|Posted by Stephen on April 27, 2012 at 7:45 AM||comments (0)|
by Stephen Gillikin
I'm just going to tell you right now, being a bad ass is not easy. It takes more than an attitude, more than killer cars, and more than hordes of bitches. And I do have all these things whenever I'm on little sleep, or am watching "Christine," or am volunteering at the animal shelter.
However, the most important part of being a bad ass is the scars. To be a real BA you need to have stories of manly, bodily injury.
And I have those.
3rd grade. I'm playing in the backyard and wearing short khaki shorts and white socks pulled up all the way, because that's how Bad A's do it.
And my make-believe play-time was so fricken' hard, that I broke my arm. I broke my arm by jumping but not completely clearing a wooden sheep lawn ornament. Boom!
OGs like me, that's how we do it! By getting our mid-air foot stuck on a 3-feet tall, 2-dimensional, fake sheep.
Once, I bled on the hard streets of Portsmouth, VA. Literally!
1988. I'm fine and ballin' at some kickball on the cul de sac. Not knowing entirely where to stand, I may or may not have blocked home plate inadvertently by being between it and third.
That's how rebels and B. Asses do it, by not playing by society's "rules."
My head was driven into the black asphalt, lodging two rock fragments into the top of my forehead and streaming blood all over my face. They did remove the pebbles, although my skull, to this day, still has a noticeable indention in it.
The kid who pushed me? Found dead at 18 from either suicide or a deal gone bad. Yea, karma's Bad Ass too, fool!
2011. I need to get some blood work done for my migraines, a physical infliction that only happens to the coolest and most bad ass guys. Per the testing, I need to not eat 12 hours prior, but with my schedule and sleep ability at the time, it worked out to being closer to 16 hours of fasting.
They drew the blood, and just as I'm signing myself out, I wake up on the floor.
Next to the gurney.
Bad Asses don't need gurneys when they faint. The linoleum next to one is suitable enough.
But my true BadAssitude is displayed by my ability to time travel. I went from one moment to 5 minutes later in a second! In that emotionless, robot voice, I can hear Stephen Hawking saying, "What a bad ass."
How can you be a bad ass, you wonder?
Well first, find the right music. That sounds that just gets you going. For me, and most, I'd suggest ABBA. Fernando is a good start, but be careful of Dancing Queen. It's only for intermediate BAs and higher.
Free time activities?
Try maybe some early 20th century sci-fi literature. Olaf Stapledon will turn your ass from good to bad in a nano-second. Or, on a cosmological time-scale, it'll happen in only a million years!
And what to wear?
Something that's comfortable but suitable enough if you have to unexpectedly meet somebody at Outback Steakhouse. This look can be called and referred to as "hobo-chic."
And that's it! You too can have wicked awesome stories like mine if you follow the preceding. And then maybe even you can have a website where you blog.
Totally bad ass!
Stephen is a huge fan of meat flavored potato chips. He is currently cryogenically frozen near Colorado Springs. He has two cats, Jacob and Bella. They are also frozen.
|Posted by Stephen on April 24, 2012 at 3:00 AM||comments (0)|
How I'd be the Best Slave Owner Ever!
by Stephen Gillikin
OMG! You Guys!!
You have got to hear this. This week has been like totally crazies. With school and home and everything else all lining up together, I must say it has certainly been a very fatal week. (EDITOR'S NOTE: She actually means "fateful.")
So check this out, I watched the finale of One Tree Hill and
Goooooodddddd. So Sad. Then, I'm calling my mom afterwards so we can both talk it out. Girls have got to mourn together, right? LOL's!
But she ends up telling me that I have a problem with not finishing things and not putting out. (E.N.: She means not putting out her full potential. She most certainly does "put out.")
Meanwhile in class this week, Professor Dominguez was talking about slavery.
Whaaa? I know, crazy, right?!
But the more thinking about it I did, the more I realized how I'd be like totally the best slave owner ever!
I mean, I'm a take-charge kinda girl. My bestie Kat can tell you how when I want something a certain way, I get it! Haha. (E.N.: Kat loathes everything about her with her whole being, but being she is obviously the less attractive, she hangs out as "besties" in what is a terrible and psyche-destroying relationship.)
So check this out, sometimes the owners would, like, beat the slaves, but I think that's totally gross. I mean, they're going to be all sweaty and stuff from working. Eww. I wouldn't want to touch some dirty slave.
It's like when Jake came over to our housing two weeks ago after his soccer game. (E.N.: Even though he's only been to 3 other US states and to Europe one time on a school trip, Jake calls it "futbol." Because he is a huge douche.)
And Jake was all like, "Come on, babe."
But no. I made him shower first and take me to Chili's. Fried chicken fingers, y'all! Haha!
