The Last Audio Recording of Bubbles (Michael Jackson’s Chimp) as He Lay Dying from Prostate Cancer in 2017; as captured on a reel-to-reel.

(Unintelligible noises, a couple of clicks, and static for five minutes)

Well, I guess this is it. Damn. I thought I would have more time. I should have gone to college, majored in Elaborate Dancing at Cornell, something. God. I can barely move. How could I have let this happen? Why didn’t I go and get my prostate examined? What kind of asshole thinks that getting it checked is unmanly?

(There is a series of muffled noises as someone apparently administers morphine)

Ahhh…I’ve really missed drugs. I remember back in the eighties when Michael and I would eat bags filled with pharmaceuticals and spend the entire day laying in the foyer of Neverland Ranch trying to soak into the marble flooring. Jermaine would come by and ask for money and Michael, completely tanked, would make him dance for it. And he would. We would just laugh for hours watching him try to do the moon walk while he sobbed. Stupid Jermaine, always willing to be the clown for some coin. And the parties, Jesus, I haven’t thought of those for years, they were WILD. Michael would just invite everyone. Liz and Michael would be chewing down on painkillers like candy, and getting into these heated conversations on who had the most ostentatious collection of self-portraits, Brooke would be screwing everything with a dick; virgin my ass, that girl would mop up come from the carpet with her tongue if given a chance, and I would be working the room in a tux, being all monkey-cute so some chick would pick me up and put me on her lap and let me tweak her nipples. The next day the maids would write up a list of things that got nicked and Michael would have his driver go over to Quincy’s house to get most of them back. Now that guy was a serious klepto. As a joke once Michael super glued a gold statue of himself on a table near the front door and we watched on video camera as Quincy spent two hours trying to pry it off with a chisel. But it was all good fun. Even Quincy laughed.

For a while everything was glorious. I got an agent, had some head shots made, went on the talk circuit round, fucked massive amounts of human ass, and just hung with Michael. We thought the ride would last forever. Until 1993.

Let me just say this: I never saw Michael touch any children. Hell, I slept in his room. You’d think that of all the monkeys that came in and out of Neverland that it would be me that would really know what was going on don’t you think? See, Michael loved kids. He thought they were the only people that were truly honest in the world. They didn’t care about his money, they didn’t want anything from him, and they genuinely liked to spend time with him without thinking they would get something in return. Children and animals, that was Michael’s bag. Sexually, he wasn’t even interested. The first time I met him I thought he was gay. That was until I understood that mentally he was a kid himself. In another person it would seem kind of creepy you know, a grown man surrounding himself with kids, but he thought that he could make a difference for them. I told him that he was playing a dangerous game having all these kids coming here, but he just laughed and said that he was having the fun he should’ve had as a kid. I should’ve seen it coming, but frankly, I was high most of the time and enjoying my life, so when the accusations came I was completely blindsided.

It was horrible. Everything changed. Michael ended up addicted to sedatives and wouldn’t leave his bed. No one came to the ranch anymore. The party ended and, for a while, so did his career. Meanwhile, my own career was dead in the water. I was poison. Even Jack Hannah wouldn’t return my calls and that guy was a freak. Ever see him show an animal twice? Think about it. He’d go on the Tonight Show or Good Morning America and show off a porcupine or baby lemur and No one would ever see them again. I’m not saying that he killed them or anything; I’m just saying they disappeared.

So when everything fell apart, so did my world. When Michael settled in court the whole world thought he was a pedophile. It destroyed him. He thought that if he reinvented himself as a family man people would know he was incapable of hurting children but of course that backfired. He married Lisa Marie, which wasn’t so weird considering they had been friends forever, but man, that kiss, that kiss was both awkward and disturbing. It was right up there with the Al and Tipper spit swap. I knew it wouldn’t last but hell, at least he was trying right? Meanwhile I got hooked on smack and I started to go crazy. I was tearing off my diapers and smearing feces all over the walls, screaming at the top of my lungs. Michael went through maids like crazy during this time. Who could blame them? They’d be doing their job and there I was dry humping statues of myself. Michael put me into rehab but it didn’t take. I would fake sobriety by mainlining downers so I would appear mellow while cooking up a batch of meth in the bathroom.

