Category: Hell on Wheels


12:11 PM – BOB
So yeah, basically we had three people for Hell on Wheels and five for Total Badass last night.  It was freezing tits cold, so there’s that excuse.  We also got zero press and had no derby support here.  I’m sure I could make more excuses for the lack of a turnout, but why bother?  However, all five stuck around for the Q&A. You might argue that they only stuck around out of fear of being rude by walking out or that they were just over-courteous, but all of them chatted it up with us after the screening. So, if you look at it this way, 100% of the crowd hung out and talked with us after the flicks.

Today, we split from Ally’s house (she had a badass quilt made up of old socks, btw (thanks, Ally!!)) and holed up in the downtown Providence library.   We’re uploading vids, emailing, promo-ing, taking shits, fielding questions from cinemas, etc… in short, we’re partying balls.

Library in Providence:



12:31 PM – CHAD
We woke up in Providence and went to what is bound to be the main library downtown and spent a couple hours working on our tour journal. I’m confident that the work we did there will have us caught up with everything in no time. The truth is, I think Bob and I both are in no hurry to get anywhere, because we have no idea where we are going to stay for the next two nights. We have a showing in Boston tomorrow, and know nobody there. We stayed here in Providence with a friend of a friend last night, but without even speaking with each other, Bob and I mutually concluded that we had probably imposed enough and asking to stay again would be simply… indulgent. Besides, whether we know anybody or not, we’re convinced Boston is going to be a blast and are eager to check it out.

8:49 PM – BOB
We made it to Boston.  We haven’t been here long and already I’ve done more u-turns in Boston in the last three hours than I did on the previous 20 days of the tour.

12:31 AM – CHAD
Boston Sucks. I might just now be typing that phrase for the first time in this journal, but you must believe me when I tell you that it eventually becomes our mantra over the entirety of our stay in the city. I don’t want any place to suck, ok? I’m a firm believer that you can go anywhere and it will all just be one big adventure and you’ll meet all these wonderful people and do all these amazing things but I’ve been to Boston twice now and it sucked both times. I want to apologize to all the good people of Boston too, and assure you that I’m certain that I’m wrong about this and the only reason I think Boston sucks is because I haven’t met you yet. I think part of the problem might be that both times I’ve gone to Boston, it has been straight from New York City, and maybe it just sucks by comparison. I’m fully aware that saying that might even be worse than simply saying “Boston Sucks” but I’m trying to offer explanations, so as to soothe the masses in Boston. I’ve got to tell you though; Bob and I seriously talked about printing up “Boston Sucks” t-shirts at one point.

Anyway, when we rolled into town, we went to this Irish bar that Davis Comeau suggested we go to, and told them that he sent us. I think our Texas accents may have been a big part of the problem, and maybe the folks at the bar thought I said “Albert DeSalvo” instead of “Davis Comeau” but we didn’t exactly end up pounding rounds of Irish Car Bombs into the night at this motherfucker, ok? On top of that, we had no idea where we were going to stay, and it was looking like we’d be sleeping in the car because we’re both too cheap to even split a hotel room. At some point I suggested to Bob that we place an ad on craigslist which would explain that we were two filmmakers on the road looking for a place to stay for a couple of days, promising free admission to the screening, tons of memorabilia, and just a great time, in general. I specifically posted the ad in the “men seeking women” and “strictly plutonic” sections of the site, and assured Bob that we’d be hearing from hordes of hyper-sexed gay men, in no time.

2:02 AM – BOB
It’s late.  Were driving from a bar to a dude’s house that we met on craigslist. The roads here are fucked. The signs are fucked.  The layout of the city is fucked.  If you wanna get riled up, drive in Boston. On top of that, there’s a fuck-ton of cops.  Those two elements came together in a fearful moment of dread followed by a momentary panic as I was making a weird turn at one of Boston’s finer seven-way intersections and bounced across some sort of bump/curb/train track thing in a weird fashion.  The cop was headed the other way, but he could pull a u-ey any minute, right?  And did he see what surely appeared to all civilized folk in the vicinity to be a drunken driving maneuver?  We didn’t know.  But we did panic. “Ditch the car?” Chad asked.  Let’s think: car full of drugs, Texas plates, beer in car, cops looming.  Answer: yes.  I swung the car over to an empty parking spot between two bigger cars and we bailed the fuck out. We strolled down the road a bit acting nonchalant.  After a few blocks, and nerves calmed by time, we made our way back to the car and headed over to the craigslist dude’s house.  His name was Jim, or James.  We took to calling him Jim James.

Upon arrival at Jim James’s pad, everything was weird. It would be wrong to assume that Jim James was a gay man intent on raping us, gutting us and replacing our vital juices with gallon upon gallon of Jello™, but the circumstantial evidence was mounting.

