp and skull atomized into a bloody plume that slapped to the deck with a wet sound. She handed the gun back to me. “Now,” she said in a deep red tone, “we hunt the whale.” My widened eyes were all the response she needed. She stepped confidently forward and seized the pink, wet steering wheel, planting her stubby legs atop the dead sea captain’s lifeless body. I knew then that we would not be coming back.

For three weeks we scoured those frightful waters miles beyond the ghosts of Alcatraz, through blazing sun and battering storm. Oprah had not accounted for food supplies – or, perhaps, she had, – for we had begun to cut apart the flesh of the dead captain and cook it in the yacht’s George Foreman grill below deck. At first it was difficult to stomach the stringy tendons and fatty slabs of human steak, especially considering the strange texture and spongy toughness of the meat and how long I had to endure that taste in my mouth. But after the initial few days my will to survive took over that dark part of my mind that tells me how it’s wrong. Soon, other moral objections followed those down the dark, inky drain as well. At night, Oprah would use me to relieve the build-up of insane frustration that amounted from her failure to locate the whale, and during those sessions I would become little more than a mindless doll to her, a sick plaything. It is those times I recall most vividly. The grinding of her coarse fatty skin against me and the guttural slapping of wet flab still haunts me. I would trade those memories for a lifetime in prison. However, these experiences could not possibly prepare me for the horrors that awaited us out there on the open sea, our tiny yacht nothing more than a white dot on the blue universe of water.

Near the end of the third week on the open sea, the arid sun having nearly dried my reddened hide, my bleached clothing threadbare and hardened with salt air, we encountered the whale. Oprah was as jubilant that morning as she’d been since we set sail, but when she spotted the beast through the spyglass that afternoon, the drool just glistened at the corner of her hungry maw. “Brace the mizzen mast!” she screamed, “close haul on the port track! THAR SHE BLOWS!!” It was all my sun-stained eyes could do to take in the massive wash of blue-gray skin breaching the sparkling ocean waves. “But Oprah,” my sandpaper voice croaked, “we’ve only one more bullet. My revolver had only the two, on instruction from Gale.” Her giant evil head swiveled around slowly to meet my wavy gaze. “We’re not here to kill the whale, Chuck.” My confusion was barely noticeable over my lifeless fatigue. “Then… why are we hunting the whale?” I asked. The massive head swiveled back towards the behemoth ahead and tilted back to let out one single ominous, skin-crawling cackle. Suddenly, her grip tightened on the boom and threw it hard to port. The boat lurched and picked up hellish speed and we began to build up speed straight at the whale, which seemed to be swimming straight at us head-on. I was hardly able to clutch the gunwale before she stomped right up to me, grabbing my collar and pulling my leathery face up to meet her grease-covered jaws, screaming, “WE’RE GOING IN, CHUCK!”

The next thing I knew the water around us began to spill hard downwards as the shadow of the beast’s head obscured the sun and threw the boat into darkness. This horrifying scene lasted only seconds before we were swept into the throat of the leviathan, the feeling not unlike the semi-weightless sensation of the drop of a rollercoaster. I screamed a frog-like scream as we dropped straight into darkness, knowing the whole fall that the last few seconds would be the last I would ever see of the sun. The yacht crashed hard against the stomach cavity of the whale, and I was thrown hard against wet, spongy innards. Recoiling from the sudden stop at the end of the fall, I was able to scrabble to my knees, feeling the soft ground stretch and twist under my knees, my hands grabbing at slick mucous stomach lining, and then a rush of hot fluid washed around my knees, and I could tell from the burning sensation that this was the whale’s stomach acid. I knew death would be long and painful. Already my ankles and knees began to tingle and burn, as my useless eyes searched blindly in the pitch black cave for some sign that this was not the end. Against the background of the reverberating, cavernous groans of the beast’s innards, I could hear Oprah’s steps, squish-squishing mere feet away, coming towards me. I could not in a billion years fathom the intent of her descent into this cave of death below the sea, much less her purpose for forcing me along in her suicide escapade, so over my reeling thoughts of torture and fury I asked her with my croaking throat, “why?”

