Category: Blame Caleb

I present part two of my however-many-it-takes part series to get a book deal based on my amazing, 100(ish)% true exploits as a hobbyist blame-taker.

However, instead of being only an instigator in big news, I want to report it. Below is my first official Blame Caleb Exclusive!

(BCE)–Gluteal aficionado reverses his long-held controversial stance on large asses. Says Mr. A-Lot: “They just aren’t exotic anymore.”

Sir Mix-A-Lot became famous after the 1992 release of his pro-butt cheek manifesto, “Baby Got Back,” currently in its 34^th pressing. The release of this manifesto took both the intellectual and libidinal communities by storm.

“The problem is that too many white boys did in fact shout,” Mix-a-Lot says in reference to a particularly layered passage in which he implies the reluctance of Caucasian males to express sexual interest. “Once the mainstream embraced my philosophy, Rump-o’-smooth-skin’s no longer suffered insecurities about their shape. So I became just another talentless fat guy with nothing to offer.”

Within weeks of the release of “Baby Got Back,” fatties throughout the country rejoiced. As expected, enormous women are split on how to feel about Mix-a-Lot’s recent announcement. One particularly gross woman felt betrayed. “He said he loved us. Now he says we are nothing, it’s like…” (recording inaudible due to mouth full of donuts). Other women, such as The Wild Hole Stripclub’s notoriously self-confident Ms. Chocolate Mousse is indifferent. “Everybody loves us. We don’t need him.”

When asked about the timeliness of the announcement, Mr. A-Lot says, “I was inspired to come clean after Stephen Hawking recently modified his original acceptance that God had a role in creating the universe.” Hawking argues his theory in his new book, The Grand Design, as reported at The Guardian. “So as God is to Hawking,” Mix-A-Lot says, “the ass is to me.”

It seems book deals are overwhelmingly the result of celebrity. But because I have never madamed a gubernatorial knob gobbling session, didn’t shoot to national fame by positioning my condescension to gullible suckers as empathy for “the real America,” and unfortunately wasn’t smart enough to fool Oprah first, my current celeb-cred holds steady at terror alert level negative green. In fact, I barely warrant an obituary, let alone a book. But if controversy is what the industry wants, then controversy I shall give.

With that realization in mind, I selfishly admit: the BP oil spill was my fault.

See, back on the tragic day, 4/20, Frank and I—Frank was the rig’s main guy—we got a bit high in honor of the holiday and decided to pass the evening hours playing dominoes. “Playing” used loosely, here, as we mainly spent the night arguing over what the black dots on the dominoes tasted like. I said hotdogs. Frank said purple. Frank, it is important to note, took the holiday into LSD territory, which not only allowed him to taste colors but also smell shapes. His ill-celebration is ultimately what popped the ol’ ocean zit.

As relaxation among friends tends to encourage good-natured razzing, pot and dominoes among a struggling writer and the safety manager of a bajillion ton oil rig will naturally lead to cold-hearted jabs. Frank started the feud by saying that my industry was dying, citing evidence like diminishing book sales and the increased coolness of video games and movies. So I retaliated by comparing the name of his rig, Deepwater Horizon, to a gay sci-fi porno. Frank, is a good guy, but he couldn’t take the joke. Instead, he took his tripping balls down to the sub-level control room and deactivated the methane detectors. The resulting flashing lights and piercing sirens headchanged my high from tranquil serene to pants-shitting paranoid.

He had a laugh. We had a hug. But he never reactivated the methane detector. Oopsies, citizens of the Gulf Coast. Double oopsies, ocean life.

Book deal, please.