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Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Excerpt Chapter 17 Johnny Oops

“Sir, that’s my foot you’re stepping on,” I said.

“Sorry, I don’t feel a thing,” said the member. “Who are you?”

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t feel a thing in your condition,” I replied. “I’m the Guru.” How can these people be so dumb and still get so rich and powerful?

“You don’t look like no Guru to me. He’s taller than you. I saw him talk from the podium last week in the garden. Everyone thinks he’s a big shot around here.”

No wonder I’m questioning my identity. These idiots don’t even know who I am. What does a genius have to do to get some recognition?

Happy hour Dialectic style was in session once more. Wisdom and free drinks were dispensed in the huge game room at my estate in Palm Beach, California, which had trophies of animal heads that I never shot hanging on the knotty pine walls. I don’t hunt except for donations. It’s against my religion. These sessions started as a once a week event, but soon progressed to nightly bashes. All was right with the world. The Messenger was back on his feet and as usual I had the last word. That’s the beautiful thing about me. I always have the last word. My mother would be proud of me.

My recent nervous breakdown, however, signaled a more sinister long-term change in me, Doctor O’Hara warned. Gone for the most part was the stream of consciousness innocence of my youth. I was becoming a callous overachiever: more charlatan than Guru, more of a greedy, oversexed, drunken human, than a Prophet. I was in danger of forgetting my promise. I spent most of my time talking to my flock: telling them what I thought they should hear, and never questioning whether what I was saying contributed to the general good. I’d convinced myself that I was a Prophet and I had the word.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Johnny Oops Writeup

Check out Johnny Oops writeup from Louise Wise the new Chick Lit author from the UK

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Excerpt Johnny Oops - Screaming, Spinning, Falling


Michelangelo Armstrong’s philosophy course can’t help me now. I’m screaming, spinning, falling, in a drug-induced frenzy of my own doing. Will the horror never end? I need to change my life.

Developing a new perspective is a little like trying to create a new reality. You can’t just move from one reality or perspective to another without causing something to change in the way you regard yourself and the way other people look at you.

As you try to close up the entranceway into your new preferred reality and wrap yourself in the imagined sweet smells and warm physical touches of the woman you love, it’s hard not to get distracted and get your private parts caught in your zipper. You can’t just pull away from one version of life and go to another without experiencing some wrenching pain in the transition because life is a process of entanglement. It’s not possible to make an absolutely clean break. Some part of you is going to be left behind. Some part of you is going to have to form a new way of dealing with problems and crisis, a new identity. I’m being pulled in one direction and pushed in another at the same time. That’s what Quantum entanglements are about.

Quantum data does not separate itself completely from the reaction it’s creating, even in the splitting of atoms, without causing an opposite reaction. My problem is I’m not sure of what type of change I’m causing as I strive to develop a new environment for myself. I’m not sure of what type of entanglements I’m fostering as I try to escape the old ones. Maybe I should leave the creation of new realities to the Game Master, but I can’t help myself. I always have to push my limits, pushing and pulling myself in different directions at the same time as every one of my actions causes a random undecipherable reaction in the opposite direction, and the Quanta, or sub atomic particles of my being, refuse to adhere to a set pattern.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Shocking Dream Excerpt From Johnny Oops

I was going through my roommate’s socks in the dark looking for his stash when the lights came on. He grabbed my arm, and spun me around shouting, “What the hell are you doing?” He didn’t tell anyone else, but when he calmed down he made me promise I would get myself straightened out. I promised I would, but I didn’t mean it. I was hooked and would do anything to get more dope. I’m pathetic and despicable. I hated myself.

Back in my room at the fraternity, after one of my meetings at Eight Ball's apartment, I lay on the bed trying to make sense of what was happening to me. I had the window shade down and didn’t know whether it was day or night, nor did I care. I figured out I’d rather be stoned than spend all my time being serious and unhappy.

Where the hell did I leave my stash? I don’t even know what I’m doing – some genius. Maybe I’m not real. Maybe my whole life is a fantasy. Maybe some Game Master is playing with my head. I can’t go on like this.

The truth is that except when I’m having sex, I feel like crap—emotionally impotent. I’m oversexed. When I’m having sex, I’m in control. I’m a big man. My Dialectic Spiritualism Religion is a load of crap. I’m a load of crap. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now because I’m depressed and feel so damn sorry for myself, and no one else cares. No one gives a shit about me.

This is ridiculous. I’ll smoke some more weed or snort some cocaine so I don’t have to have these thoughts any more. I have a little stashed away from Sunday’s football game, or was that last week. I don’t remember. I only have a little money left from my winnings and can’t afford to buy any more coke, or get caught trying to steel someone else’s stash again. Now where did I put that stuff? I remember wrapping it up and putting my precious parcel in the dresser, or did I put it in the closet? My God, I hope I didn’t leave my stash in someone else’s room by mistake.