And in a blaze, match-light sizzled to life before me as she lit the candles of a cake on a small wooden table, rocking back and forth on the uncertain stomach muscle. Above the burning orange and yellow-white of the frosting I could see Oprah’s insane, soulless eyes drilling right into my skull as she screamed into my face, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHUCK!” Instantly, I forgot my ire, pain and fatigue, and gave her the biggest mucous covered slime hug I could manage with the last ounce of my strength, and hissed, “you… remembered.” With my dying breath, I blew out the candles. Death came painfully and filled with yummy bites of cake. The last thing I heard was the explosion and echo of the revolver as Oprah took her life.

Captain Picard is Not a Racist

March 27th, 2010


A Star Trek: The Next Generation fanfiction

Captain Picard was in his ready room one day, having a glass of chocolate milk to start off his day. It was very early in the morning and he was feeling tired because he was stupid and drank Earl Grey hot all night and it kept him up. “You would have thought that caffeine wouldn’t exist in the future,” he said to himself. Suddenly, he was rang up by his commander Riker. “Beep boop. Riker to Picard. There is an incoming hail from Star Fleet. Super high priority.” Picard got annoyed for a second but then he remembered his responsibilities. “Okay, number one. Put it through to my ready room.”

“Captain, with all due respect, this deserves the attention of all bridge officers,” Riker said. He was right, thought Picard, but if he wasn’t careful one of these days he was going to get phasered in the dick for this kind of thing. “I’ll be right in, number one.”
“All senior officers to the bridge,” monotoned the bald captain. The doors went swoosh, and Picard walked on to the bridge. Then Worf opened a channel. A beautiful woman in a red uniform filled the main view screen. “Admiral Briggs, what can we do for you today?” asked Picard. Admiral Briggs was played by Natalie Portman. Her smile widened. “Captain Picard,” she said to Picard, “a pleasure to see you again. How’s that old jackhammer running these days? Due for an oil change, yet?” She winked. Picard’s face became red. “I, uh, assume you’re talking about the Enterprise, of course,” he said. “No, I can assure you mister LaForge has her in full working order.” “I’ll bet he does,” winked Admiral Briggs.
Then, her smile became a frown. “I have an important mission for you, Captain. Reports are coming in from our base on Maximus IV that the Klingons are driving their ships too close to the base and playing their Klingon music really loud, as well as playing with their battle swords out in the street where all the rich Humans live and can see them and are getting scared. We need the Enterprise to fly over there and take care of this.”
“What do you expect us to do,” asked Picard, “are they breaking any laws?”
“No,” said Briggs, “but usually when Starfleet shows up they sort of scatter. Could you just fly over there and stand around with your phasers for a little while?”
“Captain,” said Worf.
“Not now, Worf,” said Picard. “Admiral,  may I ask again what the Klingons are doing wrong?”
“Captain,” said Briggs, “Humans put a lot of hard work into gentrifying Maximus IV, and we really don’t want the Klingons thinking they can just hang out there and play their music and drink Klingon Bloodwine in open containers everywhere. We need to put our foot down. Can you just fly over there for us?”
Captain Picard looked thoughtful for a moment. He looked at Commander Riker, but he was just displaying his usual dumb look because he never understands what is going on. I swear to god, thought Picard, I need to punch Riker in the mouth later. He looked back at the TV. “Admiral Briggs, the Enterprise is at your service. We’ll be happy to warp to over there and see if everything is in order. Picard out.” Natalie Portman’s beautiful face disappeared from the TV and it changed the channel to just the stars outside.
“Sir,” began Worf. Picard turned around to face his Klingon tactical officer. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Worf,” said Picard, “I don’t agree with it either. But I am not about to defy Starfleet’s orders when we haven’t been ordered to do anything but fly out to a planet and just hang out there. Besides, perhaps this will give us an opportunity to strengthen Human-Klingon relations.”
“I would like to strengthen some Human-Klingon relations, if you know what I mean,” said Counselor Troi. Riker looked at her sharply. “Is that what you want?” he said. “A little Klingon action? A big dick with ridges all over it?”
“Klingon dicks do NOT have ridges,” said Worf. “I wasn’t talking to you,” said Riker.
“Gentlemen,” said Picard. “We’ll not have any bickering on my bridge, understood?”
Klingon dicks actually do have ridges but Worf was circumsized by his Human foster parents.
“Ensign, set a course for Maximus IV, warp factor 7.”
“Aye, sir,” said Wesley Crusher.
“Engage,” said Captain Picard.
Outside, the big spaceship’s engines glowed blue and then the Enterprise shot off into the center of the screen and went “zzsshheeooop.”
“Captain,” said Riker, “I agree with the Admiral. Those Humans have worked hard to make Maximus IV a decent place to live again. What if the Klingons start moving in?”
“Then that is their right,” said Captain.
“It’s not right,” said Riker, shaking his head.
“That’s it,” said Picard.
“What’s it, sir?” asked Riker.
“Commander,” said Picard, “permission to act off the record.”
“You don’t need my permission, captain,” said Riker.
“Damn right I don’t”, said Picard, and he slugged him in the face so hard his stupid beard almost fell off. Worf began laughing a hearty Klingon laugh and pulled out his phaser. He shot Riker in the stomach and Riker fell to the ground.
“Mister Worf, that was excessive,” said Picard. Troi was gasping in horror. “It was set on stun,” said Worf.
“No it wasn’t,” winked Georgi LaForge.
“What, excessive, or set on stun?” asked Picard.
“Both,” said Geordi.

