Wednesday, August 25, 2004

M.S.B.P.

I know that to really understand how the world works and to really understand why things happen, one must first be truly honest with one's self and be personally accountable for one's actions and one's role in the events that affect and shape one's life. After all, the reason people flock to organized religion and law and psychology in the numbers that they currently do is because more often than not, they refuse to try and find their own answers to the "why" questions that haunt them. For my part, I realize that my hyper-competitive nature and my affinity for gambling regardless of the stakes are really the two things that facilitated the situation I was in.

When my parents separated--I think I've mentioned that before--we went to family counseling. My little sister and I were told that it was to see if we could work things out as a family. In reality, it was a generally pointless exercise meant only to soften the blow of a separation that was well down its inexorable path to divorce. Well, during these tear-soaked sessions, my dad revealed--to everyone's surprise including my mother's--that he was one of only 4 documented cases in the United States of Paternal Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy (or P.M.S.B.P. as it is commonly referred to in medical journals).

Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy (http://sids-network.org/experts/msp.htm) predominantly affects women--more specifically, mothers. It manifests itself in the unintentional intentional infliction of pain, duress, or trauma on the typically younger children of the women it afflicts.

According to my father, he was the first recorded case on the west coast of the United States, let alone California. Because the syndrome tends to abate as the children get older and more self-aware and, as such, most trauma occurs during the very early years of a child's development, it was no surprise to me or the therapist that neither my sister nor I had any real recollection of incidents with our father that were consistent with P.M.S.B.P. Regardless, the family counselor told my sister and me to go home and think real hard because it would be important to understand what happened, understand that everything's okay now, understand that none of it was our fault, and understand that our father does and has always loved us.

So that's what we did. We went home, sat in the family room with my mom, and racked our brains. The counselor said I was going to be the most important piece in this psychological treasure hunt because my sister may very well have been too young to remember anything on her own and would need my more developed memory to jog hers. At first, nothing came to mind so I started thinking about all the good things about my dad and all the cool stuff we did. That's when things started to click and, consequently, where my hyper-competitiveness and penchant for gambling come in.

Until I was 10 and my sister was 8, my dad stayed home with us so he could complete his PhD in German linguistics at Berkeley. We would read, go to the park, play catch, watch old John Wayne movies when he felt like procrastinating, and play games. Games. Now things started to fall into place. I had gone to the hospital with my dad when I was little. It was always because of some game or some contest with my sister. I always thought we were at the hospital because we were rambunctious and klutzy. Maybe not.

The first incident I could recall sitting in the family room was the time I was 5 and my dad bet me $2 I couldn't eat Gatorade powder as fast as he could. He went to the pantry where my mother kept the Gatorade in a big mason jar (don't ask me why), poured out the contents equally into two bowls, told my 3 year old sister to say GO!, and stared me down...knowing I would do whatever I could to whoop his butt. My father knew me very well. GO!

We were off! My dad gave up half way through I remember. To show him I was the king, I ate the whole fucking bowl. I would have eaten the bowl itself too if I had strong enough teeth...just to rub it in. My dad graciously admitted defeat, handed over the $2 that he knew I would squirrel away in my piggy bank so I could buy toys from the Service Merchandise catalog that came two or three times a year, and went back down in the basement to conjugate more fucking verbs or whatever it was that he did.

Not 10 minutes later. Houston, we have a problem. I remember sort of sheepishly yelling down for my dad to come upstairs because I needed help. Because I was embarrassed and not yelling loud enough, he couldn't hear me. My sister could, though, and she came waddling in to see what the ruckus was. She saw me, took 10 toddler seconds to let it all sink in, and started crying hysterically. She went running for my dad. He came up about 2 minutes later with my sister half sobbing, half trying to gasp for breath. The sight must have been horrific.

There I was, five years old, perched precariously over the toilet, little blue corduroy pants half way down my legs, trying desperately to fight back the alligator tears welling up in my eyes. Apparently a cereal bowl of Gatorade powder does not sit well with the gastrointestinal system of a 5 year old boy. For, a mere 5-10 minutes after my triumph, I was met with an urgent and vexing set of circumstances that I had heretofore never faced.

