A message to the person who hit me with their FRIGGIN' CAR!!!

So I got hit by a car today. What'd you do?

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to imply that I was rear ended or that some one hit my car with their car. What I'm saying is that some one took their car and caused it to collide with my tanned, sculpted man-flesh causing me to say something like "Ow."

The driver wasn't going that fast. She was stopped at a stop sign and failed to notice that there was a pedestrian in front of her before going. Six blocks later when she realized that she had a human hood ornament hugging the the front of her car like Harrison Ford in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" (only without the girlish, panicky look on his face) she immediately stopped and got out to apologize.

I assured her that I was quite all right and that this kind of thing happens to me all the time and not to worry. I apologized for stepping in front of her car and said I hoped I didn't damage it to badly, being the solid thing I am. And with a wink and a grin I limped off trying very hard not to cry until she was out of earshot.

Once my heart rate returned to normal it dawned on me that the girl who'd just run me over was, in addition to being an awful driver, absolutely fucking gorgeous. And I didn't get her number. And if there is one situation in which a beautiful woman is obliged to give you her phone number, it's right after she hits you with her car. Right?

I swear, they're carving "MISSED HIS SHOT" on my fucking tombstone as we speak.

So, if you're a ridiculously hot girl and if you recently hit a ruggedly hansom bald man with your car and if you feel bad about it (which you should because my leg really hurts) then you should contact me through this blog. You should contact me because, I'm currently laid up in my apartment for the next six to eight weeks and I'm in need of a nurse and/or French maid to help me with, um, stuff (no formal training or experience required, uniform will be provided, I love you!)

Life over. I win.

I know how I’m going to die. Last night during a massive alcohol bender I had a prophetic vision of my own death. I will be shot in the back of the head at the age of ninety by the jealous boyfriend of a twenty-two year old Victoria’s Secret model.

It’ll happen in Germany the morning of June 6, 1944 as I’m kicking a Nazi general down a flight of stares in the hopes that a collection of broken bones, lacerations and internal bleeding will distract him from the fact that it’s raining pissed off, well armed Americans.

This leads me to believe that my death occurs sometime after I score the patent on the first time machine so by then I will have already made the trip back to Italy 1392 where I kick Jerry Falwell naked and screaming out of a Chinook helicopter over a massive bubonic plague zone.

The 1392 trip will of course happen before the trip to 22 A.D. That’s when I meet up with Jesus and say, "Hey, man, love your work! You are the bomb! Especially that water-to-wine thing. That was awesome! But, you know, as long as you’re doing water-to-wine, they have this stuff in my day called Jack Daniel’s..." I don’t remember how the rest of that trip goes.

But I do remember that I go back to 1995 and show up in Sally Smith’s room about twenty minutes after she said she didn’t want to go out with the seventeen-year-old me and cause her to have a spine dislocating orgasm simply by showing her photos of the vault formerly known and the Grand Fucking Canyon where I keep my piles of filthy money. On the way out of her house I bitch slap her little brother to death for having ripped off my Dukes of Hazard lunchbox in the third grade and I headbutt her mom a couple of times because I never liked how that bitch looked at me.

I also have a conversation with my younger self. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have. There’s that whole thing about causing a paradox within the space-time continuum which could maybe blot out all of existence, but I figure fuck it, I never liked you all anyway. I tell my younger self to never be afraid to ask a girl out and that "Hi, I’m Louis." or "Hi, what’s your name?" are perfectly good opening lines. He doesn’t have to try to be clever or anything. He says he’ll remember that. He also promises me that he’ll never take up smoking or buy an Xbox or spend more than an hour a day in front of the TV unless he’s watching a really good movie. He swears he’ll work out four or five times a week and he’ll definitely take up that mixed martial arts class and learn how to play both the guitar and the trumpet. He says he probably won’t take a semester off from college but if he does he sure as hell won’t let that semester turn into seven years. He swears he’ll write every day. When he’s twenty one he has his first novel in the can and it’s a good one. He makes good on all his promises because he’s a stand up guy and I kind of wish I’d seen that sooner. Before I go I also let him know that the really hot girl he’s going to meet at that bar on New Year’s does in fact have a giant, manly penis. He is especially grateful for this bit of information.

There are a few other sexcapades I could tell you about (the three way with Catherine the Great and Queen Elizabeth I, the Oval Office orgy 1961, Phoebe Cates on the empty set of "Fast Times" at 3 AM, dripping wet in nothing but that red bikini and a leash) but a gentleman never tells.

Besides, the death scene is the good part. It usually is with any good story, right? There I am standing on top of everything, tuxedo ripped in just the right places so you can see rippling muscle, I’m just lighting up a smoke with my gold zippo, one hand in my pocket, feet apart in a classic gunslinger’s pose, totally indifferent to that trickle of blood running down one side of my face. Even with the gaping exit wound in the center of my forehead I’ll leave a good looking corpse.

It’ll be good exit. It’ll be a good moment to have at any point in life. And I will be completely of that moment. The past won’t be messing with my head during that moment. All the bad things I’ve done won’t be gnawing at my guts, making me wish I’d never been. I won’t be regretting the things I missed out on or the things I couldn’t set right or do right in the first place. All that’s in the past and when I’m honest with myself there really isn’t a thing I’d like to do over, because even those bad things are a piece of the story of me. Those are the parts of the story the hero has to struggle through to earn his sexy death scene. And I do have a sexy death scene.

One second I’m standing there all fast and sexy and dangerous and then...

BLAM!

Life over. I win.

I hate my life

When I was growing up my father used to tell me that if I didn't stay in school I'd end up with a job "wiping other people's butts for a living." He always put that extra emphasis on the word "butts". He didn't say it so much as fired it at me like a bullet. Of course, I laughed at him. I wasn't an especially gullible child. I knew there was no way any such job could possibly exist. Why would anyone pay to have some one else wipe their ass? They wouldn't, right? This was an obvious control tactic adults exercised over children. This was just like that old line that went "Be good or Santa Claus will give all your toys to cell block pedophiles and the Easter bunny will be kidnapped by satanic vivisectionists". Had to be.

So after I earned my two year degree I decided to take a semester off. After that semester I decided to take another. Sometime after that I found myself working in a hospital scrubbing shit off the nutsack of a seventy-eight year old renal patient as I breathed in air so rife with the man's skin dandruff that I could not see whether or not the old fucker was getting a hard on (and I sure as hell wasn't going to feel) when I realized that seven years had seeped out of me like hot piss running down my leg.

It's not fair when you think about it. I went to college. For two whole years. And I still ended up here. Now I'm back in college and, Dad, I'm wondering, when you said "stay in school" did you mean, like, forever?