The next scene is just about Picard talking to Troi about his feelings. You know.

A few hours later, the Enterprise docked at the planet Maximus IV. Picard had to be careful in putting together his away team, so he selected Commander Data, Lieutenant Worf and himself. This is pretty much the standard away team that we always use, thought Picard, with the exception of Riker, who is in sickbay right now. He smiled to himself. Then he frowned and pressed on his communicator. “Picard to Doctor Crusher,” he said.
“Crusher here,” said Beverly.
“Is Riker concious yet?” he asked.
“Not yet, Captain,” she said. “You guys got him pretty good.”
“Do me a favor,” said the Captain, “switch his hands, so that his right hand is on his left arm and vice versa. That’ll fuck with his head.”
“This may be the future,” said Crusher, “but men are still assholes. I’m not doing that to a healthy Human being.”
“Then do it to Counselor Troi,” lol’d Picard. “Picard out.”

Then the transporters beamed them all down to the planet. In front of them, a group of Klingons was sitting on the stoop of a house just hanging around. When they saw the Starfleet officers, they began to stand up. “We have done nothing wrong,” said one of the Klingons. “Why does Starfleet send its police here?”
“I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the starship Enterprise,” said Picard. “We are not here to police anybody.”
“Then why are you here,” asked another Klingon.
Picard was silent. He obviously didn’t know what he was going to say.
“We are here,” said Data, “to inquire of you the location of a vendor of some quality hydro, or some good chronic, or perhaps a few ounces of some phat purple, so that we may get us some sticky-icky.”
The biggest Klingon stood up. “YOU HAVE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE, ANDROID,” he bellowed.
Picard was taken aback by the exchange. “That’s right,” he said. “We um, have come to make a purchase, or perhaps a barter of some kind.”
“WHAT WOULD A HUMAN HAVE TO OFFER US?” asked the big one.
Picard said, “well, that depends on what you have to offer us.”
“That’ll do,” said Picard.
Picard was thoughtful for a moment. Then he raised an eyebrow, and tapped his communicator thing. “Picard to the Enterprise,” he said.
“Riker here,” came the response.
Picard smiled really big. “Beam down Counselor Troi for me, Number One.”

The Klingons all smiled and started taking their pants off. And then Star Trek was cancel.