2:12 AM  CHAD
Had I written this journal on a day-to-day basis as planned, it probably would have been cool here to post some of the responses that Bob and I got from our craigslist advertisement. In reality though, this shit all happened back on about November 30th and it is now roughly February 8th of the next year, so I’m not going to go digging through my emails looking for the shit. You’ll have to make do with me assuring you that most of the replies were about dicks, and whether or not we sucked them. There was one guy, however, who rose above all the petty vulgarities and suggested that we could come crash at his place with no strings attached, though he did leave the door open for shenanigans if we decided that was the way shit was going to go down. His name was James.

We get over to James’ house and he lives in this really nice part of town and his “apartment” is like the third or fourth floor of a… I don’t even know what the hell you call this type of place; they don’t have them in Texas. It was like four houses stacked on top of each other with a stairwell running up the middle… one of those. We get up to his level, he lets us in and the when we walked through the doorway, the first thing I notice off to the left is that the living room is completely empty… no furniture, no pictures, no rugs, nothing. This was one of about four times in my life that I’ve walked into a situation and realized immediately that I’m likely to be killed. If you’ve seen Goodfellas, then you remember the part where Joe Pesci walks into the house with the old mobsters, thinking he is about to become a made-man and then he sees that the place is empty and almost has enough time to say “Oh No!” right before they blow his brains out. It was exactly that type of moment. I mean, I saw this shit and literally maneuvered myself away from Bob to where I felt like if there was some sort of attack, maybe at least one of us could react, fight back, or run while the other was being killed. Like I said, this is about the fourth time I’ve ever been in such a situation. Two of the other times were on drug deals, and I think I might have written about them in an old article that I pledge to post here in the journal sometime down the road on a slow news day (believe me, there are going to be a lot of slow news days coming up). There was one time though, that I’ve never told anyone about, so I’m going to go ahead and tell that story now before I carry on with this James in Boston situation.

Ok, about ten years ago, right around the time I started writing for Rank and Revue Magazine, I was online surfing yahoo chat and I run across this couple over on Riverside Drive who invite me over to come have a threesome with them. Now, I had pretty much grown out of threesomes involving men at that point in my life, but this was a really fine black girl and they swore that there would be no interaction between males… the girl just really liked getting fucked by two guys, or so the story went. I go over and meet them at a convenience store across the street from their apartments so we can all three make sure we’re comfortable with each other before we go to their place… this is all normal protocol when setting up threesomes over the internet, I assure you. It’s important that I mention this initial meet-up, because I think it lends credence to my theory that these two were planning to kill me, all along.

Anyway, I meet them at the store, and it’s a black girl like I said, with a white boyfriend. The funny thing is; they were a complete role reversal. She was a college student over at UT and was almost sorority-like in her speech and mannerisms while he was a ghetto-acting thug with a bad case of nigger-mouth. Not to be confused with trench-foot or pink-eye, nigger-mouth is an ailment that strikes one-in-four young Caucasians, causing them to insist on talking like a black person, and it bothers the shit out of me. In fact, I’m not ashamed to tell you that whenever I encounter this phenomenon, there is a little trigger in my brain that, the second I hear a word come out of the affected party’s mouth, it simply “switches off” and I never listen to or process a single fucking word they say for the rest of my life. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the way black people talk. In fact, I consider their command of the English language to be at the very least unique if not downright admirable. I don’t mind the way white people talk either… I’ve been talking like them for years. It’s just when a white person talks like a black person that I have an issue. The odd thing is, when a black person talks like a white person, it doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I find it rather refreshing. Why is that, you figure?

Let’s not get hung up on semantics here, ok? The point is, I pass their initial inspection and am invited back over to the apartment. We get over there and all three walk in the door, and I can’t help but immediately notice that they have pulled up all of the carpet in every room, obviously in a bid to kill me without any of the troublesome bloodstains that are always getting people busted for murder on the TV shows. They tried to put me at ease by explaining that the carpet was all pulled up because of their dogs. You see, they had a whole bedroom full of pit bulls that they were going to chop me up and feed me to over time, in order to dispose of my body. We go back to their bedroom and begin watching Scary Movie 2… the one that starts off with James Woods spoofing The Exorcist. They started smoking crack, you know, to get themselves all amped up for the kill, but I respectfully declined because I’ve never smoked cocaine, only snorted it. Basically, I spent the next several hours trapped in their bedroom, trying to stay in their good graces so as we could either all fuck, or they at least would decide not to kill me. I was doing whatever it took to be charming… I even told homeboy that I was pretty sure I could get the magazine to publish some of the drawings that his friend had been mailing him from prison. The thing is; the issue of sex never came up. I mean, we were obviously not there to do anything of a sexual nature, so what else does that leave? I mean sure, maybe I just wasn’t their type, but the whole point of having an initial public meet-up before random internet sex is so that you can just tell the person right there on the spot not to waste their time or yours. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that I was ninety-percent sure that these two intended to kill me, ok? But the girl was so fine; I was willing to risk my life for a ten-percent chance of fucking her. It actually got to the point where I had played out my own private screening of Forensic Files in my mind. In that particular episode, the police were able to go back and look at the archived conversations on my computer and that would lead them to the convenience store, and then eventually to the video surveillance footage of me and the last two people to see me alive. From there, it was simply a matter of sifting through dogshit to secure a conviction.