I think I'd also be a really good slave owner too 'cuz I'm really good with Thomas, our special little house kitty. (E.N.: Thomas lives in fear everyday and awaits the moment he finally has the courage to gouge our her eye, or shit on her pillow.) But I make sure my lil' man has food and water everyday.
Oh my God, one time, Jake and some of his boys were over and they gave Thomas some Miller Lite. Awww, poor kitty. But you know he had fun, even if he was hungover the next day. (E.N.: Thomas wasn't as much hungover as he was filled with rage against his captors.)
So I'd let my boyfriend get our slaves drunk too. I mean, we all gotta have some fun right? LOL. LMAO. ROTFL. LMFAO. LSGDHOTMFF. (E.N.: She actually didn't even as much as smile once when writing this, much less laugh.)
In the slave quarters, I'd put big TVs in them. Daddy'll buy them 'cuz he is sort of rich. (E.N.: Her father works a modest wage but to appear otherwise, has accumulated crippling debt.) And all those TVs will play ABC Family all day, so that I can keep my slaves happy.
Oh, and OMG, did you hear they're making a "Sabrina the Teenage Witch" movie?! Can you say, "Girls' Night?!!" Hahaha, we'll take the new, white Mustang daddy bought me. (E.N.: Her father will "accidentally" be fatally shot on a hunting trip in 3 years. She will inherit all of his debt.)
I make some really good Country Time Lemonade. It's sooo sweet. Yum!
My slaves will have as much as they want.
I also think it'd be way cool if they had a gym they could use. I know they'd be like working in fields all day and stuff, but this way they could work on their core too.
And order smoothies!!
A girl's gotta have some tight lookin' bods on her slaves, right?! Haha, I'm just kidding, Jake's the only man I need, and he's got like a Michael Phelps bod. (E.N.: Jake has a Michael Phelps diet, but neither the body nor the exercise routine. FURTHER NOTE: Jake will break up with her in a year before then getting back together 5 weeks later. They'll ultimately end 4 years after that when she realizes he's not proposing ever, he looks like he ate Michael Phelps, and his idea of Mountain Dew for breakfast is no longer cute.)
Ahh, the love of my life...
So in conclusion (E.N.: She doesn't know yet that conclusion paragraphs don't have to start with "in coclusion."), I'd be such a great slave owner. I'm smart, I'm inspirational, I love hip hop, and I'd probably even pay my slaves. (E.N.: She is obviously cloudy on the definitions of "slavery.")
Me, Kat, and Jake and all our other besties will drink some Diet Pepsi and look at the freshly worked fields from the porch. And maybe if it doesn't work out with Jake, I'll give one of those 6-pack slaves some extra work! Hahaha, j/k, Jake. (E.N.: It won't work out with Jake. And ultimately she will get knocked up by the black boyfriend she dates during the 5 week breakup. Her father pays for the abortion.)
Stephen Gillikin currently lives on the lower west-side of Manhattan. His second wife, Melissa, and he run a carpet delivery company..
|Posted by Stephen on April 20, 2012 at 3:00 AM||comments (0)|
Is It Cool?
by Stephen Gillikin
I know I'm not a scientist or anything, but regardless I've been doing some really intense, mind-boggling thinking. And this same question keeps coming up in my mind.
Is it cool to poop at a Denny's?
I mean look, I know I'm not a journalist or anything, but even still, I've been having this strong urge to dig deep into some hard-core investigations. And the same storyline keeps nipping at my being.
Is it cool to poop at a Denny's?
Just hold your damn horses for a second, bucko; I totally am not a politician or lobbyist, but my innate desire for civic duty is really inspiring me to walk up to Capitol Hill, or to become a CNN pundit, or to run for President and finally instigate the necessary political action to solve an answer to one of our nation's most serious dilemmas.
Is it cool to poop at a Denny's?!
The simple, albeit vague answer is that I do not know. I am not a prophet, nor a god, nor a creator of universes, but I suppose it all really depends on context.
Is this question being posed by a trucker on the road, in which case, dude's gotta poo somewhere, am I right? However, from the perspective of someone who works at Denny's, they probably don't want some filthy, unbathed truckers shitting it all up at their work.
However, if said-worker is on a 8-hour shift and the bowels start a'knockin', I'm sure they're cool with deucing at their own Denny's.
Unless of course, said-trucker just did because then it is going to be extra gross in there. Not only will they now not be cool with pooping in there, but furthermore, it would make the initial scenario of the trucker crapping even more uncool.
If you're eating at Denny's (a process that should never take anymore than 40 minutes TOPS!) and in that time you have to poop?...Not cool. Any adult can last a 40 minutes or less window without defecating.
Although if you're traveling the road and this Denny's is your only shot at shit, it makes sense. But even if sensible, it still may or may not be cool, and I would suggest your reread the part about a trucker dumping if you require further reference.
