What We’ve Got Here Is A Failure To Communicate

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” ~ Hunter S. Thomspon

Where do we manufacture dreams?

Some men you just can’t reach, especially those like Donald Trump telling stories about the fall of the World Trade Center. Weird people watch Pop Goes The World and sing all about the World Trade Center tumbling down with thousands and thousands of Arabs cheering on the streets of Jersey City. That's the truth.

I’ve learned everything I need to know from Chelsea Handler’s Uganda Be Kidding Me, following Martha Stewart on Facebook, drawing Pluto in one easy step, and writing handwritten letters to stars of Disney On Ice. To my dear, dear friends in the Americas, Happy Thanksgiving and Give Peace A Chance.

But there are more professional problems than cartoon violence or Civil War college football rivalry game. The Washington Redskins players are accusing referees of calling penalties against the team because the referees don’t like the Redskins name. The world is filled with horror, violence, pain, and racial injustices from terrorism. ISIS wants us to accept that it is how it is, and ISIS wants good people to buy into demented fantasies that they’re doing something important. Cyberterrorists are a bunch of savages that are going to join the Russians and the French terrorists like the cockroaches they are.

In the heart of Burlington, I want to rid the world of the goddamn status quo and cyberterrorism and the evils plaguing society from giving us fucking sequels to An Inconvenient Truth. The world is plagued by lies, but the most powerful truth is the real commercial world. You can’t underestimate the impact of the final buck and when Lionheart Leaks becomes available in the distant future.

The Burlington Post dropped my promotional advertising on page nine, but the Post has been all over my controversy on page eleven. It seems like small potatoes, but it blew up last week in the newspaper. My cousin auctioned off my table from the castle for $500 and I wanted it auctioned off for $600 for charity. Bubba called and told me that he would set up a date to pick up my table. I said, “You can’t have it.” It was supposed to be $600 instead of $500. Bubba went to the Burlington Post and complained and we got in a big fight. I threatened to punch him out. I’ve been down and out lately since spending every last cent on Lionheart Leaks. I'm getting deeper and deeper into debt.

Christmas isn’t about what you need, it’s about what you want, and trusting your instincts to make the right choices. My choice is bringing the world Lionheart Leaks on December 1st and releasing the hardcore facts. Not even WikiLeaks can reveal the true inner demons troubling our streets. I feel like I'm getting a little closer to the streets, the barking dogs, and sleepless nights. 

Ottis O’Toole walks the streets and he begins to explain to Johnny Electric in Installment No. 1: “Johnny Electric was the charged CEO of Lionheart Incorporated and he was a serious gambler with vices.” I’m allowing people close to me to reveal the facts about how Lionheart almost ruined my life. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind, but no use crying over spilled milk.

And I'm not going to cry about suffering from Peter Pan Syndrome. Science Daily believes "the 'Peter Pan Syndrome' affects people who do not want or feel unable to grow up, people with the body of an adult, but the mind of a child. The syndrome is not currently a psychopathology" or fully understood.

If you’re like me and you believe that The Little House On The Prairie TV theme song inspired John Williams to write the Star Wars theme song, then you also believe Walt Disney’s not dead, he’s frozen, and when someone thaws out the Walt, he’s going to be pretty pissed off at Oswald.

Acid Flashback No. 33

Remembrance Day is observed on November 11th in most countries since the bitter end of hostilities of World War I, but every fucking day is like World War III on Tuesday in my world.

Halloween isn’t actually over and every day is Halloween for cases like mine. I’m scared shitless of the fucking fragmented flashbacks that haunt my mind. I’m experiencing a really bad flashback now and all I want to do is slave myself to the keyboard and write and write about what’s really important. My motherfucking memoir needs to be written. I’m writing my biography called Being Richard Tattoni. I’m writing flashbacks of my childhood and visiting a cherry farm in Oregon. My mind trips out a few more times watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles and now I’m back home again anticipating a bloody Civil War in Oregon and pissed I can't contribute to the war effort. I'm in the basement with a straightjacket on, defining what lies between war and peace and all I ever really wanted. But the truth would be repeated as a massive echo, almost like I was a politician trying to win a comedic nomination.

My friends, I would describe my life as the chase for the American Dream. That chase began at the bottom of the hill just off the main drag in good ol' Burlington, Ontario -- right outside of Hamilton. Atop the hill was a small house in a shining city in its own right. The hill had twists, the hill had turns, 7-Eleven, and even a few tears, nothing wrong with that. Floyd Mayweather’s barber shop was down the street. As an 11-year-old boy, I would throw the football and climb the monkey bars for the first time in my life knowing I would be recruited by Oregon State University.

STOP. I didn’t go to Oregon State University. I didn’t fucking go to Oregon University. All I know is that the Ducks narrowly defeated Arizona State in a shootout. It’s setting the stage for a bloody Civil War in Oregon. The worst the state has ever seen. I’m outta the straightjacket now and getting fucking migraines and everything is spinning from these goddamn flashbacks. History will be kind to George W. Bush, but why the fuck isn’t his name spelled the same as Busch Beer? Jeb Bush won’t get the motherfucking Republican nomination because his name is spelled differently than the beer and that’s the fucking truth. Son-of-a-bitch, I’m having a bad flashback and it’s hurting. I had to brush off the motherfucking cobwebs on the old dictionary to look up acid flashback.

ac·id flash·back

(ăs′ĭd flăsh′băk′)

n.

1. a psychedelic experience caused by your body metabolizing LSD stored in the fat of your body after LSD usage in the past.

2. an ostrobogulous psychological phenomenon.

3. Jerry Garcia's revenge.

Throwing the Richard Tattoni Free Dictionary against the wall, I'm pulling down my navy blue track pants and masturbating to images of Sarah Palin as she's entering the GOP presidential debate wearing nothing on the X-Rated imaginary CNN in my delusional mind. She walks off the stage and she's 3-D, but it's way fucking better and she's like 11-D as she pops into real life and now we're having a motherfucking tea party together all bare-ass and naked in the basement of The Tattoni International Hotel & Tower. My head has been spinning and I hear the doorbell upstairs as it rings and rings louder. I realize everything is spinning and ringing in the base of my skull after a long night.

Now that I'm real, I know who I am, and what my doctor can do for me. Dr. Strange says I've been having bad dreams and that I should take up hobbies like writing. My memoir needs to be thousands of fucking more pages and I need it to be longer than Moby Dick, but it won't be the worst of me. It's all in my head and I can friggin' control strange thoughts.