The Gatorade had both upset my stomach and shot through my system like a Japanese bullet train. I had to puke and I had to take a crap. AT THE SAME EXACT TIME. And, like the sunrise, taxes, death, and Jews in Hollywood, nothing I could do was going to stop it. The dilemma, I remember, was "which one do I do into the toilet?" I couldn't decide. I didn't know what to do. I guess I let my body decide...because as I danced the dance of 5yr old indecision, my stomach decided it had had enough

BBBBLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! BBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!

right into the toilet

Now here's the problem: once you lose control of one bodily function, the others fall like Eastern block countries. In the middle of puking, my colon decided to do it's Old Faithful impression...ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit (literally)...so I quickly tried to sit down on the toilet. Unfortunately, I remember, my soft little 5 yr old bottom was slick with diarrhea. This made me slide quite a bit to the left edge of the seat when I first tried to sit down and made it so, as the next Anal Old Faithful eruption came, I was in a position to shoot Gatorade powder-infused diarrhea all over the opposite side of the toilet and the side of the vanity next to the toilet.

If things weren't already bad enough, now the dynamic duo has decided to join forces and attack at the same time. Grainy, burning diarrhea is rocketing out of my little behind which I am desperately trying to keep from slipping off the already poop-covered toilet seat while, at the same moment, my stomach is rejecting the gatorade powder like Emeka Okafor against a high school girls team and sending waves of vomit out of my mouth and into the seat of my half-pulled down blue corduroy pants and my little tighty whities.

All this took place within a 90-150 second timeframe. When the Old Faithful eruptions ceased and the Vomitorium closed for the afternoon, the eerie silence bespoke a defeated 5yr old boy and added a very interesting feel to a scene that looked less like a small apartment bathroom and more like studio space rented by Jackson Pollack.

My dad came in with my sister in his arms. He looked at me. He looked at the floor. He looked at me. He looked at the vanity. He looked at the seat of my pants. He looked at the wall across from the toilet. He looked at me and finally said, "get in the bathtub." That's when the waterworks broke loose. I remember he told me it wasn't my fault and that I should stop crying, but I couldn't. So he put my sister down, peeled my vomit and diarrhea stained clothes off my sweaty, trembling little body, picked me up, put me in the tub, and started the shower.

It took my dad like 40 minutes to get me totally clean. By the time he was done scrubbing me like a rape victim, my skin was pruned to the point where it hurt to walk on anything other than the shag carpet in the living room. "Okay, let's go."

And off we went to the pediatrics wing of Kaiser Hospital in Oakland. He carried both me and my sister into the waiting area. I remember the nurse at the window offering me a lollipop and eagerly accepting it only to yank it out of my mouth in horror when the sweetness of it hit my taste buds and made me realize that the roof of my mouth felt like it had been raked by a backhoe and my tongue was so tingly I could barely feel it.

Next thing I remember is sitting with my sister on the edge of the bed-thingy in the examination room counting the animated baseball players swinging bats on the wallpaper across from us. I was counting outloud--because that's what five year olds do I guess--and my sister would follow along mimicking me, "one, two, free, four, figh, fourty-teeuuuuu" and then giggle to herself.

It wasn't until I was in the family room with my mother and sister recalling this that I realized that, like most of the other times I would go to the hospital with my dad because of some game-playing accident, my sister and I would be alone in the exam room for what seemed like 30, 45, sometimes 60 minutes at a time. I spent the rest of the night in my room with the light off running through my memory until I fell asleep.

At the next family therapy session, the counselor asked me if I could remember anything related to my dad's P.M.S.B.P. I said I could and I related in shorter form what turned out to be a passel of strikingly similar tales of challenges, bets, games, and mishaps. Apparently, my mother had only known about a couple of these incidents because as I went through the list she became visibly more upset until she finally scooted to the edge of the couch and looked out the window toward the vacant lot across the street, weeping quietly to herself.

It wasn't until about 6 or 8 weeks ago that I found out what the real deal was...with the doctor visits, with the protracted periods alone in the exam room, with my mother crying at that, what turned out to be final, therapy session...

There is no such thing as Paternal Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. And, even if there was, my father didn't have it.

Apparently--and my mother knew about it--my father had been cheating on her while she was at work and he was finishing up his PhD. He was cheating with a pediatrics/obstetrics nurse at Kaiser. A nurse, in fact, who was assisting in the delivery room when my mother gave birth to my sister. He wasn't subconsciously getting me sick or inducing gastro-intestinal explosions because he couldn't help himself and just wanted attention from friendly helpful hospital staff. He was doing it so he would have an excuse to go to the hospital and fuck his little nurse. THAT was why we spent so much time alone in the exam room. THAT was why I never remember my dad actually filling out any paper work. And, THAT explains why my mom was unaware of so many of the incidents that came to light in the final therapy session.

