Writing tips from a shitty writer.

Always use cliches - Sure, the books and professors will tell you the exact opposite. They’ll tell you to use original words and unique phrasing to excite the mind and to keep the reader on its toes. Well I’m here to tell you they’re dead wrong. Only an asshole would make up their own cliches. The reason lousy writers need to make the language interesting because they aint got shit to say. Their story is as old as the hills. If you have a good story, cliches are quick and easy shorthand to unfurl your far-out ideas upon.

For instance, I’ve been a close personal friend of David Bowie’s for almost 15 years. Now David, as many of you know is a wild and interesting cat, but many of you would be surprised if I told you he’s eaten the same thing for breakfast for more than 30 years. His reason is that he doesn’t have time to be bothered with petty decisions, so he always eats the same thing. He’s got crazy awesome David Bowie stuff to think about!

The same goes with cliche’s and writing. If you got crazy, mind blowing shit to deal with, who cares about making new and exciting metaphors? Its like filming a porno with a Great White Shark and crocheting fancy lace mittens for your cock (or vagine if yer a lady) for the big love scene.

Did I ever tell you about the time I was on the Price Is Right? We’d been given free tickets in front of a wax museum. My girlfriend got excited and my friends were kinda interested, so we went.

The studio was really bright and smaller than I thought it would be. They had a bunch of ushers lined up just herding us in like cattle. There was a really bad stand up comedian on stage giving a midget a hard time for being from Boston. I guess he was there to warm up the crowd. After about 5 minutes the lights started flashing and this really loud 70’s music blared. The announcer yelled some names and people ran to the front of the auditorium while the audience cheered. Suddenly my girlfriend was screaming in my face and my friends started jumping and yelling, “Thats you bitch!” they pulled me to my feet. I guess the announcer had called my name. So I haphazardly jogged down to the front of the auditorium. On the way I tried to high five several people but I missed each one. I was running down a slope and they were all jumping up and down, I couldn’t get the timing right. And I think I mighta even knocked over some old lady but the usher kept pulling me along and yelled “keep going!” so onward I went.

When I got to the front, Bob came out to much fanfare and asked us each where we were from and I was just in shock and I guess I said, “Sure dude!” And Bob shot me this glance that said, “I’ll slit your fucking throat kid,” but the audience kinda laughed and Bob stuck out his chin and retorted “Whatever, Hippy!” the audience thought that was really funny. 

I never got up on stage though, some bitch named Wanda kept bidding 1$ more than me and she finally won. When she got on stage. She kissed Bob on the cheek and Bob made her reach into his pocket for some money. Oh yeah. So after the chick pulls a 100 out of Bobs pants they giggle and coo a bit and then Bob does this over the top windmill Elvis point and says “I bet you’d like to drive home in this,”

“A NEW CAR!!! screams the announcer.

And the curtain opens revealing a powder blue convertible. The audience is just jumping up and down and screaming and there is this DING! DING! DING! DING! DING! noise and everyone is losing their fucking mind they just keep jumping up and down and screaming with delight and the DING! DING! DING! gets louder and louder and the announcer keeps screaming "A NEW CAR! A NEW CAR!” and people start tearing off their clothes and just beating the shit out of each other.. They’re all sooo excited - tearing off their flesh and smashing thier bones and setting themselves on fire and the whole place just starts shaking and falling down around us. I run up on stage and Bob gives me a wink and we hop into that powder blue Chevy and gun it through a wall into another studio where we run over several kids and a marching band of clowns. We then crash through a soap opera and a news room set up before finally smashing through the 13th story windows of the studio high-rise. All goes quiet and Bob looks over to me, his white hair like a perfect cloud in the bluest of blue skies.  He whispers, “I love you. I’ve always loved you!” and the music swells as he takes my face in his hands and violently bites off my entire upper and lower lips. He smells like gunfire and a pine forest full of semen.

When I was a small child my father told me that farting made humans run faster. So whenever I had to fart I’d run fast as I could. I never had many friends.

Of course I forgot all about this until I tried to suppress a fart at my fathers funeral.

The memory and the silliness combined with the horror of the moment overwhelmed me. I started crying, running, and farting. I sprinted circles around my family at the graveyard until I just started laughing. I finally tripped over a gravestone and flew into the air just as I let a big one rip… I never landed.

Last spring I went down to that new church by the river.

