They're All Gonna Laugh at You...

It’s always fun to go through old files, just to recover long-forgotten moments. Things that seem so serious at the time are often well worth laughing about in retrospect. The subject of this blog, however, is just as funny now as it was then, only because it’s so absurd.

Toward the end of 2011, I was contacted by Dark River Press. They were putting together an anthology entitled Tales from the River: Volume 1 and wanted to know if I’d like to contribute. For their consideration, I submitted a short story called “Rape Whistle,” (which later appeared in my collection Coffee at Midnight). The editor enjoyed the story and decided to include it.

Several months later, the anthology received a quiet, eBook-only release. It sold poorly and was read by very few. Out of the blue, I received an e-mail from the editor-in-chief of Dark River Press, the same editor responsible for putting together Tales from the River. He inquired if I was familiar with a gentleman by the name of Martin...let’s call him Martin Smith, for legal purposes. I said I wasn’t. It was explained that Martin Smith submitted a story for Tales from the River, however, his didn’t make the cut. He apparently spent several months seething and ordered the anthology immediately after its release. Embittered, he read through the contents in a teeth-grinding, “What the hell do they have that I don’t?” manner. When he came across “Rape Whistle,” he discovered that my protagonist happened to be named Martin, a name I chose purely because at the time the story was written, I’d revisited HBO’s long forgotten original series Dream On, starring Brian Benben, who played Martin Tupper.

In Martin Smith’s unbalanced brain, he came to the conclusion that I crafted “Rape Whistle” to mock and humiliate him, not to mention parody his work. That I was in cahoots with Dark River’s editor-in-chief and the two of us were howling with laughter at his expense. Yes, it was all an elaborate plot set in motion the very minute Dark River’s inbox received Martin Smith’s contribution (which I, to this day, have not read).

Soon after reading “Rape Whistle” and deciding that I, along with Dark River Press (and presumably the entire universe) were out to get him, he did some Internet sleuthing to gather some information about me. He then posted the following on his personal website.

Please note: the article was removed within days of its posting and, with the exception of Martin Smith’s actual surname, is presented here exactly as it appeared.

A call for the execution of Brandon Ford, Robert Leyland and Martin Smith

Because I embarrass my family with all my cheap pornography, anger and embarrass my teachers and fellow students, etc, I use pen names. Also, if I get a job I don’t want all my cheap stuff -- which I nevertheless find funny and hopefully worth reading -- to come back and haunt me more than it has.

Perhaps my pen name is what prompted Dark River Press not to publish a story I wrote called “How I got Impaled.” Maybe because I don't use my real name -- or use it only marginally and with some hope for distancing myself from myself in the future if I actually try to get a job -- Brandon thinks I am a coward or something. Anyway, I thought my story was good; however, it was totally self-referential, and probably a bit pretentious. But initially, it was accepted, unless Robert Leyland was just joking, being funny...

But when I checked Dark River Press to see if my story was published, I instead blundered upon a story called “The Rape Whistle,” which is about me. The problem is, nobody can really understand the story’s humor unless they have read my own pretentious story. They don’t even know who the Martin involved is, which I should be thankful for, but nonetheless am not.

Dark River Press is actually charging people money for a product one of the stories therein is incomprehensible without a knowledge of the subtext that nobody would care about or bother to read anyway. After all, they think the story is bad, or else they would have published it before the story that satirizes it.

Who is this Brandon Ford character? I have trolled the web for a few minutes and have gotten all the information I need. But Brandon Ford’s charming, laid back demeanor is belied by this sneaky attack. For such a down to earth guy, he sure is a sneaky, phony egomaniac. “hey people, it is me Brandon Ford, it is just me playing my guitar. It is a total waste of time watching it… enjoy!” "Look at me talking, ranting about nothing -- big waste of time and here it is on you tube!" Dark River and its 3 or 4 readers/friends who have read my ambitious story “How I got Impaled“ are such a little circle of elitists, chuckling at their own wit -- a pseudo wit that nobody can understand but themselves. One must be sure one is great to allow oneself this sort of presumption, and Robert Leyland and Brandon Ford reveal this about themselves when they make people pay for something only they can appreciate. My call for Brandon’s extermination is nothing compared to these stupid assholes.

This sort of thing has happened many times to me, one way or another; if an editor to say, “hey, baby, we will take your story -- great stuff" and then they think better of it, and then instead publish a parody of the story they presumably accepted, as if angry at themselves for liking such a piece of crap -- if something like that happens, it is probably a writer/editor…

And all this makes me ashamed to be even an amateur writer. I take it from their blatantly phony I'm just a regular Joe/read my horror story vibe that these guys are so spaced out on themselves they think they are for real. Brandon is obviously quite stupid -- just read the story The Rape Whistle -- and try to make that jibe with his internet "I'm just a regular Joe" type, read my story about massacre..." and then read my story "The Rape Whistle," the meaning of which refers to something nobody knows about. I guess its only 4 pages long, so he figures, "well, I do have the right to waste people's time... I guess I am that good..."

