“Colt”
Dude! I love that our house was bought by Jack Thee Jackal!
I sent him a DM, congratulating him on buying the house, offering to show him around,
party with him, but he didn’t reply. No probs! He either didn’t read it or
didn’t believe it. He gets thousands of DMs, I’m sure.
I tried making a YouTube channel like Jack’s. I’d grab my
bros and we’d go out, do stupid shit, copycat Jackass stuff. We did one where
we dressed up in girls’ lingerie and played golf in a graveyard.
And we made another series, where we preyed on victims at
school, or around the mall, or the neighborhood. Our goal: to find them, and
fart on them. We’d stalk, hunt, hide, and then jump out of bushes, burst out
from behind closed doors, or jump up from the backseat of a car or leap down
from a tree or fire escape, either naked, wearing only a pair of assless chaps,
or in just a pair of briefs, and then we’d unleash ass, point and fire
unfiltered farts at friends and classmates.
Sometimes a classmate might open a door to a classroom and
find one of us, pants pooled around our ankles, bent over in their direction,
ready to launch a stinky ass attack.
Possibly the worst of the videos was the “Fart Alarm Clock,”
where a buddhi bandit would patrol the library, sneak up on a sleeping
classmate, drop trou, bend over, lean his ass in, and just let out a booming
burrito fart, ass mere inches from the sleeper’s face…
“Bare booty fart ATTACKS! The most vicious, NO FILTRATION!”
was the title and theme. But no one watched. Except a couple people, who told
us that we suck. That we “suck RAW!” I think those were the exact words.
Then I tried making music, rapping. I wasn’t good at that either.
I got even worse feedback on that when I uploaded my tunes to the interwebs. In
my mind, though, I sounded dope. I sounded like Eminem. I was going to BE the
next Eminem. But then I saw the comments I was getting. In fact, one song went
sort of viral- but for the wrong reasons. Thousands of people watched my video,
cracked jokes about it, called me all sorts of shit, a “wigger,” mostly, “wack
AF” and I even received death threats and a couple guys challenging me to
fistfights.
All over a free video, a basement rap I slapped together on
my computer. A song about smoking weed in my school’s handicapped bathroom!
(Handicapped people were the most pissed about it. One even
asked, “Dude, where am I supposed to smoke weed?” Looking back on it, he had a
point. It was pretty fucking wack...)
Posting stuff online, I guess it’s pretty easy to discover
your limitations when you get that amount of instant feedback. Man, reading
hundreds of people telling me that I sucked, I can’t say it was good for my
psyche.
Oh… Well.. Fuck them! I was still living in a house big
enough to have its own zip code. I was always aware of that. Particularly since
my earliest memories, from when I was a tiny kid, were of being in a cramped
apartment, with my parents, back when my dad had first started playing pro
football. But once he signed that big contract, ah man, life was pretty easy.
My life has always been easy. Maybe too easy… I’ve spent
countless hours just watching and rewatching gangsta rap videos, smoking weed…
I’ve never been too motivated… My sister, a few years younger than me, was
always a nerd. She was always hitting the books...
Not me, though. I’ve never found a calling. I never took to
football, like my old man. I got more of my mom’s DNA. I’m not that tall, only
5’11, and am thin, like her. I’m not super coordinated, either. I’m just not
great at sports, which kinda always made me feel like I was a disappointment to
my father.
Not that I didn’t try. When I was little, I joined Pop
Warner. Dad didn’t force me into it or anything. But I thought he’d want me to
be a jock like him. When I sucked at football and quit, however, he never
mentioned anything about it. I didn’t know quite what to make of that then. I
still don’t.
He was always a bit distant, my Pops, off in his football
world. But I respected him, I must say. I looked up to him. He was big and
powerful. He gave us a great life. He was gone most of the time, and was aloof,
but that’s just his temperament. He’s a quiet man. He lets his deeds do the
talking. And I respect that. My dad is cool. He was good to us. I mean, like
sure, he’d spaz out, break stuff around the house and scream after games. It’d
scare the shit out of me and my sis, but it was never directed at us and he
never got violent. He was never abusive.