Everyone just looked at their I-phones while the minister

gulped hot coffee and screamed at gods crotch

I was still heartbroken over losing Tammy

but I was happy

I’d decided to go to the old steakhouse after church

to have myself a nice steak dinner and a few highballs

then I’d blow my brains out while I rode the mechanical bull

But once I got a bellyfull of whiskey and drew my revolver, riding that bull

…ohh the screams!

I still get hard when I think about it.

My favorite artist was someone who went to my old church.

They’d blacked out all the words in the bible so only three words appeared on each page.



I first discovered this work while sitting through an interminable church service. The minister was spewing some hate filled nonsense and I finally picked up the Holy Bible, curious if it really said all these terrible things.

To my wonder and surprise all I found was page after page of “I love you”
it was like a choir of angels was hammering a very simple song into my heart.
I sat there in quiet awe while the asshole preacher prattled on and on with his hate filled fever dream. I was flipping through all those pages as the chorus sang upon me until I broke down and every fiber of my own being too began to sing.

I love you - I love you through everything you big dummy - I love you

I saw every mean and stupid thing I’d done. And a great compassion swelled within me. I found myself flooded by a strange tenderness for my very own self.  It then spilled and splashed across everything I saw until all was colored wet and bubblin  - baptized in the water light love of compassion  all is perfect and free - even the asshole preacher.

Finally I staggered to my feet and thundered out a proclamation to the pastor - “HEY FUCKFACE! Why don’t you put on some pants and get a real job! Cuz you fuckin suck at this one!”

And the universe roared a bright horn chorus of  “Dude!” and the high fives were glorious and everlasting.

 - for Jesse Hassler - 1971-2010

Lost in some soft tumbling darkness

wandering to the store in a stoners happy haze

ice cream and maybe some chips…

I see Jesus is on the roof at Walgreens. He’s gigantic and has creamy white thighs and Oh wow! He’s… yeah he’s touching it.

Jesus came back as a giant, listless, sexual pervert. At first it was a really big deal. 

“Christ has returned!” It was all anyone talked about

and then he just became a nuisance.

Jacking off to a field of flowers or a sunset

people would just call the fire department

and they’d hose him down and he’d try and smash the fire truck.

You’d be driving home and the radio would say, Jesus is north of 57th on the turnpike and tearing shit up. Traffic would be backed up for miles.

Yeah, Jesus aint gonna go so quietly the second time.

 The initial findings were staggering. The possibility that more than 70% of all female adult film actresses may suffer from a little known hormone deficiency called Seria Syndrome.
 What is Seria Syndrome? “Basically its a hormonal imbalance that can lead to impulsive and mania type behavior,” says Dr. Louis Szekely, who heads up a team of researchers in Van Nuys, California.

 The hormone in this case is called Oxytocin and it effects everything from social recognition skills, pair bonding, maternal behavior to anxiety and orgasm. Oxytocin is specifically mammalian and acts primarily as a neurotransmitter in the brain. Its often referred to as the ‘love hormone’ thus the more than 300 million dollars drug companies have spent on research in just the past 5 years. “If we could produce a pill that produces feelings of love, empathy and trust in the user… it would be a social panacea,” Dr. Szekely went on to say. Studies and research have shown that oxytocin may solve a battery of problems; Autism, depression, drug addiction and even adultery.