Anyway, obviously I escaped and went on to survive long enough to encounter this James in Boston situation, a decade later. Now, as I was saying about an hour ago… When Bob and I walked into James’ house, the bare-empty living room took what was already an awkward social situation and turned it into a potential double homicide. James ended up being a bit older than us, and not quite as in shape, so we weren’t in any danger of a bull-rush type situation, but that didn’t rule out treachery involving firearms, poisons, or sneak attacks in the darkness of night. Don’t think I didn’t have this in mind when I never drank a sip of the already-opened Heineken James gave me before I went to bed. Actually, since it was almost three in the morning, I was already so fucked up; I didn’t need a Heineken any more than James needed to drug me to make me pass out. I fell asleep on a couch within about ten minutes, leaving my life in Bob’s hands. The next morning when I woke up, Bob was curled up like a watchdog, sleeping on the floor next to my couch even though he had a bed available in another room. It was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Incidentally, this might all seem like exaggeration and humor, with just a smidge of blatant homophobia mixed in, but when we woke up the next morning and did a thorough inspection of the premises, it became quite obvious that something was seriously amiss about our surroundings, so stay tuned for the next episode.

2:52 AM – BOB
I’ve seen enough war shows on the TV to be familiar with the divide and conquer technique.  I know Chad secretly wanted me to sleep in the other room so his fantasies of being molested after his death could finally come to pass, but we still have screenings to attend.  And I want to attend them not as a ghost.  For a man who intended to murder us, Jim James was quite nice and cordial.  So nice in fact, that he politely offered and re-offered to share his bed with me.  There’s plenty of room, he insisted.  No need to sleep on the hard floor, he pleaded.  Have more booze.  You have nice veins.  Don’t bother with the beer, have some of this whiskey, he offered as he dug out a bottle from way back in an empty cupboard.  My keen eye noticed that the half empty bottle had previously been opened and had bits of pills floating in the booze.  Well, potentially, anyway.  This is when I began to suspect that Jim James wanted not only to murder me, but to gay sex me as well.  I’m not sure if the sex or the murder was to be first, but later I realized that he’d also intended to pack my corpse full of Jello™.  Not to sound like a huge wuss or anything, but murder kinda scares me.  Have you seen Auto Focus? The movie where Bob Crane gets his head caved in with a tripod while he sleeps?  The shunned “group grope” got him killed, but good.  Group grope or not, gay sex just disinterests me.  Too much penis and not enough vagina for my tastes.  And I don’t think it makes me a homophobe just cuz the idea of a couple of dudes rolling around all sweaty and stabbing each other with their penises is not a turn on for me.  Hell, I don’t even get why hetero dudes get so riled up about lesbo sex porn.  I like the gays and the lezzies just fine and all, but sex-wise, I’m keen on the idea of cute, naked, sexy girls.  And if there’s a sexy naked gal having awesome sex with a penis (specifically, MY penis), all the better!  That’s exciting!  And if it’s porn with a hot gal having penis sex, at least I can imagine that it’s my penis and totally beat off to that.  But, having never tried the gay sex, maybe I’m being closed minded about it.  Actually, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Jim James never specifically offered gay sex, just a bed to sleep in alongside him.  And I was too much of a pussy to take the gentleman up on his offer. Fingers crossed he doesn’t murder me for being rude.  My apologies, Jim James.

Film Tour Website: http://www.badassfilmtour.com
CrashCam Films Store:
http://crashcamfilms.com/store.htm

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9:09 PM – BOB
My rear windshield wiper must have mouthed-off to someone cuz when I approached my car, I noticed that it had been violently ripped off and strangled.

Lazy Sunday:

Aside from the shit in the pics and vids you just saw, I pretty much just took it easy today.  Wake and bake.  Watch TV. That kinda stuff.

11:34 PM – CHAD
This was Sunday, November 28th. It ended up being a very special day for me, and I’m keeping it all to myself.

Film Tour Website: http://www.badassfilmtour.com
CrashCam Films Store:
http://crashcamfilms.com/store.htm

3:31 PM – BOB
I’m currently sitting in the NYC Public Library, Mulberry Branch, writing the tour journal. I’m acting like it’s Day 06. If you go back and read “Day 06,” you can get yourself an eyeful of time-traveling lies.

6:14 PM – BOB
The library closed.  I’ve moved to the Whole Foods down the street.  I crapped out an entry for Day 07.  I’m currently writing this sentence that you are reading at this very second.  In a minute, I’ll try to find a place to sleep for Providence, Boston and all points beyond on the post-NYC leg of the tour.

