Mullet Over: A Real American Love Story

John Buckhalt Jr. clanked his hand-me-down pick up truck up the gravel roadway and eased it into its usual spot next to his cousin Jed’s El Camino. When his father bought the truck it was a deep red, but now the years had worn away most of the paint and huge bites of rust had been taken out of the side. As John Jr. made his way into the trailer the long end of his curly, golden mullet brushed against his sweaty neck. He took off his John Deere cap, ran his fingers through the business part of his hair and wiped his forehead clean.

“J.J.! That you?” his father bellowed from the couch as the screen door slammed shut.

“Yeah paw,” he responded.

“Where the hell you been?” belched John Sr. between sips of his breakfast beer.

John Jr. plopped down on the lazy-boy next to his father and took a deep breath. “I was at Joellen’s paw. I spent the night,” he said with a slouch.

“Well what’s so bad about that boy? You should feel lucky to have such pretty young thang to shack up with every night.”

“I do paw. It’s just…aw nevermind.” J.J. got up and started to walk to the kitchen/bathroom.

“Now hold it right there boy. Grab me another beer and come sit down for a chat with your old man.” John Buckhalt Sr. was as much of a low down drunk as the next piece of unemployed trailer trash that lived in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. But at least he was there for his son, something few men in that area could say for themselves. He snapped open the fresh brew, sipped the foam and put a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong boy.”

“Well paw, I was with Joellen last night, and we was…well, you know…we was…”

“You was fuckin’?” interrupted John Sr. trying to speed things along.

“Yeah, we was fuckin’.”

“You been wearing some o’ them condoms?”

“Nah paw, you know they be makin’ my dick all kinds o’ itchy.”

“Now boy, if I told you once I’ve told you a thousand times,” said John Sr. sternly as he leaned towards his son and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want you raw doggin’ it because it makes yo’ dick itch, I want you raw doggin’ it because them condoms is the devil’s work.”

“Well, anyways, we was fuckin’ an right in the middle she turns ‘round and says she loves me.”

“Well what did you say to her?” asked John Sr. with a sip of his beer.

“I didn’t say nothin’, I just turned her over an’ smacked her fun bags an’ then kept fuckin’.”

“That’s my boy!”

“Well, anyhows paw, I was just wonderin’ how ya know when yer in love? When did you know you loved maw?”

“Hmm…that’s a good question boy. I s’pose that fer me, I didn’t really know it until our wedding day. I was standing up there on the alter an the minister asked me, ‘Do you take this here woman to be yer lofty, dredded wife?’ and I felt this little cold feelin right in the middle of my back.”

“Like chills down yer spine?”

“Naw, it was just yer gran-pappy holdin his ol’ 12 gauge ‘gainst my back.”

“Oh.”

“That doesn’t help to much does it J.J.?”

John Jr. just shook his head in disappointment.

“Hmm…perhaps you should talk to yer momma ‘bout these sorts o’ things.”

John Jr. called for his mother but she was over at the neighbors watching her “stories” and sharing a box of wine and couldn’t be disturbed. So instead he got back in his rusted pickup and drove down the road to Pig Pie’s.

Carl “Pig Pie” Johnson had been best friends with J.J. Buckhalt ever since the third grade when they were on the same Pop Warner football team together. J.J. was quarterback and Pig Pie was his right guard. They kept those roles all the way through grade school including 6 years of high school each. Neither graduated.

“Pig Pie you fat fuck, git yer big, jiggly ass out here! We’re goin to the strip club,” yelled J.J. with his head out his window.

All 350 pounds of Pig Pie came rolling out of his trailer, which bounced upwards a few feet with a relief of pressure.

“Man, I told you to lay off the fat jokes, I’m losin’ weight. I’m doin some ‘er that Atkins diet,” retorted Pig Pie.

“Pig Pie, you ain’t gonna lose any weight when you eat a eight big mac’s every day fer lunch whether yer eatin’ the buns er not.” And with that the two were mostly quiet for the rest of the drive to Bubba’s Big Boob Bonanza. Until, that is about halfway through the drive.

“J.J. why we goin to the strip club?” Pig Pie questioned curiously.

“I dunno Pig Pie, I just gotta blow off some steam.”

“Whatsa matter J.J.?”

J.J. took a deep sigh, contemplating whether or not his overweight friend could really help. Pig Pie had always been his best friend, but he had never been a particularly deep individual. “Pig Pie, you ever been in love?”

“In love?” Pig Pie contemplated. “I love bacon.”

