|
Questions You'd Never Want to Ask by Truston Aillet, Studio 8 Writer January, 2006 I have some lingering questions that have been hanging around my thought complexes lately like lichen on a child's nut sack. They are simple ponderings and no doubt carry little weight in the orgasmic scheme of things, but in my own fragile existence, they feel like a teaspoon of quasar, which is a dense star-like mass, an extremely distant, and thereby old, celestial object whose power output is several thousand times that of our entire Milky Way galaxy. In other words, a spoonful of quasar weighs as much as ten thousand battleships.
These are some bulky thoughts, I
know, but being secluded here in southern Louisiana while a majority of the
Studio 8 crew
bide their time on the Acropolistic slopes of Beverly
Hills, dangling their talents over their luxurious balcony
staring down the precipice into Los Angeles, I sometimes feel out of the
loop. Perhaps it's the distance that finally gives me the courage to present some of these questions, having no need to fear physical retaliation from those boys, men known for sending henchmen out on their enemies, henchmen like Toughman, Adambomb, or Fernando. Perhaps my isolation encourages me to reach out through writing, knowing that if it appears on Studio8.net, someone will see it, for it seems that repeated calls to old friends like Jared, King, or Roland Carmichael have gone unanswered for months now. Or perhaps it's Crash's/Chris'/Chris the R.A.'s latest and first editorial, proving that even some of the usually silent characters of Studio 8 have voices that deserve to be heard, which, as you'll read below, is a major topic in my above mentioned "lingering questions."
I'll begin them now... 1. Will I ever be given my share of Studio 8's royalty money? I know that starting the first question off with a plea for cash seems a little demeaning and gives you a possibly ruinous first impression of me and of the caliber of questions to follow, but you have to understand, I first signed on with this comedy outfit back in late 2000 because I was told I would have my complete college experience paid for and that I would never have to work another day in my life. I dove head-first into dumpsters and bushes, broke my collar bone falling from a grocery-cart stunt, participated in an all-nude dance extravaganza in Lockett Hall, spearheaded the popular group The Union Rats, cooperated in poo-poo videos, calendar shoots, picture stories, road-trips to Auburn, local movies, and the eventual downfall of a K-Mart all because I was expecting an eventual paycheck. Well, I ended up having to receive an academic scholarship, paid for a couple of semesters, and am now sitting in an office because I have to earn a living. Am I supposed to wait for all the other founders of Studio 8 to die before I receive anything? 2. Why does Chris Trew wear a wig and live in Texas? You're right, I'm cheating on this one. I'm asking two questions in one, but forgive me, I have only so much space to capture and keep your attention, you all being a fickle audience with the ability to focus and concentrate like that of a two-year old. But seriously, people, let's not throw insults at each other. Let's address the question. Texas is a barren wasteland where old women and old dogs go to die. If you like thick brown dust, flies that eat dried milk from scrawny cows' udders, forest fires that rage out of control because Mexican children can't stop lighting fire crackers in hay barns, giant lone stars, or nothingness, then you'll like Texas. I just can't see why Chris Trew thinks old wrinkled cowboys who piss tobacco juice into brass bowls beside their beds will find anything he does to be funny. And why is his hair so thick and shiny? For that matter, why does he cut little pieces of it off and paste them to odd parts of his body, never putting them in any uniform or concise pattern? Forgive me if I seem to be lashing out, but I miss crowd-surfing in Chris Trew's room, trying to hurt his face every time he leapt onto my head, and I suppose that sometimes anger is the only way I can express love. (No offense, Brock, about Texas, and all.) 3. Speaking of Brock, why did he grow up in every one of the original Southern States? I hired a private investigator once to track Brock LaBorde's lineage and he took me on quite an adventure with his findings. It seems that our old friend, Brock, is a wandering fool, calling such places like Texas, Florida, and Louisiana his home towns. Perhaps he sells bed sheets to the Klu Klux Klan and so must travel to each state's affiliate organizational headquarters peddling his goods. Maybe he was following the conquests of old General Robert E. Grant, stopping and spending some time in each of the towns that old stonewall general captured on his march to Washington DC during the Civil War. It's even conceivable that his parents were runaway slaves having to move every-so-often so that their former masters wouldn't catch them and return them to work. Or perhaps he was just looking for that right one to settle down in, and you know, it seems like he's finally found it, having recently relocated one final time to the very last Southern State added to the Union before president Lincoln began creating the Northern ones... California. 