A Collection of GONZO: Short Stories With a Twist FREE DL @ amazon

FREE E-BOOK THAT YOU ASKED FOR GLP, SO I DELLIVERED ON MY PROMISE!!! MODS, PLEASE DON'T BANE, DELETE ME! DL the book fo FREE!

[link to www.amazon.com]


here an excerpt, the forward in the e-book actually, that started the whole book rolling:

A Foreword:

“An Ode to My GLP Friends” (A.k.a. "A GLP Wednesday Morning")

Startled by the sharp pain in my gut, I spring out of bed, grab my iPhone, and instinctively head towards the shitter. Passing the sliding glass window leading out onto the balcony, I deduce from the lack of light outside that my melatonin supplement has again failed to provide a full night's rest. Disappointed, but undeterred, I make my way into the restroom, drop trough, and nestle myself onto the Great Seat of Clarity.
The emptying of my bowels takes less than 25 seconds, as most of the work is completed in the first moments of hover, however my work in this place is far from over. I bring up my Wi-Fi settings, only to swap it off and opt for the slower 3G coverage. Somehow, I have managed to become an IP address enemy of the site which I have grown to become addicted to.
Over the last 3 months, I have accrued a love/hate relationship with GLP, which has brought forth many new changes in my habits, from Illuminati spotting to monitoring my data plan to make sure I don't hit any overage fees for the month. One of my favorite changes, however, comes not in the form of information or awareness, but in community.
I've probably only posted 10 or so times, but I've spent countless hours recently immersing myself in the background here at GLP. Many of you have become pseudo-mentors and heroes to me, albeit unknowingly. Some of you have even become my new sub-set of dream-women, sparked by a hot avatar picture, a propensity for the weird, and a simple claim of "Yes, I'm a woman!" (One of the hottest phrases a GLP'er can read on this site)
Finishing up my morning business, I opt for a cold shower over the hot, for 3 new Doom posts have rendered me with a full-on fear-ection. Maybe today will finally be the day...
Stepping out of the shower, I smell like a combination of Old Spice and New Spice, the scent of which immediately brings life back into my loins. Feeling like a million bucks of non-fiat currency, I head to the closet to choose the attire of the day.
As I look through my closet for the perfect button-up shirt, I realize that I'm no different than any other GLP'er with one exception; I put my pants on with no hands, and rarely get my dick caught in the zipper. Funny, for as different as we all are, we all feel the same pain during accidental genital mutilation.
The moral of this story is, there is no moral of the story. That's another thing I've come to learn and appreciate here. Doom or no Doom, every morning I wake up I expect each and every one of you to be on your best conspiratard behavior, regardless of world events. After all, Doom is not found in Bohemian Grove, Chemtrails, UFO's, or Psy-Ops. Nay, true unconditional doom lies within the hearts of those who carry its torch. To be trendy: Keep Calm and Doom On.
If I wasted a few minutes of your morning, I sincerely apologize for your poor decision to not cut and run from this thread after reading the first few sentences. As much as I love pissing people off, I wrote this in an attempt to make each and every one of you smile and feel special. Even when the shills come out in full force, and you feel obligated to refresh your thread every 60 seconds to defend your position against a half-retard, just know that there is someone out there like me, taking a very meaty dump, and anxiously awaiting your reply.

Much Love to you all, I hope you all wake up inspired today, and every day.










Act I

“In Retrospect…”