“No, Pig Pie…”

“I love my momma…and football…Oh! And Beer! I loooove Beer!” he continued with a jiggle of his many chins.

“Pig Pie! That’s not what I meant! Just…forget it! We’re here anyways.”

The southern companions made their way through the strip club and straight to the bar where each ordered up a beer. Pig Pie found a seat in the front row. His chair buckled as he collapsed into it startling the bearded old drunk next to him who had been there, asleep from the night before. J.J. meanwhile hovered in the back sipping his beer alone until one stripper, one of the more fit strippers walked up to him.

“Hey fella, what’s a handsome boy like you doin’ all by yer lonesome back here?” asked the stripper. She was wearing a jet-black thong that matched her dark skin and nothing else. “Interest you in a lap dance?”

J.J. didn’t have a lot of cash on him and knew that a lap dance would wipe him out. Yet, something about the Nubian queen standing before him, her nipples exposed and her white smile gleaming intrigued him. She ran her fingers through the long curls hanging off the back of his head and walked towards a back room motioning for him to follow her.
J.J. grew up in a world where the term African-American, let alone black, was seldom used when referring to people like this stripper. He never felt too much animosity towards black people himself. In fact, all of his best and favorite receivers on the high school football team were black. His bus driver in 4th grade Mr. Carter was black and he was always friendly and even would remember everyone’s birthdays, bringing them blow pops and having the whole bus sing to them. The color of this woman’s skin only made her exotic to J.J. and so he followed.

“Have a seat,” she beckoned as J.J. poked his head into the room.

“What’s your name?”

“Cocoa Bidet.”

“No I mean, what’s your real name?” he asked into her ass, not really enjoying the seductive dance she was giving him.

“Whatsa mattah sugah?” she asked, stopping the lap dance and looking him in the eyes.

“Cocoa, have you ever been in love?” inquired J.J. looking up from the ground and staring into her eyes.

Cocoa wasn’t used to having customers stare into her eyes. This young hillbilly intrigued her. “Yeah sugah, I’ve been in love before,” she said putting her top back on.

“How did you know?” His blue eyes still fixed on hers.

“Gee sugah, that’s a tough question. I guess…you just know.”

“Oh,” he said with a sigh and a drop of his shoulders.

“Hmm…close yer eyes sugah,” she said putting her hand on J.J.’s as he reluctantly listened, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Now picture yerself twenty years from now.” He paused for a second, thinking, then nodded silently. “Is she there with ya?”

“Yeah, she is. We’ve got our own trailer and seven little kids with their own little mullets. Business in the front,” he continued, getting a little choked up, “party in the back. And-”

“Sugah. If you care ‘bout this girl enough to want to spend your life with her and have kids with her, then I think that means yer in love.”

“You really think so?”
“I know so sugah.”

“Thanks, Cocoa! Thanks so much!” he exclaimed jumping out of his seat. He reached into his pocket to pay Cocoa but before he could pull out the cash her hand met his.

“Keep it sugah. Buy her some flowers with it.”

“Cocoa, yer the best!” he exclaimed, and with that he was off to proclaim his love for Joellen in such a hurry that he left Pig Pie drooling over a particularly chunky stripper with her crotch in his face.

B.S. Detectives Promo

Here is the first promo for the show Zach, Sean and I are producing this semester, The B.S. Detectives. Enjoy:

A Summer Project of Mine

The Best Kung Fu Movie Ever: A Revenge Story



Written, Produced and Directed by your's truly. Edited by me as well with great help from Goya Von Johannson in the Graphics Department. Starring some friends I worked for this summer.

A Tale As Old As Old People

That morning started like any other morning in Gordon Biederbaum’s life. His eyelids quivered and then popped open at the exact moment that the glow of the sunrise passed onto them just like they had for each of his 2 years fighting in Korea, just like they had for each of his 47 years as a businessman and just like they had for each of his 8 years of retirement.

His weathered, green eyes still shot to life at the start of each and every day, even though the rest of his body could no longer keep up with them. With his days as a scrappy, young businessman behind him, Gordon found that now even the most mundane daily tasks where enough to keep him occupied for hours. Five minutes to slowly and carefully sit up in his bed and drag his tired bones into an upright position. Another few minutes to walk the 5 feet to the bathroom. From there, it usually took a good hour for him to safely and properly get in and out of the shower, wash his leathery, wrinkled skin, pop in his dentures, take his pills, and dress himself all without causing a dangerous fall and have to use his life-alert bracelet. Not to mention at least an extra half an hour for Gordon’s other morning bathroom duties.

