Tuesday, May 24, 2011

O. P. Harris: Notes From the Daxophone


5/24/11   


 It’s almost 1 PM and I’m sitting on my couch in my bathrobe with a cup of cold coffee, writing this “article” I claimed to have already assembled in my head, but the reality is I’ve been putting it off.  This may be because I don’t enjoy hurting people’s feelings, but that is demonstrably untrue.
    I’m pretty far-flung in this fucked-up quadrangle, being on the opposite coast of everyone else involved.  This means I have the benefit of 3 hours more time on deadlines, and I can play the “oh, I thought you meant PST!” card when I don’t care, which is most of the time.  It also means I can talk extra shit without fear of meaningful retribution.
    Isolation has its benefits, but it also means I’m in a kind of stasis where observation of these clowns has been impossible for near a year.  I bet they’ve become even worse than I’m about to tell you.
    It was hard to boil these guys down into such small bursts of failure-highlight, but that’s why I’m glad we were all enumerating eachothers’ faults: I neglected to capture Heartman’s general dissatisfaction with every decision made by the entire world, or Van’s reclusive basement-caveman slobbery properly, because I’ve become so far removed from these daily realities. 
    It’s been wonderful.
    Glenside has already put his stamp of bullshit at the head of this blog: general glib douchery dispensed from the depths of the fart cloud in his parents’ basement, and I’m here as the rear guard against such phoniness.  I’m not going to bullshit you like these goons; I promise that all that follows from me is the honest-to-Me truth.  Prepare for Truth Lightning Bolts, thrown from on high by O.P. Harris, Son of Dax, the Real Deal on all these herbivores I call my friends (when no one’s around).
    This may be Portland, but this ain’t Portlandia.  This is KWIH.  Buckle up, fuckers.