Him, nor my mom, never really disciplined us, ever, that I
can recall. There were a few babysitters and maids who’d get in our faces, from
time to time. Usually they’d be on my case for my shitty grades and a couple
Jackass stunts the school got upset about.
But other than that, I never got in too much trouble. As a
kid, I was pretty mellow. I still am. I think I’ve been in one or two
fistfights in my entire life. I’m just laidback. So much so that people might
think I’m on Xanax or something. But nah, I don’t take drugs too often these
days, aside from an occasional bump or two of the nose candy and, of course,
smoking weed, but that’s a plant, not a drug, in my opinion…
Nah, man, my biggest problem has been, and continues to be,
my lack of direction.
I mean, like, at first I’d wanted to be on Jackass. Then I’d
wanted to be Eminem. But since none of that transpired, I don’t know what to
do. I didn’t have a Plan B or C.
Lately I’ve been working odd jobs. My degree sucks. Like, I
went to a party college, got drunk, and copied all my papers from the internet,
paid nerds to do homework for me. Even with cheating, though, I still barely
graduated college. I failed English. WTF? I speak English! How the hell did I
fail English? Damn…
I guess part of the problem was that I was never interested
in learning the stuff they taught in school. In math class, I’d be thinking
about learning to fix my engine, buying parts for my car. In English classes, I
hated Shakespeare, but I liked reading other stuff, like Tucker Max, and
thrillers. I love thrillers! My friend in high school got me into Bukowski. His
poetry kicks ass. Reading it, I couldn’t believe anyone would actually write
shit like that. It’s the only poetry I could ever enjoy.
But the stuff they assigned me to read in class was
terrible. It was always so fucking boring. The only assigned reading I ever
liked from English class was Mark Twain. That dude was fucking cool. Emily
Dickinson? Beowulf? Nah, not for me. Jane Austin? Yuck. Fuck off!
To me, that’s the problem with school. You’re forced to
learn this or that. It’s something about being forced into it that turns me
off. If I’m into something, if I want to learn it, I can’t pry myself away from
it. I’ll spend hours on Wikipedia sometimes. I’ll dive down intellectual rabbit
holes, reading all sorts of shit. I fuck with knowledge; it’s not that I don’t
enjoy learning.
I could just never find that spark in school. Maybe I just
wasn’t lucky enough to have a Dead Poets Society jump up on the desk “OH
CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN” type of teacher. You know, a teacher from one of those
1980s movies…
My degree was in Business Administration. But I had no idea
what business I wanted to do. I still have no idea what business I want to do.
In fact, I don’t even like business. I don’t like the corporate world.
What do I like, aside from pranks and jokes? Women. Oh, man,
I LOVE women. They love me back too. I’m not that tall or muscled-up, but I’m
sinewy, and have been told I resemble the actor Robert Pattinson… I’ve never
had a problem meeting chicks…
Women, yeah, dude, I’m really a fan of their organization…
Every time I hook up with a new girl, take off her clothes, I feel like a
little kid opening a Christmas present… I love their soft skin, their hair,
their scents, their makeup, stockings, high heels; the way they walk, talk, the
way they dress, their shapes, curves. Seriously, if there were a job where I
could just stare at women all day, that’s what I’d do.
My dream job would be that, or maybe a photographer,
snapping photos of models all day. Nude models. Or a pornographer. But I’m not
too into the hardcore stuff. I prefer the more tasteful, Playboy stuff, or nude
paintings. I’m not into chicks spreading their snatch and doing gangbangs,
anal, or weird Japanese stuff...
To be frank, I’m not sure what I’ll do for work. Before, I
never worried about money. But that was before my parents went broke. Now that
I can’t count on inheriting millions, I’ve suddenly got to make my own way.
Since I like women, nude women, in particular, I’ve been
working as a DJ at an upscale strip club. I got the gig through a friend who
bought into the club. I should have bought in with him, scored a loan from my
old man, back when he had more cash. Same as my Pops, I guess, I’m not a good
businessman.
But, thems is the breaks, as the old-timers say. And I’m
doing okay, DJing, rocking trap tunes, looking at fine babes every night, fine
NAKED babes.
