Tina the Trollop

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A quick word about "Tina the Trollop"

Hello everyone, Wylie O'Rylie here.  This story is based off a transitional time in my life when I lived in Capistrano Beach.  All characters are based on real people (if you think its you just ask). All names have been changed to protect their identities.  People like Bob, John, Mark etc are just used as common names, so all the real Bob's, John's and Mark's can relax (sorry Christa and Danuta, your both shit out of luck and I could care less about your reputations, your names shall remain as is)...No I'm just kidding, I would never waste my time writing about my psychotic ex-girlfriends (or would I?....MWAAAA HAHAHAAHA....no really)

So, in addition to this Gonzo tale being "truthy" I'd like to ask YOU MY READERS to help me.  Post your thoughts and feelings about this piece.  I promise that I will at the very least, take a concept of yours, and write it into the story.  This tale shall unfold, but it does already have a written ending, so lets create some art..I will either post 5 pages every week or every other week.  So, in much anticipated joy, I present to you..............

A Stream of Consciousness Part 4

Similar to my life in the music business, I had an inkling that my vocational forte, being of the “Gonzo” variety would attract more of a novelty crowd, who would naturally pay me in novelty wages, which consist of pocket change; a promising dead-end referral to a fictitious partner, and a half smoked joint and a few xanex on the side.  I knew I wanted to avoid this vocational pitfall, so in order to make some progress and some money, I would have to find that delicate balance between “underground credibility”, and “selling out like Metallica”…to this day I agree with Beavis, James Hetfield looks like the cowardly lion.

One day I called in sick from work.  The word sick is subjective in nature, and on this day I felt sick in the head.  This is not an uncommon (or invalid for that matter) reason for me to fuck off work for a day or two at a time.  Don’t get me wrong, I have a strong, great, and noble work ethics, I just feel about half the work in life is meaningless, redundant, and stupid, and taking care of thy health is more important.

I ran across Craig’s List, and found a posting that read something along the lines of “Writer wanted, will pay”.  Sounds great, what do I write about?  I emailed the link, and was called back within the hour.  The lady (not disclosing names here) asked me a few questions.

Mysterious Benefactor:  “Hello, I have a few questions to ask you to make sure you will be the right guy for the project”

Me: “o.k.”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Do you like cats?”

Me: “I love pussy and pussy loves me!!”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Are you familiar with the T.V. show Glee?”

Me: “My estranged fiancé’s mom forced me, through guilt and manipulation, to watch that show a few times.”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Are you familiar with non-profit organizations like the Sierra Club?”

Me: “Oh man, I blazed so many trees while working for Green Peace I smoked the Sierra’s up, I even forgot my job description.”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Great.  I need you to write an interview for my cat, Aragon, who plays Lord Tubbington on Glee.”

Me with a furrow brow: “Saaaaayyyy what?”

A Stream of Consciousness Part 3

We live in a paradoxical world, where all the truths are sugar coated, and all lies are rationalized.  If you’re not good at something that appeals to you, it’s not your fault at all, your just fine and that activity is really just stupid and waste of your time OR if you’re really good at something, it’s because your “talented” and has nothing to do with dedication, disciple, or blood sweat and mother fucking tears…need I say more? (Don’t test me, I will).

It was best said by the great H.S.T. “Often in life, the truth is the funniest thing.”  As this esoteric quote echoed in the crispy re-fried cavities, of my THC saturated brain, I had my 3rd epiphany in life (my 1st  epiphany was that I’d get more action if I could unto a bra one handed.  My 2nd epiphany was that people would pay attention to me if I pissed on them).  And that epiphany was…I’m not going to see any money for at least a month from this place if I see it at all.  Fuck this job!

My co-worker sitting to my left, the fat chick who was just crying, who appeared happy and confident only an hour ago…started melting.  Her face oozed all over the floor and desk.  The anxiety and stress drooled out her pock marked face, which was now riddled with fear, loathing, paranoia, pressure, and Clearasil residue.  Fuck-Face was now undergoing some kind of malicious metamorphosis as he turned from Mickey Mouse, to Adolf Hitler.  The headsets became chained collars, while the monitor on the computer started growing sharp pointy teach, and the words flashing on the screen said “Stick your head in a little closer!”  Sensing I was next to be sucked into the vortex of corporate meaninglessness and mangled manipulation, I made a jump for it.  If I timed it right, I could avoid being sent to the corporate Auschwitz if Fuck-Face didn’t see me leave.  I needed a distraction, so I picked up the wireless mouse and threw it at the window behind Fuck-Face, bouncing it off so it hit him in the back of the head.  NOOOOOWWWW!!!

