It was on a nasty cold and gray weekday afternoon in late 2009 when I stopped by Lowe’s for some home improvement products. Needing to take a piss on arrival, I headed for the restrooms at the rear of the store. Strutting through this big box retail hellscape with my usual big dick energy. Head held high. As if I owned the place. Maybe that’s why. halfway to the head, some slack-jawed yokel asked me if I was, “Workin’ or hardly workin’?” (his entire statement). Or perhaps he was just all methed up. I ignored his rudeness and stayed the course. After taking care of business, I exited the men’s room and found myself surrounded by approximately a dozen twentysomething male employees.
At the center of this high school bullshit was the on-duty assistant store manager who introduced himself as Rodney. A fat fuck who clearly envisioned himself as much more. The sort of bench-and-curl moron fueled by Taco Bell and Natural Light that infest gyms everywhere. He was bigger than me but no match for my lean, muscular, and steroid-fueled physique at the time. Nor would he have been a match for my current lean, muscular, and natural physique. And he was certainly no match for my fearless and confrontational psyche. Anyway, blubber boy proceeded to lecture me on being rude to customers. After I reminded his dumb fucking ass that I was also a customer, he ignored this fact to inform me that it had been my responsibility to assist this customer in locating a store associate to help him. The whole thing packed the putrid stench of a setup. I’d dropped by a couple of times before in the prior few weeks, so I was surely on Rodney’s radar. Already under his skin. He was ready for me today. Immediately rounding up every young man on the clock. He was going to prove to them that he was cock of the walk. That he would pull this shit and I would submit in front of everyone. Because he was the man.
But he was so fucking wrong.
I indulged my natural reflex and proceeded to verbally castrate him in front of his blue smock brigade. Calling him a liar, coward, fat fuck, piece of shit, and total loser right to his ugly fucking face as his fan club and everyone else within earshot watched in shock and awe. The smirks on the faces of his subordinates wiped clean. Surprised and impressed as I let their boss know who was really the boss. I can only imagine the constant bravado they endured from him. They had to be sick of it. And they scattered once I said my peace. I also began making my leave as Rodney stood there like a deer in the headlights. Not knowing what to say or do. I’d reached the cash registers when fat boy came running towards me. Yelling and making a complete fool of himself before dozens of bewildered customers and employees unaware of what had just transpired on the other side of the store. I paid him no mind as I headed for the exit while he followed. Handing me a lifetime ban from the store (not sure he had the authority to do that) and threatening to call the cops (not sure for what exactly). Grasping in desperation onto every possible straw he could find. He’d lost and he knew it.
This was far from the only instance of someone putting their livelihood on the line for the sake of trying to knock me down. Confident that their submission to societal norms will not only shield them from enduring any consequences of attacking me but that they’ll be rewarded for it to boot. They truly believe they are doing the right thing from a collectivist standpoint, And that’s their fatal flaw. It’s why I’m reluctant to visit stores or fraternize with the common folk in general. Besides Lowe’s, I also had a similar experience at Home Depot not once but twice. But the Rodney incident stands out the most. Not only was it the one that came closest to physical violence, but it was the most serious challenge to my manhood. I handled it as masterfully as anyone could’ve. And yet it got me down. Becoming one of my favorite go-to negative memories when anxiety overcame me. This is a lifelong problem that I’ve recently made a concentrated effort to get under control. The Marquis de Sade – the namesake of sadism himself – has proved invaluable to me in my mission. There is no middle ground in these scenarios. I can choose sadism or masochism. I’ll take the former every time.
In the case of fat Rodney… I didn’t ask for that pain. He brought it upon both of us entirely of his own volition. I had no moral obligation to be masochistic about the incident after the fact. He attempted to pursue sadistic pleasure at my expense with zero history between us. I have every right to take sadistic pleasure in what he did to himself that ugly afternoon long ago. He destroyed whatever credibility he had among his hundreds of subordinates. Likely ending his climb up the Lowe’s store management ladder. Perhaps forcing him to seek employment elsewhere and having to start all over again. In hindsight, I guarantee he lost sleep over the incident and stressed about it far more than I did. And the thought of all that brings a smile to my face as I write this. Wherever he is now, I’m sure he’s even fatter.
