The Faux Pas Press #47
13 July 2010
By Jason Fresh
What You Do
Fuck Hemingway, who did little with the greatest war in history. And fuck people who act as if they are gonzo like Hunter S. Thompson. You will probably imitate the great genius, Parley Angerbliss, probably imitate like Plato foretold. If the essays of our time are written against the joyous life, if the only questions to which Americans are accustomed spike into the private workings of my paycheck, or the Johnson’s paycheck, or the Trumps, and if every artist concerns himself with not having one, then I will hold a square place, I will get away with becoming the artist, independent of drinking a 12 pack of Sierra Nevada while discussing political and economic upheaval, independent of reading the words of kids who think it was cool to get evicted. I’m a coward I guess, the one honest Coward. Mark Twain must not have been too sorry about his paycheck, what he did for a living. He probably felt poorly about all the money he invested so poorly.
“What do you do?” a charming female asks me. I’m trying to be moral, trying to be a man watching UFC 113 or 144 or some shit. She has rubbed my back a couple of times, not like my daughter rubs my arm, unknowing and innocent, but charmingly, intently, imagining that I’m a man with a job. I say, “What you do is figure out what you are. What I do is whatever I choose.” If you spend your entire life trying to figure out if the person you are talking to is cool enough - fuck you too. You have the right to live and the right to die however you want. I will be born old again, and again – just as I was born before and then killed by those who were not. That is what you do.
That is what you do. I’m not too good for the machine and neither are you.
Make Your Selection in the archive below.
Remember. Just because you're square, maybe you actually have a job, maybe you pay bills, for example, and you don't wander around the woods dressed like Merlin, doesn't mean you're not enlightened. - Jason Fresh
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #46: Caffeinated and Emancipated
11 July 2010
The Faux Pas Press #46
By Jason Fresh
Caffeinated and Emancipated
There are many decisions that I make in the morning. One of the decisions that I make is whether or not to drink coffee. Whether or not to jump off the balcony outside of our living room down to a grassy stretch of lawn, perhaps injuring an ankle, limiting the spectrum of potential decisions is another. The decisions I make, like that of drinking a cup of coffee, have lasting consequences. Because I drink it, because I decide, I show that I’m emancipated, liberated from a long heritage of decisions of people who did not. Therefore, I am emancipating myself from the decisions of others, creating a future that is entirely my own, so that other decisions will have lasting consequences.
Drinking a cup of coffee. Yes, the practice implicates much more than routine, it represents purpose, intent, plans, and a whole spectrum of potential decisions, all hinging on the first choice of whether or not to drink a cup of coffee. Police officers and teachers drink java so they can maneuver through the machine, being careful not to piss on the wrong person - oh so careful not to drink too much coffee and lose control of their emotions when speaking to a student who might later become a criminal who drinks a cup of coffee before violating a law that violates said teacher causing a caffeinated police officer to arrest the former student – perhaps leading to a long heritage of new decisions. Drinking one cup of coffee, on this friendly morning, is one decision that led to the keyboard. But I don’t know what the page will bring, nor do I know what tomorrow brings. But, the decision will be mine. This I can assure you – a heritage of me.
Caffeinated and Emancipated.
The Faux Pas Press #46
By Jason Fresh
Caffeinated and Emancipated
There are many decisions that I make in the morning. One of the decisions that I make is whether or not to drink coffee. Whether or not to jump off the balcony outside of our living room down to a grassy stretch of lawn, perhaps injuring an ankle, limiting the spectrum of potential decisions is another. The decisions I make, like that of drinking a cup of coffee, have lasting consequences. Because I drink it, because I decide, I show that I’m emancipated, liberated from a long heritage of decisions of people who did not. Therefore, I am emancipating myself from the decisions of others, creating a future that is entirely my own, so that other decisions will have lasting consequences.
Drinking a cup of coffee. Yes, the practice implicates much more than routine, it represents purpose, intent, plans, and a whole spectrum of potential decisions, all hinging on the first choice of whether or not to drink a cup of coffee. Police officers and teachers drink java so they can maneuver through the machine, being careful not to piss on the wrong person - oh so careful not to drink too much coffee and lose control of their emotions when speaking to a student who might later become a criminal who drinks a cup of coffee before violating a law that violates said teacher causing a caffeinated police officer to arrest the former student – perhaps leading to a long heritage of new decisions. Drinking one cup of coffee, on this friendly morning, is one decision that led to the keyboard. But I don’t know what the page will bring, nor do I know what tomorrow brings. But, the decision will be mine. This I can assure you – a heritage of me.
Caffeinated and Emancipated.
The Faux Pas Press #45: Mililani Town Center
11 July 2010
The Faux Pas Press #45
Mililani Town Center
By Jason Fresh
When you’ve discovered that excitement on a Saturday night means a trip to the Mililani Town Center, you can not only likely say but surely say that you’ve been married long enough to hate it, that you’ve been duped into supporting values you’ve sworn to destroy. You’ve been sold on an idea that a loving father wears clothing purchased at the Levi store. He also smiles charmingly at a Baskin Robin’s cashier.
