I guess you should meet my roommate, Weevil. Not really; you shouldn’t meet him unless you’re an English teacher. It doesn’t matter what grade, although Kindergarten is preferred. The point I’m trying to make here is “Weevil can’t read”. No, really. He’s in his 20’s. And he’s white. And this story is happening right now.

Seriously. I left a copy of the previous paragraph on his pillow for him to find in the morning– almost like a kid finding his reward from the Tooth Fairy but it’s not a reward and the Tooth Fairy thinks you’re a fuckass. Weevil brought the paragraph back to me on notepaper and said that he had “already taken out the trash”– which wasn’t true by the way.

This is my roommate, Weevil.

It’s actually kinda refreshing having a roommate who can’t read. Everything in life, after all, comes down to reading. Readers know this. Non-readers don’t. Restaurants are better when you know the menu before ordering, for instance. Knowing how to read a menu can mean the difference between “surf and turf” and “surf and who’s this fucking retard I met on the internet”.


Weevil complains that work sucks and that he wants a better job. But honestly, if you can’t read then nobody is gonna make you the manager of Pizza Hut. Sure, you can handle the register but numbers are only a stone’s throw away from the English alphabet. Weevil complains that our new president is an idiot. And that’s a fine opinion to have, but if you can’t even read the Donald’s 140-character limit tweets then I’m pretty sure I know who the real idiot is. Weevil even complains that I drop the hard R — which I do. But if he can’t tell the difference on paper then he shouldn’t be able to tell me the difference in real life. And, again– Weevil is white; no white person is going to tell me I can’t use the N word– especially one that works at the local Pizza Hut.

So I don’t even know what I was thinking when I asked him to read my script.

“This is an abomination,” he said, dropping the manuscript on the coffee table. It was a nice coffee table, by the way. It hadn’t seen a coffee spill in decades– bong spills, however, were a nightly occurrence.

“That’s a mighty big word for a person who can’t read,” I said from the kitchen. I was preparing a bowl in the kitchen– the kind of bowl that would be perfect for the coffee table.

“The ending is an insult.”

I was stunned. An insult? No, this talentless motherfucker was the real insult. I continued to pack the bowl in silence. Weevil went on another one of his finger snapping tangents. This is another thing about Weevil: he may be retarded but he sure can snap like a motherfucker. Seriously, the guy is the rain man of snapping fingers. However, that comes with the caveat of still being retarded like the rain man.

All of these mean thoughts about Weevil were distracting me from what was really bothering me: Weevil hated the script. It was a fine script, I thought. It was possibly a masterpiece unrivaled in American Film. Should the script be published I could even imagine it making tops on best seller lists. New York Times and shit. It was a script so well-done, in fact, that those who could not afford to purchase hard cover copies of it would go out and get better jobs just to support my audacious and masterful writing habit. The script was, in short, way better than Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets.

So why didn’t Weevil like it?

I plopped down next to Weevil on the couch and handed him the bong. “How could you not like the ending?”

Instead of responding, Weevil took a huge rip from the bong just as I intended. I took his inability to respond as an invitation to explain why the ending to my movie is awesome. It really is, by the way. “The bears win. Audiences are too used to winning and I want to take their assumed victory from their grubby, paying hands. It’s brilliant. And the humans are always in fear of the bears coming to take more states back. Would they start with a Cali-border state? Or would deeply-rooted splinter bear insurgents reclaim New York for their ursine bretherine? Sequel potential, Drew. There’s sequel potential.” I punctuated this great analysis with one of my mighty patented bong rips.

“That’s not what it says at all,” Weevil finally said. He picked up the script and thumbed through it to the ending. There were strange markings– almost hieroglyphic in nature but chicken-like in execution, all over my script. Drew’s rudimentary english skills were tested to their limit with my script. Maybe he could read after all.

He looked down at some of his scratching and tried to read along with his finger. Quickly he stopped staring down at the page and turned his gaze out the window, as if looking into himself and finding nothing there. Nobody ever would.

“You didn’t actually read this,” I said, taking another hit from the bong.

“Okay so maybe I didn’t.”

“Goddamn Weevil.”