10:22 PM – BOB
We ended up hanging out with Raphael, Lara, Eric and Bryant.  We headed up to a fancy-ass building up near the Mayor’s mansion.  In the lower level of the building was a private screening room that seats maybe 50 people, a game room with video games, a billiards room and then this:

10:38 PM – CHAD
We spent this night way uptown… like further uptown than I had any business being… at the building where Payson’s parents live. There was a big ass game room and private movie theatre in the lobby and that’s where we spent the evening. I remember the first thing that struck me about the neighborhood was that 6-packs of tallboys were starting around just under fifteen bucks a pop in the corner stores. At first I thought that must really suck for the people who lived around there, but then I realized the beauty of it: The people who live there are rich anyway, and making sure that all the goods and services in the neighborhood cost twice as much as anywhere else in the city ensures that riff-raff such as myself that ends up there by chance will know that it doesn’t belong. Anyway, it was me, Bob, Payson, Lara Pan, Raphael, and Bryant. The game room was equipped with a golf simulator, which I’m sure Bob has ample video footage of, so I needn’t get into how one of these things works, but don’t worry, I’d never seen one before, either. Not everything was on the up-and-up, though. In perhaps the greatest tragedy of the entire trip, there was a video game system that had every arcade game of yore that you could possibly imagine… Battle Zone, Dragon’s Lair, all the Donkey Kongs… I’m not going to sit here and bore you with a fucking list, trust me, they had everything but the controllers were broken! I couldn’t play a goddamn one of them. I felt like that guy in the episode of The Twilight Zone who is an avid reader and goes down into his fallout shelter during a nuclear war with all of his books, but then breaks his reading glasses. We had a good time on the golf simulator, and I remember Payson nodding off in the private theatre watching The Blues Brothers. The private theatre, by the way, was nicer than about 90% of the places we screened the movies at on either of our two trips. Next place I move into, I’m going to make sure they have one. The golf simulator, I can take or leave but goddamnit, the video arcade better be in working order.

3:03 AM – BOB
Later, we did this:

11:44 PM – BOB

I drove in from Long Island and met up with Chad and Rafael in Brooklyn. Rafael has a roommate and a guest.  Both of whom seem like fine folks.  There’s also a dog that is 183 in dog years and wears a diaper.

Getting back in the tour groove took a bit of effort. Needless to say, I was late to The Tank.  As I did with all the venues, I shipped DVDs so that if I’m late or in jail, they can screen the film without me.  For some reason, The Tank couldn’t find the disks.  Adding insult to my tardiness was the fact that I didn’t realize that I’d have to drive through the Theater District to get to the joint.

Running Late to the Tank

In the long run, it all went down just fine. There was a little group for Hell on Wheels and about twice as many for Total Badass.  The crowds were into the flicks and we got a great response. This is our final NYC screening and we’ve been having a blast here.  It was just plain cool to see the killer reviews we got in the NY Times and the Village Voice, but it didn’t seem to translate into noticeably larger audiences.  Last Friday at reRun was probably our biggest draw.  It was a pretty full house, but not a sell-out.  And the cinema is tiny.  I think it holds 80.   I guess I figured that a great review in the Times would get some asses in seats.  Hell, maybe it did. Maybe there would have only been 8 people there without the Times write up.

Tank Basement

2:50 AM – CHAD
So tonight we screened Total Badass in Manhattan at a place called The Tank. We were right in the middle of the theatre district and Times Square, down the road from Radio City Music Hall and all that shit, but oddly didn’t get much spillover of tourist traffic. On the bright side, most of the people we had been staying and/or partying with in Manhattan came… Payson, George and Virginia, Raphael for his third appearance, and my old college buddy, George Gierer even showed up. It seems like Austin’s James Teiser was there too, but don’t take my word for it. We went to Rudy’s Bar and Grill afterwards to eat hotdogs, and Gierer treated us to some Pork Slap beers, which immediately became my favorite new beer I discovered on the entire trip. Not because it was good, necessarily, but because of the two pigs slapping their bellies together on the can. In fact, I think the beer might have even been kind of disgusting, but the pigs made that alright somehow, and it seemed to get you fucked up more than usual. So fucked up, in fact, that I went ahead and lost the Flip video camera that had survived through the entire production of Total Badass as well as our west coast trip last summer and seventeen days on the road this time around. As such, I have no video of the riveting Q and A that followed our Manhattan premiere. Eventually, most of us went back to George and Virginia’s house and partied into the night. I didn’t have to shit near as bad this time when I got over there, because there were bathrooms at The Tank.