Though you fancy your partner well enough and can’t get enough of your beautiful daughter - you also realize that life in Mililani really sucks for most people.
Like you, most men have been duped into believing that a wife really wants anything other that to use you (and rightly so, this is how she survives - through seduction and avarice.) You discover that you not only hate marriage but all those who uphold its shrubby foliage with the idea that someday, somehow the right person will come along and make life happy.
Or, that you hate those dead set on convincing themselves that the right person has already arrived. Yes, just like Fatmandu, the chubby bastard wearing an over-sized cotton Faded Glory brand collared shirt smiles as he walks into Assagio, a poor excuse for Italian cuisine, and his angst-ridden wife trots behind him. They will go home and engage in what they call sex – this is only because they don’t know any better. At the Mililani Town Center, fat, happy, Thai-food eating folks converse over grub pulled from the earth in unsustainable ways, cooked by underpaid slaves in the Home of the Free, and regurgitated in church restrooms on Sunday morning, churches where pastors preach on the harmonious family unit and its lasting importance.
But it all starts right there – right there at the fucking Mililani Town Center.
And yes – it all ends here – right here at the Mililani Town Center.
The Faux Pas Press #45
Mililani Town Center
By Jason Fresh
When you’ve discovered that excitement on a Saturday night means a trip to the Mililani Town Center, you can not only likely say but surely say that you’ve been married long enough to hate it, that you’ve been duped into supporting values you’ve sworn to destroy. You’ve been sold on an idea that a loving father wears clothing purchased at the Levi store. He also smiles charmingly at a Baskin Robin’s cashier.
Though you fancy your partner well enough and can’t get enough of your beautiful daughter - you also realize that life in Mililani really sucks for most people.
Like you, most men have been duped into believing that a wife really wants anything other that to use you (and rightly so, this is how she survives - through seduction and avarice.) You discover that you not only hate marriage but all those who uphold its shrubby foliage with the idea that someday, somehow the right person will come along and make life happy.
Or, that you hate those dead set on convincing themselves that the right person has already arrived. Yes, just like Fatmandu, the chubby bastard wearing an over-sized cotton Faded Glory brand collared shirt smiles as he walks into Assagio, a poor excuse for Italian cuisine, and his angst-ridden wife trots behind him. They will go home and engage in what they call sex – this is only because they don’t know any better. At the Mililani Town Center, fat, happy, Thai-food eating folks converse over grub pulled from the earth in unsustainable ways, cooked by underpaid slaves in the Home of the Free, and regurgitated in church restrooms on Sunday morning, churches where pastors preach on the harmonious family unit and its lasting importance.
But it all starts right there – right there at the fucking Mililani Town Center.
And yes – it all ends here – right here at the Mililani Town Center.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #44: I Don't Need My Heart Anymore
06 JULY 2010
The Faux Pas Press #44
I Don't Need My Heart Anymore
a song
track one
The Topaz Lounge
by Jason Fresh
take this heart of mine and break it down
like you've always done before
slip, slip, and slide upon my blood
that you spilt upon the floor
erase the fragile line beneath
the x of my suicide amore
rip, rip out the page of simple faith
that you simply can't restore
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
jump into the sox with chicken pox
soiled from the night before
rock, rock my socks, oh goldilocks,
oh you filthy little whore
crank a jack in the box and spin it 'round,
oh, pop open these trap doors
slap, slap, slap the wrist of
where I've been and the silly lies you poor
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
when all is said and done, you've
reached the end of this woman's foolish soar
believe, believe the lie that your
broken life, it has crystalline decor
suck, suck, sucky, suck at
the mucky duck, oh, and let it be a chore
march, march, trough it all
and walk it tall, oh, bring pretty little whores
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
no, I don't need my heart anymore
The Faux Pas Press #44
I Don't Need My Heart Anymore
a song
track one
The Topaz Lounge
by Jason Fresh
take this heart of mine and break it down
like you've always done before
slip, slip, and slide upon my blood
that you spilt upon the floor
erase the fragile line beneath
the x of my suicide amore
rip, rip out the page of simple faith
that you simply can't restore
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
jump into the sox with chicken pox
soiled from the night before
rock, rock my socks, oh goldilocks,
oh you filthy little whore
crank a jack in the box and spin it 'round,
oh, pop open these trap doors
slap, slap, slap the wrist of
where I've been and the silly lies you poor
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
when all is said and done, you've
reached the end of this woman's foolish soar
believe, believe the lie that your
broken life, it has crystalline decor
suck, suck, sucky, suck at
the mucky duck, oh, and let it be a chore
march, march, trough it all
and walk it tall, oh, bring pretty little whores
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
no, I don't need my heart anymore
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #43: To Bad So Sad
The Faux Pas Press #43
Too Bad So Sad
a song
By Jason Fresh
04 July 2010
http://www.youtube.com/user/fauxpaspress
i melt down on a highway with a gentle ease
look back to the west with a cry for a chickadee
insist that its my way not the highway on a salt breeze
the mockingbird sits outside my window on a willow tree