“Shredder’s Day”

January 12th, 2010

a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fanfiction

by chuck
At the counter of a Papa John’s pizza delivery thing on some dirty corner in Manhattan, a phone rang.
“Papa John,” said the man.
“Hello, can I place an order for delivery please, ?” said Shredder.
“Whatcha want,” said the man.
“Can I please order a large pizza with pickles, peppers, pepperonis, pierogies, pineapple, parmesean, and penis” said Shredder.
“What?” said the man.
“Just kidding,” said Shredder.

Krang touched Shredder on his shoulder with his disgusting brain tentacle and said “Shredder, get them to put some poison on that, because it is for the turtles.”


“Whatchu want,” said papa John.
Shredder said, “put some… put some gay porn… under the cheese.”
“What’s the address?” said the man.
“The sewer,” LOL’ed Shredder.

The game was on.

Meanwhile, back in the sewer, Donatello was deep in meditation in the dirty corner. He was meditating on how to break into the Technodrome and hack into their computers and disable their lasers. Then April O’Neill knocked on the door and his meditation was ruined.

When Donatello opened the door, April was panting because she was out of shape. “There is something I have to tell you,” she said. “I’m pregnant.” Donatello was upset. He thought the baby was his.

The truth was that nobody would ever be able to tell whose baby it was, out of all the turtles. Because they all had the same DNA because of mutagen and because April was kind of a slut. “No,” she said, “it isn’t a baby turtle, don’t worry.”

Donatello was confuse. “Then what is it?” he asked.

“It is a baby rat.” Said April.

Then the door bell of the sewer rang and Raphael answered the door sarcastically. “What is it now?” he sneered. “Pizza” said papa John. “We didn’t order any pizza but give it to me,” said Raphael. He took it to the dojo where Leonardo and Michaelangelo were being taught virtues by master Splinter. “Here is some anonymous pizza,” said Raphael. Michaelangelo immediately just dug in because it couldn’t be poisoned at all.

Then they noticed the gay porn inside and pulled it out. They stared at it with their jaws agape. Splinter said, “now I am sure the baby isn’t any of yours you faggots.”

Meanwhile, back in the Technodrome, Krang was upset because he didn’t have a body. “Make me a body, Shredder.” he said. “Why” say Shredder. “Because I have a date, from” said Krang. Shredder was thoughtful for a moment. He wants to help Krang get on with his life because he is only a disgusting little brain monster, but deep inside he is hurt because he wants to be enough for him that Krang doesn’t need to go on dates.

“I will make you a body,” sobbed Shredder. He called Radio Shack and ordered the parts.

“It’s going to need a dick,” warbled Krang.

“No it isn’t,” said Shredder, putting his foot down. Then they got into a really pathetic fight where Krang was slapping Shredder in the metal face with his sloppy tendrils and Shredder was slicing out Krang’s parietal lobe with his hand claws. Then Krang had a damaged limbic system and suffered apraxia and acute sensory impairment.

“This episode is getting cerebral,” said Bebop.

Meanwhile, back in the sewer, Splinter was trying to convince April to have an abortion, claiming that rats sometimes eat their babies, which April knew was not true because of the Discovery channel. “The only bad thing rats do,” said April, “is carry typhus.”

“I have typhus,” said Splinter.

“Rats,” said April.

Leonardo noticed the commotion and came into the room. He was starting to wonder why every fan fiction he was in was always about sex. Michaelangelo put his hand on Leonardo’s shoulder to comfort him. “Do you want me to give you a reach around” and then the show was cancel

The End <3


January 12th, 2010

a COPS fanfiction

by chuck

One day the theme music played “bad boys” and on the bottom of the screen it said “HOUSTON 3:41 AM” and sargeant Hawkins got on his walkie talkie and it said “we have a domestic disturbance at Park and Maple Drive, sargeant Hawkins respond,” and sargeant Hawkins was on the case.