The only thing I know is that while I may not be a mathematician, I can say with confidence that there are too many variables to adequately and correctly answer this question.
Beyond the idea that "cool" is a vague, subjective, and almost indefinable concept, the question "Is it cool to poop at a Denny's?" doesn't specify who, where, when, why, and from what perspective or ideology.
So now I must address that while I may not be President, or a journalist, or a renowned scientist, I still give to you the quandary:
"What do you mean when you ask, 'Is it cool to poop at a Denny's?'?"
Maybe you answer that while I finish my Grand Slam, and then I'll get back to you.
Stephen currently lives in 1993 with his brother-in-law. He enjoys Sunday crossword puzzles and time-travel mishaps.
|Posted by Stephen on April 17, 2012 at 7:25 AM||comments (0)|
Times in Life I Wished I Was Gay
by Stephen Gillikin
(fyi, this essay has footnotes at the bottom marked by asterisks along the way.)
I'm a heterosexual and have always been fairly satisfied with that fact, even if much of my youth consisted of standard humiliation or just fear of even attempting to approach a girl. In fact, a good block of my adult life still consists of not knowing the subtext of flirtations and still not understanding the best way to accept any type of compliment.
That being said, here are three times I wished I was gay.
That time I had sex with a guy and I just kept thinking, "Man, this would totally be less awkward if I was gay...And if I wasn't paying for it...And if I wasn't coked out of my fucking mind."
I'm joking of course; the only sex I've ever paid for while swimming in a cesspool of cocaine has been with sad, lonely women.
So that first anecdote was fake, but this second one is non-fictional.
A few months back I was going from gym to gym obtaining free 1-week trial memberships. At the end of each week I wouldn't sign up and instead would find some other place to offer me a free trial.
In this process, I eventually came across Gold's Gym in Hollywood. The reputation there has long been that it's way gay and of course as we all know, stereotypes are never wrong.
So while dealing with the various staff and the promotional sales people (all of whom were classically gay.*) I started to feel guilty, like "Oh no. All these nice homosexuals probably assume that I too am one and if they find out I'm straight, they'll feel as if I've intruded or violated their gay, workout space!" **
So I guess while this story is nearly true, it really isn't about me wishing I was gay as much as it is wishing I didn't feel guilty for no decent reason at all. I'll just blame that on Catholics*** and move on...
Probably the only time I wished I was gay was when my good (and platonic) female friend and I were visiting some people she knew in San Antonio. I note the gender of my friend and the platonic-nature of our friendship because these two variables probably lead a certain amount of folks to assume at least one of us is gay.
After a few hours of steady drinking at some bar, the one guy, who was British, musters out, "So, ya gay?"
Between the alcohol, thick British accent, and my ingrained sense of feeling straight, I ask, "What?"
"So, ya gay, huh?"
Awkward, dead space is ultimately cleared up with the explanation to the others, "Oh, I thought he was gay, but then he was so cool, ya know?"
Which led me to almost wish I was gay at the moment just so I could prove that gay people are cool too, and not always being so gayie.**** The reason I'm cool is because I'm a good drinker, and I typically say non-offensive facts intermixed with offensive humor attempts, none of which have anything to do with the fact that I like boobs and am not sexually interested in anything male.
Although even then I didn't really wish I was gay as much as I wanted that Brit (who all things considered was a pretty cool straight bloke. ******) to have that epiphany of realizing gays can be mellow and fun and non-sexualized too.
Which really is the kind of hetero I am: not overly sexualized.
I tend to do things for their intended and obvious purpose.
I go to bars to drink. I play shows because I like music. I go to singles' brunch because I like to eat brunch.
So I don't really care if someone says, thinks, or asks if I'm gay. It's as trivial as them thinking I prefer eggplant lasagna over pizza. I find eggplant lasagna unappealing on all accounts and meanwhile think pizza is awesome. But if you mistake that I prefer the former and bring it up to me, I'm not going to suddenly be like, "No dude!! What the fuck?! No man, I love pizza! I love pizza so fuckin' much!" and then immediately start to stuff my fat face with as much pizza as possible.
Unless of course you're a girl who I'm into because that would be very counterproductive to my hopes if said-girl assumed I was gay.
That'd be like if a world-renowned Italian chef was cooking for me but inferred that I like eggplant lasagna. He actually is somebody who does need to know I don't want to put my dick in lasagna but am actually attracted to pizza.
It seems my analogies have crossbred into some confusing third scenario.
The point here is that pizza is delicious and humans are just as likely to be cool or uncool regardless of their sexual preference.
Also, eggplant lasagna is gross because cooked eggplant is foul, cheese is overrated, and all the tomato and carbs will leave you feeling like shit later.
And no, that is not supposed to be some final analogy about having sex with a man.
Although in all fairness, I guess I wouldn't technically know for sure.