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
a broken promise can play like a remedy
on the vinyl recording you play of your tragedy
your act of love and forgiveness is a fallacy
i don't like what i'm hearing on the frequency
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
the craft ain't torn no more
i've broken the golden key and I closed the door
no good it does to try with you
if i did, if i did I would lay down and die with you
the burned pair of clothes that I wear, they look so clean
engaged to a dark bride I surrender to the obscene
you can place all the memories we had in a guillotine
i live forever with the gods in a submarine
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but i echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
too bad so sad
Too Bad So Sad
a song
By Jason Fresh
04 July 2010
http://www.youtube.com/user/fauxpaspress
i melt down on a highway with a gentle ease
look back to the west with a cry for a chickadee
insist that its my way not the highway on a salt breeze
the mockingbird sits outside my window on a willow tree
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
a broken promise can play like a remedy
on the vinyl recording you play of your tragedy
your act of love and forgiveness is a fallacy
i don't like what i'm hearing on the frequency
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
the craft ain't torn no more
i've broken the golden key and I closed the door
no good it does to try with you
if i did, if i did I would lay down and die with you
the burned pair of clothes that I wear, they look so clean
engaged to a dark bride I surrender to the obscene
you can place all the memories we had in a guillotine
i live forever with the gods in a submarine
but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but i echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
too bad so sad
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #42: A Father's Love
The Faux Pas Press #42
A Father’s Love
By Jason Fresh
03 July 2010
What is good about families is that they are forever.
What is good about a father is that he wants the best for his children.
This edition of The Faux Pas Press sings praises to one of the nearest and dearest people in my life. A man who will someday be the first Mormon President of the United States of America – I’m talking about my father. He is a loving, swell, and most importantly, a “righteous” man. What’s great about this guy is that even after having asked him to leave me and my family alone, he persists – he won’t quit, you know. That is important to do as a father - even when all that your son has asked for is a little room to breathe. A father’s love, you know.
Dad, I just want to thank you for sharing your thoughts. You’ve given me plenty – just what I needed for my first father’s day and a happy 4th of July. Here’s looking at you, Mormo. I am excited to report that this letter from you has inspired me to go and look up the definition of bipolar disorder since it seems that all of you fuckers have it.
And, you, yes you, Richard can suck it – not mine, of course, the girl formally known as my sister made it clear that I do not have one. I guess miracles never cease right guys? And no, Guadalupe Alisa or whatever the hell your name is – I will not be fighting you. As a matter of fact, we won’t be dealing with each other ever. Besides it wouldn’t be fair for a Middleweight to fight Heavyweight. You got all the advantages – all your military training, right? The Army, the Navy, and the Marines? That is pretty impressive. I’m sure you make yourself proud. You probably learned to embellish your accomplishments from our father – Go Army Rangers, right? Unbelievable.
Here he is folks – the one, the only guy who assumes that all of my writing is about him.
Here is his response to The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo, a fictional character, and a character I created on which to place my emotional charge, to deal with my own emotional trauma. I’ve have tried to process my emotions so I can be a better war fighter and a better father. Apparently, this isn’t good enough when religion becomes obsession. I did not send an email with the piece to anyone. I didn’t think anybody actually read my blog. Richard indicted himself. The idea was that if I could create an alter-ego, a hypersigil, someone not connected with me, that I could work my way into a relationship with my family again. I wouldn’t have to hate my father – I could hate Clyde McGoo. This has worked for many writers to gain healing. I was honestly thinking that if I could say what I really felt to my family in a fictional character that they would understand and we could move on. This was an experiment to see just how far it would cut. I used images that my father hates – images like Lucifer. He shows his true colors here. I don’t worship Lucifer but I’m beginning to wonder about some people. Well, it so happens that this piece marks the first battle of what may become a long war if my father does not back down and stop harassing my family. He and his wife have already frightened my wife and in-laws – this while my wife and I work through our own issues – mainly trying to maintain our little family. Thanks for contributing you positive energy to our families growth. Shame on you.
Starting to look a lot like the characters I created guys. Congratulations – confirming my theory that there are worse things in life than being alone. You could be trapped in a living room around a Christmas tree with these people.
Here is his email. Enjoy.
Jason,
One more apology is in order. I am sorry for being a weak dad, and apologizing so much. On the other side, please, realize that as a weak, just-trying-to-make-it-type dad that I believe strongly when we have done wrong, it is appropriate to apologize. So I have tried to apologize where appropriate. So before you stop reading my emails, posts, and letters, please, please read this one. It would just mean so much if you did, please. I just need to finish a few more apologies and I can go to my tomb in peace.