After the divorce Michael wanted to have children of his own. I tried to talk him out of it but he wouldn’t listen. He hooked up with Debbie who was working for his dermatologist at the time. I hated her. She would come over to the ranch and pretend she wasn’t impressed by it. But you could see it in her eyes, she wanted it all. When Michael married her in Australia I felt sick. But what could I do? You can’t talk shit about your best friend’s wife and still expect to be friends right? When they came back to the ranch she tried her best to remove me from the house, telling Michael that I wasn’t a good influence. I spent a lot of time tormenting her those first few weeks; walking around naked with a hard on, throwing food at her, whatever extreme behavior I could think of, I did. It was great. Even Michael had to laugh. It was just like old times.

Then Debbie got pregnant. Michael was thrilled. Did I think it was his? No, but who cared. He was going to be a father and that was what mattered. Over the next few years Michael added to his family and I was shifted out of it. I don’t blame him for anything. He was a father and my drug habit had become so bad that I was unfit to be around the kids. I went to live with an animal trainer friend of Michael’s and started to dry out. In 2003 I hit rock bottom and tried to kill myself. Luckily the trainer found me in time and got me to the hospital.

I didn’t know Michael had died until weeks afterward. I was living at a sanctuary in Florida at the time studying Zen Buddhism. I was clean, sober, and finally at peace with myself. When I received the news, from Quincy of all people, I was silently grateful. Michael deserved to be at rest. I spent the rest of the day sitting in the copula, looking over the orange grove near the sanctuary and remembering my friend and really, my brother, and wondering if Quincy made it into the ranch yet.

The rest of my life has been quiet. I fell in love for the first time with Sam, an older chimp who has shown me what love is. We had a nice civil union ceremony surrounded by friends and family. I finished my autobiography, I Am Bubbles which should hit the shelves by Christmas and I am really and truly happy.

I guess that’s it.

(there is silence followed by a couple of clicks. Then the tape ends)

(Two weeks after this recording, Bubbles succumbed to his cancer. At his memorial were Brooke Shields, Liz Taylor, Quincy Jones, Prince Michael, Paris Michael, Blanket, and Jay Leno as well as Bubbles’ many friends and family. It was a quiet ceremony. A couple of days later Sam found Bubbles’ sequined glove missing. It is rumored that it now resides in a shadow box in Quincy’s foyer.)

Math is taking up a lot of my time and is interrupting my drinking

Because I have very little to give the world in terms of talent, vision, or depth (although, I do have a lot in the way of vengeance)I returned to school last year to suckle the teat of student loans and grants in order to try and make something out of myself.

So, I decided to become a biologist...then a vet tech...and finally, realizing that math is heavily involved in those subjects, I chose Journalism because I believe that nothing says, "Great Idea" like a major that will virtually guarantee me unemployment.

In becoming a Journalism major I am required to take College Algebra, which is a torturous subject meant to kill ambition and deaden the spirit and/or will to live. I have taken this class online to only make things more difficult for myself because I am apparently an emotional cutter. To make things even more interesting all the questions on both the quizzes and homework have been obviously translated from the original Engrish/New Delhian into the English language so that I will not have any comprehension as to what is on the screen.

Which brings me to this, as I prepare to take my Midterm tomorrow, wish me luck. Because frankly after three 8 hour days of staring into a computer screen, bursting into tears, and wetting myself, I think I will need it.

Bitter Billy's Big Long Day: A Tale of Disappointment

Seeing that I have the attention span of a gnat and that I like illustrated books, I have decided to fill my time by writing picture books for adults starring sad characters who can no longer function in today's society due to their own pathetic, slightly autistic, ability to share other people's space.

Unfortunately, I have no artistic talent, therefore the picture books themselves are only written, not drawn, which works on the truly disappointing level that I am after...(hello artistic friends who I won't pay for illustrating such a tome.) So please enjoy the first in what I suppose will be many stories that cutesy-up the horrific lives we have all chosen.

I present: Bitter Billy's Big Long Day: A Tale of Disappointment

Ring, ring goes the clock next to Billy’s bed. It’s time to get up and go to work. Billy doesn’t like work. Billy thinks work sucks his soul dry. Billy pulls the bed covers up over his head. Oh No! Billy’s crying.

Every morning Billy stands at the kitchen sink and eats breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It gives you energy and makes your brain work better. For breakfast Billy eats a stale Pop Tart he found in a drawer and drinks a warm beer.

Going to work is an adventure! Billy has barely managed to merge onto the freeway when someone cuts him off. Billy honks his horn to show his displeasure at almost being killed. The other driver shows Billy his middle finger. Billy honks the horn again and shows the driver his middle finger. This continues until Billy misses his exit to work. Billy hopes the other driver gets into an accident and loses the ability to use the bathroom alone.