While I was catching my breath and talking to a bunch of paroles at the bus stop on my way home, it dawned on me that this “Gonzo” mode of expression was my vehicle to command, and that very day I wrote “The truths and lies of telemarketing”.

Continue Reading: A Stream of Consciousness Part 4

Thanksgiving Words from Wylie

          Happy Thanksgiving everyone.  Tonight, i am grateful for this laptop i am writing you from, I am grateful for family, friends, food, and fun.  I am grateful for the Holy Spirit that runs in us all, I am grateful for God and his mysterious works of mercy.  I am grateful of good times, i am grateful of bad times.  I am grateful that i may stand through hell and be able to look back and laugh, and if not able to learn a lesson the first time, upon the umpteenth billionth time I may figure it out. I'm grateful for joy, I'm grateful for sorrow, I'm grateful for the way Dexter Gordon plays his horn on "I'll Guess I'll Hang My Tears Out to Dry".  I'm grateful for my life, for my experiences, travels, and education, both book and street. I'm grateful for those who love me, and for those who have had patience and understanding with me.

        So......I found a few gems in my laptop and said "Gee self, I bet realistically dem things is gonna sit around and collect dust.  You ain't gonna finish that."  Shut up self...gosh your such an idiot sometime, I can do it with the help of others. "Your high again arn't ya?!" Nope, clean as a whistle, check it out, if i publish a little bit of this story (a short story) and ask my fans to help me write it, we will get it done in no time.

      Did you follow that?  I'm going to post a little bit of this story, it's titled, "Tina the Trollop", an epic tale of a young mans 25 birthday, when he befriends the company of a call girl, or "professional lady" named Tina, who is twice his age, twice as fucked up, and twice as loud and obnoxious as our hero.  Although embarrassing and recklessly jeopardising our hero's safety and health, our hero is enticed by lavish gifts from the whore, and her seemingly endless harem of harlots.  Our hero finds him self simultaneously in the hands of the law and has a draconian probation officer with a mark for him.  Follow us on a quest for adventure, starting sometime next week, at a blogspot near you, well, mine specifically

   So i want you all to post your comments here and let me know how you want this story to develop.  For those of you who were actually there or actually know, FUCK OFF!!! No just kidding, tell me what ever you feel like, how else can we grow?  So to everyone I love you, goodnight!

A Stream of Consciousness Part 2

Knowing these truths to be self-evident, I decided to take it upon myself to revise…I mean “document” history, and tell it like it is.  I started this project like I would start any other, compulsively and randomly.  I figured the easiest topics to explore, were the crazy, random, and unreal events and circumstances I found myself going through day in and day out.  Being free of bitterness made life an easy and fun topic, but would it be enough to write about?  I mulled the idea around for about 3/10ths of a second, and then concluded the following:

      

A)     Getting to write about history according to the way I WISHED it happened is fun and easy, and only my ex-girlfriends, bosses, teachers, and about 64,438 other people will suffer.  Sounds manageable.

B)      Kissing the Blarney Stone at 14 blessed me with the ole Irish “Gift of Gab” or the gift of “bull-shitting)” which is, after all, the universal language in life that everyone can understand.

C)      I would burn in hell if I continued to squander my talents on pot smoking and playing video games.

                My first attempt of conceiving a literary opus of genius was down right retarded.  Unlike oral communication, which can be blurted out yet remain corrected through other sound mechanisms, written communication requires a bit of forethought.  One day, while I was at a generic office sweatshop just testing the waters on my “Stay or Bail” day, it became clear to me, that not enough people understand the true nasty boiler room politics of these call centers, because if they did, someone might just intervene.

Employed as a 1099 (thus making me my own employer, and my boss my client) I noticed right away that the title, “independent contractor” was just a fictitious office moniker, as I could sense that just leaving your seat could be the spark to ignite a demeaning and dramatic dialog about call statistics, kick backs, and dialer efficacy that you are now not a part of because you stood up.  My manager (lets call him Fuck Face) was tearing into this poor little (I really mean big and fat) sales girl.  Calling her stupid and making fun of the way she smelled, like hamster feed.  Tearing into her self image; like vultures tearing into carrion; marines tearing into Asian chicks; or homeless tweakers tearing in the garbage on pickup day, he tore her, a new asshole. 