I apologize for getting up and going to those stupid cubicles for those thousands of days on end to put food on the table for you, I should have been strong and forceful enough to be a corporate president so that you would have had a bigger house, and better clothes, and nicer cars to drive. Please, please forgive me.
I apologize for going to every baseball, football, rehearsal, and performance for you. (By the way, when you looked up and saw me reading a book ONCE, I did that when you were in the dugout, and not at bat or on the field). Please, please forgive me for reading when you were in the dugout with your back turned. Forgive me for all of those wittle things, because I should have had the money, to pay for the finest of teams and dance companies. By the by, I battled with your mom for the Karate lessons and lost. My apologies for battling with your mom every fucking second for every fucking cent for you and your activities, I should have taken an easier course A) Abandoned you to her, and you would have gotten no support B) Abused her to make her obey (make sure you abuse, abuse Liz and get her to obey – Do not, do not follow the Mormon way – instead abuse the bitch.) (Oh my, on that one, are Mormon men weak and submissive or abusive? --- whoops depends on who you talk to I guess, wish those damn antimorgs made up their fucking minds on this issue!!) C) Worked even more jobs delivering pizza. My apologies for not being a strong he-man type like you and having done one of those things. (Your turn is coming my friend, just wait, Karma is a bitch, the universe has a way of turning our judgments back on our ass with a vengeance!).
I apologize for paying for college at Montana State, but as a weak pathetic dad, you should have been at Harvard for 4 years, and I should have had the money for that. (By the by, I battled with your mom, to get you the money that year, she did not want to send you a cent for college).
I apologize for all of the cars I gave you to drive. As our buddies in Plano pointed out, what an embarrassing set of pathetic used cars they were. I apologize for not having them washed and all new-car scented for you. (Did you ever fucking wash one car in those years?) I should have delivered more pizza and got you a fucking Ferrari, man. So sorry. By the way you fucking destroyed the Suburban by not checking the oil, Asshole.
I am so so sorry for having gotten you involved in the Mormon Church (little-referred-to as the Church of Jesus Christ). I have come to realize over the years that the Mormon Church is responsible for…. (take a deep breath, now)…. All guilt, all abuse, all suffering, all lies, all wars, all poverty, all distortions in the history of the world, all of your sad misfortunes, and…, the Kennedy Assassination, and the extinction of the Kiwi.
And more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, having somehow managed to spoil someone enough to have developed such a whining, complaining, poor-me-so-abused-and-ignored-one-more-middle-child-so-forlorn, ungrateful attitude. As they say in AA --- poor me, poor me, pour me another drink. Did you pick up that I-am-so-sorry-for-myself attitude from your mom, so much like her, oh my --- what a terrible thought!
By the way your story about my talking to the papers with respect to Rozana , sounds like another distorted piece of your poor-me-middle-child distorted history. I believe they called me, and asked for the info, asshole.
So pwease pwease forgive me, I am so weak and pathetic.
By the way, you are not the only life which I am responsible for totally and completely ruining, I am responsible for all pain in my dads, my brothers, Alexandra’s, and your mothers life too. (Ask any of them on the other side, and they will affirm that for you. I am such a smuck-tee-smuck son-of-a-bitch!!)
By the way, I have guns, knives and lawyers on the stand-by also. I have gotten 4 people arrested, and three bishops removed from office. Oh yeah, oh yeah, I am a bad ass mother fucker like you, oh yeah.
There, another weak letter for your weak dad.
P.S. By the way Jason, Rule of Hitler for you --- Never, Never apologize for anything --- you will appear weak. There are other rules from Hitler, but I think you know them all.
Jason Scott! The way you are going about this is wrong. Turn, turn, turn around, please Son. With all facetiousness aside, I do love you, but I will not put up with your bull-shit. There is another better way. Be a real man and take it! I do want a relationship with you, but ONLY if you do not lecture me or interrupt me. Otherwise forget it! Touche.
Dad.
Jason, you will keep getting this letter in various forms until I know you have gotten to this line. Respond how you will, but you will fucking read this letter!”
The beautiful words of a Mormon prophet. I love how he has confused my sister with someone named Rozana. Also, Richard – if you are going to say “touché” please make sure that you use an accent mark. Otherwise, it just looks like you are calling yourself a douche and you just spelled it wrong. Patrons of the Press, please be advised that my father is an expert on Nazism too. So, just in case you were wondering – his new book, The Rules of Hitler will be coming to a LDS bookstore not-so-close to you. Also, I will open the comment section back up if you would like to enlighten us on what antimorg means. Thank you, senor. You are the greatest. One more thing, the universe will have to bring judgment on my ass – there is no “our ass”, never was really. Sorry about the suburban though. Let me get this straight – you are calling me an asshole, right? Got it. Shit, one more thing – this is all so good. Are you threatening to stab me or shoot me?