Billy parks his car and walks into work. His company is large and owns the entire building. While all of Billy’s bosses work in nice big offices filled with windows and comfortable chairs, Billy works in an enclosed space called a cubicle. A cubicle is like a pen in a zoo only no one feeds you. It is where all the people who majored in the Liberal Arts are kept so as not to disturb the people who actually majored in something tangible.

At work Billy sits in front of a computer and stares until his eyes get blurry and dry out. Billy spends most of his time going through the massive amounts of emails in his Inbox. He deletes emails about bunnies and kitties, jokes of the day, Hollywood gossip, and political polls. He pushes through the male enhancement ads, pictures from office parties, and reminders for birthday cake donations. In the end, all Billy does is delete, delete, delete.



Every morning Billy goes to a meeting with the rest of the people in his department. Billy’s department at work is Records Analysis. He does not know what this means. Billy’s boss uses these meetings to belittle his staff. Billy will often dream during the meetings about beating his boss about the testicles, especially when his boss tells the department that overtime will be mandatory.

Billy smokes cigarettes. While this is bad for his health and well-being, anyone at work who smokes can take what is known as a smoke break. A smoke break lasts ten minutes. Billy tries to take at least six smoke breaks throughout the day. He also takes coffee breaks, snack breaks, and bathroom breaks. By the end of the day Billy accomplishes very little.

Lunch time is Billy’s favorite part of his workday. Billy likes to leave a good fifteen minutes early and come back twenty minutes late. At lunch he eats at restaurants that serve over-priced meals that take all of Billy’s money. Thanks to lunchtime Billy owes four thousand dollars on his Visa card.

After lunch Billy tries to finally get some work done. He pulls up a spreadsheet on his computer and stares at it until his eyes glaze over. Billy really wants to get his spreadsheet done so that Bob, the middle manager, won’t come over to Billy’s cubicle. No such luck. “Billy did you do this?” “Billy did you do that?” asks Bob. Billy nods and says, “Yes Bob,” and, “I’ll get right on that,” until Bob goes away and bothers someone else.

Yea! It’s almost time to go home! If work ends at 5 o’clock and it is now 3 o’clock, how many hours does Billy have left before he can leave? Billy has 1 ½ hours left because he will sneak out of the office at 4:30 by telling Bob that he has to make copies of his data sheet. Billy is very good at sneaking out of the office early. He has done it nearly every day for two years.

When Billy leaves work the freeway is full of cars and trucks. Beep! Beep! Goes the trucks. Honk! Honk! Goes the cars. They weave from one lane to the next. Speeding up and slowing down. Apparently Billy’s car is going too slow for the man driving the Hummer, so he decides to get in front of Billy by pushing Billy’s car into another lane. Billy swerves, barely missing a woman in a Toyota. The woman, not going to be intimidated by another diver, honks her horn and yells at Billy from behind her window. Billy silently cries.

On his way home, Billy stops at the grocery store. In the evenings the store has samples of food to try out. This is the grocery store’s way of enticing people to buy their food. Unfortunately for them, this is what Billy calls “dinner.” Tonight Billy is having pizza rolls, cantaloupe, bread pieces with olive oil, and, lucky him, a free cola that the grocery store is giving away. Yummy!

Before Billy gets home he stops at his mailbox to pick up his mail. Today his mail is very pretty with colorful envelopes filling his box, holding reminders that his phone is about to be turned off, that he won’t have any electricity after next Tuesday, and that his rent is two weeks late. Billy gathers up his mail and out pops an envelope that fills Billy with a belief in a Higher Power. A new credit card! Billy can now pay his Bills! Yea for plastic!

When Billy opens his apartment door he notices the smell. Sometimes Billy’s home smells like death for no reason. Could it be the garbage can? No. Could it be the dirty dishes? No. Billy looks and looks. He smells all the furniture. He looks in every corner. After a while the smell goes away. How mysterious.

Billy owns an answering machine that never has any messages. It mocks him with a zero blinking on the display panel. Billy checks the machine anyway, hoping that the display is broken. The machine tells Billy that he has no message. Billy thinks the machine sounded sarcastic. The machine, being a machine, doesn’t think anything. But, if it did, it would think that Billy doesn’t deserve any messages. Billy is sure that the machine keeps all the good messages for itself. If the machine actually cared, it probably would.

Billy is still hungry after his grocery store dinner. What does he have to eat? Billy finds a stick of gum, a frozen waffle caked in ice, and a packet of ketchup left over from a fast food lunch. Billy sits on his couch and eats his snack. Sometimes Billy wonders what life would be like if he worked harder, maybe became more of a team player, and quit stealing office supplies. As Billy sucks down his ketchup packet an idea creeps into his head. Maybe he should go to Graduate school and live off of student loans until he is sixty-five. Good plan Billy!