Anyway, remember how on yesterday’s journal entry, I told you that I wrote an article one time that explains why I don’t get as bent out of shape about Texas Longhorn Football as I used to? Remember how I told you I would reprint it later on when there wasn’t much else to talk about? Well, you’d think that the night that a movie about my life premiered in Manhattan wouldn’t fall into that category, but I really don’t have anything more to say about it, so I’m going to go ahead and get the Longhorn shit out of the way right now. This is a story I wrote back in 2005, when writing didn’t bug the living shit out of me, like it does now…

From Top to Bottomus

I could sit here and carry on for quite some time about how much The Texas Longhorns winning The National Championship in football means to me, but it’s actually much too special and important of an event in my life for me to completely share it with you people. Let’s put it this way…. Before the Longhorns won, Jesus could have come back to Earth and told me, “Chad, it’s time. I’ve come to take you, your family, and your friends to heaven with me.” And I would have said, “You know what, Jesus? Fuck You. I’m not going anywhere until The Longhorns win a National Championship.” That might seem a bit worldly to you, but seriously, there is no way in Hell I would have died a happy man if this hadn’t happened and now that it has, my life is complete and nothing can stop me from reaching my full potential. Oh sure, you would think that little creature comforts such as having children, graduating from college, or being such a phenomenal success in the entertainment business would have afforded me this level of happiness in life, but they offered me nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment and overall satisfaction that have swept over me since that glorious day. You have to understand that before now, underneath all of the smiles and successes, I was but a husk of a man because I knew it was all a lie. I would be out in society going through the motions with the rest of humanity, trying to make my mark on history, but all I could hear inside my head was a little voice saying, “It’s all bullshit. You, your people, and your state are all a bunch of losers because The Longhorns haven’t won a National Championship in your lifetime. You will all be forgotten, and your lives are in vain.” I have never really used the word “bliss” all that much in the past. In fact, I always thought it was kind of a pussy-word, but now I’m not ashamed to tell you that in my heart and in my mind, I have a feeling of absolute bliss. The best thing about it is the lack of caring… the complete and total aloofness… that I have towards sports now. All of the failures and setbacks and tragedies in my life… the deaths of loved ones, the felony convictions, the struggles with substance abuse… they were relatively easy for me to deal with compared to The Longhorn’s 1999 home opener upset at the hands of North Carolina State and the three blocked punts that went along with it. I used to suffer every loss as though it was a lesion upon my very soul. Every season that The Longhorn’s shot at a title slipped away left me with the horrifying uncertainty of whether or not all of my dreams would ever come true and because of this, I was never able to live my life without fear. Now, I could give a fuck less if a plane goes down with the whole team on it because it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does. All of this bad shit that is supposed to happen in 2006 and all of the signs of the apocalypse and growing indications that we’ve all succumbed to evil are much easier to deal with since the UT win. In fact, maybe it’s a good time for the end of the world. What else do we have to live for? These are the things I’m telling myself in the aftermath of the most wonderful thing to ever happen to me.

So anyway, this other time, I fucked shit. I actually fucked shit. As fun as that might sound, it actually turns out to be quite unpleasant. If you don’t want to hear about it, I suggest you quit reading. I had gone to the home of a large woman who I met over the internet, which should come as no surprise because I’m like Nanook of the North when it comes to hunting down fat chicks on the computer… I log on with a fucking ice axe. Before you get the wrong idea, I don’t want you to think I’m complaining. I obviously think fat girls are sexy, or I wouldn’t fuck so many of them. The funny thing about this is that the fine girls I fuck get all weirded out when they find out I fucked some fatty… They take it all personal like it’s a reflection on them or something. I don’t know what it is, I guess they’re just pissed off because they spend all that time and effort staying in shape and being fine, and it turns out they could have fucked me anyway.

So, I’m laying back in bed with homegirl, who’s balled up at my waist, giving me head, and I tell her she needs to swing her ass on up my way so I can start manipulating it whilst she goes about her business. I don’t know what is behind the universal assumption that fat girls are always going to let you fuck them in the ass, but I have a couple of theories. First, there’s the self esteem issue, where maybe the girl feels like giving up the ass gives her a much needed advantage over the competition. That might explain the girl’s motivations, but why does it always seem like such a natural option to the guy? Is it because every part of a fat girl is much larger than the corresponding part on a skinny girl, so it stands to reason that the same would hold true for her butthole? I mean she eats more, she takes bigger shits, so maybe her butthole is more suited for having things stuffed up it. The truth is, some girls are so fat, their butthole is pretty much the only place you can fuck them.

I know that may have all been a bit over the line, but it’s nothing compared to the shit you’ll tell yourself about not needing a rubber when you fuck a fat chick. First of all, you mistakenly assume that you are the only person on earth who would even fuck this girl, when deep down inside you should realize that ninety-seven percent of your friends would, too (with the other three percent being gay). Then, you start telling yourself that she must not have AIDS, or she wouldn’t be so fat. Or even if she does have AIDS, she’s so big, by the time it gets down to her pussy, you’ll be gone. Some girls are so fat, their AIDS never even know you’re fucking them. You’ll be all draped on top if her, hounding away, and she’s like. “Shhhhh! My AIDS are sleepin’!” Some of you guys with smaller dicks don’t have to worry because your peehole is never going to make it anywhere it could pick up a disease. You’re fucking skin, dude… labia at best. What were we talking about again? Oh yeah, so homegirl motors around to where her ass is facing me. Despite their awkwardness on the land, fat women are actually quite fluid and graceful when in bed, which brings me to a story that I have been wanting to tell for years.

