If you know anything about this blog at all you know that I have a friend/nemesis named Buddy Dooley, who occasionally casts himself as an expert regarding all things literary and makes every effort he can to get under my skin. Sporadically, we sit down with an old-fashioned tape machine and talk about the weather or whatever else crosses our boggled minds. Buddy drinks, has a refrigerator teeming with good Oregon micro brews, so I tolerate him. We cracked a few open the other day and let the tape roll.
BD: You've shamed me.
TS: How's that, old Buddy Dooley?
BD: That crap you've put up on your header, on this monstrosity you refer to as Round Bend Press. That nonsense about your so-called book, "Four Absurd Plays", or whatever you're calling it.
TS: Your quote? Are you talking about your wonderful quote?
BD: I didn't say any of that. I don't like the book. Can you get a clear picture of that? I didn't like the fucking book!
TS: What the hell? You didn't say you didn't like the book!
BD: Stop, please. What I said was--listen carefully dumb ass--"Simons' book made me want to throw up, such is its alarmingly stupid emptiness and hollow tenor. That makes me feel joyous."
TS: You did not say that!
BD: That is exactly what I said. I have it on tape. You turned it into some kind of praise or misrepresentation of how I actually feel about your work. You're worse than a fucking politician.
TS: Piss on you, Buddy Dooley.
BD: You've done your potential readers out there, and they are few and far between, a terrible disservice. That book is awful. You are awful. You can't write!
TS: How many of those Old Lompoc Specials have you had today, pal?
BD: Now aren't you clever? It is suddenly my problem that you are a shitty writer because I drink too many micro beers each and every day? Is that how it works? Jesus! You're about a half-step away from becoming a fucking dictator. Who the fuck was Mussolini? A failed fucking journalist. Same with Hitler, a bad fucking artist. You gonna become one of those guys? Can't sell a god damned book, so you're gonna turn into a fucking Castro?
TS: Tsk, tsk...You have any beer left?
BD: Change the subject if you can.
TS: No, I'm just thirsty. Listening to you makes me thirsty.
BD: I'll get you a brew in a minute. First, I want to get to the bottom of this header thing on your blogpage or whatever the fuck you call it. Why?
TS: Why what?
BD: Why did you misquote me?
TS: Fuck you, I'll get my own micro brew!
(at this point I did get up and walk into Buddy's kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and took out a nice micro brew for my chafed throat)
BD: Don't drink all my god damned beer, Simons!
TS: Buddy, you have more beer in here than a twenty-dollar street whore has johns.
BD: Fuck, look at this! Fuck, look at this would you!
TS: What?
(I race back into Buddy's living room in time to see him stomp the shit out of a cockroach the size of a field mouse)
BD: You sonofabitch, Simons!
TS: What, you sniveling-assed crybaby!
BD: I hate you! I hate you! I hate your god damned soul. You're drinking all of my micro brews!
(click)
TS
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