Chapter 1:
Here we Go…

I’ve read a lot of quotes from a lot of writers that the blank page is the most intimidating part of the writing process. On the contrary, I’ve always found the blank page to be the best part, enticing me in and supplying endless freedom to roam. In my mind, I’m a lot taller than I am in real life, and I can stretch my mental legs endlessly from here. Especially on a computer; I can remember the days when a pen and pad was used, and I would be running through trees wastefully, as I wrote a line, scribbled it out and then, rather than starting right underneath the mistake, I would toss the hideous sight into the trash. Just start it off right, I reassured myself, and it’s all downhill from there; Or uphill, depending on the context. Dammit, start over.
When I was little, probably 5 or 6, I remember telling my granddad that I thought the U.S.A. looked just like a backwards Texas, only without a cowboy hat. I wonder if the geographical map of a place can actually sum up the stereotypes of the people who call it home. I can’t help but notice that the continent of Africa resembles a giant “Thumb’s Down” while the contiguous U.S. looks like a giant “Thumb’s Up” taking a shit in the Atlantic Ocean. I also can’t help but to believe that Italy looks like a Stiletto, and Louisiana looks like a work boot that has had the toe bitten off by an alligator.
I love short bursts of information, and also comedy. Don’t get me wrong, I still love the occasional “hang in there” joke if it’s really good, but for the most part I tend to lean towards the brief. Mitch Hedberg was, is, and always will be one of the funniest men to walk the face of the Earth, in my opinion. Mitch was famous for his one-liners, though he was far from the first to settle in that niche, he did, in my mind, perfect the art. He died much too young, unfortunately, but one can argue that his legacy will last much longer than even Mitch himself could anticipate. A few of my favorite Mitch Hedberg jokes are as follows:
I saw a commercial on late night TV that said, “Forget Everything You Know about Slip Covers…” so I did, and it was a load off my mind. Then later, that company tried to sell me Slip Covers, but I didn’t know what the hell they were!
I find that ducks’ opinion of me is very heavily influenced by whether or not I have bread. A duck loves bread but he does not have the capability to buy a loaf. That is the biggest joke on the duck ever. If I worked at a convenience store, and a duck walked in and grabbed a loaf of bread with his beak, I’d be like, “No problem! Come back tomorrow, and bring your friends!”
I like to wear this pass because it lets me know when I’m upside down.
This shirt is dry clean only, which means it’s dirty.
I like Rice; Rice is great when you’re hungry and you want 2000 of something.
I think Pringles original intention was to make tennis balls, but on the day of the day that the rubber was supposed to show up a big truck full of potatoes arrived, and Pringles said, “Fuck it, Cut’em up!”
The best part about a Mitch Hedberg joke was trying to slip them into conversations in your everyday life. They weren’t the long, drawn out types that, when trying to recite to friends, a lot of times we end up looking like complete idiots when attempting to gain a laugh or two. No these are pure, solid, comedy gold in powder form. You can ingest it, or shoot it in your veins, but I wouldn’t recommend the latter, for safety’s sake. I remember one in particular that I was able to slip into a completely random conversation with a stranger, and I saw it was good.
I was in New Orleans, a place I lived for only a few months before I fell victim to the lure of the city’s nightlife, as I naively though I wouldn’t, ended up out of work, searching for a job, and not having much luck. So I did what any reasonable American 23 year old would do, and sold a few of the nicer button-up shirts I had at the time for a couple of twenty dollar bills, and headed down to the casino to start my million dollar net-worth, or at least that was the plan. I arrived at Harrah’s, the famous one, in the French Quarter, and was admiring the pageantry and decadence of my surroundings while I was heading in. I’d been in before, but New Orleans is truly one of those places that, unless you were born and raised there, it takes your breath away every moment you are there.
As I made my way out of the parking garage, into and back out of the elevators, and into the casino, I headed down the twisting corridors eventually leading up to the casino. The last section was a zig zag of escalators, no more than 20 feet high each. In front of me, a beautiful young brunette woman. She smelled like lust, and looked even more fierce. As we arrived at the start of the conveyor, a sign blocked our path reading, “Escalator Temporarily Out of Service” As soon as I saw it, although I immediately laughed on the inside, thinking of Mitch’s funny joke, I wasn’t itching to do anything but enjoy that simple pleasure and keep on track, but then something happened; she acknowledged the sign, verbally. “Escalator Temporarily out of Service?” she said, out of obvious contempt. Here was my chance. I didn’t even think of the potential rewards or consequences of my action, but I had to say it:
“Escalators can never be ‘Temporarily Out Of Service’; They can only become stairs… Sorry for the convenience!”
Muhammad Ali probably wasn’t the greatest boxer of all time, but damn it all if you wouldn’t know it while watching him fight. The man had something that couldn’t be earned in a sweaty, damp boxing gym during countless hours of training. What Ali had that no one else did, was his personality. Formed both in his conscious and unconscious since he was a baby, the swagger and grace that he exhibited during his exhibits was second to none in the pages of history. He coined the “Rope-A-Dope”, in which he played tired, weak, and defenseless in order to lure his opponents themselves into vulnerable positions, when Ali would then seize the opportunity to display amazingly talented offensive fighting skills.
It was those fighting abilities, the ones that he actually did earn through the sweat and long hours of work that showed to be the primary factor in whether or not he won the fight. One could even go further and argue that the total of all of his careers fights, all these mini-stories, compiled together and placed against his peers, would be able to set him in stone as the greatest ever, but still that was not the case. Numbers can always be debated and argued, ironically, in sports. The definition in itself of a number is a finite and uniform idea. My numbers are the same as a Chinese man’s numbers, although we call them different things, we still agree on the system of numbers as a whole. First glance logic would tell you that should make judging who is best and who is not in sports very easy, just go to the stats, but we all know that is simply not the way it works. Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever, and most people to this day agree. But, if we are being honest, it’s not because of his championships or his records or any of that. No, it’s the way he did it that, that all of us have seen on the television again and again, over, and over, and over… and it never gets old. If anyone asks me if Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever, I will, at this moment, say yes definitively. If you ask me If Muhammad Ali is the greatest boxer of all time, I’ll also tell you yes, but I won’t argue it, because after all, you just have to see it to know what I mean anyways.