“It’s still a stupid ending. An abomination, like I said before,” he slammed the manuscript back onto the smelly coffee table and reach back for the bong. “What’s going on with you and Laura today?” He killed the bowl and placed it back on my manuscript. What an asshole.

“I dunno. She’s hanging out at a friend’s house so it looks like I’m free for the rest of the day. Maybe I’ll make burgers and take the rest of that acid.”

“Bullshit,” Weevil exclaimed.

“No it’s not bullshit. I’ve still got half a tab left in the freezer.”

“That’s not the bullshit,” he said. “I call bullshit on Laura having a friend. Laura hasn’t had a friend in this town since middle school. Tammy Studebaker said–”

“I know what Tammy Studebaker said about my girlfriend. I’ve heard the story.”

“There were so many rats.”

“I haven’t heard that part of the story.”

“Everybody in Bullpine has heard that part of the story. It’s like the whole point.”

This was quickly becoming a conversation I didn’t want to have. Conversation always bothered me but this conversation was starting to bother me most. Like any good person annoyed by conversation with the person they were conversing with, I pulled out my phone; I was going to read an article out the United States finally coming out of the closet. We might as well, by the way. I mean, a year ago I considered myself a straight, white male. Now I consider myself a fat lesbian– my dream profession, if I can be honest for a second here.


The chirping. Aha– a conversation I did want to have. I got up from the couch and headed back to the kitchen. “You didn’t change the batteries in the fire detectors?”

“It’s just one of the detectors, Chuck,” Weevil said.

“Then why haven’t you changed one battery in one detector?” I asked, pulling the freezer open. A bit of foil was bunched up under loose pizza pockets. This was the rest of the acid.

“You said you would do it.”

And, by God, Weevil was right. I didn’t want to admit he was right, but he was. It was my turn to be responsible. I unwrapped the foil and took the acid.

Knock knock knock.

“You expecting anybody?” I asked Weevil.

“Nah, you?”

“Yes, that’s why I asked you. Who is it?” I called to the door.

“It’s me, Charlie,” a familiar voice said. It wasn’t– it wasn’t somebody named Charlie. I’m Charlie. Chuck. Call me Chuck.

The voice was my girlfriend. Fuck, I just took a shit ton of acid.

“Coming,” I said, rushing the front door. Swinging it open and giving my best gap-tooth smile, I greeted the love of my life– my dream come true.

“I cheated on you,” she said.


next great american novel

“She has gap teeth,” Weevil said.

“No she doesn’t,” I cried. It was true, however. Laura has a gap tooth. Or, more plurally, gap teeth.

Now listen, something that’s really attractive to me is a woman with big ass fucking teeth. I love teeth that would fit Bugs Bunny if Bugs Bunny were real life. Then again, if Bugs Bunny were real life I’d probably be fucking him because of his big ass fucking teeth and wacky sense of humor.

Laura has big ass fucking teeth. They’re gorgeous. The front two are especially big. And when I met her there was just the slightest of a gap those beautiful goddamn chompers. But two years on and her teeth have slowly grown apart. I didn’t want to bring it up before because I thought you would judge me for my taste in women but I also realize I’d happily admit to giving Bugs Bunny a rim job.

At first I denied it. In fact, I’m still denying it.

“Do I have gap teeth?” she asked me a couple months ago. I remember it like it was yesterday: we were naked in her parents’ bathroom. Everybody was home.

“I mean, there’s definitely space between your teeth,” I said.

“Space is infinite,” she said.

“That’s a facebook meme,” I said. Laura isn’t very smart so I call her out on it often.

“No it’s not,” she said. “I saw it on I Fucking Love Science.”

“And where’s I Fucking Love Science?” I asked.

Laura, my beautiful queen, crossed her legs and bit her lip. Her outtie vagina and gap teeth were hidden from my view.

She’s maybe an 8/10 I thought.

I turned around and asked her again. “And where, Laura, can I find the I Fucking Love Science page on the internet?”

She uncrossed her legs and smiled stupidly. “Facebook?”

It was cute. I mean, she’s totally stupid and has a gap tooth, but besides that and the fact she cheated on me, what’s the problem?


I can’t believe she left me. The nerve of her to do it like this gives me goosebump dick.