What made her cry so...I don't know...so, earnestly and heart-breakingly was that all these incidents spanned a period that was at least twice as long as he had ever admitted to cheating on her for. He had been cheating on her for the better part of their marriage. He had never been faithful. He probably had never really loved her. The combination of these facts, assumptions, and realizations sent my mother into a tailspin of depression.

Since that day, I guess about 8 weeks ago, I have had to get up early so I could get her out of bed. Sometimes I wake up at 3 or 4am in a panic and run upstairs to make sure she hasn't done anything...drastic. She always took a shower without much trouble, but getting her out of bed and getting her to eat breakfast were major major chores that took hours sometimes. I constantly had to remind her that she had kids and friends and co-workers that loved her and supported her and wanted nothing but the best for her. I had to gently but firmly remind her that she had a family that depended on her. Now, I am not a crier, but in these last 8 weeks I have shed more tears with my mother in my arms than any person ever needs to shed.

I know that it has made me perpetually late. I know I've lost focus and stamina. Any time I have a chance to catch up on work I've fallen behind on, all I want to do is catch up on sleep and forget that any of this is happening. I can't say that I'm sorry that I've missed so much work and been perpetually late for everything though, because my mother is the most important person in my life. I have not and will not think twice about hoisting her, literally and figuratively, onto my back and slogging through the muddy, unstable ground of depression and despair until we get to brighter days and firmer ground. She's my mother. I owe her everything. This is the least I can do...




And that is--except for the more...ahem...floral parts of the description of the bathroom scene--exactly what I told my 1st period Spanish 3 teacher (Mr. Mueller) near the end of 3rd quarter sophomore year when he found me after baseball practice one day and told me I was failing because I hadn't shown up for 27 of 39 class days.

I cried. He cried. I apologized. He sympathized. I asked for mercy and help. He told me to take the final and write a three-page paper in Spanish on the status of Puerto Rico as an American protectorate. I thanked him profusely. Two weeks later, he gave me an A-.

Fuck Berkeley. I should have gone to Hollywood.

73 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wow....

It takes a true, and strong, man to say things like this.

I applaud you.

August 25, 2004 at 6:50 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Excellent.

Just excellent.

August 25, 2004 at 7:14 PM  
Blogger Halmustdie said...

The "He cried, I cried, I got an -A, I should have gone to Hollywood" section insinuates that this was a fabrication?

If so...damn, dude!

If not...damn, dude!

Either way, you have the makings of a writer.

August 25, 2004 at 7:33 PM  
Blogger pantypusher said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

August 25, 2004 at 8:09 PM  
Blogger jojo said...

Let this blog serve as proof of what can happen when funny people are given freedom to express themselves without having to regulate people trying too hard to impress.

August 25, 2004 at 8:40 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Amazing...I'm at a loss for words after reading that.

August 25, 2004 at 8:47 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I don't get it. Could someone please explain this to me?

August 25, 2004 at 9:08 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

To me the point isn't even whether the storywere true or not. That is just great writing. Good job. Did you come up with that on the spur of the moment when you were confronted?

August 25, 2004 at 9:30 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Brilliant.

August 25, 2004 at 9:30 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

jojo, shut up.

man, if you speak the way you type, i don't know how anyone can ever deal with your bullshit.

and nils, that was AWESOME.

August 25, 2004 at 9:38 PM  
Blogger Jordan Golson said...

Did you plan it out ahead of time?

Is it possible you just made it up on the spot?

Damn good NP.

August 25, 2004 at 10:16 PM  
Blogger Malt said...

Halfway down the post I said to myself "This has got to be bullshit" But I thought that was mean and beleived everything.

Great fucking writing.

August 26, 2004 at 12:12 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Well done. Hilarious if made up, tragic is truthful. I think it's the former, but excellent writing either way.

Moneywhore

August 26, 2004 at 12:35 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

errr.. tragic IF truthful

can't fucking spell at this hour.

MH

August 26, 2004 at 12:36 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

errr... tragic IF true. I can't fucking spell at this hour.

MH

August 26, 2004 at 1:22 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Incredible.

