Even just logging onto this thing is hard sometimes.  Because I don’t know why I do it.  I don’t know why I do most things (or at least if I do know, I’m not very good at expressing it), but this blog does need to exist for me and I for the life of me couldn’t tell you why.  It’s important to me to write some stuff on a thing that anyone in the world could look at if they wanted to.  Blogs are nothing but a drop in the ocean, yet there’s always that feeling, that juvenile hope that, hey, maybe Quentin Tarantino will happen upon my blog and be like, “Hey, this guy sure has some insightful and amusing things to say about pooping!  I better call him on my cellphone!’  Beep boop beep, beep beep boop, boop beep boop beep.  Errrrrrrrrrnt.  Errrrrrrrrrrrrrnt.  “Oh man, I hope I don’t get his voicemail.  That’d be lame.  Oh heeeeey, is this…uh…Butthorn?  Ha ha ha!  That’s not your real name!  What’s your real name?  I wanna know whose name to write on all these fat checks I gotta sign over to you pretty soon when you help me make the greatest film known to mankind!”  And then he drives to your house and picks you up in his Lamborghini, and you stop at a McDonald’s (McDonald’s!  With Quentin Tarantino, can you even IMAGINE it?!) and he starts asking you things like “So where do you get all your ideas?” and “Who are some of your influences?” and “How many hot girls do you want when we get to my mansion?  I own hundreds.”

Then you look around the McDonald’s and notice that all of your old high school teachers, a motorcycle gang, a table full of tough but cool-looking black dudes, and a cheerleading squad are all watching you eat a McDonald’s lunch with Quentin Tarantino.  The cheerleaders giggle self-consciously.  One of the black dudes says “Right on” and gives you a meaningful nod you can take to your grave.  Quentin Tarantino stands up and says “What the fuck are you all staring at?  Don’t look at me.  Look at this guy right here.  I’m gonna be nothin’ in five years, but this guy’s gonna be wiping his ass with a diamond necklace the next time you seen him!” except he says something much cooler than that, and also something that makes sense, because what about hard-won wealth would make one want to injure oneself in such a horrific fashion, and to what end?  Who, rich or poor, would be impressed by it?  Who would wish they could be that guy?  Who would bemoan the quality of their own existence in comparison to that of the man raking a sharp and notoriously hard, if undeniably extravagant and appealing to behold, object over the hypersensitive exterior wall of his rectum?  Certainly not Quentin Tarantino.  He’d take one look at such a thing and declare “Hey, man, why you wipin’ your ass with that necklace?”  He would never say “Wow, you must be successful!” or “My life is horrible!” after witnessing such an act, of that you can be assured.  Point being, in the above scenario at McDonald’s Quentin Tarantino would say something complimentary about you in public, and he would do so in a cockily clever fashion that people would quote later in bars.  It would make you feel really special and you would believe that you can now tell people that you’re friends with him and it won’t just be showing off.  You’d just be saying something that was true, and no one thinks you’re showing off if you tell them the sky’s blue, right?

You leave McDonald’s without taking your trays and burger wrappers to the trash can and jump back into QT’s Lamborghini, which can go up to 700 mph and says a variety of different, brashly vulgar phrases, such as “English, motherfucker, do you speak it?!” and “I bet you’re a big Lee Marvin fan, aren’t ya?”  You clap your hands and laugh whenever the car says one of these things, and QT looks over at you and smiles with pride and excitement.  The wind whips through your hair, and you realize that it was all just leading up to this.  All the boring nonsense you just sleptwalked through and all the self-fulfilling disappointments you let slide off your back because you weren’t really trying anyway are culminating in this one car ride, and you’ve finally found the point at which it’s all worth it.  That point is real.  You just found it.  Or it just found you, and it is driving you to Hollywood, where you are going to be a star.

You get to QT’s mansion and a robot butler takes your duffel bag.  QT jumps on the robot butler piggyback style and rides it into the kitchen.  The robot butler struggles but bears QTs weight, wobbly but working, and you laugh at the antics.  The kitchen is full of candy, and the living room is full of video games, and the basement is full of comics, and the bathroom is full of cocaine, and the bedroom is full of ladies.  You roll in a big pile of all these things.  You hear someone laughing and it sounds like you.  You and Quentin Tarantino listen to a lot of the same music, and he excitedly voices thoughts about Pearl Jam that you’ve once had yourself, to the letter almost.  The ladies get bored because you guys are talking about shows that were cancelled before they were born.  You catch a fleeting glimpse of your reflection in the hot tub water and it is hideous but blurry and easy to put out of your mind.

Being outside in a hot tub is amazing.

The guest house is a scale model of the Millennium Falcon, but with a strip club in it, and your bed is composed of a gelatinous but not adherent substance that conforms to the contours of your prone body with otherworldly precision and comfort.  You lie down and feel it cling to you.  It dawns on you that, before now, home had been a foreign concept.  You thought you knew what it was before, but you didn’t.  Now you do, and you don’t wonder that people seem to love it so much.  You close your eyes and see nothing but breasts and fluttering green bills.

The next day Quentin Tarantino’s robot butler wakes you by gliding into your room, emitting a muted beep, and intoning MR. TARANTINO HAS PREPARED BREAKFAST FOR YOU IN THE KITCHEN AND REQUESTS THAT YOU JOIN HIM.  THERE ARE SLIPPERS IN THE CLOSET.  You thank the robot butler and try to shake some life into your head.  Something clatters to the floor as you fling the gelatin blankets aside.  You scan the floor.  Colorful dots…Skittles!