One time my parents took my sister and me to The Houston Zoo and we were all at the hippopotamus tank. I was about twelve and my sister, Ashley, was about five. We were in this big crowd of people watching the hippopotamuses swim around in what was really nothing more than a large swimming pool. It must have been mating season, because there was this big male hippo courting a bunch of females. He hopped up on one’s back, and I remember I decided to try out the word “humping” on my parents. You know how when you’re young, there are bad words you aren’t supposed to say, but as you get older, some of them become fair game? For instance, at twelve years old, you might get away with damn or hell, but shit and fuck are strictly off limits and words like “hump” are in a grey area. Well, I decide to try it out and I announce to the crowd, “Look, they’re humping!” and my dad, Bo, just backhands me right there in front of everybody because if there’s anything he hates, it’s being involved in some kind of sophomoric public spectacle. I promptly took “humping” off the list of acceptable words to use in front of the folks.

Moving on, have you ever heard a hippopotamus bellow? They have this really loud “moo” that you’d recognize anywhere once you’d heard it, and the male starts belting out a couple of them while he’s humping his girl. Well, Bo cups his hands around his mouth and starts bellowing back, and they get in this big argument, for lack of a better word. The hippo would just go “Bwaaaah!” and Bo would go “Bwaaaah!” right back. I don’t know if it thought that Bo was another male hippopotamus, or if it was just pissed off that somebody was bothering it while it was fucking, but the hippo was becoming visibly agitated. I hopped off its mate and swam across the pool towards the crowd, pulling up in front of us all broadside, like a battleship. Its tail was right above the waterline, and it started to whirl around, like a propeller… I had no idea hippopotami could do this. Well, this thing starts taking a shit, and its tail was just slinging the turds right out of the pool and up towards the crowd. The shit started raining down over to everybody’s right, and the hippo just turned its body accordingly, strafing the crowd. I can remember watching a wall of doo-doo working its way towards us, like a sprinkler hitting the sidewalk. People were literally running over each other to get out of the way.

Anyway, I’m not trying to say this girl was as big as a bull hippopotamus by any means… but she could have passed for a calf. Once again, I want to assure you that I’m not complaining. In fact, this was one of the better buttfuckings I’ve ever been involved in, before everything went to shit. It was one of only a couple of times in my life that a girl’s butthole had totally given way, allowing me to fuck it as I chose. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been around when that has happened, but you can get pretty wrapped up in the moment. So, I’m hammering away back there like John Henry, and I had no idea that anything was even wrong until my whole dick just started stinging. I looked down and everything looked fine- clean as a whistle. I didn’t realize that she had taken an entire shit, and my dick was the only thing holding it in. I had been fucking it for about five minutes without knowing because my cock had created a vacuum at the anus from which nothing could escape, not even smell. My dick was being digested. I pulled out and broke the seal, and her fucking butthole turned into Spindletop. I had like three pounds of shit in my lap in a half a second. I fucked shit. That’s all I could think. I would try to come up with some witty way to explain to you exactly how much damage was done, but I have never seen this much shit all in one place in my life and this was fucked shit, mind you, so it went everywhere. I was in a state of shock as I got up and walked to the shower, and my dick was still hard. I had like two and a half turds worth of pounded shit piled up on top of my dick like a key-bump, so I had to walk all slow so none of it would fall off on the carpet. It was like that race they do at picnics with an egg balanced in a spoon, except with shit and a hard on. I saw myself in the bathroom mirror out of the corner of my eye and I looked like Rambo hiding in the mud, hunting for Russians. I don’t know if you’ve ever been shit all over by another person, but it gives you this look on your face that you can’t get rid of for days. It’s a look that says, “I fucked shit.” I always try to be a total gentleman when dealing with women, believe it or not, so the whole time homegirl was apologizing, I was like,”Sorry? What are you sorry for honey? Oh, that little ol’ mess? Don’t be silly…”

Anyway, they took the hippopotamus tank out of the Houston Zoo years ago. My kids and I went there last summer and they were devastated to learn it was gone. They have always loved the story about the time the hippopotamus tried to poo-poo on grandpa. I have yet to tell them the one about the time I fucked shit…

3:14 AM – BOB
We ended up partying all night with some old Austin friends and some new New York friends.  We met up with Austin ex-pat Bryant Jackson who has offered his couch/floor for the next three nights.

Chad and I ventured to the late night pizza joint to grab a bite of booze-absorbing pizza before crashing out.  We witnessed this spectacle while chomping our grub:

Street Brawl

Guns were flashed.  Fun!