4. Why didn't anyone tell me that Crash/Chris/Chris the R.A. and Johnny Knoxville were brothers? Was anybody going to let me in on that one? I can understand wanting to not go public with that kind of knowledge, but really, I'm a pretty good secret-keeper. I heard that, as brothers, those two do absolutely everything together. That's as it should be. Of course, brotherly love is supposed to be some of the strongest love around. Damn, though, I could have at least gotten hooked up with some free passes to Universal Studios or maybe a couple of movie tickets. 5. Why is Java the most underappreciated member of Studio 8? I'd be willing to bet most of you readers have no idea who this man is. That being said, Java incidentally has had his hands in every aspect of this website. He's been behind hundreds of article ideas, played major roles in a majority of the picture stories and mini-videos, been in charge of most of the Christmas cards throughout the years, managed Studio 8's world-famous saltwater aquarium, fathered countless bastard children in almost every metropolitan city in this country, not to mention he's been a shoulder to cry on, an abundance of cheer, a source of courage and a refuge in the storms of life to every member of Studio 8 that has ever passed under the platinum arch in the foyer of Studio 8 Towers. Has he been left out of the picture because he's Italian? Or has some son of a bitch signed a blood contract with the Marcheselli family, trying to not only oust him from his noble bloodline, but from his share of life's successes, too? 6. Will T.P.S. (Team Pool Shark) ever rejoin the circuit with their former glory? Several years ago, these young men were a formidable trio of pool-playing skill, rising in the ranks of billiard stardom on their way to international acclaim. They were the hot ticket, the betting choice, the rising stock. But then one of sport's greatest tragedies occurred, and unfortunately, no one knows exactly why. Folks blame it on the pressures of fame, on drugs, on greed, on money, but I have a feeling it was a bit of all of that. The old veteran, Tyler, fought the tide of destruction for as long as he could, but he alone could not hold his team together. Jack Cojack couldn't keep his eyes off the beautiful women who populate the sport of pool-playing, and they were his eventual downfall. And the saddest story of them all came when the young rookie, Clyde the Glide, raised and trained under the wings of the two older TPS pros, betrayed their trust, and for some unknown reason, joined Team Trilogy just when Team Pool Shark's scores were reaching world record status. TPS fell apart, and no one's heard about them since. The glory days of pocket billiards have never been the same. 7. How did Chris Trew and Java ever get away from that small arms fire in the NWO van? These two were coming home one night and stopped at a red light in the old NWO van when they began to take on fire from a nearby rooftop. One of the back windows in the van shattered as bullets began to rain down on them like what falling snow would be like on an all-metal world. I wasn't there, but I can imagine what the chaos must have been like as they were forced to wait for the green light, both of them screaming at the top of their lungs, broken glass all over the place, panic setting in. How badly must young Java have wanted to step on that gas pedal and get both he and his good friend out of the line of fire? Yet, because of this country's laws, which all of its citizens must follow or pay dire consequences, he was forced to sit under the red stop light while his beautiful economy-sized van was shredded by some trigger-happy sniper in the night. Luckily for us all, they eventually made it home, but because they were exhausted and shaken up from the ordeal, I never got around to asking them how they managed to escape. God must have had a couple of angels out looking for two wonderful boys to save that night. 8. Why does my office smell like dog dookie? I've written the majority of this column in a haze of stink that permeates my little room like a shit-fog washed in from the sea. Maybe that's why I seem bitter at times. Maybe that's why some of my verbage doesn't seem up to par. I feel like a dog placed his pink anus on my nostril and forced a gentle turd directly from his butthole cavity into my sinuses. A writer shouldn't have to endure this. My style is being compromised and my name could possibly be smeared ungratefully on the inside of my readers' minds like loose stool. Seriously, this is my last question because I can't take this anymore. I feel like vomiting into my cupped hands and then inserting the heavier chunks of digested food into my ears and nose just to take my mind off of what I have now begun to call, "Satan's Scent." Maybe a dog creeped into my room last night, and after sleeping in my desk somewhere, released his bowels all over my files. Maybe when I was outside earlier I stepping in some... Son of a bitch! There's dog shit all over the underside of my shoe! I swear, this just beats all. I'm calling Brock right now and demanding that royalty check... He wasn't home. I left a message.
CLICK HERE
to begin reading Truston's ongoing "Untitled Story"! |
|
|
|