August 26, 2004 at 1:23 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

funny funny stuff. you will burn in hell for that.

so when is the bunny's blog going to have the "and it was all made up" epilogue?

because I still can't figure out how she danced naked with tequila in panama city with her debilitating allergy to alcohol - that is somehow abated by what looks to be a weight loss thyroid vitamin.

August 26, 2004 at 5:19 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

It makes me think of Stephen King. Anyone who can think of shit that fucked up is just not right. Great job!

August 26, 2004 at 6:06 AM  
Blogger PEtrainer said...

Super work Nils. Reel everyone in then hit hit em. Perfect execution.

-PE trainer

August 26, 2004 at 6:37 AM  
Blogger ultrabrite99 said...

I believed every word until you got to the part where your mom sank into a deep depression. But wow. That is fantastic in so many different ways. Did your parents ever find out what you had told your teacher?

August 26, 2004 at 6:42 AM  
Blogger SVD said...

Some of you are just fucking dumb. Of course it's made up. God, just fucking dumb...

/shakes head.

August 26, 2004 at 6:46 AM  
Blogger TxtBk said...

Damn you! That is so wrong!

I've just been sent on an emotional roller-coaster. I almost got misty for you! You even made poopin' seem cute and endearing.

So, so clever though. God, you scare me.

August 26, 2004 at 7:32 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

That was just brilliant. I remember times when, faced with the consequences of my deliquency, I prayed for either a hole in the ground or a story like this. I only ever came up with some lame, thin, single-use excuse. Paternal MSBP???? With a straight face and tears?? Glorious.

I'm so jealous.

August 26, 2004 at 7:39 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

You share this missive in hope of showing the vacancies of our culture and why Muslims may hate us or you just have fun being an ass?

Either way I loved this!

Suckers......

August 26, 2004 at 7:43 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Awesome dude- like an evil John Irving- just awesome.

August 26, 2004 at 7:48 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Absolutely fabulous! I'm still a little confused, but...wow.

August 26, 2004 at 8:14 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I cried. I didn't even know it was made up until I read the other comments, it never crossed my mind. I'm still sad about it even if it isn't true.

August 26, 2004 at 8:24 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

You know the feeling you had after watching the Sixth Sense for the first time; that you wanted to see it again, that you couldn't believe you didn't figure it out earlier? I feel the same way know, M. Nils Shyamalan. I've written this before, but if you're contemplating some type of written collaboration with the date-page guy, you better negotiate an 80-20 deal, in your favor, because you can write and he cannot. Good shit, as always...

August 26, 2004 at 9:07 AM  
Blogger TxtBk said...

"I have not and will not think twice about hoisting her, literally and figuratively, onto my back and slogging through the muddy, unstable ground of depression and despair until we get to brighter days and firmer ground. She's my mother. I owe her everything. This is the least I can do..."

That's the part that just twists the knife and brings it all home.

Anyone with a mother would surely feel the pangs of guilt writing that, no? I'm now convinced that someone found you being raised by goats at Cow Palace's Horse and Stock Show and tried to civilize you; thus the lack of a conscience.

p.s. Do you ever go to Tommy's Mexican Restaurant?

August 26, 2004 at 9:19 AM  
Blogger AlwaysSomething said...

I can't figure out if I want to be you or just screw your brains out. Your writing skills are unmatched.

One thing though... the part where you admitted it was all just a lie to your teacher... did you add that in later? Because I'm still trying to figure out how some of these people couldn't figure that out even though it's right there in black and white text.

August 26, 2004 at 9:20 AM  
Blogger LC Greenwood said...

You're an asshole.

Wanna fuck?

August 26, 2004 at 9:44 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

ahhh. there it is. now you know you've officially broken into the world of the "interent celebrity"...gratuitous offers of sex.

congratulations.

August 26, 2004 at 9:48 AM  
Blogger AlwaysSomething said...

I can't help it. Smart boys get me all hot and bothered.

August 26, 2004 at 9:50 AM  
Blogger LC Greenwood said...

Please... just admitting a girl's uncontrollable attraction to (albeit intelligent) assholes.

August 26, 2004 at 10:03 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

. . . and I thought that I was the queen of excuses. You have totally surpassed anything I have come up with.

August 26, 2004 at 10:46 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I am sure after reading this, your mother would think you have no soul, despite that ESPN article making you shed a tear again.

Either way, its fucking brillaint.

August 26, 2004 at 10:54 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

At least please tell me that the Gatorade eating contest was real.