Though oxytocin was first synthesized in 1953 administering it to patients has proven quite difficult. Oxytocin is destroyed by gastrointestinal tract. It also has a half life of only three minutes in the blood stream and thusly cannot enter the brain in any significant quantity due to a blood brain barrier.
 What scientists have then turned to as a result of being unable to administer oxytocin to test subjects is studying its effects by inhibiting oxytocin levels in the subjects.
  Researchers discovered during studies on laboratory rats that if a female rat was given a oxytocin inhibitor she’d immediately lose interest in her offspring and leave her mate. Scientists then were able to naturally raise the oxytocin levels in the female rats by simple handling them and stroking them for a mere thirty seconds to forty seconds. The female rats then began to immediately mate with the closet male or female, though in repeated double blind studies they did show a consistent preference for male rats who drove Trans-Ams and had cocaine. Scientists theorize that the reason for such rash activity was that the oxytocin starved females had such a low baseline of oxytocin activity that normal stroking or petting that releases what would be an average dose of oxytocin in a non inhibited subject becomes in effect a overdose in a previously inhibited subject, thus overriding many of the usual trust/aversion markers that control mating and maternal behavior. “The oxytocin overdosed female rats basically became wanton whores,” stated Dr. Szekely.
Besides the troubling social behavior scientist also noticed that the inhibited rats shown very specific problems with hearing that effected vocalization. Researchers then took these findings and began conducting research on a interesting test group; female porn stars. “I actually began to notice the vocal patterns that I was hearing from the inhibited rats matched up with those of the adult performers in… uh well… other research I was conducting,” blushed Szekely. Researchers then viewed several thousand adult films and charted the vocal patterns of the female performers. The data that was compiled and it was stunning. Studies showed that 713 of 998 female performers had speech problems consistent with Seria Syndrome. In order to verify the findings the female performers would need to be physically tested. Here the research team ran into a problem. The porn stars were not willing research participants, even when offered money and free treatment. It was then that a light went off in Szekely’s head. “We’ll make a porno,” he flatly stated. And that’s just what they did. Over the next three grueling weeks Dr.Szekely took samples from over 500 females. “We couldn’t get the starlets to submit to a regular blood sample,” he recalled “so I just attached a small patch of cotton to the end of my penis and was able to obtain throat sample within the context of the film. I achieved a 92% success rate,” he beamed.
The numbers once again were staggering, only 3 female performers that appeared in Dr. Love, Female gang bang, actually showed any sign of Seria Syndrome. 413 of the performers just had tongue rings that impeded clear speech and 76 of the performers where “just fucked up,” stated a bemused Szekely.
 The 3 starlets that did have markers consistent with Seria Syndrome were thoroughly tested in Dr. Love II & III “It wasn’t until Dr Love IV, Anal mania, that we figured out a fail proof way to administer antidote testing,” said Dr. Louis.
As of this writing Dr. Szekely is planning a new research group, Dr. Love V, Gang bang 1,000. “I will not rest until I find a cure,” sighed the good Dr.

When I was a kid candy cigarettes were popular. The packs they came in looked just like real cigarettes and even had the same name as the popular brands; Lucky Strikes, Kools, Camels, and Marlboro’s. I had a friend Joe who had a 3 pack a day habit. He developed diabetes within 6 months, but it was the cancer that finally got him 2 years later at the ripe old age of 7. Come to find out candy cigarettes are more dangerous and addictive than real smokes. 

I visited him in the hospital, the whole second grade class did. The cancer had started in his lips and spread to his entire face. As a result the skin had been removed from his entire face and it covered with a kind of clear saran wrap that allowed doctors to easily monitor the aggressive cancer. Joe just sat there in bed, a small faceless monster chomping candy cigs, high on pain meds. Sometimes I guess he’d get too much morphine in his system and he’d stand in his bed and chant commercials slogans like a rabid tele-evangelist. I can still see the whole second grade class visiting him in the hospital all of us crying or catatonic with fear.

Little Joe standing on his bed, a candy cigarette between each finger, holding his hands high above his head, waving to the sun, chanting over and over, “We love to fly, and it shows! We love to fly and it shows!”

While I shall always be amazed by the hilarious speed of the sun

I am afeared to admit that I no longer understand time

I keep showing up in the middle of epic historic battles
and celebratory mall openings
with scuffed up dress shoes

scuffs that speak to the delicate mystery
a mystery so nuanced by its own seductive notion
that I cannot act upon this lurid emotion

of my love for thee

Gawdammit woman! What I’m trying to say is that because of feelings of masculine inadequacy I shall spend the rest of my nights out in the driveway, crying some form of darkness.

IE. Drinking beer and listening to AC/DC

When world famous magician Doug Henning was on his death bed he asked for his old magicians top hat. It was the first magic prop he’d bought when he was a little kid. Everyone gathered around for what he said would be his last magic trick.

With much fanfare and showmanship he twirled the hat around showing everyone that it was empty. He then reached inside and after a long dramatic pause sprung forth his empty hand out of the hat. “TA-DA!” he said with a stupid grin, with tears in his eyes. And then he died.

No one at funerals realize
all the unfulfilled dreams
and desire
seep and slip from the dead
into our lives

Your grandmothers corpse
a trojan horse
full of gin and secret nights of
unfulfilled passion

It belongs to you now

Dancing into the early morning
circling town drunk on the train
looking for an address that no longer exists

The Trouble With Chester

I’m working on a spec script for a cartoon show about a dead raccoon named Chester. Chester lies dead on the back porch of a model home in an abandoned gated community. The model home is fully furnished with a thoroughly modern kitchen. There is a small child robot floor sweeper that befriends Chester and together the learn all sorts of life lessons. Most of the lessons center around the finality of death and the roaring void because Chester doesn’t say or do anything, as he is dead and rotting.

Though there will be some fun song and dance numbers done by the maggots living in Chester’s body. And heart touching songs that the robot child sings into the void.

