Best Of... Excerpt.

During the Hiatus, I felt compelled to go through the steps taken should I ever just shut this site down. Don't worry, whenever a significant bout of depression sets in this always enters my mind. I actually archived this entire site to my hard drive. Six point four-seven megabytes of text. That's eight years of my life distilled into a .txt file.

Fuck.

Here's an excerpt from a column where I discuss how much I hate flying. Or something like that. It's one of my Father's favorite excerpts. I had posted it on the web before I'd submitted it to a magazine I was writing for at the time and it became an email-forwarding bit before it was recognized as something I'd written. Co workers at the magazine thought I'd lifted a piece verbatim off of the internet. Plagiarism accusations flew but no one stopped to think that the thing that was emailed to them had the word "gooch" plugged into it. Dicks. Fuck them for accusing me of shit.

I'm talented, fuckers.

Here's the excerpt. Enjoy.

...Enjoy your flight. My disdain for air travel does not reside solely with the airlines and their employees. For example, passengers can aggravate me as well. Here’s an open letter to a little boy who sat behind me on my last flight:

Billy? Was that you’re name? You probably remember me. I was sitting in front of you and was one of the nice people that were trying to find your teddy bear, “Woofie.” Yes, we looked, and we looked, and no one could find your bear. You got off of the plane, crying, like a six-year-old often does when he or she loses a prized toy. Funny thing? Woofie was in my backpack the whole time. That’s right! You see, when I have to get up at 5am, I get grouchy… Like Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street. In adult terms, it’s best not to fuck with me. So when you kicked the back of my seat eight or nine thousand times, I got really grouchy. In adult terms, fucking pissed. During your fourth mid-flight “potty break,” I took woofie from your seat, leaving only the blanket in which you covered him. Woofie got to ride home with me in my “Goochmobile.” Can you say “Goochmobile?” I knew you could! Can you say “cigarette lighter?“ I knew you could… you seemed like a smart kid. Do you know what a “car cigarette lighter is?” Ask your Mom… ‘cause that’s what I torched your fucking bear with, you little bastard.

Hiatus.

I could look at this picture for hours.

Unless some news shit breaks out over the course of the next week, I'm shutting down on writing for a bit. I'll keep a notepad around and maybe bukkake your literate faces with spewage of observations during the next seven days.








Confucious say: "Seven day honeymoon make one whole week."





Read it out loud, sorta funny.





Peace.





gooch:out.