Stephen currently lives in Paris with his fiancee Alysse. His last novel "This Book is Made Up" was a New York Time's Best Seller, and the release of his next book is scheduled for the fall. He is also a dirty liar capable of only telling the truth when it's about his name or the fact that he is a liar.
*And by "classically" I don't mean like "old-world" or Plato-style gay, I just mean they fit every cliche middle America thinks of when confronted with homos. Although certainly some might have additionally listened to Chopin and/or had toga orgies.
**"Gay workout space" makes me think of some gay, futuristic cosmos where people exercise. "Ooooh, this low gravity makes me appear so strong to the other individuals of whatever my gender is!"
***I'm not even Catholic.
****While gay is already an adjective, it's fun sometimes to add an extra "y" at the end to make it like a super adjective.*****
*****There is no such thing as a "super adjective."
******It's ok for me to bend my rule of yanks using British slang because I'm referring to a Brit. *******
*******It wasn't ok for me to use the word "yank" because I'm an American referring to being American, and I'm sorry.
|Posted by Stephen on April 13, 2012 at 2:00 AM||comments (0)|
It's All Your Fault
by Stephen Gillikin
Hey kids, gather 'round.
Look, you're probably going to start noticing some things feeling differently around here, and quite likely, some of the other elementary kids might bring up some of this. Thus, your mother and I wanted to tell you first so it'd be easier.
I have, as your mother calls it, been having an affair. You kids probably don't know exactly what that means, so to put it more simply, from time-to-time I put my penis inside other women in order to obtain some level of sexual gratification. There, I'm sure that's much easier for your juvenile brains to comprehend.
The important thing however and what I want you to know, is that this and other issues your mother and I are having are totally your fault,
Scotty, I'll start with you.
Remember last year on Father's Day when you gave me that piece of shit called "art?" Well what you actually gave me was the suspicion that you might be retarded. You took a paper plate, haphazardly smothered wood-glue on it, and then dumped with seemingly no artistic intent at all, as much macaroni on it as would stick.
Despite that aesthetically god-awful barf-pile, there's the more important fact that all of these materials were gathered by you from our house; which means me, not you or your jobless mother, paid for it. You basically took items I already had and found a way to destroy and devalue them before then having the sick audacity to present them to me as a gift.
The look I gave you as I sat down my G.&T. and noticed your offering should've said it all to you. My 8-year old son is a dick.
Nicole, remember last year when we took you to Red Lobster for your fifth birthday? You didn't want to eat the Cheddar Bay Biscuits as an appetizer and instead demanded that your mother provide you with an extra lollipop from her purse. All I could think about was two things.
One: I'm going to try and fuck that hostess later. Being she's a Red Lobster employee, she'll probably view me as a movie star and not as the associate professor I am.
Two: My daughter's a damn slut.
There's the obvious fact that you just had to have something in your mouth to suck on. But also & more importantly is the fact that on your birthday you let us take you to Red Lobster! Red Lobster is shitty and the reason we went there is because it feeds a family of five for cheap. Shitty and cheap are not acceptable adjectives and especially for your birthday! Yet your dick-sucking, spineless, whore attitude put up with it.
When you're 15 and get knocked up by some pot head at Sears Autocenter, don't expect any help from me. I'm not showing up to a wedding where everyone wears denim, and I'm not paying for a reception that you and your trailer-huffing boyfriend will have catered by Golden Corral.
And Richard, you're the oldest. Yes that is right, 10 and 3 quarters. I just want you to know that I always have hated your name and have always laughed behind your stupid back. From the moment we named you, I've always secretly referred to you as "Dick."
No, that is not a bad word when I use it as a nickname for Richard. And really, you're going to interrupt me now about bad words after you sat here and watched me call your brother's efforts "shit" and your sister's future "slutty?" God, you really are a dick, Dick!
Now here's what's going to happen. I'm moving in with Tammy for a bit. But not forever, because Tammy's not wife-material. She owns multiple t-shirts with Donald Duck's face on them for God's sake. But I'm going to sail that boat for a while and then probably try something new with one of the other divorcees taking class at the city college.
Just know this: "Pretty Woman" is an unrealistic movie, as well as a good if not overly simplistic song. But in the movie "Pretty Woman," a hooker ends up with a proper citizen, played by Richard Gere, who by the way I always think of as Dick Gere. And the point here is that no Dick Gere type of guy would ever actually love some dirty hooker. In fact, nobody would.
Just remember that, ok?
So hey, I'm out, heading to Tammy's now. And if you feel any resentment once all these annoying tears dry up on your red faces, don't worry;
I'll probably commit suicide in about a year.