I really thought she was going to die in a car accident or something. At least I could have said, “She left me. It was so sudden. Jettisoned through the windshield. We were so happy, too.”

See, that would have given me the opportunity to lie about being happy. And that’s what relationships are all about.

True Story

This time was different. Usually, I’m the one that instigates these sorts of things. So I started steering the conversation plane somewhere safe to land. And here was Alexis, flapping her gums, but I couldn’t hear the words. So I grabbed her skinny-ass arms with my Hebrew National-sized fingers. “You can’t do this” I said, “You can’t do this to me. Not today.”

“Sure I can,” she said, pulling back as if my bulging digits had stung her something putrid. She even rubbed those skinny-ass arms as if she were allergic to my touch. This was a terrifying side of Alexis I’d never seen before. But I was also getting a boner from thinking about her skinny-ass arms. Birds were singing.

Alexis and I were standing in my backyard, but we weren’t looking at each other. I was looking at the abandoned loaders and excavators past my property. Nothing would be built past the fence until next summer but the local construction companies would leave their equipment.

She was looking at her feet. They were nice feet if nothing to write home for. She must have been thinking about the last week. I was, too. It had been a week of fighting over the phone. We were fighting because we should have broken up months– nay, years– before she moved to Lake Tahoe. So she made the drive down to Orange County to do the deed.

“Not today. You can’t do this today,” I reiterated, clenching my right leg to keep my half-chub from going full mast. Clenching a leg will re-purpose the blood in your body to avoid public boners, by the way. Works wonders in family court.

“Why not, Chuck?” Alexis said, crossing her arms as if my excuse was going to be complete bullshit.

“Tomorrow is 9/11,” I said. “It’s a national holiday. You should know that.”

“No it’s not, Chuck. It’s the 10th. Tomorrow’s the 10th of September.”

“Denying 9/11 like a true terrorist. So fucking typical.”

“I don’t even think 9/11 is a National Holiday.”

“Sure it is,” I retorted. “It’s like Christmas.”

Alexis uncrossed her arms and waved them in the air like a monkey. “What does that have to do with anything?” she hooted. “That has nothing to do with any of this,” she hollered. She was also hopping around, scratching her armpits if it helps your imagination any bit.

“Everything has to do with 9/11. Everything around us is because of that terrible day. That’s the way the world works. Don’t you understand or are you a terrorist?” I said. This break-up could have gone better. This relationship could have gone better. She pointed out what seemed obvious:

“This isn’t work–” she started.

“How dare you,” I interrupted. “This is work. And this isn’t working out.”

“I was trying to say that Charlie. You wouldn’t let me finish.”

“Oh so now you care about finishing?” This was an attack on our sex life. She never finished when it came to sex, and I always did. So if anybody should have been complaining about bad sex, it was her. But here we were, arguing about sex and terrorism like true Americans.

Tears started welling in Alexis’ stupid, beautiful eyes. Alexis would cry for anything. “There you go, crying. You cry for anything,” I said out loud. “You cry on birthdays, during break-ups, weddings…the list goes on.” Her breathing started getting heavier. Full blown water-works were on their way.

“We’ve never been to a wedding together,” she sniffled.

“And now we’ll never have one together because you’re breaking up with me.”

Kelly– I mean, Alexis— buried her beautiful face into her gorilla hands and walked to her car.

“You can’t keep casually denying our country’s legacy like this!” I called out.

“You’re an asshole!” she called back– without looking back. I was hoping she would look back. If she had looked back right there– right at this crucial moment– we could have had break-up sex. It wouldn’t have been very good break-up sex because our normal sex wasn’t, but at least it would have been sex. I miss sex. Are you still reading this? Does anybody read this shit?

Alexis had made it to her bullshit Yaris. I needed to get in the last word before it was too late and she was lost in the ether.

“What do you know? You don’t even remember 9/11!” I picked up some gravel and threw it in her general direction.

“I was three years old, Charlie!” she called out, before ducking into her bullshit Yaris.

“Yeah, that’s the story. You were three. Or maybe you weren’t. Maybe you were on one of those goddamn planes,” I screamed. But she didn’t respond. She slammed the door, backed out of the driveway, and went where all my ex-girlfriends go: somewhere else.

This was written at a third-grade level.