Thursday, February 27, 2014

PG Rated Vs X Rated

I intend to one day gather my oil field experiences into one essay. In fact I have an essay that is partially finished called "What the Environmental Movement Can Learn From Halliburton." That's the title you give to an essay you want to publish in a magazine like Mother Jones...if you indeed thought life was worth giving a fuck about and cared about something other than paychecks and pussy.

That essay will never get finished.

But here's a sample of what another essay will try to accomplish. I want to juxtapose the generic bottom feeding of Huffington Post who can not publish a single non-generic article on anything other than their own pitiful ethnocentric shit of affluent cunts with Yale communication degrees buying designer jeans with usurped vocabulary. Fuk Huf Post! Fuck them! My farts make more sense.

So I will give you one of their generic, cliche paragraphs and then I will follow it up with the reality. They published a skin deep article on North Dakota man camps. I could analyze the lack of depth this reporter displays, his pathetic, junior high school level vocabulary and softball approach but I will just quote the article and then write what I have to say, which should metaphorically be a giant shit in your mouth.

Huff Post version: "TG, manager at this camp, probably doesn't feel the same way [about the lack of women at the camp]. He is hours away from a two-week leave after six solid weeks at the camp since his last break. He's dreaming about his wife, and his Harley, back in Arizona, where he makes his permanent home. A lengthy to-do list sits on his desk."

Oggy version: Ian, who quits days after this episode, points across a deserted, garbage filled lot to a school.
"It's illegal to have this man camp here [in an abandoned long term rehab hospital] because it's so close to schools. See, most of these guys have guns or prison records or both and we can't be this close to a school."

I'm tired and yawning. I promise myself each night to sleep early but that leaves no time to play guitar or watch porn so I keep getting to bed late. I don't care if everyone at the man camp has Sig Sauer 20 round pistols. I don't care about anything.

"Que chavala," hisses Ian, "Look at that hot little piece of ass."
He points at a teen girl on the playground.
"I'd tear that pussy to pieces."
I nod and look at the girl. From a distance I can't even tell what she looks like.
"They're all cunts. They're cunts now and they grow up to be bigger cunts," I mutter and yawn.
Ian gets a call from one of the girls he has been running around with on the side. He talks sweet to her but I know most of what he says are lies to keep her from finding out about his wife and kid. He admits he has a kid but calls his wife his "baby mamma" which is like saying she's nothing more than an sperm incubator.
"You're the one I really care about," he coos to the phone.

I stare hard at the playground of teen girls and bite my lip. Ian tells me to get changed out of my work clothes because we're driving to Odessa to go to the strip club for cage wrestling and cheap drinks. Another field tech has rented a whore for everyone. When I voice my feeble moral objections he says, "We're supporting single moms."
"I just don't want to fuck a fake blonde stripper with plastic tits," I say, but no one is listening. "At least can we get a brunette?"
They are laughing at an amateur porn video that Ian has uploaded to a revenge website of him and his girlfriend. On the video he says, "No, I won't show this to anyone. It's for us, because I love you."
I'm distracted because I left my fiberglass hammer on top of the crude oil tank battery and probably will never see it again. But I'll buy another on credit from the tool store. They deduct money from my paycheck. Everything is electronic and my company credit card buys everything but a spine to replace the cracked and broken one attached to my motherfucking head.

Ian breaks into a dance of joy when he watches the video of him ejaculating on his girlfriend's face. The girl is moaning and Ian laughs, "Wait, if you listen close you can hear her daughter crying in the background. Because she's hungry."
Everyone laughs and since drugs are prohibited we are drinking maple flavored crown royal with a chaser of beer. My prostate is throbbing. When everyone is drunk we sneak into a coworker's room and download tons of gay porn on his computer while he is sleeping. Then we make his screensaver a huge black cock and we laugh as we stumble down the corridor of the old age home as the lights flicker.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.