Gordon was especially perky on this morning because it was Saturday. Saturday mornings in Boca were when all of the retired women who were still young and spunky enough to walk, strolled across the beaches in their skimpiest, mid-thigh-length skirts.

Gordon liked all mornings. But Gordon loved Saturday mornings.

It was after Gordon took close to two hours to slowly, but carefully, prepare himself for his favorite weekly ritual that he set out on the hardest part of his morning. He went to wake up Herman.

Herman Hurstly first met Gordon Biederbaum in Korea. They were in the same platoon together. Herman was more of a night owl and never did well waking up early, so since their first day of active duty for the army Gordon had been waking Herman up. Gordon was Herman’s alarm clock for 2 full years during the war. Then, after the war when they started their own business together, Gordon woke Herman up every morning for 47 very successful years. Nowadays, Gordon would let Herman sleep most mornings, only waking him up long enough to make sure his oldest friend hadn’t died during the night. Except on Saturdays.

“Herman, it’s Saturday! Now wake up or we’ll miss all the broads,” said Gordon as he ripped off Herman’s sheets revealing not one, but two feeble, tarnished old bodies, four ancient legs intertwined,, four saggy breasts and one proud morning erection. Herman was probably the only man in all of the Pinecrest Place retirement community who hadn’t been using Viagra of some sort for years. The other body belonged to Dotty Binderman, a woman known for her strong, non-arthritic hands that made her one of the best quilters in the community as well as one of the few women that could still give a decent hand job.

Outraged and embarrassed, Dotty screamed, waking Herman and nearly causing him to tumble out of bed; it could have been a significantly life threatening fall when you’re 78 and an even more threatening fall when you consider Herman probably would have had only his glorious morning wood to break to land on. Still repulsed by the intrusion, Dotty made the two men help her up out of bed, had them help her get her clothes back on and then had them call a nurse to escort her to her room since she always forgot which room was hers and had had enough embarrassment for one morning.

“So you’re fucking Dotty Binderman now?” Gordon asked.

“Well I’m not fucking her now, right now I’m trying to get my stiffy to go down so I can get my pants on and go on your stupid walk,” Herman retorted sarcastically from within his closet.

“It’s not a stupid walk. I like the fresh air and lord knows we both need the exercise, not to mention the view,” reasoned Gordon.

“Trust me, I’m all exercised out after last night. I tell you, I’m sick of these women using their hip surgeries and knee replacements as an excuse to make me do all the work between the sheets,” exclaimed Herman as he finally just grabbed a pair of sweatpants and started eyeing his socks.

“You know what, just spare me Herman. I’m old too and I don’t even want to hear about that.”

“I’m happy to go on your walk with you Gordon, but for Christ’s sake why must you insist on just looking at these women. Can’t you ever make a move? We’re outnumbered 3 to 1 at this place. These women are hungry for it. Not to mention, they treat each time like it could be their last. As you’re friend, I’m telling you to move on. It’s what Betty would have wanted.”

Gordon didn’t respond. Herman knew full well that even though the one woman Gordon had ever loved died 7 years ago; Gordon would probably never be unfaithful to her. Through 2 years in Korea and 47 years as a businessman, Gordon was always loyal to his high school sweetheart Betty. Herman on the other hand had never had a relationship last more than 6 weeks and he liked things that way. He was the indomitable bachelor, even now in his twilight years.

It was only just within the last few years that Gordon had even started to look at other women, let alone talk to them with romantic intentions. He convinced himself that his old friend was thinking with his little head and not his big head ignoring the brotherly advice.

“Come on, we’ve got to get going,” said Gordon, rushing Herman along rather than continuing the conversation.

As they walked down the beach ogling the women of the community they reminisced, discussing things they missed about “their day” and all the things that today’s young people were screwing up. They paused occasionally to notice how Alice Burbush still had a nice ass even at 83 or to discuss whether or not Barbra Feinstein’s boobs were real.

“All I’m saying is if they’re real, they’re fantastic!” exclaimed Herman.

“And I understand that but I still believe that–” Gordon stopped mid sentence, staring off ahead of them, leaving Herman to momentarily ponder whether or not his best friend was having a stroke. But Gordon was fine and, as soon as Herman’s eyes gravitated to what Gordon’s eyes had fixated on, they were both silent.

