People Suck

By John Rickel

Twenty some odd 5th graders lives are psychologically deconstructed by their particular preferred writing utensil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483535494

Book preview

9781483535494

Miss Boswell smelt of mothballs and un-wiped ass.

This eye-sore wore the same white and blue floral print moo-moo daily to teach her disgruntled 5th graders.

Her fat folds oozed out over her reinforced chair and that wretched tattered wooden desk she must have had since the birth of Methuselah...Miss Boswell’s cottage-cheese-cellulite avalanched over her Jabba the Hutt-like figure, draping these grotesque signature furniture pieces that took root in the floorboards of this institution.

Those goddamn piggy arms of hers were so engorged with ‘adiposis edematosa’ that she could not even raise either one of her fat hands to straighten the cheap and extremely tacky gray woman’s hairpiece that hung awkwardly over her eyes making the whereabouts of her one uncrossed eye’s gaze unknown, which was creepily despotic.

This was America’s finest at work.

A group of ten year olds was under the tutelage of this dumb cunt, which was not abnormal but, merely, par for course of the American educational system. I, however, secretly wanted to smear Smucker’s apricot jelly in-between all of her fat rolls.

There was a very deep feeling...a raucous group consensus or collective unconsciousness of sorts, if you will, amongst my fellow classmates.

Vengeful feelings emanated towards Miss Boswell. Our class took action in a summoning of an unspoken symphony by strategically pin pricking a Miss Boswell replica paper machete Voodoo doll that I had constructed during an evening of boredom. The doll was the size of a small pumpkin and was made with hopes of eliciting biblical-like plagues upon her.

This horrific fantasy moratorium amongst my fellow 5th graders, had summoned such vengeful retaliatory behavior due to being sodomized by Mr. Gonzalez who was Miss Boswell’s first cousin on her mother’s side who married her out of love...this is painful to recall so I will take a brief break and try and push on when I get to the next paragraph.

Mr. Gonzalez was a miser priest and went by Father Gonzalez. This goddamn dumb Mexican and fucking doddering dandy of a Catholic Priest (can you believe that he didn’t even have a Green Card?) was recruited, hired, and educated by the Catholic Church specifically to sell field trips to 5th graders. He was given copious amounts of chloroform and a professional film crew to record every unconscious moment.

Needless to say, hordes of tiny innocent little sphincters throughout America had been thoroughly pummeled and bludgeoned bloody.

Our class was sodomized in broad daylight outside of a goddamn Kaleidoscope of all places while we lay defenseless inside a yellow school bus.

This field trip had been sold to our class and paying parents, if you could call the majority of them ‘parents’ considering most of them were former felons, current addicts, or suffering from a cornucopia of other undiagnosed mental abnormalities...with that said the trip was billed to all those who might foot the bill as: Blossoming solidarity for Christ...A trip for Salvation.

So, uhh, yeah...like totally...Mr. Gonzalez’s fiery auto crash curtailed our murder fantasy.

Will it matter to you if I share the name of the town that I am referring to, where all our innocence had been ravaged by a man of the cloth?

If George Orwell, the monolithic pop-culture icon that he was, gave a wizened, art therapy-like characterlogical assessment (pre-dating The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory [MMPI] and other whack-ass-jerk-off-psych-exams that anyone would be bored to taking) of our 5th grade class it would look like the following:

Susie Tanner: (Nickname: Fish Lips): Susie’s lips seemed to have access to puberty prior to any other part of her body, hence the nickname, which she didn’t care for.

She preferred to doodle with a blue Bic ballpoint pen.

This bland drawing utensil would be utilized to create tapestries revealing how Susie empathically ritualistically and habitually fantasized about being driven around in convertibles with much older men that had overdeveloped jaw lines.

Susie was a dumb bitch and liked being a cheerleader and after a ten year stint of having her own cooking channel, obviously later in life, she would then go onto become a republican politician whose husband would be killed by Colombian drug lords (reference class mate Fabio Machado).