The Men of KWIH
MATTHEW GLENSIDE   
I remember seeing him “accidentally” light a guy’s head on fire one time.  “Accidentally” means he held an aerosol can and a lighter next to the guy’s face, lit the flame and sprayed the can, and when the fireball wiped out the kid’s eyelashes and several locks of hair, he smiled and laughed incredulously, and said “Oops!” That was it.  To this day, he doesn’t understand why the guy was “so upset.”  Fuck Matthew Glenside.
    This is the kind of shit he pulls on people, because he has no compassion or concern for fellow man.  If you're lucky, he'll just ask you to take a naked picture in a bathroom and text it to him.  That is the most regard I've ever heard of him showing a person.  One time his little sister, excited to see her brother, came out to say hi and probably give him a hug, big smile on her face.  Without batting a lash, he proceeded to kick a soccer ball RIGHT in her face, after which she ran inside crying.  Instead of apologizing and feeling like a major asshole, he belly laughed.
    I’ve been friends with him for eleven years, and you know what he got me for my birthday? Nothing.  Ever.  Not that I’d want anything from him, but one year we were hanging out in his room and at midnight, I realized it was my birthday.  You know what I got? “Happy fuckin’ birthday,” and then he turned back to his computer. 
    Now I’ve met lightweights in my life, but Matthew Glenside is the absolute pansiest drinker I’ve ever met in my life.  I mean, get two drinks in this guy, he’s loudly interrupting (more than usual), stumbling, his eyes are just rolling around in his head, and utterly embarrassing all who know him.  When he’s had enough, he makes Tony look like a fucking sober-ass genius. 
    On one particular evening, at the local bar I hung out in my neighborhood, he took the trouble to finally visit me for the second of two times I saw him that year (because oh yeah, making this guy drive anywhere is like asking him to move the world), he proceeded to alienate the entire crowd and fall on his ass over a chain barrier outside.  He was so bad the bartender gave me a free drink to take him home.  I carried his stupid hairy ass across town and got him into a friend’s apartment, and called his girlfriend to drag him away.  On the way out to her car, still holding his staggering lumpy body, he proceeded to puke in a plastic indoor plant, mostly, but also on the carpeting in the hallway.  I have photographs of this, and they will be attached if I have anything to say about it.
   Over the years I have received a lengthy, continuous series of calls from his girlfriends of various repute (you wouldn’t believe the number of girls this guy would be married to at this point, if he ever went through with it) bitching about how much of a selfish prick Matthew is.  It’s at the point that I can forecast the breakups (the first breakup with each, at least) based on a combination of similar comments he will make, things the girlfriends will say, and frequency of both.  I think that’s probably why he stopped introducing me to them, though it could also be that he’s so pigheaded he thinks that, as a matter of course, I’M interested in whatever latest scrappy pale crackhead he’s dragged into his parents’ basement (where he has lived his troll-like life as long as I’ve known him) and slobbered on. 
    Matthew Glenside looks like a hairy Muppet.  He makes a point of showing everyone he’s ever known his repulsively hairy ass.  Classic description: it looks like he sat on a black cat and it never got out. This is in the top 3 list of worst things I’ve ever had to see.  Matthew Glenside is a schnozzle, and if you don’t know what that is, fuck you too.
    We started a business once, and I never saw a dime, he just bought me some groceries one time.
    He wants to work on this blog? What the fuck does he know about blogging?  Get ready for a bunch of stupid poems with goofy line breaks, and maybe a picture of blood. Probably some shit he read somewhere else and thought sounded smart.  He’s not a writer, he’s about half as cool as Axl Rose.  Who is also a schnozzle.
    All I can say is, pretty nice to be 3,000 miles away from the prick, but he still manages to find ways to make my life miserable.  He is now also my real-life boss (not here).  Fuck you, boss.
    TONY HEARTMAN
  is a whiny bitch.  He is hard to introduce to people, because sometimes he just falls flat on his face mid-sentence after having a drink.   Yeah, he actually DID this at my house one time, on hardwood.  Mid-fucking-sentence, off his chair, onto his face.  Whole room goes silent.  “Whoa, that was weird, what happened?”  Try coming back from THAT in a room full of girls.
    Are you having a nice day? Don’t worry, Tony will come over and RUIN it with a rant about something you don’t care about, or someone you don’t even know.  Arms swinging wildly all over the place, drinking most of your booze.  What a chode.
    At this point I bet you think I have a bad attitude, that I’m just being a dick.  Meet Tony sometime, and you’ll think again.  Bad attitude? I can sum him up in onomatopoeia: “Weeaahhh.” BOOOOO! Pfffffff! 
      He also has a nasty habit of wearing clown shoes and playing with action figures, also tough to explain to people.  Other than that, his hair’s kind of stupid and his voice is SUUUUPER annoying.  He’s really good at eating Wendy’s, that’s about it. Other than that, he’s amazing at embarrassing you in all company.   His heart is also completely stupid, and I hate that, too.  I have seen him hang out at playgrounds after dark.  What a creep.
VAN DUKE (OF NEW YORK)
The last time I saw Van, he was dressed like an old man.  Surprisingly, though, he looked LESS like a creepy old man than he is wont to do: he’s the only man I’ve ever seen willingly wear a comb-over.  A never-ending parade of stupid moustaches marches across his face, complimenting his sweater-vests and tailored corduroy pants. 

    Van pisses me off because he’s soft-spoken and kind (read as: “what a fag”).  I’d say deep down he’s probably hiding the heart of a serial killer, but it’s not that deep down when you dress the way he does.  Those moustaches aren’t ironic, they’re serious.  He WILL rape you in a ’78 Oldsmobile and take you apart with garden shears in the desert.  The friendly smiles and mild-mannered jokes aren’t fooling anyone, you fucking psycho.  Nice people don’t lurk; YOU lurk.  You camouflage it well, but tip-toeing around dark theaters? You ain’t fooling anyone.

    Oh, yeah, come to think of it, I’ve actually seen him get mad before.  Yep, serial killer eyes and rage. that’s it. 

    Oh, he pukes like a wuss, too.  I will say, however, that at least, unlike Heartman and mostly Glenside, he doesn’t have his head all the way up his ass and back out his mouth, which is a nice change of pace from infectious verbal diarrhea, and in Tony’s case painful infectious verbal diarrhea.

    These aren’t even my friends. Get me the fuck out of this place.

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