Her name was Ethel Manningham. She was the widow to an old oil billionaire and had used her days as a billionaire’s wife to stay young, healthy and buxom. Though gravity and a long life had worn away her once perfect figure, she was still a fine specimen.

“I heard she had some of the male nurses hitting on her the other day,” gossiped Herman. “In fact, I’m pretty sure her last boyfriend was a Vietnam vet.”

“She’s…perfect,” muttered an entranced Gordon. “Why she’s probably still on the free 6-month trial of her AARP magazine. She’s so–“ Gordon stopped his daydreaming abruptly when he realized that Herman was no longer by his side but approaching Ethel. He panicked as he saw the one man he’d always known to be able to get any woman on the planet go after only the second woman Gordon had ever desired in his life. He knew that the second the man who he’d woken up every day since they were army buddies turned on the charm Ethel would be tainted by his lustful, unstoppable inhibitions.

Gordon bolted, literally ran for the first time since before he qualified for social security and dove through the air, grabbing his oldest and dearest friend around the ankles and dragging him down to the ground.

Herman landed with a thud, nothing broken but in total shock and confusion.

“WHAT THE-” but before the obscenity could reach his lips, he was silenced as Gordon had scrambled to his feet and socked Herman right in the jaw.

Now no longer trying to make sense of what was going on but rather realizing that he was engaged in a dire battle Herman looked to his left and saw a crowd growing. Two older women, one in a wheelchair and the other with a walker stopped in their tracks, staring at the two old men who were fighting like schoolboys. Gordon let out a near-inhuman cry and began to charge at his old friend. Herman, without hesitation stepped to his left and yanked the woman’s walker from beneath her swinging it through the air and striking his former business partner in the side of the head with it. Gordon and the woman each hit the ground.

The woman screamed, mostly out of fear and confusion.

Gordon turned on his side and brought a hand to his left cheek. He used two fingers to swab up a bit of the warm liquid that was running down the side of his face and onto his favorite Hawaiian shirt. The same shirt he saved to wear every Saturday morning. He brought his bloody fingers to his mouth and licked them, tasting the warm scarlet that his friend had caused him to spill.

“Gordon, what the FUCK are you doing?! Stop this and let me help you up,” as Herman reached out his hand as an olive branch of peace he quickly found himself on the same level as his old army buddy. Gordon’s leg sweep was too swift for Herman to even see coming. Using this opportunity to gain the advantage, Gordon leapt to his feet, grabbed the cane of a 95 year-old man who had joined the growing crowd of onlookers and raised it as if he was a Ronin warrior and it was his samurai sword.

Herman slowly arose, grabbing his hip as if it was injured. Meanwhile, Herman used his other hand to grasp a large amount of sand.

As Gordon lunged at Herman with the cane his eyes filled with a dry, stinging and he dropped the cane staggering backwards and nearly tumbling over a bench. He cleared his vision just in time to see his oldest friend winding up for a knock out punch. He ducked out of the way just in time allowing Herman’s own forward momentum to propel him into the bench causing him to flip over it and land on his back.

Gordon was out of breath and still partially blinded from the sand. Herman was lying still on his back with a look of sheer pain on his face. Gordon gathered himself and went over to his old friend who laid squirming and moaning slightly.

“Herman. Not this one. This one is mine. I call dibs on this one.”

“That’s fine Gordon,” responded Herman with a pained chuckle, “just tell that to Ronnie Schneider.”

Gordon turned around to see Ethel Manningham walking off next to Ronnie Schneider, her hand around his arm. The new pair was laughing and talking, no doubt, about the strange events that had just unfolded. With a thud, Gordon collapsed next to his beaten and battered friend and the two lay there for a while and enjoyed a laugh together as they waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Smurfberry Kool-Aid

So we were in White Hen, Sean was talking, he said something that made me think an idea and I had our friend Joey Abisso who was with us at the time and happens to be a whiz at flash make us this little animation:

This is a short little commercial from the 90s, quickly banned from the airwaves after its initial airing and stolen just recently from the Kraft vault by the members of Cannibal Potluck. Here's hoping that it will reawaken some childhood/prenatal memories.

Home Sweet Home

I have descended upon Ithaca and let me just say, it feels GREAT to be here!!! This semester will be absolutely HUGE!!! And I am so excited to have officially kicked it off by arriving here in ITHACA!!!

To the Best Lay a Guy's Ever Gotten

Former first lady, Lady Bird Johnson passed away today. Let us all brandish our erections and take a moment of silence to remember the stone cold fox that she was.