Just Off the Phone With Ace

Ace called me to see how the blog was going, and to let everyone know he's doing okay. I took the liberty of recording the conversation (easy enough with a Sansung 3250) and I have transcribed the call for any who are interested.

ACE: Hoke, what's up? Blog going okay?

HOKE: You're still getting some hits off Instapundit, so it's okay for the day at least. What's going on exactly? Is this real? Are you retired?

ACE: Well... I don't know. After I wrote that post, I got to thinking. You know, I called it the Greatest Post I'd Ever Written In My Whole Useless Life, and I meant that to be a joke, but when I started to think about it-- it wasn't really a joke. A year and a season of blogging and I'm still basically on Oliver Willis' level. That's... well that's just sad.

HOKE: You get a good zinger in once in a while.

ACE: So does f'n' Gallagher, you know? And at least he's actually got a career. People have heard of the Sledge-O-Matic. Ninety percent of the public don't even know what a "blog" is. I hate to say it-- but Gallagher's got heat, you know?

HOKE: Without doubt.

ACE: So I'm just thinking, up or out baby, up or out... I can't just keep writing a bunch of silly shit for a tiny gaggle of sniggering retards. Uhhhhh... don't say I called them that.

HOKE: Got it. Edit it out.

ACE: Right. Call them, I don't know, what the hell are they? What would you call such... specimens?

HOKE: Intelligent, good-natured people?

ACE: Yeah... I guess. Oh well, run with it. White lie and all.

HOKE: Fair enough. I guess they want to know what you're up to now.

ACE: Look, I hate to admit this. I've spent a lot of time slagging on Andrew Sullivan for running off to Paris to write his novel, but let's be honest: That's exactly the right call. You can't keep doing this bullshit forever. You have to make a break for the roses, you know? And so that's what I've done.

HOKE: You're in Paris?

ACE: Well, sort of.

HOKE: Where?

ACE: Massapequa.

HOKE: Massapequa?

ACE: They call it "The Paris of Long Island."

HOKE: Who does?

ACE: This guy at a Citgo station called it that. He seemed to know what he was talking about. His uniform was very clean.

HOKE: And so you're, well, retired to Massapequa to work on your novel?

ACE: Well, not novel. I don't know if I have that in me right now. To write a novel, you have to have a gift with the English language, or a piercing insight into human character and behavior. I don't... I don't know if I have either of those. I've spent the last year making jokes about pooter and Whitesnake.

HOKE: Short story, maybe?

ACE: A children's book.

HOKE: A children's book? Oh, that's wonderful. And they sell big sometimes.

ACE: Don't I know it, brother. Don't. I. Know it. And this is a good one. It's about a little boy whose mother collects hummel gnomes. And one day he finds out that these hummel gnomes are actually real gnomes, who remain still as statues during the day to guard a secret-- a secret passageway through the back of their fireplace that leads to a world of wizardry and all sorts of humorous escapades.

HOKE: Cute enough. What's it called?

ACE: "Johnny Fucknuts."

HOKE: Johnny....?

ACE: Fucknuts. I'm told that kids want "edgier" material nowadays, like "Captain Underpants."

HOKE: But that title... I don't know if that's going to appeal to children. Or their parents.

ACE: Well, it's just a working title. I'm not married to it or anything. I've got other titles.

HOKE: Like...

ACE: "The Magical Adventures of Johnny Fucknuts."

HOKE: Ummm... I don't know. I think the problem is basically the kid's name.

ACE: Whatever, man. Billy Fucknuts. It doesn't really matter. It's going to be a piece of shit anyway. I just want to con some blogger into doing all the artwork for free for me and then selling it based on cute pictures of giant flying squirrels that Johnny rides around on. The words-- shit, who cares about the words? I never have. And kids are fucking dumb as rocks anyhow. Ever talk to a kid? They're like little retards or something, except half of them crap their pants.

HOKE: Well... I guess I wish you luck.

ACE: Yeah... speaking of luck... could I be lucky enough to borrow maybe a hundred bucks from you until I sell this stupid retard-book? It's expensive in Massapequa. They want $2.79 for Gordita with extra guac.

HOKE: Well, it is the Paris of Long Island.

ACE: You got that right, brother. You got that right.

...

The conversation degenerated from there, as Ace began spewing vile insults at me when I refused to loan him any cash. I think he was making half of them up, or maybe getting them from Battlestar: Galactica. All I know is that he claims he frakked my sister in her feldercarb.

Sideways, if that's relevant.