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6:08 PM – CHAD
 Here it is, the sixteenth day of our trip, which also just happens to be Thanksgiving. Seeing as how I was up in New York City, this ended up being the first Thanksgiving I’ve ever spent without people in my immediate family (parents, sister, kids and whatnot) so I had to make alternate arrangements for Thanksgiving dinner. Say Bob, that reminds me… Next time you’re jotting down a list of the very few things you ask me to do on these trips, along with write the tour journal, change the music and keep the weed flowing, I feel like you can beef it up a little bit with shit such as pay to be on the road for two and a half months, ditch my son on a dog piss couch for weeks on end, miss shit like Thanksgiving and the better part of my kids’ Christmas and summer breaks, break things off with the only one even close to a girlfriend I’ve had in years, willingly go out and invite criticism and ridicule of my life and be a bad reflection on my entire bloodline in some people’s eyes… just little shit that probably doesn’t seem like a hassle to you or our fans who read about our exploits, but when recognized, they make me feel like I do more than ride shotgun and write funny stories. That being said, you’re absolutely right in that I’ve completely fucked off writing the tour journal and for that, I apologize. Furthermore, it obviously doesn’t break my heart too much to do any of the things I just listed, or I wouldn’t have gone on the trips to begin with, so yes, I’m completely full of shit and can’t wait for our next adventure. Where we going, Europe? That should be both easy to explain to my family and light on the old pocketbook…

 Now, what do you need, some funny stories? How about this one… Like I said, I had to make alternate arrangements for Thanksgiving dinner, so I went with Raphael Vargas and Lara Pan over to the home of a couple they know in Manhattan, named George and Virginia. Raphael had explained to me that George was ex-special forces, and had gone on to be a bodyguard for Reagan and Bush Sr. Now, as a person with a notable reputation of his own, I know that you don’t just come right out and ask people about the stories you hear about them, you simply listen to what others have to say and learn what you can first-hand over time. So, as much as I wanted to, I made sure not to question George on how a Mexican (as in born in Mexico) could be whiter than me while also claiming to be Dutch, yet somehow rise to power in the United States Army and go on to protect two of our more notable presidents in recent history, but he did voluntarily tell me a story about how he bit off a guy’s nose in a bar fight and got charged with cannibalism. I mention all of this because it actually sorted out a lot of confusion I’ve had in my life. As you know, I’m a huge Arnold Schwarzenegger fan and love all of his movies. How much do I like him? Well, I typed out his name without using spell-check, if that tells you anything, but there has always been one thing that nags at me about his work. In many of his movies, he plays, like an FBI agent or a police detective, or even a member of the special forces and despite many other questionable plot points in these films, the one that always got to me was how an obvious foreigner could wind up with such a job. Well, meeting George put all of those doubts to rest for me. I mean shit, in Predator, Schwarzenegger played a special forces guy named actually named “Dutch” so for all I know, his whole fucking character was based on George.

 In continuance of the complicated demographics involved with this household, Virginia is from British Guiana (I think the whole thing might be called Guyana now) which, as you know, is a South American country that used to be a British colony largely populated by people originally from India, which was a British colony too, at the time. So ethnically, Virginia is of Indian descent. Throw in Raphael, born in Mexico City, masquerading as a Clear Lake, Texas socialite, and Lara Pan, who is a Croatian art dealer by way of Paris, France and you get what is probably the most multicultural event I’ve been a part of since the sensitivity training class I was forced to take as an incoming freshman at The University of Texas. Keep in mind; this is on Thanksgiving, of all days. I mean, the only thing missing was the Indians, unless of course you count Virginia, who is the wrong type of Indian, but uh…. not if you ask me.

 Thing is, Virginia has a daughter who was there, as well. She is in her early twenties and is absolutely fucking beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact. You see, I had to take a shit really bad the whole time I was at George and Virginia’s house, but Virginia’s daughter was so fucking fine, I made a blood oath with myself that I would never take a shit as long as she and I were in the same building. Before I elaborate on this particular conundrum, I want to explain to you how this is actually part of a much larger problem that Bob and I have dealt with on these trips… the problem of where to take shits when you’re in constant “guest” status.

