Left Of Sean

In 1967 the world was granted a marvel of human eccentricity when SuzyQ was born in a log cabin on the Oklahoma plains. Forty-three years later and five husbands into a six husband goal, she’s on her way to becoming one of the most profound and quoted authors/screenwriters on the planet.
Her latest work, a story about a monkey who lives in a bubble at the bottom of the ocean, has already sold 200 million copies worldwide and shows no sign of stopping.

Left Of Sean was lucky enough to get an interview with Ms. Q. As a recluse, she rarely grants interviews.
Writing from her house made of Legos and wheat, she painstakingly answered our questions while on a six day bender of prescription pain killers, Botox, and whipped cream.

Incoherent at times and unbelievably vulgar, here’s what she had to say.

Left Of Sean: Suz, thank you for granting this interview. I know your schedule is busy so I’ll get right to the point….

Suz: Too fucking late!

Left Of Sean: At what age did you know that you would be a writer?

Suz: What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And speaking of age, thanks for mentioning my birth year in the introduction asshole.

Left Of Sean: What I meant was, I just want to know when you knew you would make it a career.!

Suz: Oh. I think I was 3. My mom was beating my brother for taking a magic marker and drawing huge dicks all over the wall in the hallway. In reality, I had done it but when mom asked me about it, I made up an elaborate story about him being gay and his need for cock. She believed me. I realized that I had the gift of story telling in me.

Left Of Sean: At 3?!?

Suz: You don’t fucking believe me?

Left Of Sean: It does seem a little young.

Suz: I developed early goddammit. I went through puberty at 7. Fuck you.

Left Of Sean: There’s no reason to get hostile. Can I get you a drink?

Suz: Yes, thank you. I’ll take a double vodka and Pepsi, hold the Pepsi, and add a shot of vodka.

Left Of Sean: So you want a triple vodka?

Suz: Fucking potato/po-tot-o. And bring me some fucking Cheetos.

{At this point we took a 30 minute break while Suz moved in and out of consciousness.}

Left Of Sean: How many rejection letters did you receive in the beginning?

Suz: I’ve never had a rejection letter. Here’s a hint for all you aspiring writers out there: include a beaver shot!

Left Of Sean: Have you ever had to spend time on the proverbial “casting couch?” If so, were any particular foods involved?

Suz: Yes and yes. One time, Yul Brenner asked me into his trailer. This was during the filming of Puddle {Puddle Humper. Suzanne’s book about a transvestite midget trying to become a firefighter.} Anyway, I walked in thinking he was going to talk to me about the script. The producers had asked me to consult on the set even though I had sold the rights to the screenplay. So anyway, I’m sitting in his trailer and he excuses himself to go piss or something. When he comes back out he isn’t wearing any pants; just a pink Fedora and a bra. He tells me he wants me to do something with a banana and jar of mustard. It was gross, but what the hell. It was Yul. That’s right! I fucked him. Who are you to judge?

Can I get a refill?

Left Of Sean: Your first book was about a piece of toilet paper trying to find a place in life after being flushed down the toilet. Was this auto-biographical?

Suz: Are you calling me a piece of shit? Jesus, did you do NO research for this interview? It was an unauthorized biography of Kim Kardashian. That damn book nearly ruined me. I developed my whipped cream addiction during the writing process. It was tough. Originally, the piece of toilet paper was named Square Pants Shit Bob but the legal department at that fucking cartoon threatened to sue. So, I had to change the name to Glenn Beck. I thought the love Glenn and Kim shared for psychotropic drugs and hate filled absurdity was brilliant.

Left Of Sean: Your first husband died in a tragic mayonnaise farm accident. Can you tell us what exactly happened?

Suz: It wasn’t just a mayonnaise farm – ranch dressing, unflavored plain yogurt, alfredo sauce, raita, and hollandaise. Please go to White Condiments Are Not For Swimming to donate and raise awareness.

Left Of Sean: I understand one of your new hobbies is dressing farm animals like famous U.S. Presidents and holding tea parties on your front lawn.