The mustache that can spoke of

    is not the eternal mustache

The understanding that can be understood

    is not wisdom

For the mustache is the beginning of heaven and earth

    it is the mother of all things

Mustachioed one can see the entire mystery

Mustacheless one only sees the manifestation

These two ways of being are identical

       they only differ in name

The mustache exists

     only when it does not

This is the gateway to all mystery.

     - Mustache Te Ching

Walt Whitman was a drag queen
who danced down at the Manhole
he roared the gay grape meat of his heart
all over the entire joint
six nights a week

The building eventually had to be condemned
Uncle Walts love broke down the mortar in the walls
on a subatomic level
a vibration that barked and danced
in the heart of all things

like fisting all the moons of Jupiter
on a Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes I don’t understand America. Things were so much simpler in Poland. For instance when one would go to the zoo, you’d give the man at the gate 10 Zloty and he’d take you back into a darkened room and ask you what kind of animal you wanted to see. You’d say, “A wolf?” and an attractive woman would come in and slap you. “You dumb mother fucker,” she’d say, “there are no wolves in a zoo!” and then she’d spit on you and leave.

Anyone can bitch.

The art is in listening for the deeper mystery.

The executioner wears a clowns nose

as he slits the throat of your childish love.

You mourn what could have been, 

while the rioters remind you of what will always be.

There is a great peace in being broken

being found out as a simple fraud.

A smile, in the humiliation.

Sure it hurts at first  

also quite disorientating

but its like when you were a child 

you gathered yourself in

and rolled down the hill

you roll and roll, endlessly out of control

the earth rushing madly around your ears

you stand and turn to run but fall straight into the ground

everyone laughs and you flop over on your back spread eagle 

and as the clouds and blue sky spin down around you

 or is it you…

 spinning up in them?

whatever the case, you find yourself

a bright blue spinning freedom

full of clouds, birds and weather.

The old story spoke of a blood red bird that lived in a dark tangle of wires inside a robots chest. The robot was a medic in the military. It retrieved the bodies from the front line.

Once the robot brought back all the wounded and the dead it would be repaired if it’d been shot up or damaged. The bird would also be watered and fed.

In the evening the bird would sing the robot to sleep, and sometimes sing to it all night long, however long it took.

And when the robot awoke in the morning it would be refreshed.

I’m going to put together a new book that will win many awards. It will be about dysfunction and how one magical asshole who is smarter than everything… even the sun, overcame it all and wrote an award winning book about it.

 The magical asshole/main character will be hated by the reader at first because they’re obviously a worthless shell of a human being. But the reader will then slowly grow to like the magical asshole because the author will reveal to the reader just how venerable and afraid the magical asshole really is underneath all the sarcasm and faux intelligence. The Magic Asshole will confess all their shallowness and flaws in humiliating funny stories and the reader will realize that “Wow! This person is just like me cuz I’m brilliant too! but I’m also deliciously bad/flawed rotten/special - and just when the reader begins to truly care for the magical asshole like an old friend, the magical asshole will be revealed to be nothing more than a puppet run by sexy, sexy, vampire kittens. Kittens who are just different aspects of ourselves all trying to find love, broken bits trying to find something called a home, much like our own friends/family and maybe even society at large. Then there will be heart touching vignettes of redemption, love and finding a home… seductive notions and all, but you the reader will feel that there are too many pages left in the book so you know that the kittens are all terminally ill and will soon die… except that its all a metaphor for the magical asshole! who wasn’t a bunch of kitten - AHA! its a story about death and rebirth. Thankfully the kittens are all fine because they never existed.

But then it turns out that the actual author is a poor and lonely TV repairman who wrote the entire novel by blacking out old TV repair manuals. The novel was his suicide/love letter to the world because his only friend in the world, Maynard the cat, was poisoned because the author could only afford the cheapest cat food from China. So the cat died because the author was a failure and a cheapskate.

The book will be called ”Eat Shit and Die.“ (A love story in 9 courses)  I will spin it off into a million different things - cookbooks - bibles - sex toys - I’m gonna be sooo rich and famous that I’ll even dig up Elvis and tattoo my face on whatever skin he has left and make an oven mitt out of it. I’ll then use the mitt to serve peach cobbler to my broken heart on Christmas eve in our mansion. Watching Christmas cartoons all alone… it’ll be sooo sad that the poignancy will shatter the illusion of reality and I will be revealed to be the boundless dreaming god who then wakes up and realizes he’s the Dunkin’ Donuts guy.