However, I haven’t yet been frustrated enough by artistic failure to descend to Brandon’s level. (Apart from this call for his death, which I stand behind, and is just because I am personally insulted by this bewildering sneak attack; this type of thing has happened too many times, and makes me rethink writing on the internet.) Maybe it is pointless after all.

 

What did I do when I read the above? Well, it took me a few minutes to process everything before I started laughing, then I shared it with a few people. Concerned for my well-being, friends told me to contact a lawyer, the police, a private investigator. I did none of these things because I knew nothing would ever come from such nonsense. Martin Smith and his delusional fantasies would disappear as quickly as they arose.

And I was right.

I never heard from him again and, as far as I know, neither has Dark River Press.

Don't Get Cute with Me

There are many things I’m uncomfortable with when calling for technical support. I’m uncomfortable with agents trying to fill silences by asking how I’m enjoying the weather. I’m uncomfortable when they mispronounce my surname and/or street name (both of which are quite long, not to mention uncommon). I’m uncomfortable with their absurdly lame attempts at humor. Most of all, I’m uncomfortable when they try to be cute.

Ordinarily, I don’t mind having to call the Geek Squad (even though Best Buy’s higher-ups obviously stole the name from the movie Heathers and it’s bothered me for years). They make it pretty easy on the customer. After they verify some preliminaries, they set up a remote session and essentially handle the reins. In addition to one’s full name, telephone number, and street address, there is one vital piece of information needed to access the account. That is, of course, the registered e-mail.

For several years, I’ve had two e-mail accounts: one for all social networking and literary purposes, and a personal one for banking, online shopping, etc. The latter e-mail contains the word “delicious” (a reference to a song lyric) and almost always garners quips. If I’d known the name were so a provacative when I set up the account upwards of ten years ago, I probably would’ve chosen something else.

Moving rigt along.

I call the Geeks earlier today. I run down my issues and concerns. They ask for verification of the essentials. When it came time for my e-mail address, the agent added an “mmmm,” as if someoneone held a culinary masterpiece beneath his salivating lips, and repeated the word “delicious” in an odd, almost Cookie Monster-esque cadence.

“Mmmmm... Dee-leesh-isss...”

Thankfully, he recovered from whatever strange spell he’d temporarily fallen under and continued with the task at hand, which was probably a good thing, since my face was twisted in painful wince and I needed him to turn the page more than he ever could’ve imagined. He maintained a somewhat professional veneer for the remainder of the call and helped resolve the issue to the best of his abilities. I’m shuddering as I write this, though, because there isn’t a doubt in my mind that his voice and strange little attempt at cuteness will haunt my dreams for many nights to come.

“Mmmmmmm... Deeeeeeee-leeeeeeesh-issssssssssssss...”

When a Stranger Calls

I get annoying phone calls essentially every day. Telemarketers, pre-recorded scams, people who don’t speak English, random idiots... Today was a particularly active day, as I received somewhere around ten calls before 2:00 PM. Must be Mercury Retrograde.

A few minutes ago, I received a call while distracted by something else. It was a number I didn’t recognize, so I just left it. Moments later, I noticed I have a voicemail—a very long voicemail containing nothing but dead air. Annoyed, I decide to call back.

After a few rings, the call connects. There’s a lot of rustling, like the receiver is being dragged across a soft surface, or the other party literally didn’t know how a phone works. When I finally hear a voice, it belongs to a woman who sounds like she knows not who she is, where she is, or what’s happening. The following is our exact conversation:

ME: (annoyed by rustling) DO YOU KNOW HOW TO TALK?

WOMAN: (after brief silence) Y-yeah.

ME: Then why did you just leave me a blank voicemail?

WOMAN: Huh?

ME: WHY DID YOU JUST LEAVE ME A BLANK VOICEMAIL?

WOMAN: Who...who is this?

ME: You should know, you just called me.

WOMAN: (long pause) Wr...wrong number.

ME: WELL, THAT’S ALL YOU HAD TO SAY. (click)

True story.

Nothing Lasts Forever...Evidently

Here’s a quickie:

As some of you may or may not know, I got dumped via text message back in May. Yes, I know. Woe is me; wah, wah, wah. Earlier today, I remembered something this...person (I prefer “lying, selfish, self-centered, hollow-chested fuckwad,” but that’s neither here nor there) said to me during the course of our relationship. This is a direct quote, word for word. Ready?

 

“If I ever lost you, it would kill me.”

 

I should probably start perusing the obits.

Things That Annoy Me #5

Thankfully, it’s been a while since I’ve heard it, but someow, it seems to have made a comeback. No, thankfully I’m not referring t the “Macarena,” an evil, inescapable entity all on its own. I’m talking about the phrase “I just threw up in my mouth.” Around fifteen years ago, it was everywhere. Sometimes, there’d be an “a little bit” tacked on to the end, but everyone who said it clearly thought they were the first to put these words together, or that no one had ever heard them before.

