James Frey Uses Hitler Logic?


So. It appears that this James Frey is a total fuckwad for the methods he uses to gain personal advancement, taking advantage of the creative efforts of others. I have been wanting to discuss my thoughts on Frey but didn’t have the chance until yesterday. SAC Ellen and I went to a party last night, and I finally brought the situation to the attention of a cliquish group of strangers.

This bunch, three women and two men, were sitting on the large entertainment grouping of sofa, love seat and side chairs. They had spaced themselves to where the five of them were dominating seating arrangements for nine people. Thirteen if everyone likes each other, and nobody plays down lineman for UT football.

I had been watching as others, in ones and twos, attempted to sit and join. Each had been ignored, or received chastened responses with that “eat shit and die, lowlife” look that cliquish people cast at outsiders. The five seating obfuscaters had grown bolder with each outsider’s attempt at sitting, and they had degenerated to stretching arms and legs and sitting sideways to hide areas not covered by an ass.

I watched this for maybe thirty minutes while listening to SAC Ellen talk to her Federal Agent cronies as they discussed the things Federal Agents discuss when off duty. Since many Federal Agents are consumed with Federal Agent’ing, much of the conversation was job specific. I won’t say the discussion was boring, but I was getting pissed at the action over to the seating area.

When the clique refused seating to a man with his pregnant wife, I’d had enough. I grabbed a hand-full of Carta Blanca beers, which is four, picked up a big bowl of chips and cradled it between by arm and my chest, and walked over.

I stood and looked at each clique member to await any form of acknowledgment. Receiving none, I pushed between a man lounging on a love seat and the woman to his left who was taking up three seats on the sofa.

“Oops,” I apologized as I stepped on the man’s foot as it lay positioned to block entry to the seating area.

“Oh, shit,” to the woman, as I dumped some BBQ potato chips in her lap.

I barged through like an asshole at a movie theater with my two arms full of refreshments. “Sorry about that, Darlin’. Can I sit here?” And with that I sat on her hand. She didn’t move the hand- she left it so I would get up.

“Oops, again. Are you hurt or are you just glad to see me?” That got the hand moved with great alacrity.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Mooner Johnson.” I placed my beers on the table and grabbed the previously sat upon hand with my drippy wet one for a shake. Her hand was soft and gave mine that “ooo, you are so icky!” part shake, part brush-off act.

I released her hand and half stood to shake the man’s hand, dumped more chips on the woman in process, and pushed the woman’s legs from the side, pinning them against the end of the sofa.

“Sweet Jesus am I a klutz,” I said as I air shook the man’s hand. “What are y’all discussing?”

When nobody responded I said, “Oh, this is one of those groups where the new guy gets to change the topic.”

I scratched my head like I was thinking of what was important enough to not waste their time. This was an act because I had been wanting to discuss this Jimmy Frey bullshit ever since Colleen Lindsey brought it to my attention last week.

“So. What do you guys think about this whole James Frey business?” When I got blank looks and sour faces in response, I told them what I know. Admittedly, what I know is little, but that never stops me from expounding on any topic.

When I finally stopped talking, this one guy, the one I had pegged as the clique’s leader, says to me, he said, “From what you say, my impression is that Mr. Frey has a sound business plan,” and then they all chuckled.

I asked him to expand and he did. The basics were that, in a free capitalistic economy experiencing tough economic times, new markets filled with desperate consumers pop up to be abused by forward-thinking businessmen.

“We have a responsibility to fill a market void,” he told the group, almost as an aside.

When he reached for a chip from my bowl, I slapped his hand away. “So, let me get this straight. You are telling us that it doesn’t make any difference that you are taking advantage of the consumer, or that you are providing shabby products, as long as the consumer buys what you are selling and you profit from it?”

“That’s right,” he says, and he reaches for my chip bowl again.

This time I pinched the skin on the back of his hand. “OK, this is sinking in.”

I ate a double fist-full of chips, chewed and swallowed, slugged some beer and said, “Then you think Hitler was a smart businessman and approve his tactics.”

Now see, this is another of those times when I get into trouble without justification. The man grabs angrily at my chip bowl, and I flick the end of his nose with my middle finger. Hard. I can bloody your nose when I place my middle finger under my thumb and flick. Streaker Jones taught it to me as a non-lethal defense technique back to grade school, and I have practiced ever since.

The man stands straight up in obvious shock, and big tears well in his eyes. Those big tears drain from the inside corners of his eyes, and race down his cheeks to join the little dribble of blood at his upper lip.

“He hit me!” He swiped his sleeve at his face and looked at the tear-diluted bloodstain on his shirt. “He drew blood. You all saw him hit me!”

Me, I’m starting to enjoy myself as this silly fucker has finally made an intelligent statement. But that’s when, from behind me, I heard the quiet electronic sound a Tazer gun makes when it’s handler primes it for use. It’s similar to the sound a camera makes when it primes the flash.

It’s also the sound that stimulates a primal voice in my psyche that screams, “Duck Mooner!!!!”

I ducked, spilling beer and the remains from my chip bowl. The free market businessman, who obviously lacked the psychic history required to get my advance notice, took a pleasant little charge of Direct Current. One cute metal-spiked wire stuck in his neck, the second in his chin, where tears and nose blood had started to drain.

Since, when standing upright this guy was maybe seven inches shorter than me, I surmised that the Tazer shooter was the SACster, and that she was aiming at my lower-left shoulder. She hits me at heart level whenever she’s desirous of the serious sex we enjoy after I’ve been mildly electrocuted.

I didn’t get arrested because the guy didn’t want to press charges, and I gave a short class on nose thumping to some of the women before we left.

On the way home, SAC Ellen quizzed me on the origins of the fight as she drove us in her Special Agent car. I told her it wasn’t really a fight and how I had compared the actions of James Frey to Adolf Hitler. “You know that ‘the ends justify the means’ dealie.”

She thought about it for a second and then went all misty eyed. “Do we need any beer?” I shook my head, then she asked, “Can you stay the night?”

I said, “Yes,” and tilted my seat back.

When I heard the little electronic charging sound, I shut my eyes, adjusted my undies to accommodate the redirected blood flow, and smiled.

Manana, y’all.

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