I’m even allowed to audition “talent,” watch aspiring exotic
dancers shake it for me and the manager, other staff. I’ve dated like three of
our strippers, but can’t say it’s my favorite thing to do, dating our dancers.
Man, I caught feelings for one, this petite Latin honey. She
was chill, funny, and freaky in the sack. A damn dimepiece. The chick had a
cobra tramp stamp and killer curves and the most gorgeous face ever. She was
stunningly pretty, with that intricate, exotically sumptuous type face that
only Latin babes have. She was just stunning, with or without make-up, that hot
of a chick.
We only dated a few weeks, but I fell for her, I admit. And
it fucked me up, watching her from the DJ booth, her down on the stage, her
doing splits, prancing around naked, wiggling her ass in dudes’ faces, seeing
dudes ogle her bare body. The worst was watching her do lapdances, bumping and
grinding on middle-aged creeps or fratboy asswipes. The wolf-faced fucks. Dudes
running their hands on her body. It fucked me up. I felt like a cuckold.
I mean, man, I dated this Instagram model chick. A butt
model. That was all she did, all she did was take pics of her butt, post it on
the ‘Gram. Every day, a different butt shot. Bending over, walking up stairs,
leaning against a wall, lying on her stomach... She was creative with it, too,
like an artist, a Picasso of ass, coming up with all sorts of different
contortions, angles, lightings, all sorts of truly ingenious ways to present
her butt to the camera. She did things with her ass that I couldn’t imagine possible,
for real...
And look, I didn’t care. I didn’t care that she showed her
butt, in thongs, lingerie, and bikinis on Instagram every day. I didn’t care
that she cashed in on her looks. I know there were like millions of dudes
across the globe jerking off to her. But I didn’t care.
Like, for real, more power to her. She’s a clever and
enterprising chick. I could see her one day having a reality show like the
Kardashians. I mean, everyone thinks those Kardashian chicks are stupid
floozies, but they’re not. They’re smart businesspeople and are raking in
billions. I respect that. I respected my butt model chick too. She was fucking
cool…
But there was something different, man, seeing my girl on
stage, seeing the dudes in person. It was different, seeing their pervy faces,
seeing their hungry eyes. It kinda fucked me up, man… It was a kick in the
balls…
She didn’t stay long anyway, the Latina. She moved to
another city once she’d saved a bit of cash. She told me she was only doing the
job to help pay for her dad’s heart surgery... I lost touch with her after she
moved, and she deleted me from her Snapchat...
Thems is the breaks. Better to have loved and lost, right?
I’m not sure if it was love, really. But it fucked me up. It fucked me up for a
good minute…
After her, I stopped dating our dancers. These days, I’m
back on Tinder more, hooking up. To be honest, I’ve never had a serious
relationship, only hookups, short term things. If I’m with a girl too long, I
start losing interest in her, start seeing her like a sister or something, I
don’t know, why. It’s weird.
But, like, yeah, man, my life isn’t too bad, altogether. The
future… I guess that’s what bugs me. I don’t know, for sure, what I’ll do. The
more I think about it, the more I feel lost. I just want to have fun, really.
I mean, seriously, man, why is it that we have to do
something? Why can’t I just be? The world is so full of demands, complications.
It’s never as easy as it is on TV...
I mean, like, dude, when are the robots coming? Aren’t the
robots supposed to come and take our jobs? Do the shitty stuff people don’t
want to do? And then Amazon or the government can give us money, and we can all
chill, let fucking Alexa, Siri, and R2D2 do shit. Then we humans can just
chill, eat and fuck, just live like the French. Yeah, man, I think the future
will be awesome. Yo, I can’t wait…
But at least for now, at least until Larry David or Andrew
Yang becomes President, like, I don’t know, I don’t know, man. I don’t know
what I’ll do.
I spent a couple years traveling the world after college.
That was for sure the best time of my young life. I traveled Europe, Asia,
South America. I backpacked. I worked bar gigs out there. I taught English. I
thought my travels would help me “find myself.” But they didn’t. I didn’t
exactly find myself, but I found something else in Tibet. Man, I found
something far greater and far more important.
And it’s helped me. Helped me a lot. It really has...
