D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Blog-7/31/18

Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,

Just for shits and giggles I am going to pretend that someone is reading this. That’s right, I said pretend. It is a surreal concept when you think of it because if no one ever reads it does this particular piece of writing even exist. Does it then become like an unconnected electrical current which doesn’t exist without a circuit. Without both writer and reader do words even stand a chance to breath, or are they dead on arrival.

I ponder these things because it has become increasingly obvious to me that virtually no one is reading my work. Am I just emitting lost energy which then dissipates into the cold dark recesses of space? And if there is a receiver/ a reader/ then what am I hoping to accomplish with this, or any of my writing? Am I hoping that person reads these words and goes, ‘wow, I never thought of things that way before’ or do I wish for that person to go, ‘Wow, this guy nailed it on the head. I am pleasantly entertained. This is the missing piece from my lonesome and aloof life. Thank you D.B.Tarpley. Thank you from the bottom of my pancreas.’

At its core, I realize this for what it is… therapy. This is a way for my brain to sort out all the various thoughts and meanderings of a delusional/grandiose brain. What makes me think that anything my sorry ass could ever think of is worth sharing with another? Do I think there is something missing in everyone’s life? And if so, wouldn’t that mean that something was missing in my life? It is pure unchecked ego to believe I have ever thought of anything… any one thing, which has heretofore yet been thought.

And when you put it like that, why does anyone, anywhere, ever write anything? What’s the point? Is the plot going to be different this time? Will the bad guys get away with it? Will the boy lose the girl? Will the puppy need to have its anal gland excreted (incidentally, this was the original plot of My Fair Lady)?

I don’t know.

Are my stories my own or do they belong to us all? How can anything be seen as fresh or new ever again? What possible twist can a person put on it?

Let us see.

The Hexadecimal Defibrillation of Lucy Von Hitlerstein: The Motion Picture

Dennis Fargle sits quietly in the cul du sac. He sits quietly as he eats his lunch, Peanut butter and Lego block sandwich. Quietly, he sits.

He has added the Legos for that extra crunch. He is not disappointed. The only downsides are several loose chipped teeth and a mouth rapidly filling with blood. Dennis spits a huge moist wad of bloody peanut butter on the ground of the quiet cul du sac. The healthy splat it emanates as it hits the concrete is not unpleasant to the ears, even as it rapes one’s soul.

Suddenly, without any sort of warning or pre-conceived foreshadowing, a helicopter swoops down out of the low-lying silver blanket of clouds. (I forgot to mention it is an overcast day. Please forgive me. Seriously consider it as I will not sleep a wink tonight if you do not.)

Dennis is surprised by the recent turn of events but he continues to chew through the heavy plastic chunks in his sandwich because that is the reason he is sitting in the cul du sac to begin with and what is life without adherence to reason?

“Ow!”

The helicopter lands amidst a flurry of kicked up dust and a side hatch slides open. An enormous polar bear ambles through the door and begins to waddle its massive shanks toward Dennis. Before Dennis has a chance to think, his survival instinct kicks in and he is off; he drops his sandwich and runs in the opposite direction of the bear slinging bloody mouth flecks to the right and left as he attempts evasion. The mighty beast roars in frustration and begins a loping pursuit.

As Dennis runs he remembers reading once, most likely in Wikipedia, that the North American Polar Bear can run at speeds of up to 25 miles per hour. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to be specifically thinking about this right now. It seems like a too convenient moment of exposition but then again, Dennis reflects, why do any of us ever do anything; which seems to ease his mind on the matter.

Another thought which enters his mind is that either he is running 25 miles an hour, or the Polar Bear is not living up to its maximum potential. Dennis pictures the creature’s mother standing over it, swishing her fuzzy head side to side in a sassy manner and shaking her finger while saying, “I din’t raise you to run less than 25 miles an hour. You are a disappointment to both your father and I as well as all the other assorted collective members of owah species.”

Dennis stops running, out of breath, and turns around. The Polar Bear has been derailed by the remnants of Dennis’ dropped peanut butter sandwich. As he watches, the cotton headed monster grimaces and spits out a bloody tooth. Dennis trots on, not awash (unawash?) in the belief that the fallen sandwich will distract the bear for long.

