Billy Bush is the Tlatquiatluk

Parking Lot Monkeys: We feel so dirty. We hate ourselves. We blame Billy Bush.

Billy Bush: What did I do now?

Parking Lot Monkeys: It’s not what you did, it’s what you DIDN’T do, Billy Bush. *SOBBB*

Billy Bush: Okay, what did I NOT do now?

Parking Lot Monkeys: *SOBBB* Billy, do something!

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: It’s another crappy Monday, and it’s Billy Bush’s fault, again. I am very bored, so someone needs to wake Henry Stack Sullivan up and have him dance for our entertainment.

Henry Stack Sullivan: Tappity tappity tappity tap. Shuffly shuffly shuffle shuff. Tappity tappity tappity tap. (Big finish) Ka-tap, ka-tap, ka-top, ka-CHA!!

Wintermute: Over the weekend, Henry Stack Sullivan drove me crazy. I had the sweats and my mother was very worried for me. She put me in an ice bath and prayed to Saint Marie, her head wrapped in a black shawl like mi abuela for hours. But it was no use, me not even shaking from the cold water in the tub, staring straight up, hungry for blood. My hallucinations kept getting more and more intense until I jumped out of the tub, knocking my mom onto the floor and blasting out of the flat with no clothes. I found O’Brien at the Hollywood and jumped on his back, biting him, like eight times! Everyone was freaked out, but I must have looked mad scary, because no one, not even the bouncers, stopped me. I woke up back home, my bed soaking wet and the fever broken, O’Brien’s blood all over my face and pillow. So I know that was real, and with all that blood missing, that guy must be in the hospital or something. And I blame Billy Bush.

O’Brien: I had a dream with Billy Bush in it. Not anything sexual, so don’t get the wrong idea, but it was pretty weird because I only have dreams I remember once every few months. I was back at University of Buffalo following Billy Bush around because I didn’t know where I was, and I was in a panic because classes ended that day and I didn’t have any of my work done. Not sure what strange psychological undertones this may imply.

Karellen: I had a similar dream, where Billy Bush was painting my face with charcoal, preparing me for war with an army of robots.

Sigmund Freud: These dreams sound homoerotic. I’d look into this if I were you.

O’Brien: I knew you’d say my dream was homoerotic. It felt more like Billy Bush was my leader, taking me out of a confused abyss of conference rooms and back to the Promised Land. Which had tacky set design and poor lighting.

Mustapha Mond: I was just talking to this hot mamasita in my building for about 15 minutes. And when I walked back to my apartment I noticed that my zipper was down the entire time. Now I feel like idiot. I blame Billy Bush.

Hot Mamasita: So, like, I was like coming up the stairwell today and this posh older guy that lives in my building came up to me and, like, he just kept totally going on and on about stuff, and I was like “uh huh, uh huh” and trying to get away, and then, like, he kept following me and talking. So then I notice that he’s like totally got his zipper down, like he’s trying to flash me or something, and I was like “Ohmygawd, how gross” and stuff. Finally I got away from him. But now my day is like totally shot by how grotty that was. And, like, I like blame Billy Bush and stuff.

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl In Nunavut, they have a word for people like Billy Bush: “Tlatquiatluk”. It translates as “the net that catches the shit flowing in to river, when it’s not frozen.” Each Inuit settlement has its own Tlatquiatluk, who bravely carries blame for all that goes wrong in the community, making the rest of the community members feel better about themselves. It’s good to see Billy Bush preserving such an important role in his homeland. Hopefully, he does not go Tiniktiniquit (Inuit word for “Mad like the mother seal after her cubs have been clubbed and skinned”), a common occurrence for longtime Tlatquiatluks.

Karellen: The freakin’ coffee jockey at the Dunkin’ Donuts put cream in my coffee when I ordered it black, and I didn’t realize it until I got to work. Now my whole day is shot. I’m getting too old for this crap, and I know who to blame for that, too! Where’s that damn Tlatquiatluk, Billy Bush? I’m gonna give him HELL!!

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl: You can blame him for everything else, but you can’t blame the Tlatquiatluk for growing old. Growing old is a natural process. Nothing to do with me or my people’s traditions. Inuit age quickly. I am only 34 years old, and already am a grandfather. My people generally die of heart attacks right around time our last teeth fall out from chewing hides, about age 50. Not Tlatquiatluk’s fault. Just the Inuit way.