August 26, 2004 at 11:27 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Fuck Hollywood! You have the makings of a stellar lawyer. Excellent lying skills! I salute you.

August 26, 2004 at 11:45 AM  
Blogger AlwaysSomething said...

"Please... just admitting a girl's uncontrollable attraction to (albeit intelligent) assholes."

sentence...make...no...sense... me confused

August 26, 2004 at 11:51 AM  
Blogger LC Greenwood said...

Always Something-
"ahhh. there it is. now you know you've officially broken into the world of the "interent celebrity"...gratuitous offers of sex."

I was answering this comment.

August 26, 2004 at 12:19 PM  
Blogger AlwaysSomething said...

ohhhh. i get it now. at least someone agrees with me and i'm not just an e-whore with a penchant for intelligent men.

August 26, 2004 at 12:23 PM  
Blogger Z-Money said...

"Paternal Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy"

This must have some type of basis somewhere. Is there some type of condition or did you actually fabricate everything, including the clinical definition? How do you come up with this stuff?

I literally fell of my chair laughing when you got into the whole affair bit, how your dad was injuring you just for an excuse to go to the hospital and see that nurse. That's not tragic, that's absolutely hilarious.

August 26, 2004 at 12:35 PM  
Blogger Johnny Thompson said...

Wow...with such an official looking font...you gotta be a professional!

August 26, 2004 at 12:38 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Where's Nils?

Oh. Wait, I know! He's probably busy carrying his mom on his back and slogging through the muddy, unstable grounds of depression and despair....

August 26, 2004 at 12:50 PM  
Blogger NP said...

Okay, here's how it worked:

the only completely fabricated part of the story was the Munchausen's stuff and the going to the hospital for the nurse aspect.

Other than that, I did tell my Spanish 3 teacher in high school that exact story (minus the above and the bathroom story) in order to avoid failing for not going for pretty much the entire 3rd quarter

The bathroom story did happen to me, but it was at the babysitters when I was 4. The Gatorade eating contest did happen and I did go to the hospital.

My dad did cheat with a nurse and we did go to family counseling and my mother did cry like that when she found out his cheating was much worse.

My mother never fell into an intractable pit of despair, but I DID tell my teacher she did because that was the crux of my excuse to not fail.

August 26, 2004 at 12:58 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

"If things weren't already bad enough, now the dynamic duo has decided to join forces and attack at the same time."

The verb tense should match up with the rest of the story.

August 26, 2004 at 1:05 PM  
Blogger Z-Money said...

Based on those clarifications, I retract my "absolutely hilarious" comment. I've rented Weekend at Bernie's 2, and will force myself to watch it as punishment.

August 26, 2004 at 1:24 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Doh! Now I feel like I've been scoping a transvestite.

August 26, 2004 at 2:25 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

ASOTDC: I was pretty sure it was a scam to pass spanish class, but thought it was too detailed for everything to be fabricated. That's why I hedged my comment with the "funny if.., tragic if.." statement. My main point was that either way it was excellent writing. I just wasn't prepared to say "great story dude, LOL!! ROLFLMAO!" in case elements was true. I'd feel like crap if Nils was holding back personal, possibly sensitive info (perfectly understandable) and I told him how funny I thought the situation was.

At any rate, excellent story Nils. Looking forward to the next one. I'm no writer, so I've probably got terms all wrong, but I really enjoy the diversity of stories topics and variety of presentation styles.

Money

August 26, 2004 at 2:36 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Folks... the great part of this story was that it was left upto our own imagination of what was true and what was fabricated.

Its kinda like the whole Kaiser Soze bit.

August 26, 2004 at 3:10 PM  
Blogger jojo said...

"jojo, shut up.

man, if you speak the way you type, i don't know how anyone can ever deal with your bullshit.

and nils, that was AWESOME."

What you should have said is that if I speak the way I type, there's still hope for the American educational system.

August 26, 2004 at 3:25 PM  
Blogger Jen said...

JoJo - If the above comments are taken as a dissection of the American educational systems achievements, there is really no hope at all.

Nils - As I read through the story I was confused by its relatively personal nature. I should've guessed. Ass.

August 26, 2004 at 3:56 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

The only part of the writing I didn't like was when you wrote about 5 metaphors in a row and went into some Dawson's Creek-esque language.

It didn't read well and for me at least, for the first time, I found it a little hard to get through.