He turns the corner of a suburban style home and plops down on the back stoop. Who carries a Polar Bear around in a helicopter? And was the beast deliberately sent to attack him or was his presence at the scene merely happenstance? If there were only someone here to explain it all to him.

Dennis needs to hide. He thoroughly believes that matters may sort themselves out in his absence. He stands and tries the handle of the back door. Unbelievably, it is unlocked.

“I don’t believe it.” Says Dennis.

He turns the knob and cautiously enters the abode.

As Dennis rounds the corner from kitchen to living room he spots a withered old man sitting in a recliner. The sagacious looking gent’s eyes light up when he sees Dennis.

“Greetings hasty one. I have been expecti…”

Dennis waves him off.

“Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you but I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Dennis zips past the old man, down the foyer and into the connected garage.

“But I am Golgar of the Go…”

The garage door shuts off the old man’s ravings and Dennis quickly examines the room’s offerings. There is a mid-80’s Yugo sedan and an early 90’s model Harley Davidson motorcycle. Both keys are hanging from hooks on the wall. The decision isn’t even close. Dennis grabs the Yugo keys and straps himself in.

“Time to rock and fliggin roll.” He splurts through bloody lips.

As the garage slowly rolls up into the ceiling and Dennis’ vehicle sputters out into the strange and hostile world, the old man scrambles into the garage.

“But… your destiny…”

Dennis slams the gas and leaves the ancient one standing in a cloud of noxious fumes.

‘Man do I hate old people’ he thinks as he drives away from the scene of the crime. Dennis leans down and pushes the radio on. Ghostbusters by Ray Parker Jr. is playing. Dennis sings along.

“Who ya gonna call…. Dah! Dah-Daaaaahhhhh!!!”

Dennis suddenly remembers that he is out of toilet paper at home. He used the last of it this morning scooping some particularly sloppy poo out of his asshole. He actually had to finish with his girlfriend’s loofa. He thoroughly rinsed it after of course.

Seeming as good a time as any to pick some up, Dennis swings the Yugo into the local Piggly Wiggly and attempts to pop the door. It sticks and he ends up having to crawl out through the window. It is arduous. He wipes his forehead on his sleeve. It is extremely hot today.

(I forgot to mention that the previous clouds have dissipated leaving the sky blue and sunny. Again I feel I must ask your forgiveness. If not, I will go to my death bed regretting this and only this, my greatest blunder.)

Dennis finds the appropriate toilet paper, never buy generic, and makes his way up to the counter. The cashier is an old Mexican woman. She has a slight accent. She tries to talk to him about his day. Dennis hates this. In fact he hates this so much that he is about to punch her when…

“Hey Punkin.”

Dennis looks up at the lady who is bagging groceries.

She is the one who called him ‘Punkin’.

Only his mother calls him that.

Turns out… this woman is his mother.

“Mom? What are you doing bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The woman replies coyly before adding a wink.

“Yes, yes I would like to know, that is why I asked.”

“Well it’s a long, long story, one which you might not be old enough to hear, full of exotic creatures and quixotic places and ubiquitous desires.”

Dennis scratches his head. He is not used to his bagging professional giving him shit.

“Well I’ve had a fairly exciting day myself.”

“I can tell.” His mother nods at Dennis’ bloody shirt.

Dennis looks down.

“What? Oh that, don’t worry it’s all mine.” He flashes his shattered smile.

“Ah.” She nods.

The cashier has been oddly quiet throughout this entire exchange. Dennis gives her a once over. She throws her eyes to the floor but Dennis can sense the change. He can tell that ‘IT’ is about to go down. Suddenly the old woman behind the counter begins to shake uncontrollably.

“Look out!”

Dennis lunges forward and, scooping his mother in his arms, dives behind a display of potatoes along the wall. He just barely makes it before the cashier’s body explodes peppering the entire store in blood and steaming guts. The man who had been next in line failed to dive in time and what is left of his face hangs from the back of his tattered head by several grisly strings of gore. He stands there, a stunned vegetable, one interminable moment before collapsing into a twitching pile of organic stew.

Dennis looks at his mother.

His mother looks at him.

“Stupid Mexicans.”

The two laugh, and hug, and laugh some more.

The End

Well there you go. Not all that different after all. Just your typical tale told through typical tropes.

I tried to create something different.

“Goddamnit I tried!!!”

Until next time leave the pages bloody,

And have yourself an amazing ass day.