After all, you do love me, right? Thanks, Dad. Just keep my wife and daughter’s name out of your righteous mouth – and you sir, you turn the fuck around and leave us alone. Or “our ass” is going to have a big problem. Forget it (Take that, you big sexy Man of God, you. "I got three bishops removed. I really matter. I really matter.")
This really is embarrasing though. You guys just need to fucking not talk to me. How much bullshit and interrupting do I have to do for you to leave me alone.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
A Father’s Love
By Jason Fresh
03 July 2010
What is good about families is that they are forever.
What is good about a father is that he wants the best for his children.
This edition of The Faux Pas Press sings praises to one of the nearest and dearest people in my life. A man who will someday be the first Mormon President of the United States of America – I’m talking about my father. He is a loving, swell, and most importantly, a “righteous” man. What’s great about this guy is that even after having asked him to leave me and my family alone, he persists – he won’t quit, you know. That is important to do as a father - even when all that your son has asked for is a little room to breathe. A father’s love, you know.
Dad, I just want to thank you for sharing your thoughts. You’ve given me plenty – just what I needed for my first father’s day and a happy 4th of July. Here’s looking at you, Mormo. I am excited to report that this letter from you has inspired me to go and look up the definition of bipolar disorder since it seems that all of you fuckers have it.
And, you, yes you, Richard can suck it – not mine, of course, the girl formally known as my sister made it clear that I do not have one. I guess miracles never cease right guys? And no, Guadalupe Alisa or whatever the hell your name is – I will not be fighting you. As a matter of fact, we won’t be dealing with each other ever. Besides it wouldn’t be fair for a Middleweight to fight Heavyweight. You got all the advantages – all your military training, right? The Army, the Navy, and the Marines? That is pretty impressive. I’m sure you make yourself proud. You probably learned to embellish your accomplishments from our father – Go Army Rangers, right? Unbelievable.
Here he is folks – the one, the only guy who assumes that all of my writing is about him.
Here is his response to The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo, a fictional character, and a character I created on which to place my emotional charge, to deal with my own emotional trauma. I’ve have tried to process my emotions so I can be a better war fighter and a better father. Apparently, this isn’t good enough when religion becomes obsession. I did not send an email with the piece to anyone. I didn’t think anybody actually read my blog. Richard indicted himself. The idea was that if I could create an alter-ego, a hypersigil, someone not connected with me, that I could work my way into a relationship with my family again. I wouldn’t have to hate my father – I could hate Clyde McGoo. This has worked for many writers to gain healing. I was honestly thinking that if I could say what I really felt to my family in a fictional character that they would understand and we could move on. This was an experiment to see just how far it would cut. I used images that my father hates – images like Lucifer. He shows his true colors here. I don’t worship Lucifer but I’m beginning to wonder about some people. Well, it so happens that this piece marks the first battle of what may become a long war if my father does not back down and stop harassing my family. He and his wife have already frightened my wife and in-laws – this while my wife and I work through our own issues – mainly trying to maintain our little family. Thanks for contributing you positive energy to our families growth. Shame on you.
Starting to look a lot like the characters I created guys. Congratulations – confirming my theory that there are worse things in life than being alone. You could be trapped in a living room around a Christmas tree with these people.
Here is his email. Enjoy.
Jason,
One more apology is in order. I am sorry for being a weak dad, and apologizing so much. On the other side, please, realize that as a weak, just-trying-to-make-it-type dad that I believe strongly when we have done wrong, it is appropriate to apologize. So I have tried to apologize where appropriate. So before you stop reading my emails, posts, and letters, please, please read this one. It would just mean so much if you did, please. I just need to finish a few more apologies and I can go to my tomb in peace.
I apologize for getting up and going to those stupid cubicles for those thousands of days on end to put food on the table for you, I should have been strong and forceful enough to be a corporate president so that you would have had a bigger house, and better clothes, and nicer cars to drive. Please, please forgive me.
I apologize for going to every baseball, football, rehearsal, and performance for you. (By the way, when you looked up and saw me reading a book ONCE, I did that when you were in the dugout, and not at bat or on the field). Please, please forgive me for reading when you were in the dugout with your back turned. Forgive me for all of those wittle things, because I should have had the money, to pay for the finest of teams and dance companies. By the by, I battled with your mom for the Karate lessons and lost. My apologies for battling with your mom every fucking second for every fucking cent for you and your activities, I should have taken an easier course A) Abandoned you to her, and you would have gotten no support B) Abused her to make her obey (make sure you abuse, abuse Liz and get her to obey – Do not, do not follow the Mormon way – instead abuse the bitch.) (Oh my, on that one, are Mormon men weak and submissive or abusive? --- whoops depends on who you talk to I guess, wish those damn antimorgs made up their fucking minds on this issue!!) C) Worked even more jobs delivering pizza. My apologies for not being a strong he-man type like you and having done one of those things. (Your turn is coming my friend, just wait, Karma is a bitch, the universe has a way of turning our judgments back on our ass with a vengeance!).