Chapter 2:
Anger much?

45 Credit Hours, 6 years, and 4 universities later; all I’ve got to show for it is a shitty attitude and a lot of dildo jokes. Twenty-three: Something about that age seemingly implies that you are no longer special. You start to
realize that not only were your childhood dreams of becoming an archaeologist total bullshit, but your new adult dreams of being able to forget to take a check to the bank have all but vanished too. If it’s not stack of student loan envelopes collecting on your dresser that weigh on you, it’s probably the shitty excuse for a job market. Whatever it is, I have come to find that it can be a total mind-fuck.



Over this past Christmas, it occurred to me that the “White Elephant Game” is really a tool designed by the Baby Boomers to keep us 23 year-olds in check. “Are you coming to granddads this year...We’re doing White Elephant again, the limit is 10 dollars.” This year I got a topsy-turvy, just in case I decide to grow upside down tomatoes. Last
year I got a Frank Sinatra album. Twenty-three seems to bring about that boy-man awkwardness similar to what you experienced when you got your first boner the week before the big Y2K sleepover. Do you buy everyone Christmas presents, or just your immediate family? How much
do you spend? Was the ounce of Northern Lights you bought for yourself perhaps a bit selfish? Seriously…Nothing says I love you more than a 10 dollar gift card to
Academy Sports and Outdoors. As far as getting your friends gifts, use the general rule of thumb that consumable gifts are never tacky.
Don’t be afraid to take risks, especially the really big ones. I sent my resume and application to an upstart internet venture to sell advertising in my local market yesterday. On the additional document upload page, the description asked if there were any other documents I felt necessary for the position. I decided that clearly they were imploring that I create a document named “ihopethisgetsmehired.doc”
containing a picture of me absolutely inebriated during a best man toast in Destin this past summer with a caption reading, “40 time: 5.22” I did not receive a callback.








Chapter 3:
Steve Wutabi

Driving up in his 4 cylinder gas saver, Steve Wutabi pulls into a large retail business parking lot and parks at the far edge, strategically in a corner of the lot. He gets out of his vehicle, reaches under the seat, and pulls out a small briefcase; hops back in the car and opens up the three digit combination…4-2-0. Inside the case is a neatly organized variety of a few pipes, a couple bags of different types of weed, an aerosol air freshener, a couple bottles of Visine, a bottle of cologne, a stick of deodorant, a rap CD, several lighters, and few loose cigarettes, and his work schedule. He opens up the work schedule and works his finger over the dates.

“7 to 7...” he states in anguish. “Miss Maui Mist, it’s gonna be that kind of day” He pulls out the smaller bag of weed, clearly a much better quality, and begins to break up a small portion in the bottom of the briefcase. “Everybody works on Wednesday,” he tells himself assuredly. Wutabi, now looking over a sufficient baby mountain of beautiful herb, puts away the remaining bud in the bag and stashes it away in the briefcase. He then turns the attention to the pipe selection.

“Tony Dromo or Adrian Weederson…” He studies his options for a few minutes, and then blurts out, “How bout them Cowboys baby!”
He pulls out the blue pipe (Dromo), and loads it with the pile of grass. He looks at his finished product with bright eyes, and then diverts his attention quickly to the CD in his briefcase. He takes it out and pops it in the CD player in his car and swaps it over to his favorite song. Before the song begins, he quickly pulls the pipe up to his mouth, lighter in hand, and mutters softly but confidently, “Gonna be a good day.”
Smoking the bowl in his car, he begins to dance and recite his favorite lyrics, eyes getting lower and grin getting wider by the second.
When the bowl is cashed out, he blows the ashes outside onto the ground, pops the CD out, and places everything back in the briefcase exactly as it was. He pulls out the deodorant and applies it, and then reaches onto the seat next to him where his work shirt rests neatly folded. He puts his shirt on, sprays some cologne, and then applies the air freshener to his car. With a quick snap, the briefcase is placed back under the seat, and Steve Wutabi pops out of his car. With his keys in his pocket, he glances at his watch; “6:58!” He heads off towards the huge entrance at the front of the building, ready to start his work day.

Last Edited by SteveWutabi on 04/30/2013 02:42 AM