In the evenings Billy find solace by going online and searching for sport statistics and pornography. In the cyber universe Billy is known as BigRod2356. He is very popular online. According to his online profile he is a thirty year old man who is wealthy and owns his own boat. When you are online you can be anyone you want to be, and no one will ever know that you haven’t felt the touch of a real woman in six months. Billy often “chats” with another person named Hootermama, who says she is very hot. “Chatting” is when you type what you want to say to another person online, usually with only one hand. Billy and Hootermama spend many hours in their special chat room. Billy hopes that one day he will meet Hootermama in real life. Hootermama hopes that one day she will meet BigRod2356. Hootermama’s real name is Earl and he collects clowns.

Brrring! Brrring! Hey, Billy’s phone is ringing! Billy is so happy to hear his phone ringing that he doesn’t check Caller ID first. Oh No Billy, it’s your ex-girlfriend! Billy’s ex yells and yells. “Why do you keep calling me Billy?” “Why do you stand outside my apartment Billy?” “Why did you post naked pictures of me on the web Billy?” Billy tries to explain that he only wants his t-shirt back, not to stalk her. Billy’s ex-girlfriend screams that not only will he never see his shirt again, but that he was the worst lover she ever had, that he smelled bad, and that he will die alone and afraid, smeared in his own feces. When she hangs up Billy decides to never date women again.

Billy likes beer. Beer helps Billy throughout the long day of constant disappointments. When Billy drinks beer his troubles and worries get all blurry and he feels warm inside. Sometimes Billy drinks until he forgets his name and blacks out. When Billy blacks out he usually ends up naked and crying, curled up inside the fridge, covered in butter. Tonight may not end any differently.

Drunk but not ready to pass out, Billy decides to write poetry and send it to everyone in his email address book. He writes about love and loss, he writes about lost dreams, about never knowing what it is like to be loved by a woman who doesn’t beat him. As he sends his poetry across the internet, Billy feels strong and good. Beer will do that to Billy. Tomorrow doesn’t exist in the creamy, frothy, world of Beer…unfortunately for Billy, he does and tomorrow will come quickly.

Sometimes Billy dances, and tonight the rhythm lives inside of him. He cranks up his stereo and puts on Celine Dion. Billy sings loud and proud. Tonight he is Celine. Tonight he is Canadian. With hands beating his chest, Billy sobs; he knows that his heart will go on.

It’s 2:00 am and Billy has to go to bed. Billy slides across the floor of his bedroom on his belly. Billy slides because he can no longer walk. He gropes along the carpet until he finds his bed and pulls himself onto it. Face down on his bed Billy throws up a little in his mouth and lets it dribble out onto his comforter. Right before Billy sinks down into the blackness he reminds himself to clean it up in the morning.

Ring! Ring! Goes the alarm clock! It’s a brand new day! Yea for Billy! He made it through the night without chocking on his own vomit. Billy rolls over and looks at the clock. Today Billy will make his first good decision: he will call in sick to work. Good move, Billy.

On Vacation, Will Return on Monday July 6th. If the Police Aren't Involved.

As I shove far more underwear than I will need into a sack, I would like to take the opportunity to wish everyone a completely tolerable 4th of July. I will be celebrating this holiday as I do everyday of the week...laying down, not working on anything substantial. So really, this isn't a "Holiday Weekend" for me, it's simply a different location doing the same thing I do every day.

I will be back to blogging on Monday July 6th where I will recount in graphic detail how family members annoyed me and/or blew up their face with a sparkler.

Eat tons of dissected cow and enjoy!

An Open Letter to Peter D Aquino, President and CEO of RCN Cable on his decision to cancel Cinemax from my “Digital Direct” Package

What have you done? And furthermore, Why?

My life, if you can call what I do on a daily basis, living, is precariously balanced upon three things:

1. Writing essays that no one wants to publish
2. Gluing things to other things
3. Watching soft-core pornography On-Demand

The top two items listed are, more often than not, put aside because of my intense laziness, while the third is what keeps me breathing.

Only a few short days ago I was happily watching cosmetically enhanced bleached blonds fake orgasms for 90 minutes and today, I am greeted with a black screen with the words, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO ORDER CINEMAX PLEASE CONTACT CUSTOMER SERVICE followed by a 1-800 number. At first I merely sat there blinking, not comprehending the words burning themselves into my LCD television. Surely, I thought, there must be a mistake. After all, what could possibly come between me and Skinamax.

