POOP STORY #2

So... I have a deadbeat dad, Jorge. Most people who know me know that. He was always in and out. When he was in it was one of two things.

1. He felt guilty and wanted to buy me things to make up for his absence which I allowed him to do in as much excess as he wanted...or

2. He needed something from me...like to help him pronounce a word in English with his flippant sounding Argentinian accent...or to ask for money...or to help him perform crimes.

I often move around without ever letting him know my whereabouts, but give him a few years...and he finds me.

It just so happens that he found me right after I had moved to Los Angeles where POOP STORY #1 took place. He was working with his brother who in the 70's owned (which in Argentinian means "worked for") a limo service in L.A.. Now for work they both drove around to businesses soliciting their auto detailing services with buckets and wipers. How embarrassing.

He was making pretty good money, so every once in a while I'd let him take me to a fancy dinner.

It wasn't long before he called me telling me that he had a Hollywood connection that was going to make me a star.

I assured him he had no such connection. That it doesn't work that way. To call me when he befriended an agent....even a bottom tier one would do.

"No, no, no," he said in Count Chocula. "I already make appointment with him so he meet you".

I couldn't say no. I was committed against my will. Who could this be? This Hollywood connection? I thought of lame 70's celebrities who couldn't even get work themselves like Charo or all those other people who weren't Valerie Bertinelli on that one show. It was worse. If you haven't guessed he's pictured above.

Benji.

Jorge thought FUCKING BENJI was going to make me a star!

So off I went on an hour drive out of L.A. with Jorge and his even dumber brother to a dog's house to see about putting me in the pictures, see.

Benji's owner was a man named Frank Inn. He created the phenomenon of this little dog. Here is the embarrassing part...on the drive...for a millisecond...I thought perhaps this man could put me in a Benji movie. Sure I hadn't seen an actual one since I was 8, but there could be a new one. Together we could be the next Turner & Hooch. I couldn't wait to arrive to this man's mansion somewhere outside of the hills of L.A..

It turns out the mansion was just a house with a barn..yes, you heard me..barn out back. We park and an old man in denim overalls and a long white beard starts jogging? No, more like galloping toward the car...it was kind of like a hustled walk but with his arms down by his side like early man. You know that man that would kill you with an ax if you got stuck out in the woods. THIS WAS HIM. For the first time, I clung to my father.

It turned out that this man was not Frank Inn. He was Frank Inn's hippie male nurse. He led us into the house where Frank was. I don't mean to be mean because the poor man has died since this event...but he looked like a more bloated version of the old hippie bearded man except in a wheelchair. He was a mix of Santa Claus and Boss Hog after a rib dinner....and everywhere...I mean everywhere throughout the house there was Benji stuff....including the ashes of all the dead Benji's. I sat down and thought to myself...Jesus, take the wheel.

I shouldn't have thought that because what happened next was that Frank Inn, who was about 100 yrs old, began to tell us stories about how Jesus blessed his life with Benji. I looked at my fingernails to see if they were long enough to slit my throat, but they were freshly clipped. An hour later, after recanting memories of Circus of the Stars and lunches with old celebrity people I pretended to know, he takes out a book from somewhere in his chair. This was a book of poetry.

Poetry he himself had written...about....Benji.

Some poems were about Jesus. Some about both. Poems like...."Jesus is fun, Benji likes to run." This poetry reading went on for two hours....2 HOURS, people...after that he asked the hippie man to take my father and uncle out to the barn to show them more Benji paraphernalia so that he could be alone with "the young person" for a bit.

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

When we were alone he told me he understood that I wanted to be an actor, but that the only connection he had that was still alive was Betty White and he hadn't spoken to her in 10 years. I told him, thanks anyway. At that point I didn't care. I just wanted to leave...I just needed something to get me out of there. Sure enough...

The thunderous rip of a smothered fart ripped through the silence in the air. The instant smell of stale poo hit the atmosphere. He looked up straight into me eyes and said, "Young man, excuse me, I've soiled myself." He then wheeled himself into the other room and hollered out the hippie man's name.

"YYEESS?" hollered hippie man back.

"I"VE SOILED MYSELF," yelled Frank.

In came galloping early man hippie guy. He went straight to the bedroom where Frank was. I slowly got up. I walked out to the barn. I walked up to Jorge who was admiring a Benji lunch box. I said, "Take me home now, you're not my father."

I haven't spoken to him in 4 years.