But once I got back to the twists, it was fantastic again and made the middle part worthwhile.

Rio

August 26, 2004 at 4:17 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Z-Money - there is a mental disorder called M√ľnchausen Syndrome by Proxy. As NP indicated in his story it's something that mothers may succumb to where they will make their son/daughter ill as to receive the sympathy from others.

An example of this depicted in a movie would be the little girl in The Sixth Sense who wants Hailey Joe Osment's character to find the videotape of the the mom poisoning her.

/The Swede

August 26, 2004 at 5:48 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

In regards to my last post; please add proper punctuation where neccessary. ;)

/The Swede

August 26, 2004 at 5:50 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

You fucking jerk!! I was almost crying. God your hot.

TRIXX

August 26, 2004 at 6:37 PM  
Blogger The Bunny said...

"because I still can't figure out how she danced naked with tequila in panama city with her debilitating allergy to alcohol - that is somehow abated by what looks to be a weight loss thyroid vitamin."

I'll bite. You are a fucking idiot.

I sip. I get drunk. I take clothes off. I dance. There is still 19/20 left in the fucking bottle.

Sensitivity to alcohol is a SYMPTOM of HYPOTHYROIDISM you retard.

As for Nils' faux story, I bought it all. I feel stupid. I even sent him an email telling him how much I loved that he opened up. But I also believed that Jupiter has jellyfish.

I had no idea what a sociopath you are NP. Good work. Almost like performance art or something.

August 26, 2004 at 9:52 PM  
Blogger Pebbles said...

Parker, you are nothing short of amazing. I am printing that one for the pool party...

August 27, 2004 at 9:17 AM  
Blogger Rob said...

Disgusting and obviously not true, but excellent writing. I applaud your descriptive skills.

August 27, 2004 at 9:28 AM  
Blogger dan said...

I'll confess, i bought most of this up until the hollywood line; that is presumably how you designed it to be read. Parts of it i questioned, the main one being the cost/benefit analysis your father might have gone through; i.e., i can hook up with this nurse, if i make my son shit his pants and spend 45 minutes cleaning him and the restroom. That seems like a questionable tradeoff for anyone. But beyond details like that, it is exceptionally well written; you have progressed a lot as a writer, or perhaps you never had your best foot forward on TMMB. Either way, i'm glad you take the time to keep up a blog.

And to those questioning jojo's comment, there is a significant amount of context that you are missing if you think he is off base. His statement is just that the audience interferes with the art, which is hard to disagree with for anyone who has seen what drex and bunny are writing now, compared to what they were writing on TMMB.

August 27, 2004 at 10:36 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

hmm.. major edit on the comments.. why?

August 27, 2004 at 5:12 PM  
Blogger NP said...

it wasn't a major edit. people wondered how much was real, how much was made up, which parts were which, etc. So I clarified. Should I have? Maybe not, but it is what it is

August 27, 2004 at 6:58 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

NP, for all of the abnormality you muse upon in your blog, there's no way this past story could be non-fiction. No one on 'the inside' can so accurately describe the lunacy about which you've just journalled. Did you have me fooled? Momentarily; yes. But I was really hoping to hell that someone who calls out people with 'mommy-daddy' issues as much as you wasn't spilling his guts because I was laughing so hard.

You pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it. It hit its mark.

lhprop1

August 28, 2004 at 2:02 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

That is just classic. Awesome story.

August 29, 2004 at 12:29 AM  
Blogger dusty said...

cheap bourbon whiskey and pearl snap shirts are two things that stay the same

August 29, 2004 at 1:38 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I still like your blog but you're going straight to hell.

August 29, 2004 at 11:10 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

This is your Spanish teacher. I'm revoking your grade in my class and telling everyone that you slept with that fat girl with bacne who sat in the back row.

August 29, 2004 at 7:41 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

That was the worst attempt at humor I've ever seen. In other news, please update.

August 30, 2004 at 9:28 AM  
Blogger Malt said...

Your really letting this post soak, eh?

August 30, 2004 at 10:51 AM  
Blogger NP said...

I'm busy right now, until Tuesday night. Hopefully I can find time to post something before then, but if not Tues night/Weds morning at the latest.

August 30, 2004 at 12:11 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

That is the funniest fucking thing ive ever read in my life.

September 1, 2004 at 8:45 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Sell it to Hollywood.

September 10, 2004 at 7:59 PM  
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