You follow the scent of bacon and eggs and find QT in an apron emblazoned with a photorealistic nude female body, replete with pubic hair, and an oversized chef’s hat, which flops about amusingly as he places what look to be well-prepared breakfasts – pancakes, too, it turns out – around the table.  Three plates of breakfast.  One of the ladies must be joining you.

But no – it’s a breakfast for Brad Pitt!

“So this is the famous Butthorn,” drawls Brad, sliding into his seat and wryly tearing the fatty end from a dripping slice of fine-quality bacon.  “Nice to meet ya, I’m Brad.”

You wonder if you should try to be funny or interesting, or perhaps even polite and “just folks”.  Nothing seems right, including remaining silent.  Too much time elapses, and you laugh and apologize.

“That’s all right, Butthorn,” says Brad, looking around the table for something.  “You puttin’ out some OJ or are we drinking Mrs. Butterworth’s today?”

“Keep your fuckin’ dick on, I got toast burnin’ over here!” snaps QT from the kitchen.

“He can singlehandedly rejuvenate modern day cinema, but put him in front of a toaster, and suddenly the walls are closing in,” says Brad.  “Good bacon, though.  Pull up a chair, eat some of this.”

You obey, eager to eat but wary of looking slovenly or sounding foolish.  You want ketchup on your eggs but wonder how this will be interpreted by Brad Pitt.  You decide to start with bacon.  It’s very good.

“People talk a lot about bacon these days,” says Brad.  “Why do you think that is, Butthorn?”

You look at the bacon in your hand and it suddenly looks like a horror prop.  You say that you don’t know.

“Oh come on, Butthorn,” says Brad.  “You’re the Internet guy, right?  Isn’t bacon a big Internet thing, or was that awhile ago?  I’m a little behind on these sorts of things.”

“I’m not really the Internet guy,” you say.  “I like to use it, but…”

“Hey Quentin, I thought you said this guy was all about the Internet!”

“That’s…where my blog is, but…”

“Oh, that’s what it is!” says Brad, nodding steadily with an implacable squint while fashioning a tiny gordita of sort from a pancake fragment, bacon, hash brown, and syrup.  “I’ve been thinking of making me one of those.  Get on there, talk about my feelings.  Opinions on various topics.  That what you do?”

“A little,” you say.

“You should come over and help me do mine,” says Brad, trying to balance his creation on his fork.  “You can meet Angelina and the kids.  Angelina loves the Internet.  You guys could probably talk all day about it.”

You drop your knife and make it so much worse by trying to stop it from happening.  Your hand, no control a thing you can control, bats it into the living room, where it lands on the rug, sticky with syrup.

“HEY, ROBOT!” calls Brad, and you jump.  “Don’t worry, that robot’ll take care of it.  His left arm is a Shop-Vac.”

“Oh wow,” you say, mentally slitting your own throat.

“Angelina’s been wanting to make a movie about the Internet,” says Brad, chewing with his mouth open.  “It’s about she’s get shrunk down real small and gets sucked into a laptop, and then as a result she’s running around all these websites, so when people are trying to use the Internet, they see my wife jumping around on all the words and interacting with all the pictures, and getting caught in YouTube movies and all that stuff.”

“Oh wow,” you say again, imprisoned in a foul and stupid carcass.

“It’s just in the idea stage right now, though,” says Brad, mopping up the remaining syrup in his plate with his last pancake and folding the entire affair into his mouth.  “Maybe when you’re done making your little movie with Ugly over there, you can sit down with Angelina and help her come up with stuff for it.  You know all the websites and e-mail jokes and everything, and she could take care of all the technical stuff.”

“Oh my God, that would be…I’d be…”

You wait because you don’t want to say honored but you end up saying it anyway and it both feels and sounds even worse than you’d imagined, but Brad is choking on something anyway so the inexplicable shame is yours to keep.  QT finally shows up with some burnt toast and joins you both at the table.

“Where’s the OJ?” asks Brad between sputters.

“Can I fucking eat this shit I busted my fucking hump to fucking cook for you assholes, please, before waiting on your prima donna ass fucking hand and fucking foot?”

“I’m choking!” Brad says, now also laughing and inventing an entirely new type of audible spasm for a human throat to make.  “I gotta wash this down!”

“Really?  You’re choking?  Awww, well that is a shame,” says QT, pouting with mock sympathy and concern.  He then turns to you and says, “See, now this is exciting.  Not only are you gonna be a world-renowned multimillionaire when this is all said and done, but you can tell people that you were there when Brad Pitt choked to death on a pancake.”

Brad laughs harder and tries to hit himself in the back, which looks insane.

“It’ll be bigger than JFK, the Space Shuttle, and 9/11 combined in terms of ‘where were you when’ moments, and when people ask you where you were when Brad Pitt choked on that pancake, you can say you were passing him the fucking butter.”

Brad walks into the living room, sticks his finger down his throat, and pukes breakfast all over the carpet.

“OH, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKING PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!” QT barks, watching with incredulous rage as Brad Pitt crumples to the floor in a laughing, bile-flecked heap.  “MUFFIT THREE!  MUFFITT THREE, CAN YOU COME CLEAN UP THE RUG, PLEASE?”

You hear the robot butler gliding its way in from the next room.

“His left arm’s a Shop-Vac,” explains QT.  “But still, that’s just fucking ridiculous.  Are the eggs okay?  You haven’t touched them.  Do you need ketchup?”

You nod and restrain yourself from kissing him on the mouth.  Muffit III sucks regurgitated carbs up into a compartment in its chest while Brad stomps towards the nearest bathroom and QT rummages through the fridge for some ketchup for your eggs.

Jeez, I didn’t come here to write this!  To be continued, maybe???  It’s out of my hands at this point.


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