I apologize for paying for college at Montana State, but as a weak pathetic dad, you should have been at Harvard for 4 years, and I should have had the money for that. (By the by, I battled with your mom, to get you the money that year, she did not want to send you a cent for college).
I apologize for all of the cars I gave you to drive. As our buddies in Plano pointed out, what an embarrassing set of pathetic used cars they were. I apologize for not having them washed and all new-car scented for you. (Did you ever fucking wash one car in those years?) I should have delivered more pizza and got you a fucking Ferrari, man. So sorry. By the way you fucking destroyed the Suburban by not checking the oil, Asshole.
I am so so sorry for having gotten you involved in the Mormon Church (little-referred-to as the Church of Jesus Christ). I have come to realize over the years that the Mormon Church is responsible for…. (take a deep breath, now)…. All guilt, all abuse, all suffering, all lies, all wars, all poverty, all distortions in the history of the world, all of your sad misfortunes, and…, the Kennedy Assassination, and the extinction of the Kiwi.
And more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, having somehow managed to spoil someone enough to have developed such a whining, complaining, poor-me-so-abused-and-ignored-one-more-middle-child-so-forlorn, ungrateful attitude. As they say in AA --- poor me, poor me, pour me another drink. Did you pick up that I-am-so-sorry-for-myself attitude from your mom, so much like her, oh my --- what a terrible thought!
By the way your story about my talking to the papers with respect to Rozana , sounds like another distorted piece of your poor-me-middle-child distorted history. I believe they called me, and asked for the info, asshole.
So pwease pwease forgive me, I am so weak and pathetic.
By the way, you are not the only life which I am responsible for totally and completely ruining, I am responsible for all pain in my dads, my brothers, Alexandra’s, and your mothers life too. (Ask any of them on the other side, and they will affirm that for you. I am such a smuck-tee-smuck son-of-a-bitch!!)
By the way, I have guns, knives and lawyers on the stand-by also. I have gotten 4 people arrested, and three bishops removed from office. Oh yeah, oh yeah, I am a bad ass mother fucker like you, oh yeah.
There, another weak letter for your weak dad.
P.S. By the way Jason, Rule of Hitler for you --- Never, Never apologize for anything --- you will appear weak. There are other rules from Hitler, but I think you know them all.
Jason Scott! The way you are going about this is wrong. Turn, turn, turn around, please Son. With all facetiousness aside, I do love you, but I will not put up with your bull-shit. There is another better way. Be a real man and take it! I do want a relationship with you, but ONLY if you do not lecture me or interrupt me. Otherwise forget it! Touche.
Dad.
Jason, you will keep getting this letter in various forms until I know you have gotten to this line. Respond how you will, but you will fucking read this letter!”
The beautiful words of a Mormon prophet. I love how he has confused my sister with someone named Rozana. Also, Richard – if you are going to say “touché” please make sure that you use an accent mark. Otherwise, it just looks like you are calling yourself a douche and you just spelled it wrong. Patrons of the Press, please be advised that my father is an expert on Nazism too. So, just in case you were wondering – his new book, The Rules of Hitler will be coming to a LDS bookstore not-so-close to you. Also, I will open the comment section back up if you would like to enlighten us on what antimorg means. Thank you, senor. You are the greatest. One more thing, the universe will have to bring judgment on my ass – there is no “our ass”, never was really. Sorry about the suburban though. Let me get this straight – you are calling me an asshole, right? Got it. Shit, one more thing – this is all so good. Are you threatening to stab me or shoot me?
After all, you do love me, right? Thanks, Dad. Just keep my wife and daughter’s name out of your righteous mouth – and you sir, you turn the fuck around and leave us alone. Or “our ass” is going to have a big problem. Forget it (Take that, you big sexy Man of God, you. "I got three bishops removed. I really matter. I really matter.")
This really is embarrasing though. You guys just need to fucking not talk to me. How much bullshit and interrupting do I have to do for you to leave me alone.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #41: The Coward
The Faux Pas Press #41
The Coward
By Jason Fresh
02 JULY 2010
Does it feel good
to be a coward?
Yes, of course.
Does it feel good to be the crucified
Jason for your family to worship?
No – no it does not.
Because I
deserve better,
don’t I?
“We are all praying for you
and we all want the
best for you.”
Really?
When the best
is according to you.
What they don’t tell you
before you’re born
is that you will be
hated.
What they don’t tell you
before they curse you
is that they are done,
elated,
to crown and
thorn you.
When you’re broken inside,
when all you’ve tried has been
laughed away,
when all who’ve claimed
to love you
got nothings spray,
and a list of
bad tidings to send
you’re way –
become a coward,
run away,
and they will find
you and
burn you someday.
Just try to
send ideas our there.