Stephen Gillikin currently resides in central Florida in a one-bedroom apartment with his girlfriend, Tammy Ricks. He teaches Real Estate Investing at a local city college and owns a really rockin' ATV.
|Posted by Stephen on April 10, 2012 at 7:25 AM||comments (0)|
Why Flight is Not the Best Power.
by Stephen Gillikin
Inevitably, we all have at least one conversation with somebody about what super power we would want to have if that was feasible. It's one of those innocent personality questions like "favorite color" or "favorite food."
I'd say "red," "watermelon," and "the ability to destroy robots," but typically these answers are probably "blue," "pizza," and "flight," respectively.
This however, is wrong; flight is not the best power.
I know what you're thinking, "Hey, but it'd be awesome to soar around clouds and float about and travel places."
Oh, you mean like the way it'd be awesome if we could stand upright so as to use our bottom limbs for locomotion and our top for manipulation and tools. Yea, that would be awesome, and nearly a super power considering almost every mammal on Earth has to use four limbs to walk.
Although, in case you missed it, or are a toddler, we CAN walk and even run on just two limbs. And thus to my point:
How many people actually run anywhere??
I've known people who have literally driven their car to the end of their driveway to get the mail. And yet, I'm supposed to believe that if we had the power of flight, people would actually fly around places?
Maybe occasionally as a novelty, or if you were a flight-fitness buff, but I'm guessing less than 1% of the population would actually fly to work or the store.
Not to mention flying brings about a whole host of issues. We haven't discussed yet the way the power works that makes you fly, but let's just assume it's within the reality of known physics. If this is the case, you're going to have fly really fast in order to counter the planet's gravity trying to ground you.
Aside from the potential fatigue of this, what if you ran into something, like a kite, or a retarded bird? In fairness though, how often do you hit objects while walking or running on the ground? So while, the odds of you having mid-air collisions is probably low, the likelihood of any collision being fatal is presumably high.
If you still want flight to be your superpower though, that's cool, I'm a libertarian about these kinds of things.
Just don't say invisibility. You saying "flight" is like you being a slutty sex fiend, and that's up to you, and I don't care. But you saying "invisibility" is like you being a child rapist, and that's something that even libertarians want to intervene on....the prevention that is. I don't think anybody wants to intervene in order to assist a child rape. Unless of course you're a really helpful person who also just happens to be down for rapin'.
So, who the hell would use invisibility?
I'll tell you who.
Pedos and voyeurs.
Anyone who ever wants invisibility never wants to use it for any productive purpose.
They just want it to sneak into inappropriate places like girl's locker rooms or candy factories. And these are fine and good if you're 15, but if you're a 47 year old man with a desire to see high schoolers undress or eat your weight in candy for free, you're messed up and don't get to participate in this super power give-away
(Disclaimer: This is not actually a give-away. Please do not expect any special abilities after reading this.)
Even if you wanted to be invisible for non-creepy, criminal purposes, like robbing a bank, you'd still have to deal with the conundrum of people seeing floating bags of money that your transparent self is carrying. It's just not very practical.
In the world we currently inhabit and the way the future seems to be shaping, technology does everything and eventually will do all we can and more.
If you want to fly, we have multiple apparatuses and vehicles for that.
If you want to be invisible, the military already has and is working even further on so-called "invisibility cloaks."
If you want super intelligence, you can ask your smart-phone almost anything and get a decent answer.
If you want claws in your hands or some other offensive tools, just go check out the military once again.
Nearly all imagined super powers can be satisfied with technology, and if not yet, soon enough.
So, the only special ability we'll actually need is the power to destroy the technology if it gets out of hand and rebels.
I'm not sure how exactly the power of "destroying robots" works or what it consists of, but I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to have clawed-hands, or be invisible, or be able to fly.
Stephen currently lives in Omaha with his two children. He enjoys old cars and contradicting himself at the end of a passage.
He lives in Nashville and is impotent.
|Posted by Stephen on March 20, 2012 at 7:15 AM||comments (0)|
Typically everything on here is either completely fictitious or is at least a sensationalized version of my mundane life.
However, the following is actually a real correspondence that occurred in 2009.
To: US Air
To whom it may concern,
I am completely and utterly dissatisfied with your services as an airline carrier. On my travel from PHF to LAX I was to have a 2-hour layover in PHL. Due to delays and my original flight being flat-out cancelled, I ended up not being able to leave Philly for LA at 5:43 pm on Tuesday and instead left it at 7:30 am on Wednesday.
While still at PHF, as it became apparent I would be stuck overnight in Philly, US Airways Supervisor, TONYA HEMBRICK promised me a hotel voucher for Philly. She then became busy and “ran out of time”and informed me my promise of a voucher would be honored by the service desk at PHL.
I arrived in Philly from PHF around 9:30 pm Tuesday the 26th.
When I requested a hotel voucher, I was denied.
When I then requested simply a meal voucher, I was denied.