Karellen: Sorry, Ossifa T, I don’t buy that. From my way of thinking, it was an Inuit serpent who gave the apple to Eve. Your people are responsible for age, death, sickness and painful childbirth. That’s why The LORD sent you to the Arctic.

O’Brien: I wish I had “a people.”

Karellen: You do have a people, O’Brien. They are called “Those Who Serve Karellen With Pleasure.” Now bring me a cup of black coffee, and tell Billy Bush that him and his type aren’t welcome here, especially on a Monday morning.

Parking Lot Monkeys: We’re sorry we brought that Tlatquiatluk up. It won’t happen again. Next time we hate ourselves, we’ll blame it on D. Boon. Maybe partying will help.

Johnnie F’s Soliloquy from “Song of the Second Shift”

Johnnie F: I’d love to tell you about the women. My women. That is, the women that are kind enough to sleep with me. Or cruel enough, anyway.

But I’m not interested in the women. Because I’m a drunk. And who wants to hear what a drunk has to say?

Now, a drunken skirt chaser? That’s the kind of self confidence that we’d all like to dabble in. I, however, like the rest of you, have only dabbled in the fantasy. And I’m lying. I’m not even Johnnie F. Except that I am.

But what does that matter? Because there have been many, many women. At first, it was just a contest with myself. To see if I could do it. Hell, I was 21 when I had my first. But then there seemed to be a streak. I’ve been hoping it would end for some time now. But I seem to keep having the luck. The luck or the skill, I’m not sure which.

And what bothers me about it is I wonder: who’s taking advantage of whom? Am I being exploited? By them? By society? Because, let’s be honest, I hardly ever enjoy the actual climax. No, it’s definitely the chase for me that’s important. I get off on it. Or at least, I think I do.

Women can’t help it. They’re drawn to my ‘creativity’. Truth is, I’m not all that creative. I haven’t written a story in years. And yet, based on my past record and the contacts I’ve made, they all think I’m brilliant.

So what is a man to do whose only purpose is, after all, to chase women and money? Money I don’t have, and can’t get anymore. I’ve been dry for years; no one’s buying my stories, no one’s giving me royalties. But the skirts, they keep paying off.

But when I stop enjoying them, what’s a man to do? I suppose I could start writing about them, telling you about my women. But that would just serve to artificially raise this creative block I’ve been having, and to tell you the truth, I don’t lack the integrity not to, if you can understand that. Poopshoot boogie.

The way I see it, the women like the gentle abuses of neglect and inattention. The minute you’re nice to a woman and focused completely on her, that’s when she’ll give up and stop loving you. Not that a woman has ever actually loved me, if one did I’d put a ring on her finger in a second.

A woman without that edge of insult from her man is like a nut without salt on it. Like a cake without frosting. Better yet, like white bread that someone tells you is a cake. Legs don’t part without a little command and control.

Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I’m in favor of it. I believe, somewhere deep in my heart that I can’t find, that women are just as smart and able as men. It’s just that when it comes to my dealings with them, I can’t act that way. Because all their lives most women have been told that they’re not equal to men, and women, just like all humans, love to believe what they’ve been told all these years. Otherwise the struggle won’t be worth it. Better yet there will be no struggle, there will only be boredom.

And when it comes to women, I’m always on. Which means I have to be anything except boring. Even if I’m silent, or pensive, that gives them the impression that they’re somehow being insulted. It gives them whatever impression they’re looking for. But overall, when you’re being silent, it’s most important that you don’t look incompetent. Look lost in thought, look deep, look off into the distance. But don’t look tired. And don’t look disinterested entirely. Women need to know that you’re interested in something, especially if it’s not them.

And when you’re done with that; be honest with them. Let them know that you need them. Let them know that this has all been a farce; that your whole life is a farce when their companionship is absent–because after all it’s the truth. This whole charade has been carried out for their benefit. But you have to let them in behind the curtain just enough that the red velvet is on their thigh. Then you move in for the kill.

And that, my friends, is how you rack up the points. Whether or not you want the act, the points are what will count when you’re telling your life story. And right now, that’s what I’m doing. And if you want more, I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you don’t, I’ll know. I can convince you that I know, at least. So there’s that.

Published in: on March 15, 2010 at 1:41 am  Comments (1)