He was in a shit mood but he didn’t care he was hard. The cop car rode up to the intersection and the sargeant Hawkins got out and the camera got out too and there was a White Male about 5’10” 35 years old with tattoos. He was fighting with Hispanic Male 5’3″ about 30 years old. White Male was wearing a wig and a bridal gown and he was smoking crack which he threw in bush “WHAT WAS THAT” said sgt. Hawkins. “I didn’t f–kin do whatever” said White Male. Hawkins say “I got a call about a domestic disturbance are you beating your wife sir?” Hispanic Male immediately got scared of being tasered so he started to run but jumped in trash can to which Hawkins said to Hispanic Male “get out of that trash can”. Hispanic Male said “no” which is the only Spanish word in English. Hawkins tasered him.

White Male is like “you leave Filipo alone you f–k pig cop he ain’t do sh-t f–k cop” and Hawkins say “did you beat your wife” to which White Male said “yes”. “Why did you” say Hawkins but White Male started to think he is a woman so he say “that bitch try to steal my boy friend Filipo” then a gerbil fall out his ass and Hawkins tasered White Male and try and see if gerbil is ok but gerbil is drunk. “Why is gerbil drunk” said Hawkins and White Male say “you’re drunk.” So sgt. Hawkins again tasered White Male and White Male said “rughabugharughabughra”

So White Male got arrested and the wife is dead.

The End <3

My Date with Gwen Stefani

January 4th, 2010


tears of vodka

Oh man, did I have a night last night, I’ll tell you. I went on a date with singer and sex icon Gwen Stefani. I can’t really tell you how I scored a date with Gwen Stefani, because I’m not altogether sure how it happened. I do sort of remember being at a celebrity party, one of many I went to last week, and I was at a table where the waiter kept bringing me martinis. In each martini was an olive, and on each olive was written one letter, in sharpie marker. As soon as I finished one drink, the waiter would bring me another. So I collected the olives. I got as far as “D-E-A-R-C-H-U-C-K-W-I-L-L-Y-O-U-G-O-O-N-A-D-A-T” before I was rushed to the hospital with alcohol poisoning. I got a text the next morning from Gwen Stefani’s agent, explaining that Gwen was trying to ask me out, and that I looked like a real lighweight and a fag for not being able to handle 34 martinis over 4 hours. To be honest, I fed at least half of them to Stevie Wonder’s seeing-eye dog, who apparently led poor Stevie into the ocean instead of a cab later that night.

So anyway, on to the date. While she was leaning towards an expensive dinner followed by a loud drunken fight on the curb out front, I was inclined to the theatre, and so we acquired tickets to the premiere of a new show on Broadway, called The Puppy Factory. I mostly wanted to see it because I heard a rumor that the puppies were played by robots. Gwen looked ravishing in a purple velvet dress with televisions over her boobs playing really gross dental training videos from the 80s, which I suppose was a hint that the lady’s eyes are up here.

The play was phenomenal. It was about a poor country dude who loved puppies so much that he wanted to make his own puppy shop and let everyone buy puppies at a discount. Each customer came in to buy a puppy, but the puppies were so rambunctious that the customers would eventually get dismayed, and say things like “well I NEVER” when a mischievous puppy would tie her shoelaces together with his little puppy snout and little puppy paws. So nobody bought any puppies and so the store had to shut down. But just before the store shut down, the owner realized he had gotten neurosyphilis from one of the puppies he was doing it to behind the audience’s backs. By the end of the play he was in the 3rd stage, which makes you act like a Nazi. (I consulted with a nurse practitioner for this information, people.) That is when the shop owner reveals that the entire third reich was really just an outbreak of neurosyphilis all over Germany, which started when Hitler used a time machine to go back in time and have sex with Mary Magdalene, who gave it to him and also to Jesus, who went crazy and started being a Nazi about being the son of God, and so then Hitler came back and gave it to Germany. At this point the stage lights go black, and klaxons start going off.