Tonya Hembrick lied to my face and/or simply failed at producing results. The only thing US AIR representatives in PHL “offered” me was a rate of $77/night at a presumably shitty and crack-infested Day’s Inn that they said was about 10 minutes away from the airport. Unacceptable.
Due to the structure of PHL, to get from my arrival gate of F to my departure gate of C (where my morning flight would depart) I had to exit security…which then closed. As result, I had to sleep outside of airport security that night. On the floor. It was terribly cold and drafty and downright unpleasant.
Going through security the next morning of the 27th,I ran into two passengers from my flight who informed me they ultimately were able to get a free hotel stay from US AIR. I don't know if the two shared the room (it was a man and a woman, after all), but if so, they most definitely had a better night than me. It was like high school all over again.
I am entirely and deeply dissatisfied with your abilities and services as an airline. It is now my opinion that you are a poorly run and insufficiently operated carrier.
Unless you can try to compensate me with something almost lucrative, like free flights for a year or something comparable, I cannot foresee myself having anything to do with your business in the future.
Please do not patronize me and send an insulting $100 coupon that’s difficult to redeem or anything like that. I will neither accept nor use it. My travel with you has been completely disappointing and disgusting.
I have little expectation that you will even attempt to offer any apology or compensation for your dismal services and thus I feel it is safe to say that you, US Airways, have most probably lost a customer, and one who travels often at that.
A few days later they responded with the following...
Dear Mr. Gillikin:
I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience you experienced when Flight 4606 on this past Tuesday was cancelled due to Air Traffic Control... (I'll just skip to the funny asshole part now....)
...With great regret we are unable to honor your request for free tickets for a year as US Airways does not offer the requested reparation as means of compensation for a flight interruption. We are unable to offer compensation/reimbursement when a flight interruption occurs beyond our control.
However, because we are concerned of your travel experience, we have authorized an Electronic Air Check Plus (E-ACP) Voucher as gesture of goodwill. We hope you will allow US Airways another opportunity to regain your confidence. Your E-ACP is valid toward the purchase of travel on US Airways. Please be advised the E-ACP is not valid with Internet bookings. The E-ACP must be redeemed one year from the date of this letter. In addition, please take a moment to read the terms and conditions listed below to receive the full benefit of this compensation. When you are ready to make your future travel arrangements, please call our Reservations Department at 800-428-4322.
US Airways Customer Relations
Your E-AC code is: GP6W0G
E - AIR CHECK PLUS - TERMS & CONDITIONS
*$100 OFF A ROUNDTRIP TICKET OF $500 OR MORE
* $75 OFF A ROUNDTRIP TICKET OF $400 - $499
* $50 OFF A ROUNDTRIP TICKET OF $250 - $399
* $25 OFF A ROUNDTRIP TICKET OF $150 - $249
Those bastards. I have to admit though, I almost respect the fact that they were assholes enough to literally offer me the exact thing I told them I didn't want them to offer me.
But still, I don't actually respect them, and to this day, I have still never flown with US Air, and that trend shall continue.
Stephen Gillikin currently resides in southern California. He enjoys roadtrips, trains, and various forms of water travel.
|Posted by Stephen on February 21, 2012 at 7:00 AM||comments (1)|
The Sexual Pursuits of Presidential Gentlemen:
An examinatory, historical essay of inspired truth.
by Stephen Gillikin
Presidents' Day weekend means three things.
One, I finally got around to watching this documentary about how the art and content we consume ends up making its way out of us into our creations. Basic example would be if you've watched a lot of sad movies lately, you're likely to make some art that has some sadness ingrained in it too. It's more complicated than that, but I think it's all rubbish anyway.
Two, with no work, I had the spare leisure time to feel creative, restless, and thus inspired to write some historical fiction about some of the great men who've led this country. I know I don't do drama often, and I've been told many times my dialogue is choppy or even remedial, but I just really wanted to show presidents in a real, raw light. Strip away the fanfare and mysticism, and show the trials and strife of who they really were. These were men; great, great men.
Oh, and "three" is It also meant I watched a lot of porn because I had all that free time.
Honest Abe deboarded his horse and buggy with a wince in his step, the wince of a man aged and pained by an already difficult tenure as the sixteenth president. Yet, there was a slight expression of serenity across his long, hair masked face as he took in the fragrant, clear airs of this Indiana farm land. He would only have four days of rest here in the cabin before he'd have to return from sabbatical and resume his post back in Washington, DC where the politics and strife of men waited.
As he pushed open the creaky, oak door of this getaway he was greeted by his wife, who had arrived three nights prior, who delicately pressed her lips to his beard.
"Hey girl, I'm so tired and shit," Abraham stated to his wife as his blue eyes now almost seemed grey.
"Uh, It's ok. Maybe I can energize you up," his wife-lady spoke too him with soft eagerness.
She grabbed his weathered hand and drew him nearer towards the quilts at the bedside.