Suz: No, no, no. It’s dressing farm animals as FUTURE presidents. Didn’t you get the eVite I sent you for the Trip Palin event next Saturday? (BYOTB: Bring Your Own Tea Bag)

Left Of Sean: You’ve been married five times in, what you’ve termed, a series of six. Have you thought about trying something different after number six is gone? Maybe a woman or a goat or a hot dog? Now that gay marriage is back on in California, it could lead to the allowance of Inanimate Object Marriage.

Suz: Ahhhh…the slippery slope. I say, bring it on! I’d love to be married to a dog – he can lick his own balls. I’m going to jump onto that slippery slope and slide right into the no-kill pet shelter in Van Nuys. I just know there is an abandoned pit-bull mix who still has the smell of the 3 year old he attacked on his breath to bring me marital bliss. Look, I like it all: popsicles, tacos, fudge. But other than a ‘man,’ the only other object I’d ever consider marrying is my right hand. I don’t think that’s legal yet.

Left Of Sean: Your latest book is about a monkey named Spanky who lives in a bubble on the bottom of the ocean. Isn’t this just the age old story of society as a whole swallowing and smothering the individual? Why not a grasshopper? Or a cat?

Suz: Who are you, Aristotle? It’s about a monkey. His name is Spanky. He lives in a bubble. On the bottom of an ocean. And it’s being made into a feature film next year starring Tom Cruise and directed by McG. Don’t read anything into it.
I tried a grasshopper but my publisher made me change it. They said that no one could emotionally connect with a fucking grasshopper. What the fuck do they know. Hell, I’ve connected with a bottle of aspirin before; it can be done. And a cat? No one gives a shit about cats.

Left Of Sean: What’s your favorite curse word?

Suz: “For the love of Mel Gibson.”

Left Of Sean: What smell do you love the most?

Suz: Fresh plastic, dead grandfather furniture, and curbside treasures.

Left Of Sean: And finally, if there really is a Dog and you’re standing at the pearly gates, what do you think Dog’s response would be?

Suz: “Can I get a hit off that joint?”

********

At this point Suz decided she needed another Botox injection and called her personal physician. I watched her smoke three joints, down two more triple vodkas, and try to grab the doctor’s balls. When she finally passed out I decided it was time to leave.

Over the last couple of years I have used this blog for everything from social commentary to election politics to social absurdity and fiction.  Some of the entries have been masterpieces (very few) and some have been pure crap.

Mostly they’re just my rambling nonsense and I’m lucky enough that my readership is growing so that means that we, as a society, are getting dumber.

Lately I’ve been on a poetry kick.  It started with Poe and is quickly ascending into Frost, Byron, and Whitman.  Yes, there are others too.

I know what you’re thinking, “Goddamnit, I was actually enjoying his ridiculous posts and then he throws this poetry shit into the mix!”  Yeah, I know.  It’s horrible that I want to push a little education your way.  Suck it up and remember my motto:  If you don’t like it, change the channel.  But I hope you won’t.

I’m going to leave you with a piece of art that is moving, spectacular, simple, and compelling all at once.  Read it several times to take it in.  Savor it.  And tell someone else about it.  Who knows, maybe they’ll love it too.

I would I were a careless child by Lord Byron

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! Take back these cultur’d lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;
I ask but this – again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne’er design’d for me:
Ah! Why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth – wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I lov’d – but those I lov’d are gone;
Had friends – my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart – the heart – is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank of Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist’rous Joy is but a name.

And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men –
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.

I hope you enjoyed it!

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Right now I’m out of ideas.  I’m sitting here looking at the computer screen and I’ve gone completely blank.  I’ve been digging through my notes in hopes of generating some sort of spark of creativity but nothing is coming.  I’m like the dead lawnmower I had to take to the shop last year.  Let’s hope this fix doesn’t cost $95…for a $50 lawnmower!

What I’m hoping is that in the next few days or weeks I’ll get a handle on the creativity and start writing again.  I keep a notebook full of junk and write down ideas and statements and doodles so that I can refer back to those things later for blog posts.  That notebook is going to come in handy right now because I’m going to list a few things I wrote down from TFLN (Texts From Last Night) to use later in stories or to just generate ideas.

• She thought the capital of Kansas was Topanga!
• It smells like wine and fried chicken in here.
• It’s official.  I’m a squirter.  Wasn’t a one time thing.
• I just recognized the girl sitting across from me from a lesbian porno.  Should I ask for an autograph?

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