Confederacy of Assholes
by SHamu Wells D’Froad 

“When you speak to me, Geech, do it with respect,” I told him. Geech was an even larger asshole than myself, size-wise, but I was the asshole of greater intensity.

“Who put the bee in your beret today?” asked Geech. He lit a cigarette and began to puff on it, choking because he had lit the filter.

His question was not worth answering and I snubbed him, turning back to watch the screen. The film was truly awful, as all films are, the narrative structure being so blatantly obvious and the philosophy poor at best. However, Jim Carrey fell down in delightful ways so I forgave its flaws.

By the time it was over, Geech and I had concluded its ending far before it came. Despite cries that we should shut up or go fuck each other somewhere else, crude at worst, incorrect at best, we enjoyed the opportunity to converse over the film before it was over. And ruin a movie for someone else. We decided to leave and go get coffee at some place with terrible coffee.

In the parking lot, we were stopped by a steely-eyed man with a reddish face. A poor physique and mussed hair, an ugly man by an ugly man’s standards.

“Hey, you dicks didn’t have to talk all the way through the fucking movie.”

“We’re not dicks, we’re assholes,” said Geech.

“What’s the difference?” the ugly man asked.

“A dick, in the metaphorical term, is someone being either thoughtless or purposefully insulting, ruining your good time for their fun,” I told him. “An asshole, as we define it, is a new wave of philosophical thought that preaches our enjoyment first, above all else, even or especially at the expense of others.”

“That sounds like the exact same thing!” the guy yelled, growing even angrier.

“It is,” I said. “Remember, we’re assholes.”

The ugly guy calmed down quickly, going so far through anger as to reach some sort of intense fascination. “Tell me more.”

“Fuck yourself,” I said, tossing my cigarette and making it bounce off his forehead.

On the way home, running very fast with the man pursuing us, Geech seemed confused.

“I don’t see why you didn’t just tell him about our school of philosophy,” he said.

“I didn’t like his attitude. He was a little polite about all of it. Training him would be an all-day job.”

“Still, it would be nice to have other followers to our school. Don’t you agree?”

“Lick me, Geech.”

He was right, in some ways. We had created the idea of assholism and assholistic thinking some three months ago, opened our school two weeks previous, and were not doing well financially. Many people were dissuaded when they saw our classrooms consisted of a two-bedroom apartment, and those who were still interested we turned away because they seemed to eager. Plus, our school criteria was extremely high, Geech didn’t even qualify. I was the principal and sole faculty member of the new assholistic school, or Jake, as we called it. The idea of allowing someone else to join sounded appealing, even at the risk of lowering our standards.

Still, it’s more fun to be the only member of a club than to have real friends. At least I think it would be. If I ever have friends I’ll know for sure.

For more of this great story, buy SHamu Wells D’Froad’s
Confederacy of Assholes The L.I.E. Re-Novelized
“Welcome to the L.I.E.,” said the wise-looking man who was only wise-looking because the program made him that way, and was only a man because the program had a hard time making long hair that looked real.

My Life: A Pete Durmondo Memoir
It may not be common knowledge, but it’s not a secret either: I wasn’t always Pete Durmondo. I was born Jimmy Durmondo, on the lower east side of New York City, and changed my name to Pete Durmondo on the advice of an agent because it “had more snap.”

The Met Job
The security guard waved him past with a tired nod, and a fart. Rue Mac strode through the museum, admiring the pretty canvases and naked women statues, but to him they all spelled one thing—green.

Next Stop: Albany
So Karl, what are you doing hanging out with us proletariat on a night like this? asked Harvey, being a smart ass. You don’t get it, man, said Karl, we’re all proletariat if we don’t own the means of productions and none of us do. What’s the means of production then? asked Wally, real interested.