Gwen started to hold my arm because she was scared, and I was getting turned on by it and started thinking about how many condoms I have. But then the shop owner puts on a skintight leather bodysuit and boots and a helmet made of black kitchen blenders and blowtorches which are shooting everywhere, and two midgets come out in pig masks and set the curtains on fire. At this point everyone is screaming and running for the exits, but not Gwen and me. We know it’s just part of the show. The shop owner rips the head off one of the puppies and pulls a bright pink submachine gun out of it, and tells us all, in German, to get the fuck out, because he is going to kill the entire audience, which he starts doing immediately. The muzzle of the gun is flashing and it is exploding bullets into people and people are dying. Gwen and I run out the door, laughing, all the way down to the front door, where she stops laughing. “What is it, ” I ask. “I have to tell you something, Chuck. I was hit. By a bullet, in my heart. ” “Oh no, Gwen!” I exclaim. “I’m so sorry!” She puts her bloody finger to my lips to shush me and says, “it’s ok, Chuck. You can have sex with my dead body, I won’t mind. ” Then she dies in my arms and it is romantic, and then you can basically guess what I did next.

I took pictures of her body posing her to do the Macarena and I made an animated gif out of it.

I lost it though.

The Power of Books.

November 13th, 2009

You know, I’ve been busy lately. A month ago, I was on a hot air balloon ride around the world. Last week, I was in Cairo, excavating the ancient pyramids. The week before, I time travelled to 1856 and got a ride on a horse-drawn coach! And just this morning, I was strung up to a torture device getting a rim job from a leather-clad Minotaur. How did I do all this? The power of books.

Get caught reading.

My Halloween with Robert Downey, Jr.

November 1st, 2009


he's in jail for the women

I was deep downtown at about 2:15 in the morning, and the bars were closed so I had nothing much to do: no money, no car, phone was dead, and I was pretty whacked out of my face on volleys of beer, tequila, whiskey, and “moonshine”, not to mention a bag of cocaine the size of my head. As I whirled about on the sidewalk, confused, bent, and crazy, this bus pulled up. This giant black bus with no windows pulled up to the curb I was balancing on, a deep red Vulture painted on the front. The door kershunked open right in front of me. I peered inside in a cartoonish fashion, wondering what it was. The bus driver was a man in a skeleton costume and informed me that he was going to take me to the Afterparty. I was like, “WOW, WELL THEN, SHEESH, DON’T MINDIFIDOOO. ” I was the only person on the bus so I was a little scared, and the driver turned out to be a real skeleton so that was weird. I asked him where the Afterparty was but he did not have a soul and therefore didn’t want to talk too much, and then I stopped bothering him. So the bus goes all through West Baltimore and I was getting worried because you know there are darker things than a bus being driven by a skeleton. But we made it through there alive and pulled up to a mansion. I mean a palace not a mansion. I could not believe how extravagant it was.

I thanked the driver and he kershunked closed the door as I stepped off the bus and entered the veranda, carefully checking my coat at the coat room and taking a hard candy from the sucker dish. The party was most indubitably in full effect, and the costumes were lavish, extraordinary, some even posh. I recognized no-one for a while, though I struck up an enlightening conversation on the subject of botanical diversity with a lion in a tuxedo. Suddenly, just as I was about to excuse myself to visit the lavatory, a violent hand struck my shoulder and my drink fell from my hand. “CHUCK!”, yelled the voice. It was none other than my old friend, Robert Downey, Jr. “CHUCK, HAVE YOU EVER HAD SEX IN A REFRIGERATOR?” I was pleased to see the gentleman. “Ahoy there, old friend. Good to see you back from being a black person in that jungle movie. How’s life treating you?” “Don’t WORRY about that, Chuck!” is what he said to me. “I JUST HAD SEX IN A REFRIGERATOR WITH MICKEY MOUSE AND ZOMBIE MICHELLE OBAMA!” I decided not to question it, which you shouldn’t do with this man. “MAPLE SYRUP CAME OUT OF HER TITS. ” I sat him down on the couch and offered him a joint, one of the two that Hitler had handed me earlier. “You look a little frazzled, Chuck. You want to get fucked up?” he said. Another thing you do not do with this man is say no. “Of course, what have you got?” I replied. Suddenly, he ripped off his shirt to reveal a glowing device implanted in his chest. “Robert, ” I asked, “is that the prop ‘arc reactor’ from Iron Man? They let you keep that?” “PROP?” was his response, “What PROP? Who do you think Iron Man was written about? This shit is REAL. TOUCH IT.  It’s hot. See? This thing is keeping me ALIVE. Without it my HEART WOULD EXPLODE. ” I was astounded! “How does it work?” I asked. “It’s full of cocaine, ”  he said.