Why am I lying on this damn bed shaking and sweating? I stink and I need a shower, but I haven’t got the energy to drag my sorry ass down the hall to the bathroom. I can’t find my stash. I won’t be able to function. Everyone is laughing at me. My nose is running.

Finally, I feel sleep coming on. I’m so tired. I think I’m dreaming. I’m a fly caught in a web of shredded marijuana leaves. I want to get away, but my wings are entangled. The only way to get loose is to break my wings as I struggle to get free, but then I will lose the part of me that can climb higher and higher and feel great.

What should I do? My Quanta, the sub atomic particles of my essence, are colliding with the little that is left of my senses. I’m shrinking. I’m stuck in a rut of my own making. Slowly, I lift one foot off the bed to the floor and try to stabilize myself, but that isn’t helping. I must be having some kind of drug-induced reaction, or am I in a trance. Who’s that whispering? I can hear you. I know you’re talking about me.

Oh God, I hope I remember where I put my stash.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Tantalizing Droplets of Divinity - Excerpt Johnny Oops


Tantalizing droplets of divinity spewed forth from my mouth as I, the Guru of unlimited renown, pontificated on the virtues of Dialectic Kabbalah Spiritualism. I must admit I was in rare form as I mesmerized my flock. The faithful had gathered by the thousands at the Civic Center Band Shell in LA to hear my words of wisdom. The event was to be broadcast nationally on TV and carried internationally by satellite. Standing at the podium of the amphitheater, I was in my element.

Jody was seated on a platform to my right with half a dozen local dignitaries including the mayor, holding Johnny Junior, who dressed for the occasion in a Baby Dior white silk tennis outfit, part of the ten percent of baby gifts that were not returned. He was registering his disapproval of my message and perhaps me the Messenger with a loud cry that sometimes turned into a screeching wail.

Jody whispered to Johnny Junior, “Please be quiet darling. Your father is speaking and he has the word.”

Johnny Junior must’ve thought he had the word too. I observed him out of the corner of my eye as he burped it out in a cascade of milky vomit all over Jody’s pink linen dress. She didn’t seem to mind, she was listening intently to me.

I launched into a long diatribe on the virtues of touching someone you cared about as part of a commitment to a reasoned faith in God. I managed to leave out the part about private parts and substituted the words private essentials. I said to my flock, “It is essential that you touch the people that you love in their private essentials.”

I went on to say, “I have an abiding faith in Spiritualism in the Dialectic Kabbalah format as a means to an end in and of itself.”

I put forth the proposition that self-gratification, self-expression and self-aggrandizement are legitimate tenets of a caring group of individualists and that people should not be mocked or disdained for the selfishness they exhibited.

“Being selfish is only natural,” I said.

I noticed Jody grimacing at me out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t let this interfere with my speech.

“How else are we going to learn to take care of number one first and foremost? If we of a higher intellect and calling don’t do this, what will happen to the future? Who will care for the generations to come if we lose our inspiration? It is in the best interest of all that we concern ourselves with our own self-interest first. Let the devil take those who get left behind. They are of no consequence. It is only us that count: we of superior intellect, who have received the word of the Messenger.”

The audience, which up until then appeared mesmerized by my eloquence, erupted with a giant sigh of relief, years of guilt lifting from their minds. Cheers went up from the crowd followed by round after round of applause.

This emboldened me to offer an encore. “My fellow geniuses, thank you for the wisdom you have chosen in applauding my words. May the gift of knowledge I have given you today stay fresh in each and every one of your minds. May you keep your hearts out of your thinking and your peckers in your pants.”

“To those amongst us who are women and do not have a pecker, I implore you to reach out and touch someone. In this respect it’s important to remember to protect yourself. It’s a cruel world out there. Be careful, uncontrolled touching can be dangerous to your health. Only touch someone you love and trust and who loves you back when they touch you in your private parts.”

I was thrilled that all of this got through the censors. I surmised that the censors were mesmerized by the speech too, didn’t want to be spoil sports, or were afraid of not being recognized as part of the chosen flock, and thus being relegated to the whims of the devil. I guess we have to keep in mind that this is LA and almost anything is permissible if popular. This is the West Coast form of political correctness, I think.

The applause that followed this last epistle on touching private parts with love and trust, was equivalent to a category 8.5 earthquake or a hurricane with winds of 300 miles an hour. It went on and on and on. I bowed to the audience and said, “My people I get your drift. I’m with you.” I was on a role. I was unstoppable.