The first time I remember hearing it was in an old SNL sketch. Maya Rudolph, genius comedienne, was doing a parody of the infamous “Diana Ross drunk-driving” incident, which made the cover of every tabloid at the time. Stumbling out of her car, Maya slurs the line to the police officer who’d pulled her over. I laughed so hard, I had tears streaming down my face. Not only was the line funny at the time, but it was given by a veteran comedic actress who knew exactly how it should be delivered. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wrote the line herself.

For a while, the line was everywhere. I’d hear on sitcoms, reality shows, talk shows, in movies...  And just as quickly as it arose, it vanished. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and lived peacefully for several years. But...just like a herpes outbreak...it’s back. Recently, I’ve been hearing it in the usual places: on TV, the radio, social media... I overheard Dr. Phil, everyone’s favorite narcissistic jackhole, use it not 48 hours ago.

What baffles me more than the line’s overuse, even more than its return, occurs when the line in spoken in front of an audience. This can be an audience of two or an audience of a thousand. Not only do people laugh like they’ve never heard anything so funny, they laugh like they’ve never heard it at all. I feel like Elaine Benes in the classic episode of Seinfeld, when it becomes a fad to eat cookies, candy, and general hand foods with a silverware. She stands up in the middle of Monk’s and bellows, “What is wrong with all you people?! Have you all gone mad?!”

Well? Have you??  

Things That Annoy Me #4

Last week, I was on a dating site (because I’m pathetic and desperate like that) and I came across a match I found intriguing. I opened this person’s profile, but before reading their information, I noticed they’d listed themselves not as male or female, but “genderfluid.” I’d never seen this before, so, being the sarcastic bastard that I am, I posted a joke about it via Twitter, which then reposted on my Facebook wall.

The joke was, I thought, innocent enough. I can’t recall the exact wording, as it’s since been deleted (you’ll see why in a minute). But it was something along the lines of: “Why is this an option? I don’t want to have to worry about a potential partner transitioning from one gender to another, then back again, only to repeat the cycle.” It was meant to be silly, stupid, and funny, i.e. a joke. My Twitter followers couldn’t have cared less. Not a single response, or even “like.” Facebook, however, was a different story.

I woke the following morning to find a plethora of responses from “friends” who felt I I’d been insensitive and less-than-PC. I read one comment after another about how wrong I was for posting something so heinous, that people were allowed to be whomever and whatever they chose, and that I should be a little more open-minded. As annoying as all this was (being attacked from every angle is never fun), what annoyed me more than anything, in hindsight, was that I posted three lengthy responses defending and explaining myself, as well as my ridiculous little tweet, when all I should’ve said was, “It was a joke. Get over yourselves.”

I suppose I kept the dialogue going because I didn’t want anyone to think I’m a hateful person who feels “genderfludity” (a term I hadn’t even heard until I stumbled across this person’s profile, truth be told) shouldn’t be allowed in modern culture. That this option should be removed from sites such as these and people should be forced to pick one gender or another. I never said any of these things, nor are they my personal opinions. In other words, I didn’t want anyone not to like me, so I continued to respond, but with each comment, I dug myself into a deeper hole, offending more and more people. I felt like Donald fucking Trump.

I think what did me in was the way the joke was worded. Had it been tweaked before going out into the stratosphere, perhaps the outcome would’ve been slightly different. But at the end of the day, it was just a joke and that’s all I should’ve said. So, I’m not annoyed at the dating site for including this option. I’m not even annoyed with all the self-righteous, holier-than-thou comments which flooded my inbox. I’m annoyed with myself because for feeding on the bait those initial responses became, thereby creating a clusterfuck. On this one, I accept 100% of the blame and accept full responsibility.

But people really should just get over themselves.

Things That Annoy Me #3

Ya know what always bugged me about Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? In the first reel, Cameron is bedridden with a severe flu and within five minutes, he’s up and dressed and even spry. Punching the passenger seat with indecision, jumping up and down by the rear bumper, throwing things... After that, his illness is never mentioned again. It’s like he was never sick to begin with.

I know John Hughes wrote screenplays on the fly, most of them over the course of a weekend. In this case, it seems like while in the process, he thought, “Wait, hang on a second... My protagonist is faking an illness to stay home from school. His best friend is staying home from school on the very same day because he actually is ill. That migt be a little too coincidental. Too much sickness for one movie. Maybe I’ll nix the 'Cameron being sick' subplot.” But then he forgot he’d changed his mind, shot the scenes of Cameron buried under the covers with a pharmacy by his bedside, realized his mistake, and just left it in anyway. I could be mistaken, but there might be a line about Cameron being something of a hypochondriac. Even if that were the case, it’s still a pretty big plothole.

I love the movie, but this has always driven me insane. Anyone else? Anyone?