For example,
say you know people
that you don’t really know,
say you know
a little troll woman
that looks like a goat,
that has been
tattered and torn,
maybe decides to gloat
about things you
don’t really care about.
You will probably
need to run away from her.
I know.
You’ll want to pretend
that you’re tough
and give her your energy.
But don’t.
Just live your life.
Just live your life.
Shed them all off
when you must or
they will drag you down.
And build
what you want
to build.
Spend time with the friends with a higher yield.
Just run and live.
What they don’t know
is that you have all the cards.
What they don’t is that you are better equipped.
What they don’t is that you can sneek up
on them whenever you want.
What they don’t know about
you will keep them up at night,
wondering when you’ll come,
when you come in from the bush,
out from the Middle East or
Bhutan or Bangladesh
They won’t know about all the
“things”
you’ve learned.
So, they will leave you alone.
Won’t they? Forever. Won’t they?
or Indonesia
or Texas
or Arizona
How does it feel to be a coward?
Really good - if I do say.
The Coward
By Jason Fresh
02 JULY 2010
Does it feel good
to be a coward?
Yes, of course.
Does it feel good to be the crucified
Jason for your family to worship?
No – no it does not.
Because I
deserve better,
don’t I?
“We are all praying for you
and we all want the
best for you.”
Really?
When the best
is according to you.
What they don’t tell you
before you’re born
is that you will be
hated.
What they don’t tell you
before they curse you
is that they are done,
elated,
to crown and
thorn you.
When you’re broken inside,
when all you’ve tried has been
laughed away,
when all who’ve claimed
to love you
got nothings spray,
and a list of
bad tidings to send
you’re way –
become a coward,
run away,
and they will find
you and
burn you someday.
Just try to
send ideas our there.
For example,
say you know people
that you don’t really know,
say you know
a little troll woman
that looks like a goat,
that has been
tattered and torn,
maybe decides to gloat
about things you
don’t really care about.
You will probably
need to run away from her.
I know.
You’ll want to pretend
that you’re tough
and give her your energy.
But don’t.
Just live your life.
Just live your life.
Shed them all off
when you must or
they will drag you down.
And build
what you want
to build.
Spend time with the friends with a higher yield.
Just run and live.
What they don’t know
is that you have all the cards.
What they don’t is that you are better equipped.
What they don’t is that you can sneek up
on them whenever you want.
What they don’t know about
you will keep them up at night,
wondering when you’ll come,
when you come in from the bush,
out from the Middle East or
Bhutan or Bangladesh
They won’t know about all the
“things”
you’ve learned.
So, they will leave you alone.
Won’t they? Forever. Won’t they?
or Indonesia
or Texas
or Arizona
How does it feel to be a coward?
Really good - if I do say.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #40: The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
The Faux Pas Press #40
29 June 2010
The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
By
Jason
Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
Light shines on only one square in the prison cell of Maribel Sandoval. She hovers over food served on a plastic trey, sitting in the cramped corner closest to 2’ by 2’ square of light, a square projected through a proportional window pane like a black movie screen. There is no movie to watch now.
Before, she ran around town seeking thrills, wondering from pub to pub, club to club, searching for the next great event. Before, she planned out an evening based data gathered from a game show audience she called “friends”. She planned her life based on the promptings of others, curious, always curious as to how it would end – the story written by God. “How are you guys? What are ya’ll up to tonight? Are ya‘ll going to Level 4?”
Maribel Sandoval was informed and interested. Parents called her on regular basis to check up. A mother called her to discuss the prospects. But there are no prospects in the jail cell of Maribel Sandoval. In truth, there are just as many as there were before. Cold floors where not what she was used going to college in Texas. Desolate features of a prison cell are similar to the sterile look of dorm room walls, the open, plastic finish of industrial-style tile, and a sink that girls could pee in – only if they were too tired to use the head down the corridor. These were all traits of a cell she could make her own. The only difference is that this cell would not have as many solutions. Yes, as she hovers over the plastic tray, reminiscent of those plastic industrial-style tiles, she thinks about her lot, wondering as she pokes at rehydrated potatoes why she is being punished by the Fury. “Did I speak too quickly or too forcefully?” she questions herself, the type of question that a crazy person employs, perhaps to mask an delusion, an ingrained, historic, gradual process of washing ones sins away.