And it’s not just the reconciliation of past events. I’ve already applied my newfound embrace of everyday sadism to a pair of recent incidents. Although each occurred online and pales in comparison to Rodneygate, I nevertheless took pleasure in these idiots choosing to make fools of themselves at my expense. And given that was my expense, motherfuckers gotta pay up. That shit ain’t free.
The Tickle Monster
In a Facebook group for Arkansas filmmakers, I saw a post announcing an upcoming Arkansas short film festival that’s currently accepting free submissions. The poster and organizer of the festival is a young filmmaker from Northwest Arkansas who came across as friendly and polite. Despite me not being a fan of film festivals or much of what Arkansas filmmakers are doing, I decided to submit my true crime horror-comedy Murder on the Crack Whore Express for the hell of it. I also wanted to see if this guy was legit cool or fake as fuck. His first name is Brett, although I keep forgetting his last name and want to call him Brett Cummins after the disgraced former Arkansas weatherman who was found in his hot tub alongside a dead man wearing only a dog collar. Yeah, that happened.
Anyway, film festival Brett turned out to be fake as fuck. My submission went unanswered via email but inspired a snarky post in the group. Film boy humble bragging about how picky he would be in selecting films for his festival. A “festival” which is actually a pathetic attempt to draw people to a screening of his own film by affinity scamming off other filmmakers. His film is a family-friendly horror flick titled The Tickle Monster which is literally about a monster tickling people to death. I’m not making this up. I couldn’t make it up. Not ever with my wild and uninhibited imagination. Yeah, that happened too. And it might be even more embarrassing than being found with a naked dead guy in a dog collar. The whole trailer espouses the tone and feel of a breakfast cereal commercial.
Now that tickle boy had proven himself to be a spoiled brat, shitty filmmaker, and freeloading bum partially at my expense, it was time for me to take my pleasure and put him in his place. I sent him an email stating that I was withdrawing my film from consideration after seeing the trailer for his cinematic abomination and not wanting to be associated with it. I also wished him luck as a passive-aggressive kiss off. He immediately replied with a childishly defensive comeback about how my film was never going to be selected for his “festival” anyway. I let him have that pathetic last word because my work was already done. Having knocked that smirk off his face by calling out his piss-poor filmmaking while he struggles to find an audience for his bullshit. I could’ve, and would’ve, let this get under my skin in the past. But not anymore. This time, the pleasure was all mine. He attempted to upset me. But I upset him instead. Those were the only two options he presented me.
The 60 Year-Old Virgin
I posted a call for female models in a different Facebook group. This one specifically intended for those seeking actors and models in Arkansas. To ensure I was not running afoul of the group’s rules. I read through them carefully before posting:
“Don’t post your networking events, classes, film trailers, YouTube links, GoFundMe campaigns, etc. There are literally thousands of other groups you kind post that kind of stuff in, but this is not one of them. This group is ONLY for casting calls and auditions within the state of Arkansas for theatre, film, television, and modeling calls. No West Coast generic reality show casting calls, either. If you’re unsure, read the rule again.”
With that information at hand, I wrote and posted the following:
“I want to collaborate with female models in Central Arkansas on glamour photoshoots with horror and erotica overtones but suitable for social media. These recent self-portraits demonstrate my creative vision. First shoots will be on location in public places. No pay, but models will receive a set of photos for portfolio use and sharing online. No experience necessary. Must be traditionally attractive and drug free. Will consider women of any age over eighteen. Feel free to bring a girlfriend along. Even better if she wants to pose too. DM me to discuss.”
Also included were five self-portraits taken in 2024 that I’d already posted multiple times around the web. The entire post squarely within the parameters of the group’s rules. Anyway, I was banned from the group shortly after without explanation. I ranted about the incident to Facebook friends. A friend named Chris who’s also a member of that group messaged me with the 411: The group was created several years ago by a mutual acquaintance named Daniel as he sought to pick up more acting gigs. Stirring up minor controversy from the start as he arbitrarily banned other members in similar fashions to what I experienced. Although he’s no longer the admin of this group (instead running a different group he recently created), he apparently still holds sway over what is and isn’t allowed regardless of his own rules posted in the about section.