"Well you know, I like always gots some energization when it comes to you, girl," Abe said as he slid his long, black, and hard stovepipe hat off his head.
"I'm gonna totally see if I can loosen them pants up, ya know," wife-lady addressed to his trousers with a gleam in her eyes.
"Yea, that's right, bitch. Why don't you perform some habeus corpus on my dick."
"Now that's what I call an Emancipation Proclamation."
And then they did it.
And then they did it again, but in a different position.
And then they did it once more, still, but in a different position.
And then Abraham Lincoln ended his term on his wife's chest.
President Wilson entered the private quarters of the White House with grief on his brow and anxiety in his belly. The child of a generation who had fought in the American Civil War, he knew the terrors of battle and the pain and destruction that lingered long after soldiers had departed. This empathy haunted him as he wished so hard to not let America join the throws of Europe in their Great War, but knew that without US involvement the state of Europe, the Americas, and the world would be forever changed and not in his favor.
His mistress looked at him as he crawled into his nighty.
"Like, anything you wanna talk bout or something, right?" She inquisted to her lover.
"Nah. But I got something you can use your mouth on. My Woodrow Wilson."
Herbert entered the men's room while at a gala he was attending to help fund his reelection. As soon as he entered, he took off his pants and did it with a girl.
Also did it with a girl.
Did it with two girls. At the same time!
And one of them was ethnically ambiguous.
"Yeah, bitch." Was the only way he ever addressed her.
It was like any other November morning in Dallas, and Jack was readying himself in the bathroom mirror. He'd only been awake for not even an hour, but his tie was already wishing to be loose, as his neck, his shoulders, his life wished for less stress. Between the delicate maneuvering of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the enormous expectations of him at so young an age, his presidency was already slowing his body down, but not his spirit.
"Hey, so like what you got goin on there and shit, what?" His wife asked him with genuine curiosity.
"Yea woman, I just gots to get a blow job up in this, before we be goin," he said with love.
"Mmmm, I don't know. I feel like, shy and stuff. Ya know, right?"
"But we's in the Big D, baby, and I want to show you my big D. I mean this is Texas, and yous already aint showin me that texASS, so how about a quick mouth-bang before we head off to do the motorcade in the convertible with the governor and shit."
"No, Jack, nah. I mean, i just got dressed, and just bought this outfit yesterday. I don't want to risk getting your bodily fluids shot all over it."
Defeated but accepting, the young president kissed his wife-lady on the cheek before they headed out for their day.
Stephen currently is incarcerated in Northern California. His release is expected mid next year.
Or this July if on good behavior.
|Posted by Stephen on February 14, 2012 at 7:20 AM||comments (0)|
About to Get Heavy. Or: How I Seduce the Ladies.
by Stephen Gillikin
Aww yeah. I gots the lights down low. R Kelly is bumpin' on my boombox.
You know the one.
It's small but it gets it done. Yeah, I know girl, you might be thinkin' it's weird that there's blue paint stains on my awesome jambox. But girl, that's cause I let my Uncle borrow it last week when he had some painting to do outside for his new shed, and damn, my boombox is portable.
Portable to the limit!
Mmm, you hear that? That crackle from the speakers? Some might say that means cheap, crappy 1994 boombox speakers; I say that's just R Kelly gettin' all intense up in this. Yeah, this shit's about to get heavy.
I'll bring you over to m'bed. Yeah, that's right, it's a Murphy Bed. Mmhm, it's so damn efficient it really makes the studio apartment look bigger. Yeah, that's right, baby;
The way it closes up into the wall, that just means we can do it girl. Do it in the wall......
...I don't recommend it though cause one time I got stuck in there by myself on accident. For 2 days I drank my own urine until finally the firemen came after a neighbor heard me crying. That's what THEY say.
But girl, you know I wasn't cryin' cause I was scared or nuthin.' I was just cryin' cause I ain't met you yet. But now I have, and I say it's time to do it. Let's do it, girl.
Just not in the wall. Seriously.
Oh, you like this? This t-shirt I be rockin' right now. I know, super sexy. I know you're impressed by my 1997 Final Four XL t-shirt. What girl wouldn't? Cause how many studs do you know with a '97 Final Four in Indianpolis t-shirt? Awww yeah. Arizona upsetting Kentucky? I was all up in that shit....
...Actually I wasn't, my older cousin had a friend who went to the game and had some extra t-shirts, one of which he gave to my cousin who after a few years gave it to me as a hand-me-down.
And look at me now, Shorty! How many guys do you know with only 3 degrees of separation with a spectator of a NCAA championship game of 15 years ago. Awww yeah, that's right.
This shit definitely is about to get heavy.
What? No no, where you goin' girl? Oh I see, you just playin' hard to get. I like that. I like that. What?...No?...You actually just really want to leave?