Her horribly unlucky beau, prior to his believe it, or not, homicide did have at least a sliver of the American pie—success in owning, albeit briefly, a very successful chain of laundromats.

At least Susie’s husband Biff Dingleberry, prior to murder, had been a leading member of Beta-Kappa-Bang-A-Pie, or some shit, and was a handsome fellow, until his head was purposefully blown off with a high powered pistola.

As one can imagine, this loss fucked with Susie’s emotional life and spilled over into her career, finding her being forced to entrust psychiatry, hence a nearly deadly benzodiazepines addiction.

These tragedies in her life would unfold within under a fourteen day period.

When Susie and Biff’s children (18 year old twin girls) decided to join Green Peace...and while they were en route to Argentina to help the children of war during the Dirty War of Argentina, or was it...? Either way they died miserably in a plane crash.

Over the days following...Susie would doggedly attempt to revive herself but ultimately she blew her brains out with her husband’s gold plated Desert Eagle .45 caliber that had been given to him by his pledge brothers back in ‘duh-day.’ It was given during his college years for drinking the most beer while upside down on his head as he courageously battled an inverted gravity beer bong.

With all that said kids—watch out for that old standard bland blue Bic pen.

HARK—This should be a proof for god’s existence and we should all take turns sodomizing Mr. Pascal Wager and just get the fuck on with it and head to Circus Circus in Las Vegas and go bungee jumping.

One child down and only a shit ton more to go so be patient, or: (A). Fuck OFF! (B). Tune into TMZ and watch that fucking imbecile douche-bag who faggotly drinks from that fucking day-glow plastic cup-straw-libation-idiot-capsule-contraption audaciously taking queerly huge refreshing tugs from this twink-cock-phallic-straw while he talks to his perfectly hand plucked homogenous crew into the eye of the vacuous camera: (Check: 1. Fat Mexican with Fu Man Chu. 2. Blonde Surfer dude. 3. Mulatto chick. 4. Guy from Inland Empire that wears a gray sweatshirt and flat-billed black hat. 5. Queer blonde hair guy that talks confidently at an octave too high. 6. A guy with a beard and black rimmed classes. 7. I am going to fucking vomit if I continue! (Silver Lake, California [check], Echo Park, California [check], Atwater Village, California [check].)

All these human waste products and unfortunately many more cast of cunts, now encompass more than a fair share of our—NEWS—but...on the bright side...at least there is a talking head dumb cunt representing every racial demographic faction that could be imagined within our fuck-tard human zoo that fits perfectly—to draw in these drooling automaton lemming viewers with a perfectly personified manufactured presentation to a fucking projectile vomiting—T. They too, yes, and even you...you...and you fellow fuck-tard humans, can DREAM BIG and hope to be a fat black woman who is WORLD FAMOUS and most importantly ‘GO FUCK YO-SELF RIEUUCH BITCH!’

Billy Termaine: (Nickname: Nigger Face): Billy was my friend and I am not just saying that to ward off the NAACP.

We genuinely liked stealing shit from the local 7-11 together.

Moreover, Billy is the one that told me he liked to go by ‘Nigger Face.’

Allegedly he was the vaudeville descendent of actor John McCullough.

I wouldn’t know this for a few months, until after I started doing his math homework; everyone’s for that matter.

A year prior via an invisible shoulder genie I found out that his stripper crack whore mother began dating a white pimp who hated black people.

Go figure.

Who knew we had so much in common (no not Common the rapper...you goddamn media sheep!).

Jenny ain’t from this block bitches so bow-down—Arrf!

That was embarrassing for me to think...let alone type out.

Alas, Jenny in my opinion is still a triple threat (she can sing, dance, and act) what a dumb fucking cunt (golf clap).

I am currently drinking mother fucking Cîroc—Gyeah!...

I mother fucking told you that shit was continued—

As if I don’t have da-juice!

$$--product placement

Bitche$—brought to you by your fucking mama.