Learning that Daniel was behind this bullshit immediately explained it all to me. I first met him in early 2005 when he, Chris, and I along with many others commenced work on a feature-length film project. It was apparent right away to everyone that Daniel was a seriously odd fellow. Cast in a pivotal supporting role, he fancied himself a master thespian. But there was a problem… The motherfucker couldn’t act to save his life. And this was a stock evil rich guy character with zero development. The definition of a one-dimensional stereotype. Far from difficult for any competent actor to portray believably. But Daniel stunk up the set every time he was on camera with god-awful takes that made the “Garbage day!” actor from Silent Night, Deadly Night 2 look like Sir Laurence Olivier by comparison. But this didn’t stop Daniel from always setting up his personalized director’s chair on set.
The ridiculousness didn’t end there. He also refused to drive on the Interstate. Since he lived approximately 50 miles from the production’s base of operations. that meant it took him longer than the normal hour or so to drive there and back. Despite his fear of Interstate travel, he was a car enthusiast who owned four. Including a decommissioned police Crown Victoria pursuit model fitted with a big block V8 and a customized 1978 Camaro rocking a high-performance 350ci engine. He once drove the Crown Vic to a day of shooting at a house with a long driveway and couldn’t back it out to the road. I did it for him. He was 40 years-old at the time, had never been married, and had no children. Sure, I’m currently in my forties, have never been married, and have no children. But it was painfully obvious to everyone that Daniel was still a virgin. The 40 Year-Old Virgin was released during this time, and the running joke within our production is that it was a film about Daniel.
Unlike his evil rich guy character, Daniel had no concept of formal dress. The guy seemingly lived in parachute pants and obnoxiously colored t-shirts as if stuck in a time warp of bad 1980s fashion. On his first day of shooting, I along with the reigning Miss Arkansas USA (who worked on the film in various capacities) attempted to give him a crash course in dressing formally. It was a disaster. He arrived wearing white socks. His belt and shoes were of different colors. He didn’t know how to tie a necktie. I never wear neckties either, but I know how to tie one. The tie he wore in all his scenes bore the same knot I tied that day. Because he couldn’t figure out how to tie it himself. He eventually quit the production to pursue ghost hunting. No, really. I have nothing to add to that.
Daniel is also a self-righteous Christian and cited the film’s strong language as his other reason for leaving. As one of the film’s producers, I can assure you that he was well aware of all the fucks and shits contained in the screenplay. And this is the important thing to know about Daniel. Beneath the seemingly harmless eccentricities and feats of weakness exists a toxic, passive-aggressive psychopath who infects every environment he enters with his negative energy. That the rest of us were making virgin jokes about him behind his back demonstrated how badly we needed a shared release from walking on eggshells in his presence. It’s bad enough that he lies to himself about being an actor. But it’s inexcusable for him to expect others to also feed him that lie. And he’s still doing it as I write this. Still forcing his way into film productions with pathos via the weakness he projects and preying on the compassion of others. Bringing nothing of value to even the shittiest of films and demanding that everyone else kowtow to his delicate sensibilities. Such a nasty guy. Fuck him straight to hell. And fuck anyone who enables him. Rather than being constantly pacified at a significant net loss, he should be ostracized into isolation until he straightens up and gets his shit together. I don’t care what happened in the past to make him this way. It’s his responsibility to be a fucking man and get over it.
And that’s why I instantly took pleasure in Daniel letting my simple, harmless post in his Facebook group absolutely wreck his entire fucking day. I could see him. Shaking with anxiety. Losing sleep over me strutting into his group with my big dick energy and stating my intentions with total confidence. Ordering his minions to do his dirty work for him and ban me for no legitimate reason and without warning. Like a meek and fidgety version of fat fuck Rodney flanked by his lackey subordinates. It’s safe to say that Daniel resented me 20 years ago and despises me even more now. Seeing me grow to become more confident and talented than ever after all these years. Years during which many bad things happened to me. People knocked me down. Others showed up to kick me while I was down in true chickenshit fashion. But I never gave up. I kept fighting all the way. Refusing to submit. Refusing to become a passive-aggressive burden on others. If anyone has earned the right to seek beautiful women for sexy photoshoots, it’s me. Anyone who has a problem with that can go fuck themselves. In Daniel’s case, that’s the only way he’s ever getting any.
Pain is inevitable, but I don’t have to be its tight warm recipient. Pain is for those who choose it. From now on, the pleasure is always mine.