Seymoure Butts’ Mother Ruined My Sex Life
Family Business – B- Story
Seymour Butts, born Adam Glasser, was a nice Jewish boy from the Bronx who had two things going for him— a nice ass and a business acumen. When he put these two attributes together, he became a star.
Seymour was an instant success, but he went onto even greater heights—he went semi-legit. He convinced the cable company, Showtime, to do a reality show about his career, his love life, his illegitimate son, his brushes with the law, and his burgeoning business—which was run by his family. His mother was an office manager and his cousin Stevie, a total fuck up, was the head of production…and that’s where I came in. I got the part of Stevie’s best friend on the show but it didn’t stop there. If at all possible, Mother Butts, it was hoped, would fall in love with me and provide the show which was called, “Family Business,” with a B story line. It was my chance at stardom. I’d been a writer and producer in television for more years than I care to remember, but having a healthy ego, I always wanted to be in front of the camera. This was my shot.
“Family Business” was an unscripted reality show, but there were certain guidelines. I would have to meet Mother Butts on a legit blind date and convince her we should be life partners. I got a haircut and wore my best Polo jacket for our first meeting, which took place in a coffee shop on the Westside. I arrived on time, reeking of Patchouli. Hidden cameras were everywhere as I waited. Mrs. Butts was half an hour late and as soon as I saw her, I was sure our romance would never get off the ground. The former Mrs. Glaser, now Butts, was a severe looking lady and my immediate thought was that she’d been laid once in her life—and that union had produced the famed Seymour.
In spite of Mrs. Butts being as sexy as a postage stamp, I longed for stardom so I was going to give it my best shot. To do that, I made myself an object of pity. I knew something about pity; I knew it engendered sympathy and sympathy is often wired into the female DNA, and once you get sympathy, you’re on your way. So on the off chance that I might be on my way with Glasser-Butts, I gave myself a harrowing childhood. I told my date that I was abandoned as a tot and then repeatedly abused by a series of twisted, horrible foster parents. All this tumult had led to psychological problems, but there was one good thing, my unhappy past spurred me on in a never ending search for love. I intimated that as soon as I laid eyes on Butts-Glasser, I had a premonition the search which had consumed my life, might far be over.
Mrs. Butts looked at me like I was crazy, so I went to plan B. Everybody liked to talk about themselves, therefore I inquired about Glasser-Butt’s past and her son, and I opined how much fun it must be as the office manager of a house. I asked if she had any other children, about her youth, and where she presently lived. I even asked everything in a syrupy voice, but I really didn’t give a shit about her answers. All I wanted was for her to like me—or at least show some warmth so I could get in front of the camera next week. It didn’t work. Mrs. B kept looking at me like I was nuts.
I’m a dogged kind of a guy and at the end of our rendezvous, I gave myself one more shot. I asked Mrs. Butts for her phone number. She told me she would like to think about it. I started to kiss her wrinkled cheek, even though it was the kiss of death, but she pulled away. I was furious and never bothered to watch “Family Business,” but a year later, I was involved in a proper film in Brazil. I won’t go into the inordinate beauty of Brazilian women. Everyone’s seen pictures of the Copacabana beach in Rio. The women in that great country are pretty much gorgeous and I hooked up with a beauty who was one of the reigning queens of the telenovelas, or soap operas, which are very popular there.
One morning while my soap queen and I were making love, we had the TV on. You never know the power of American television, but suddenly there I was on my futile blind date on “Family Business.” The show had gone into syndication and I was on the tube speaking Portuguese to Mrs. Butts. The scene enfolding in front of my eyes was ruining my day. I was distracted and was no longer making love to a gorgeous Brasilana. I was glaring at the tube and pounding Mrs. Butts with a ferocity I had rarely known. I even called out the wrong name at exactly the wrong time. That most wonderful moment in life when two people climax together! ”Take that Mrs. Butts,” I screamed at the television “And that and that and that!“
Unfortunately my Brazilian beauty knew English. She untangled herself from my embrace, donned her clothes, and over my protestations of love, left in a South American huff. I was never able to convince her to come back. Mrs. Butts had her revenge, she had driven me psychotic. I still see her on those occasions when I make love now. Of course this is deeply troubling and I’ve been to psychiatrists, psychologists, life counselors, shamans, yogis, sex therapists, and self help groups. Nothing helps. One of my shrinks is currently writing a report of my condition which he will present at the next American Psychiatrist Meeting. My case may be picked up the newspapers, and I might even make Maury Povich; perhaps Jerry Springer. And I’m a cinch for spots on TMZ (they cover practically anything). Thus my dream will be realized, and it’s a dream of most of my countrymen. I’LL BE ON TELEVSION! And just like a lot of my countrymen, I’ll be on it for all the wrong reasons.
To Hell With The Movies
Brad Pitt Fart For Real
I’m not going to them anymore. I’m not watching until they become more realistic. I’m not watching because they’re all full of shit. I’ll only go back to the movies when actors really screw each other. What we get now is partial views of actors lunging and moaning. I know I can get , but porns are monosyllabic and have lame plots. I want real stories, and I want believable sex, AND I WANT FRONTAL NUDITY. I’m sick and tired of seeing women from the neck up, or in gauzy shots when they get out of bed after a night of torrid love. OK, they’re beginning to show breasts, but I want the whole damn thing. And that goes for guys too. No more wearing jockey shorts when they get out of the sack. No more carefully folded sheets or blankets obscuring their private parts. I want realism. If George Clooney gets laid, I want to see his dick. And I want to see Angela Jolie’s pudendum. And I want to hear Brad Pitt fart. And I want to see beautiful actors taking a dump. Until they do all that, I’m not gonna watch their phony shit anymore.
I want to see male actors actually cry. Right now, practically none can, and they try to hide the fact by lowering their heads, shaking their shoulders, and moaning. That doesn’t cut it. I want to see real male tears and that probably will eliminate nine of 10 working male actors today.
I want people to look like family. Actors playing brothers or sisters look like they belong on different continents in the world. I want real brothers and real sisters. If we can’t have that, lets do away with all families in all movie plots.
I want real fights. Right now, actors clobber the shit out of each other and in the next scene, all they’re sporting is a tiny band aid strategically placed on their foreheads that doesn’t interfere with their natural beauty. When people fight, they lose teeth, they bleed quarts, and bones breaks. To get that, I have to watch the NFL,but that only lasts five months.
I demand , real defecation, real blood, and broken teeth and legs 12 months a year.
Until I get it, I say to hell with the movies.