After catching up for an hour or so, Robert led me by the arm to the penthouse of the building. In this empty room, everything was either solid gold or red velvet. “Wow, ” I said, “this house continues to amaze me. To whom does it belong?” Robert looked at me. “You’ll find out soon enough. ” He showed me to a velvet couch, and joined me, the two of us facing the wide-open empty space in the room. After a few seconds of silence, the chandelier in the center of the room began to descend, along with the gold plate that I thought was holding it to the ceiling. Standing on this platform was Uma Thurman, wearing a pure white three-piece suit. When the chandelier was about to touch the floor, the ride stopped and Uma jumped off. Then the chandelier went back up into the ceiling. I was beside myself! I couldn’t help but utter, “Hi, Uma!”, to which she looked at me sharply, and said nothing. Just then a pulsating rhythm began to fill the penthouse, a tribal beat of some kind, getting louder and louder, and Uma looked over at a book case, which rotated then, revealing two white tigers which walked confidently out into the room with us.

I was scared! Robert had to calm me down. The tigers stalked Uma Thurman for a moment, and then one of them pounced. She skillfully grabbed it by the neck and twisted it, killing the beast instantly. What happened next is almost too grotesque to remember. Uma Thurman actually force-fed the body of the dead tiger to its brother, right there in front of us. It ate the whole thing. I threw up, and Uma just laughed. Robert was giddily clapping and cheering. Being forced to eat such a large meal actually killed the other tiger when his stomach burst open, spilling his guts and body parts of his brother everywhere. Uma cackled! Then she violently ripped off all of her clothes until she was standing there, panting, naked and sweating, and made eye contact with me- it chilled my spine. Then I watched in horror as she dove head-first into the bloody pile on the floor, delighting in the bath of gore. I hid my eyes. I couldn’t watch! “Chuck!” she yelled to me. “Chuck, watch! Watch this!” I couldn’t look. I began to sob. “No really, Chuck, you have to watch this!” she called to me. I slowly looked up to see her holding one of the tiger’s bloody eyes, and she began to sing, “it’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the cream of the fight, risin’ up to the challenge of our rival… ” at which point she promptly ATE THE TIGER’S EYE. I couldn’t take it anymore! I bolted up and yelled, “What is the MEANING of all this?! Why have you brought me here to witness this horrific ritual?” Robert Downey Jr. just turned to me and said, “Happy birthday!” Wow! He remembered! I looked toward Uma. “You were in on this, too?” I asked. She winked and replied, while chewing on the tiger eye, “ya didn’t think we’d forget your BIRTHDAY, did ya, kiddo?” And then Quentin Tarantino walked in with a cake. I was touched. My friends love me.

All in all it was a pretty decent party.  I also got the phone number from a girl dressed as a quarter.

My Date, Portia de Rossi.

August 17th, 2009



Hello, waiter. I’d like you to meet my date, Portia de Rossi. I’ll be having the abalone spinach salad with croutons flambeau, followed by the white blood sausage and english muffin torte in a pristine silvery mudpuddle dressing while being simultaneously slapped, flicked, noogied, tickled, trousered, bathed in egg, tweaked, lambasted and electrocuted, and for dessert the gelatinous essense of a scorned woman served in the severed head of a very bad horse who was actually just misunderstood. The lady will be having the hot dog.

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