 First, I want to throw an idea out there to the general public that any of you are welcome to take and make millions from. There needs to be an I-phone application for every major city that tells you where you can go take a shit… not just a public restroom, mind you… but a public restroom that is suitable for sitting down and taking a shit in. The way I envision it, it’d be like a google maps view of the city with a little GPS of where you are and then all the places you can go and take a shit in peace are mapped out.     In our travels, we’ve learned some tricks, I assure you. Libraries, for instance, are a great place to start. Just ask a bum, because apparently the only people who go to libraries anymore are bums and/or travelling filmmakers who need a safe haven to shit in. When Bob and I stayed at Bryant Jackson’s house over off Houston Street, we adopted the Mulberry Street Branch of the New York Public Library for just this purpose. See, Bryant’s apartment is laid out in a linear manner, to where you have the living room (where Bob and I slept) then the kitchen, then Bryant’s room, then the bathroom. To complicate things even further, Bryant’s shower is in the kitchen… something I’ve never seen before, to be quite honest. Now, I’m not giving Brant shit for his shower being in the kitchen; I’d love to live in his place, ok? But what that does is makes it impossible to even do the shit/shower combo where you go in and turn on the shower, take a quick shit and flush it, take your shower and then just hope that the steam of the shower and the fragrances of soaps and shampoos and the psychological reboot you get from bathing all combine over the amount of time you’re in there to cover up all signs of a shit being taken. Faced with this, Bob and I would just walk down to the Mulberry Street Library in the morning to do our bidding, because the only alternative was to basically go into Bryant’s room while he was sleeping and take a shit on his nightstand. I remember the first morning, Bryant woke up and we were gone, so he called me and was like, do you guys want to go get coffee and breakfast and all, and I told him sure. Then he asks, where are you guys, anyway? I told him we were at the library. He’s like, the library… are you checking out books, or what? I’m thinking, yeah we’re checking out books, alright… I’m thumbing through the Encyclopedia Shittanica as we speak.

 Anyway, the other place we were staying, Eric Payson’s high rise apartment over next to the Empire State Building, was a really clean, sanitary environment, ok? Especially the bathrooms, which were sparkly white and to be quite honest, I don’t know if they’d ever been shit in. Well, Bob goes and takes a dump one day, and thank fucking god, I was the next person to go in the bathroom because there were just shit smears all over the inside of the commode. I mean, it looked like they’d just run the Indy 500 in this fucking toilet. I came out and was like, Jesus Christ, man… who taught you how to shit, Linda Blair?  He goes I know, but what the fuck am I supposed to do, so I told him just keep flushing big wads of toilet paper down that motherfucker until it’s back up to first-world standards. Apparently, he’d never heard of this trick and was content just going through life as Yakov Smear-noff.

 Ok, I feel like the point has been made that taking shits on the road can be tricky business, especially in New York City. So, I’m over at Thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of wonderful people, and I have to take one of the biggest shits of my life, but am refusing to do so because there are fine girls in the house. What made it worse was that the food was excellent, but it was just killing me to eat it because I was about to pop like a fucking tick. I forced down one plateful of food, but everyone knows you’re supposed to eat at least two or three helpings at Thanksgiving, because that’s really the point of the holiday… to sit around eating profusely, not being able to believe how much fucking food we have in this country. I honestly feel like having to shit so badly and suffering like that added a human element to the holiday that completely changed my perspective on things for every Thanksgiving to come from now on.

 Eventually, Virginia’s daughter leaves to go have Thanksgiving at her boyfriend’s place somewhere outside the city, but I wasn’t out of the woods quite yet. First of all, I wanted to make sure that I waited long enough for her to be completely off the island of Manhattan, lest she double back to retrieve her sunglasses, mittens, you know, whatever. Secondly, and even more of a problem was a fact that the bathroom was just right there in front of everybody, so it’s not like you could just slip off to it and take your sweet time. You’d have to get up, walk right into the bathroom in front of everybody, and basically the clock would just start ticking from the minute you closed the door. I decided to break up the whole ordeal into a series of micro-shits, each one lasting no longer than it would take the average man to go into a bathroom, piss and wash his hands. After about my fifth micro-shit, it started to dawn on me that perhaps I was being a little oversensitive about the whole shitting in other people’s houses thing.

 Seeing as how this was Thanksgiving, The Longhorns and The Aggies played each other in football on national television later that night. Needless to say, watching the game this year was quite an unpleasant experience, and not just because George farted right in my fucking face. No, but seriously, I was sitting on the floor down at the foot of the bed and George and Virginia were up on the bed itself when George got up (I’m assuming to go to the bathroom) and as his ass passed over my head, the physical act of hopping to his feet allowed a fart to slip out right on top of me. We all thought this was very funny… me, Raphael, Lara, George’s Army buddy, Forrest, but Virginia got a particular kick out of it, because leading up to that moment, George had totally been the life of the party. He was extremely animated, making all of these puns and sexual innuendos, cracking the girls up and shit, totally on top of his game when his fart just brought him crashing back down to earth. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he hadn’t sunk nearly as low as me, having just had my face shit in, but he was right down there only a rung or two above me in the social pecking order after the incident. In conclusion, The Longhorns lost to The Aggies, capping off their worst season since at least 1997. There was a time when a season such as the one UT just had would have seriously ruined my entire year, but no longer. In fact, I wrote an article once about how everything is different now. I’m going to repost that article for you here in the tour journal, but not today… I’m going to wait for a day further down the road when maybe not so much was going on and Bob and I are short on material, so be on the lookout for it.

11:41 PM – BOB
I drove out to Long Island last night and had Thanksgiving with family today.  Nice.  The beach was cold as tits.

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