Maribel could not be punished in a more suitable way. This cell is a place that the Fury created for individuals who do harm, use, and enslave others without acknowledging their wrongs. This sad truth is that he, the Fury, can keep the swiftly-aging Maribel Sandoval in this cell for as long it takes. An even more devastating truth is that the key to her freedom is not a golden piece of metal forged by a little Chinese man locked away in a closet. No, the key is a simple admission of guilt. She had pledged herself to the Fury before, but she had to go and fuck a Hollywood celebrity and pretend that she didn’t. This is just like little Robbie Hubbard, tattooing crosses on his body like a badge of courage or righteousness. Well, his cell is right down the hall. Yes, the Fury keeps all of the deceivers right here, right here at the WEST END of the FOLD IN THE FABRIC OF NIGHT. I guess the question we must ask ourselves, the patrons of the Faux Pas Press is: what is virtue? What will happen to the enemies of the Fury? This is a laughable question to me, but I have to ask. I’m the Keeper of the Fold. That is my honorable title. Not like the Fishers of Men on Earth. Yes, virtue here is wickedness there. Funny isn’t it? A pity
The prison cell of Maribel Sandoval can be destroyed whenever she wants it destroyed. She could be released and go on to create life and live it in whatever way suits her. But she will most likely just sit there, rotting away, staring at rehydrated mashed potatoes and a plastic trey, reminiscent of the industrial-style tile at a redneck college just North of Austin. What a pity!
29 June 2010
The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval
By
Jason
Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
Light shines on only one square in the prison cell of Maribel Sandoval. She hovers over food served on a plastic trey, sitting in the cramped corner closest to 2’ by 2’ square of light, a square projected through a proportional window pane like a black movie screen. There is no movie to watch now.
Before, she ran around town seeking thrills, wondering from pub to pub, club to club, searching for the next great event. Before, she planned out an evening based data gathered from a game show audience she called “friends”. She planned her life based on the promptings of others, curious, always curious as to how it would end – the story written by God. “How are you guys? What are ya’ll up to tonight? Are ya‘ll going to Level 4?”
Maribel Sandoval was informed and interested. Parents called her on regular basis to check up. A mother called her to discuss the prospects. But there are no prospects in the jail cell of Maribel Sandoval. In truth, there are just as many as there were before. Cold floors where not what she was used going to college in Texas. Desolate features of a prison cell are similar to the sterile look of dorm room walls, the open, plastic finish of industrial-style tile, and a sink that girls could pee in – only if they were too tired to use the head down the corridor. These were all traits of a cell she could make her own. The only difference is that this cell would not have as many solutions. Yes, as she hovers over the plastic tray, reminiscent of those plastic industrial-style tiles, she thinks about her lot, wondering as she pokes at rehydrated potatoes why she is being punished by the Fury. “Did I speak too quickly or too forcefully?” she questions herself, the type of question that a crazy person employs, perhaps to mask an delusion, an ingrained, historic, gradual process of washing ones sins away.
Maribel could not be punished in a more suitable way. This cell is a place that the Fury created for individuals who do harm, use, and enslave others without acknowledging their wrongs. This sad truth is that he, the Fury, can keep the swiftly-aging Maribel Sandoval in this cell for as long it takes. An even more devastating truth is that the key to her freedom is not a golden piece of metal forged by a little Chinese man locked away in a closet. No, the key is a simple admission of guilt. She had pledged herself to the Fury before, but she had to go and fuck a Hollywood celebrity and pretend that she didn’t. This is just like little Robbie Hubbard, tattooing crosses on his body like a badge of courage or righteousness. Well, his cell is right down the hall. Yes, the Fury keeps all of the deceivers right here, right here at the WEST END of the FOLD IN THE FABRIC OF NIGHT. I guess the question we must ask ourselves, the patrons of the Faux Pas Press is: what is virtue? What will happen to the enemies of the Fury? This is a laughable question to me, but I have to ask. I’m the Keeper of the Fold. That is my honorable title. Not like the Fishers of Men on Earth. Yes, virtue here is wickedness there. Funny isn’t it? A pity
The prison cell of Maribel Sandoval can be destroyed whenever she wants it destroyed. She could be released and go on to create life and live it in whatever way suits her. But she will most likely just sit there, rotting away, staring at rehydrated mashed potatoes and a plastic trey, reminiscent of the industrial-style tile at a redneck college just North of Austin. What a pity!
The Faux Pas Press #39: Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
28 June 2010
The Faux Pas Press #39
Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
a poem
By
Jason Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.
She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,
The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.
Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.
What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”
After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.
You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.
What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.
Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!
Oh, I’m so done with you.
The Faux Pas Press #39
Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens
a poem
By
Jason Fresh
Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.
fauxpaspress@yahoo.com
She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.
She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,
The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.
Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.
What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”
After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.
You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.
What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.
Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!
Oh, I’m so done with you.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo
The Faux Pas Press #38
The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo
28 June 2010
By Jason Fresh
For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.
For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.
I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.
The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.
You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.
You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.
You and Douche Bic Poo.
So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.
The excuse of
life that you live.
The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.
I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.
I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.
As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.
A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.
Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.
You can not right the wrongs now.
You are destroyed.
Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.
Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!
The weak are not blessed.
The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo
28 June 2010
By Jason Fresh
For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.
For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.
I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.
The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.
You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.
You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.
You and Douche Bic Poo.
So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.
The excuse of
life that you live.
The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.
I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.
I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.
As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.
A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.
Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.
You can not right the wrongs now.
You are destroyed.
Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.
Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!
The weak are not blessed.
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