I didn’t recall the job description mentioning anything about emotional abuse, public belittlement, or defamation of character…In fact; I think the job description said something like “Great team environment.  Free drinks in the break room, team players make money hand over fist, best management in Orange County, fun work environment.”

When Fuck Face interviewed me hours ago, he seemed liked a cool guy.  He went over the rules, the pay, and the procedure.  It seemed like any typical office scenario, so bland to the core I believe I started to nod out.  I went to the dialer, but within the hour, it was very clear to me that only 8.838% of my co-workers were pretending to be marginally happy, management offered no coaching, no solutions, no mediation, and no one cared.  Commission only and you’ll figure it out.

It was crystal clear to me that I was to remain tethered to my computer at all times. The chain gang of marketing; 25 to life of hard labor here.  Stay seated, look busy no matter what.  If I had to take a shit, my options were to poop in the waste basket OR drag the computer and the entire fucking sales team down the hall with me, so we can all cold call from the shitter in the handicap person’s living room.  It might have been appropriate now that I think about it.  It seemed odd to me, why would my pursuit of aimless wondering conflict with a cheap office’s “no payment policy”.  I suddenly felt woozy and short of breath, as this rotten paradox became too obvious to ignore.  Pondering the Irony of the Universe, and one of life’s cruel twisted clichés presented to me, I suddenly felt like I was in some kind of LSD inspired carton, and the truth set in…and I could smell the fear!!!

Continue Reading : A Stream of Consciousness (Part 3)

A Stream of Consciousness Part 1

                I first encountered the concept of writing as a young lad.  My opinion today is antipodal to that of yester-yore, but so is my understanding of my body’s mechanics.   I loathed writing until about a year ago, when on a midsummer's day, a thought occurred to me while I was sitting in the gutter, somewhere in Anaheim, CA, picking my nose, and wondering what the fuck happened to my previous career.

The clouds opened up over head, and a beam of light shined down on my scruffy Irish face.  Since it was high noon with a mild overcast, I knew this mysterious luminescence was not the trademark work of the all too ominous “Ghetto Bird”, or police helicopters as it is commonly referred to in the “civilized mans” vernacular, and at that moment, I was bestowed with divine knowledge…and God spoke directly to me. 

“Wylie O’Rylie, this is the voice of God.  You’re a total fuck up, and now you’re going to pay for it…take thy laptop your step father gave to you, and play World of Warcraft no longer.  Your new means of entertainment will be scribing about your hedonistic adventures, and you will include a sound wholesome moral twist at the end of each tale.

You will also include such personally embarrassing stories like the time you were arrested in Rosa Redo, Mexico, for climbing up a set of bleachers at a crowded club, whipping out thy jimmy, and pissing all over the dancers on the floor below.  It did not matter that they were from Ft. Lauderdel or that you felt the white shirts they were wearing should be a different color, and neither did your intoxicated acumen.  NOT BEING THE CENTER OF ATTENTION IS NEVER A GOOD REASON TO PISS ON THY BRETHREN, UNTIL OF COURSE, YOU PROCEED TO PISS ON THY BRETHREN...THAN OF COURSE YOU ARE THE CENTER OF ATTENTION AS YOU HAD WISHED, ENJOY MEXICAN  JAIL.

Now, put down thy beer, finish thy booger, and write, write, write you God damn scribe…or would that be my damn it, or however the fuck that should be grammatically phrased.  Now go, before I decide to miracle your ass to state prison, or cancel It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.”

Now every one of us has said it before (and some more then others)...“THEY (don’t be proactive in your life or anything) should write a book about my life because its SO unique and SO interesting (maybe to the one who makes this kind of comment that is) and eventually they would make a movie about it.  Yeah, that would be rad, because every thought, feeling, and experience I’ve ever had is 100% original and by tale will be held as a legend.  Shit, I bet they’d even teach it in high school.”

No dumb ass.  No journalist in his right mind would take on an assignment like that.  Even if you were to pay the journalist upfront in both cash and crystal methamphetamine, he’d still think you’re an idiot and better suited as a donor in a testicular vaporizer beta test.  A beautiful science project where they actually get to poor bleach in your gene pool.

Continue Reading : A Stream of Consciousness Part 2