Fine then, that's cool. But damn you don't know what you could be missin' wit me. Cause you hear that? Yeah, my mix tape in my jambox just switched over to All-4-One. But fine, I guess you just can't handle all this. Shit, I knew I was just wastin' my money on you when I took you out to Red Lobster tonight.
What?...Well yeah, I didn't waste all my money, but I definitely wasted those gift certificates on you. But whateva, girl. I'll find me a real woman who can handle some hard core love makin' from a raw man like me. Pssh, she probably won't roll her eyes when I suggest her to put some of the Sizzler buffet in her purse for later.
You don't know what your leavin'.
Makin' love to me on my Murphy Bed while my boombox be killin,' and we eatin' some stolen Sizzler bread rolls. Damn girl, you just don't know what you passed up. Especially if you lined your purse with baggies first, cause then we could smuggle out shit like that yellow pudding stuff with the vanilla cookie things on top. Mmmm yeah, nothin' like eatin' that 4 hours later and doin' it with me. Now that's when this shit really starts to get heavy.
Stephen Gillikin currently resides in upstate New York travelling from apple farm to apple farm catching work as a ranch-hand.
and now for worthless additional content, here's a sexy rendition of a song with lots of f-bombs in it!
|Posted by Stephen on January 31, 2012 at 1:35 PM||comments (0)|
Why I Would Be an Awesome Cult Leader.
by Stephen Gillikin
I am totes excited that you're letting me run to be the new Leader! Ever since Leader Prime got taken away by the Pigs for raping that girl, I knew I'd make a fantastic replacement.
For one, I have never had a rape victim speak out, so I think I could totally be Leader for quite some time without those pesky Feds trying to lock me up.
And guys, I would like, for reals, be cool. Ya know, I'm a go-with-the-flow type of dude.
Unlike my opponent, Brother Jeremiah here. He's always trying to get up in people's shit.
Not me though.
I don't like shit.
I first joined this cult not because I wanted power, but just cuz I had nuthin' better goin' on.
I had $14 in my checking and $36,000 in my credit debt. Meanwhile, the back kitchen at Olive Garden wasn't what it used to be, so I thought "HEY! I'll just joint a cult!!"
After eating a lean pocket and spending two grueling hours on meetup.com I found you guys and my new life. And now seven long days later, here I am with Leader Prime gone and me running to be the new Honcho.
And see, I used "Honcho." I'm cool like that guys!
You won't have to call me "Leader Beta" or "Neo Leader" or some weird hubbabaloo like that. Just Honcho. Or even Hank. You can just call me Hank.
That's not even my name. It's not even Henry for leader's sake, but Hank sounds classy, like a fella' you'd like to have a beer with.
Not that we're aloud alcohol here. Haha!
But, I'll share my Kool-Aid with any of you on the summer solstice.
Which is something else I wanted to talk about. If elected Leader, what do you all think of pushing back that June suicide date?
I know this cult is actually even called "The Church of Kill Ourselves This Summer Solstice," but ya know…. I kinda got invited to a wedding in July, and I've never been to Catalina before. Plus they were going to have a chocolate fountain and a photo-booth! Shhhyyeea, for real, I know!
I'll make it up to you; our Castrado sect, how about Thursdays can be "Eunuchs in Tunics" day?!
Huh? It's fun cuz it rhymes!
And it's funny, because you all don't have testicles anymore.
And I'm also thinking' 'bout Pizza Fridays. And that sounds way better than any of Brother Jeremiah's plans.
He just wants us to farm all day, every day, and then take some cyanide this summer.
We've embezzled so much money, we don't need to farm, we can just order out! And come this summer (still hoping we postpone the suicide, guys. Fingers crossed) or whenever, let's mix up the cyanide with Sprite or something silly. Or…OOH! Mix it in Jello!! Jello's fun!
Death Jello is way better than taking some stupid pill or mixing it with "Flavor-Aid." And yea, Flavor-Aid, 'cause Brother Jeremiah's too much of a little bitch to buy real name brand Kool-Aid.
I also say we grow beards only if we want to, or if the rest of the cult collectively decides your pock-marked, Edward James Olmos face is best covered up.
And that we no longer rape the females as punishment to them but only as pleasure to us. Ya know guys, focus on the positive not the negative!!
So choose wisely when we decide later today which one of us to sacrifice and which one of us to elect Leader.
I mean, being Leader is a bit of a metaphorical sacrifice, but still is WAY better than literally being stoned in the heart 'till death.
Sorry Brother Jeremiah, it's you or me, and plus I'd be such a chill Honcho.
So I hope for your votes, clansmen and birth-givers, and may Leader bless the CKOTSS.
Until of course we're all dead
But hopefully not 'till after July!
Stephen Gillikin currently lives on a river-boat in Mississippi. His wife, KD Lang and he have two sons.