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Should Have Stayed In The Army And Gotten Killed In Iraq

By John Saleeby
September 1, 2010

Acid Logic Editor Wil Forbis and I were sitting around the office (Not the Acid Logic office, the MSNBC office - We just like spitting on people) talking about what we should do for the next issue when Forbis suggested doing a "Sex" theme issue and I became horribly depressed. You see, in a few months I will be turning Fifty, which is already very depressing, but when you are about to turn Fifty and someone who isn't a naked good looking young woman pulling you down on top of her mentions Sex it is so depressing . . . I'm sorry, I can't write this. I'd rather kill myself. Oh, look! Joe Scarborough just walked into the office! Hey, spitting on that idiot cheered me up so good now I can write the article. So Forbis said he was thinking about doing a "Sex" issue and I suggested an article about how I am about to turn Fifty and thinking about Sex makes me so depressed that I want to kill myself. Forbis quickly agreed that would be a good idea for an article but once I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, sliced both my wrists open, and shot my head off with a shotgun from all the misery of writing this damn article Forbis forgot all about the "Sex" issue and threw together a bunch of articles about stuff even more retarded than getting laid. I put myself through all this suffering when I could have just done another Motherfucking Masterpiece about some stupid Seventies Horror Movie? I hate you, Wil Forbis!

Why is thinking about Sex at when you are about to turn Fifty so awful? For one thing, I have a Fifty Year Old Dick. I look at the phrase "Fifty Year Old Dick" on my display screen and it looks like an idea for a Comic Strip - A little ol' Dick with a sad facial expression and glasses, maybe a mustache. He's looking up and saying something like "Oh no! Not the computer porn again! You're gonna kill me with that shit!" I could make a few bucks drawing that up and sending it in to some skin mag to fill in the space between the pictures of naked girls but when what you've got inside your underwear gives you ideas for dirty magazine filler rather than the Main Event it's not long until you're writing about whatever the hell those old guys like Norman Mailer and John Updike were always scribbling about. What do guys who keep on writing instead of killing themselves write about? I don't want to know -- I may not kill myself but I sure won't be doing any reading!

Not that being a Horrible Broken Down Disgusting Old Man with a Horrible Broken Down Disgusting Old Dick means you aren't going to have Sex anymore, you just aren't going to be having Sex with the kind of Cute Beautiful Young Babes that everybody wants to have Sex with. No, you're going to be having Sex with The Other Kind. You know what I mean - The Kind Of Woman That Nobody Wants To Have Sex With. I don't have to go into detail here, do I? I don't have to cite any specific examples, just look all around you - There are women nobody wants to have Sex with all around you. (It was at this point in writing the article that I swallowed the bottle of sleeping pills)

I'm not being insulting, am I? There are worse things you can say about millions and millions of people than "I do not want to have Sex with them", right? It's not like I'm saying they should be rounded up and sent to the Extermination Camps, right? Although if there were a bunch of guys who were working on that I could be persuaded to help out. Maybe I could be in charge of running the showers or something. No, I'm only kidding. Everybody loves a little Concentration Camp Humor, right? Right? No, I'm perfectly willing to leave those women alone. Alone with their kids whose Father ran off to Chicago four years ago. And their stupid tattoos. And rubber flip flops. Just having to eat lunch in the same Mexican restaurant with those bitches is enough to make me shove a Deluxe Beef And Chicken Burrito down my throat so I choke to death while they debate whether they should give me the Heimlich Maneuver or drag me over to the front door and throw me out into the parking lot.

No, I do not want to "date" those women.

Now, I know what you're thinking - What right have I got to be so picky? I got no right at all! I'm a Diseased Lil' Geezer with one eye, one arm, one leg, and a couple of testicles bickering over which one is going to go first - "You're gonna go first!" "I'm not gonna go first!" "You're the one that's gonna go first!" "No, I'm not! You're the one with the LUMP!" "Huh? I've got a - Oh, NOOO!" I'm just spoiled from all the good looking women I got when I was young and everybody thought I was going to be a Big Success by the time I was Fifty - But then I went crazy. "Hey! Where'd everybody go?" "Where'd who go?" "All the good looking women!" "What good looking women?" "The ones I was having Sex with!" "You? Having Sex with good looking women?" "Yeah!" "He really has gone crazy!" Yeah, I've done "Okay" since then on account of my Eccentric Southern Writer act, but that only works if you're an alcoholic or a homosexual. I feel like kind of a phony, to tell the truth. And don't forget that I'm almost Fifty - That's nearly One Hundred And Twenty in Eccentric Southern Writer years - Shouldn't I be dead by now? And I think they've caught on to my never having been able to read Faulkner. All the shit going on around here and I'm the one getting suspicious looks? I'm finished, I'm washed up. To Hell with them and their Eudora Welty! Valerie Bertinelli autobiographies, that's where it's at! She's from Shreveport!

So what's left for me to do? Prostitutes? I am too much of a moral, decent Christian for that. More important, I don't have the cash. If I had known that being a moral, decent Christian was going to interfere with earning the Green Stuff so badly I would have been a Biker Drug Dealer. Or at least a Jew. So, no Hookers for me. Boo Hoo Hoo. (This was the part where I slit my wrists).

Yes, there is only one thing to do - I am going to become that most hated character in American Society today, The Rich Old Creep With The Hot Little Teenage Asian Mail Order Bride! Yeah, go ahead and make fun of us, what do I care? People around here are so ignorant we won't even have to worry about "Woody and Sun Yi" jokes! Screw em!

But how am I going to pay for my Hot Little Teenage Asian Mail Order Bride? And how am I going to keep her around without chaining her up in the basement? Oh, what the hell, I'll chain her up in the basement - After all the money I've shelled out for her I'll chain her up in the basement and offer her up as a human sacrifice to The Beast if I feel like it. Boy, I better come up with the bucks!

Here's The Plan - I'm going to write a Best Selling Novel and sell so many copies I'll become an overnight millionaire and after I spend most of the money hiring Hit Men to kill everybody on Television I'll still have enough left to gets me a Hot Little Teenage Asian Mail Order Bride to run around town looking like a TOTAL SLUT to outrage the neighbors and make me feel like it's all been worthwhile after all.

What's the Novel going to be about? It will be a Murder Mystery about a repulsive old perv who buys a sleazy little whore of a Bangkok bar girl to ruin the neighborhood by running around in denim cut offs and high heels until one day the old guy turns up dead and no one knows who did it - One of the neighbors? The Asian Bimbo? Wil Forbis? Joe Scarborough? Rachel Maddow? Since you're nice enough to be reading this before I've even written the book I'll let you in on who did it - The Dirty Old Man killed himself because no one would publish his Novel and he never got to buy a Hot Little Teenage Asian Mail Order Bride. The skank they saw strutting around the neighborhood was a hallucination beamed into their minds through the psychic power of a the old guy's misery. That's why I'm giving away the ending right here, cause I'm so bummed out from knowing ahead of time that there is no fucking way that any book an asshole like me would ever write will ever get published that I can't be bothered to write the god damned thing. If the old bastard in the book never actually exists maybe I don't either. Maybe if I don't write the book I'll just disapear and I won't ever have to worry about women and writing again. Cause I really don't give a shit. Never did. (This was where I shot my head off with a shotgun)

Somebody type this up and send it to Forbis.

 

John Saleeby wrote for The National Lampoon while he was in high school, was a stand up comic in New York, and has contributed to the net humor zines Schmuck.com, Campaign Central, and the legendary American Jerk. He's on medication now so he's probably a little nicer now than he was when you met him earlier.
Email - jacksaleeby1@hotmail.com

 

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