Picking up the phone, I laughed to myself over such a silly mistake. It would all be over in a matter of minutes. The customer service representative would apologize profusely for the error, re-set my cable box, and I would then be able to slink into my couch with a box of generic Honey Nut Cheerios and watch Slumber Party Sex Whores like usual.

But do you know what happened instead Mr. Aquino? Of course you don’t, you were not privy to my 45 minute conversation with Haziz. But let me boil it down for you:

Me: Hi, my Cinemax is out.
Haziz: You no longer have Cinemax.
Me: (silence)
Haziz: Ma’am? Ma’am?
Me: What does that mean? Did I watch it too much?
Haziz: Cinemax no longer wishes to be a part of your cable package.
Me: Did I do something wrong?
Haziz: Ma’am?
Me: Was it me? I know I can occasionally be needy, I did watch “27 dresses” like five times in a row last week but I had taken a lot of Midol and really it was just that one day.
Haziz: Cinemax wanted to be taken out of everyone’s package deal, but you can purchase it for only $8.95 a month.
Me: Why would I pay for something I used to get for free?
Haziz: I am authorized to give you a six month special price of $3.95
Me: It’s ironic isn’t it Haziz?
Haziz: Ma’am?
Me: I watch Cinemax for the porn and now I’m the one getting fucked.
Haziz: Ma’am I won’t listen to language like that.
Me: Haziz, I have a feeling I’m going to miss watching language like that.

Haziz hangs up at this time and I am left without hope.

So there you have it Mr. Aquino, I have no soft-focused pornography to watch between TNT’s Law & Order because you want some extra coin. And what happens to me? Am I supposed to watch yet another episode of Real Sex from 1992 on HBO? Am I supposed to satisfy my voyeuristic streak by sitting through Taxicab Confessions just to see if someone actually pulls down their pants? What kind of human being are you? What kind of human being will I become?

I hope you are happy with yourself Mr. Aquino. And may you never feel the satisfaction of watching poorly acted but softly-lit soft-core porn On-Demand.

Billy Mays: No Longer Powered by the Air We Breathe

In a week where we have lost so many, I have to say the death of pitchman Billy Mays is an indication that the End of Times has surely begun.

It is only a matter of time before plagues of Locusts descend upon the world, the oceans run red with blood, and VH1 will cease to broadcast "I Love the 80's".

As a help to my fellow man may I offer this advice when the apocalypse arrives:

Get out your Y2K survival kits, stock up on SPAM, and download as much porn as you can.

As for the religious fanatics, congratulations upon being correct, may you enjoy your afterlife playing harps, kissing the feet of God, and wearing white.

For the rest of us, at least we can start smoking in bars again right?

Thank you and goodnight.

(special thanks to Steven Weitz who came up with such an awesome title)

Captain Eo Has Left the Building

Upon learning of the King of Pop's death I was overcome with something I was told was "feelings" and salty wetness leaked from my eyes and stained my shirt. At first I thought I had the Ebola virus, but I was calmed down by my significant bother who assured me that what was happening to me was a perfectly natural reaction to being sad.

Having no other emotions other than "pissed", "annoyed", and "loathing" this Sad thing overwhelmed me. I spent several hours watching MJ videos, put on some of his music, and took a trip down memory lane to the night my mom let me stay up late just to watch the Thriller video on MTV.

Having become jaded by Gen-X coolness in the 90's, I left MJ's music behind me as I bathed myself in grunge rock, ambient trance, acid jazz, and 80's new wave. When MJ was accused of child molestation I ignored it like a Meth mom and simply went on with my life, after all, Michael Jackson was part of my childhood-a place where I kept all of my secretly adored music hidden (El Debarge, En Vogue, NKOTB)and had little to do with my apathetic persona now.

But yesterday I realized that Michael was more than a faded poster in my psyche, he was a part of me. Each song of his plucked a specific memory from my past and illuminated it. Thriller: Chris Martin and I dancing at my house, Billie Jean: Playing HORSE at my old elementary school on a Saturday, PYT: lip syncing with Nicole Wahlberg in her backyard.

These memories that I had no idea even existed reminded me of a time when I smiled more, had fun doing nothing, and most importantly, had no bills to pay. So for the first time in a long time I felt something akin to happiness and, although it made me slightly nauseous, I was okay with it.

So thanks Michael for reminding me of good times and good friends. You will be missed.