Billy Termaine was a fuck-tard to topple all fuck-tards.

He preferred to draw in yellow, which may be insight into his peeing fetish that developed around when he was twenty-five...just prior to falling victim to crack cocaine (as well) and an eventual brutal fatal mugging.

Billy’s yellow Crayola would bleed its hardened colored wax into the white paper as his heavy handed tip traced forced choreographed color images of fantasies of German shepherds eating his mother’s pimp.

Good egg that one.

Jessica Stamp: (Nickname: Tramp Stamp): I mean come on...you had to see that one coming from a mile away.

How many times have we heard: "Children are so....cruel!" I wonder why? Because: Children are the future!

Who raises these little people...that’s a rhetorical back-handed comment for all the dip-shits that should have either aborted, committed suicide, or fucking learnt how to read.

Jessica loved to use numerous crayons and was actually the first person who introduced me to a Sharpie marker.

I attribute her future diagnosis of Schizophrenia to the fact that she liked to draw images of Vanilla Ice and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.

The tip of her brain was just too small to hold all the big ideas that Hip Hop had presented her.

She was fucked based purely on her taste in music...next—

Sheryl Upton: (Nickname: Hot!): Sheryl was part Mexican and something else. She had fiery green eyes and was a snappy dresser.

I liked her and she was smart enough to never pay me the time of day (except when she’d pay me from her mother’s Vicodin stash for doing her math homework).

Sheryl’s psyche [I just vomited in my own mouth as I am teleported to some Jungian conference that is transpiring at an International Airport Express Holiday Inn in a town near you] was superior to mine but she sucked at math...alas—Sheryl could still color with appropriate acuity of a young girl who knew how to be both methodical and crafty.

She was of sound mind and body as a child.

Sheryl drew highly articulate blue prints on large sheets of white architect paper...in pencil.

Sheryl’s parents refused to put her in public school because they were bourgeoisie intellectual architects that liked to brag to their friends while at wine and cheese parties. They would go on and on about how their children thrived amongst commoners.

This strict regimen of economic educational martyrdom (E.E.M.) didn’t keep them from adorning her with tutors, tennis lessons, and a pony.

Sheryl gave the #2 pencil its pride back.

Shawn Enterkin: (Nickname: No...the other one): Shawn liked purple, blue, and tan.

He would turn out to be a closeted repressed homosexual that would go on and marry a woman and have three kids.

Shawn visited bathhouses, alleyways, and glory holes whenever he could.

Pauline Enterkin: (Nickname: No...the other one): Pauline and Shawn were twins.

They looked as different as Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger but allegedly they had the same parents.

Pauline looked like a bull dyke trucker (a prelude/foreshadowing to her chosen profession).

She didn’t like to draw but when she did she did it very poorly and without panache.

Her favorite color was turquoise.

Pauline fancied herself drawing dicks, big muffs (no not what you're thinking; BIG MUFF the guitar effect pedal...odd, but true) and semi-tractor trailer trucks, or eighteen wheelers.

Sadly Pauline would die from being electrocuted in an electrical-fire that was truly a ‘freak’ accident that transpired during the filming of Michael Jackson’s infamous Pepsi commercial where she was working as a Grip while on her third union job during some downtime out west from her Truckin’ gig.

I however, wasn’t sad when I heard the news.

Fabio Machado: (Nickname: Immigrant): Fabio was an exchange student who had arrived from Brazil in a sack of coffee beans.

How fucking stupid is that?

Anyway he was treated accordingly at Comanche (Grade School) in rural Kansas.

I thought Fabio looked way to different to be a complete ass-wipe but I couldn’t understand him and I hated foreigners...imagine that.

Nevertheless, Fabio loved yellow, blue, green, and white. Go figure!

Fabio would become a future billionaire via cocaine trafficking and owning over two hundred Starbucks and three hundred and fifty Subway franchises all throughout Florida.

I admired him for that and was elated to find out that Biff Dingleberry (Susie Tanner’s future husband) would fall prey to his hand; La Machete.

To be continued...

Van Cecile: (Nickname: All American Super Duper Star): Van was the Captain of all things academic and sports-like. Whatever he drew—it was ‘da bomb’ (not an explosive device...it’s a euphuism for being—cool). There was something particularly outstanding about Van’s ability to work the color pallet, but being he was pre-ordained for sports, and an—eternity of hell—his ability was kept under wraps. So it will only be shared here once that Van’s mother was a descendant of Edgar William Leeteg (the father of American Velvet painting).

Mark Dario: (Nickname: Lurch): Mark was...

Fuck it!—I have to expel a serious load and I am at a fucking horrible Starbucks in Santa Monica, California.

Goddamn it!

But I don’t want to get up because one of these two entitled flippant teenage twat-like Persian girls asked me if I was using an electrical outlet for...electricity...for my computer as she simultaneously traced the power cord from the wall socket to my Toshiba lap-top and to my eyes...more than once to which I responded: I am using it. She then looked into my eyes and traced the power cord again and hovered over me as if I was going to be bullied by her stupidity, or believed in chivalry...eat a bag of dicks!

Fucking really!?

What the fuck [##wtf—##lol—##omg!]!

I hate fucking people.

I hate stupid people.

I am a forty year old unemployed over educated tattooed white boy that had to break my writing—flow—because of a fucking turd and a goddamn ignorant Camel Jockey!

In the desert the Camel is a god and far superior than I. She is unaware of loneliness, time, (I-Phones, Smartphones, and other shit) and thirsts for no water.

—Persian Parable

Having to shit makes me prejudice—so be it—I carry the white man’s burden and I am sure I will be sodomized yet again shortly by the good life.

Persian girl update: I am fighting the good fight of trying to distract myself from the surly unrelenting demanding cross-fit eco-challenge of a furious turd.

I am unable to remove myself from the chair, though; I know I will have ‘to go’ in my pants in the next thirty-two seconds.

But!

I have to prove my point—so I stayed just long enough to get the needed research completed.

And can you believe that all these two dumb twats wanted to do was to recharge their goddamn Smartphones so they could sit across from each other while intermittently looking up to briefly engage in weird ‘bird talk’...every fifteen seconds...giggle at each other—while they then turned right back to their goddamn ‘hand held devices,’ only to turn them back around to show the other...uni-brow nuisance waste of life...precisely what they had...just fucking wrote! #Texted, #Tweeted, #Instagrammed, #Facebooked—#WTF##............... Ever! As opposed to ditching the technology and communicating like a goddamn normal ‘old school’ human being. I hate them!

[Steve Jobs has a hard-on in heaven right now.]

I want to make them both strawberry crack whore prostitutes after I take a large shit in both of their pussies.

I lost this fight...but I will not lose the war.

Off to shit [Hash-Tag].

My publisher—Penguin Books—(you lying sack of shit...you self-publish...you suck too bad to have a publisher!) has just informed me, after faxing them a brief glimpse of this piece of life changing enriching literature and...they expletively fucking bashed me how it was just too racially charged for them to support.

I pleaded with my agent slash publisher—whatever—to see the absurdity in the absurdity...we argued and I got off my old flip phone yelling: "I gotta SHIT! NOW! POP-WILL-EAT-ITSELF!"

I don’t know why I said that but being full of shit has seen me belt out way worse expletive statements.

Walking like a uptight penguin to my car in the parking lot next to American Apparel on main street in Santa Monica...

Thought Bubble: Maybe these two delectable thoughtful twats were on a break from the ever glorious hip American Apparel? (I gotchu...I gotchu!)

Low and behold in that little pay-to-park lot where I have refused to pay for parking ever since they upgraded that particular parking lot from having individual meters to an all-inclusive pay center that is shaped like a fucking retarded greedy maniacally evil gray R2D2 automated machine that not only takes...change, bills, but...and of course—credit

Reviews for People Suck

[Smb. · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Funny grimy fun