The Fourth of America

This year was a mellow Independence Day, I cleaned and such. 

Last year, I had a good enough day to last me for years. 

This story takes places in Davis, California. If you have never been to Davis, take my word for it, you're not missing much. And by much, I mean a University, a Jamba Juice, and slutty virgins. 

What is a slutty virgin? Let me tell you. A slutty virgin is a person (most likely a girl) who is willing to give any guy a blow job, but due to some misguided sense of morality, will not have sex until marriage. Apparently, sucking a guy off until he pops in your eye is less degrading then the act of sex. Who knew?

BrotherS, from "I Have Found Hell" lives in Davis. He has roommates who like to drink a lot. I was thirsty. Made sense, right?

Emcee, ShadowFox and myself go up to Davis the night before. After a couple of games of beer pong (COLLEGE!!) we pass out while playing Super Mario Kart. This house is a few oversize Greek letters over it's door from being a shitty frat. 

Living with BrotherS is PrettyBoy, SomeOneWhoDidn'tDoAnythingCoolEnoughToRemember, and CaptainBlackout. 

CaptainBlackout is my hero because of this night. 

I wake up on the couch around 8 in the morning. This is the one day of the year I will ever be truly patriotic (besides the Olympics/World Cup), and I love any excuse to start drinking absurdly early in the day, but waking up to CaptainBlackout and PrettyBoy doing shots in the kitchen before I've had toast is a bit much for me. 

But it was for America, so fuck it. 

I start drinking at around noon, with Emcee and ShadowFox joining me. People are coming in and out of the house, and apparently people know who they are because they start playing beer pong with us. 

At this point the entire apartment is called to pay attention to CaptainBlackout like he was about to give a best man's wedding toast. But instead of a tuxedo, he is shirtless with gym shorts. And instead of a glass of champagne, he has a pimp cup with Screw You Drivers (orange soda and vodka), spiked with rum. And instead of a toast, he says, "see everyone tomorrow" and downs half the pimp cup in one go. 

That was the last moment I saw CaptainBlackout until later. BrotherS, Emcee, ShadowFox, and GirlOfBrotherS go to watch some fireworks, because nothing (and I mean NOTHING) is more American than being drunk and seeing shit blow up. Suck on my freedom, third world. 

Did I mention we had a vuvuzela? Those annoying horns from the World Cup? 

Oh yes, we did. And we made sure everyone watching the fireworks knew that I had one. 

After shit blew up and we started to sober up, we decided to go back to the apartment. We get there, and it is curiously empty. Then we realize that everyone is upstairs at the girls apartment upstairs. A good move, I think. 

This is where we are once rejoined with CaptainBlackout. He is swaying next to the upstairs beer pong table, looking like he just ate a tazer. After he almost knocks the table over (twice) someone decided he should go to be. At this same instant, CaptainBlackout decides he should open beers for everyone else. A roll and half of paper towels later, he is whisked away downstairs to bed. 

But not bedroom door can contain Captain Blackout. 

Meanwhile, I am a star of the party because I have a vuvuzela. People are coming up to me, begging me to beer bong out of it. Fuck Yes America. 

Now, my memory gets a bit fuzzy at this point, so I'll just recap my favorite moments. Make out with some chick. Don't remember her name. Or face. She starts having sex with some guy while we are all in the room. I do a handstand and end up kicking some poor innocent girl in the head. She leaves. You're welcome. I make an amazing shot into a trash bin with a beer can. CaptainBlackout comes back upstairs to finish knocking over the beer pong table. Someone takes him downstairs. He stays downstairs. 

Then I meet a girl. Let's call her AMouth. We talk, she is enamored with my partying abilities and my vuvuzela. We start making out. 

Remember when I talked about slutty virgins?

When I suggest we go somewhere more private (like a spare bedroom, a bathroom, or a bush behind the apartment complex, because I keep it classy) she says something along the lines of "I don't know you very well, slow down, let's talk, blahblahblahblah". I'm not sure if it was the patriotism, fireworks, or copious amounts of alcohol but I am not taking this. I am like a fucking Spartan. No retreat. No surrender. Sex or death. 

I died that night. I think I gave up around the time she said, "I'm waiting..." To be honest, I never heard what she was waiting for. I was gone. 

THE AFTERMATH:

CaptainBlackout pissed his bed after playing drunk WarCraft. 

Before I left the party I handed condoms to a couple who were hooking up in the same room as the first sex group were passed out in. 

AMouth tried to friend me on facebook. Apparently she never got the memo that if you are a drunken hookup, you're job is to never talk to me again. Ever. 

But there is silver lining to AMouth's naivete. Because I gave her my real name and she knew who I was with, she was able to find me. Never again. So, when ever I am able, I give a fake name. To protect my identity and my respectable life I use an alter ego. 

On that night, Riley Dare was born. 

I Have Found Hell

I have found hell.

It is a bar in Martinez, next to WalMart, and it is called Cue and Brew.

Holy jack rabbit fucking christ.

Let me set the scene for you. Martinez is a town in the east bay, where married people go to raise kids and dreams go to die. Two types of people come from Martinez; people like myself, Emcee, and BrotherS who are raised there but want to get out of there as soon as possible, and then there are the people who will never leave Martinez, and they will stay there until they give life to a herd of young, soulless offspring that will continue this tradition of having no ambitions, who will give birth to the next generation of cave people and so on, and so on, rinse and repeat.

This bar is full of the second type of people, and by nature these people INFURIATE me.

Emcee, BrotherS, and Myself walk in through the front door where we are greeted with the sound of Ke$sha's song "Tic-Toc" being sung by a fat chick with a karaoke machine who sounded like she was doing a Helen Keller impression.

I am unhappy.

The Brothers Dare at Cue and Brew, 6/19/11

We go to play pool, because that is the only thing that this bar has to offer besides alcohol problems and inbreeding. LittleBear joins us.

Emcee and I run into a friend of ours from high school who is celebrating his 21st birthday here. At Cue and Brew. I pity him. Yet, at the same time, I'm thankful that I am not him. It's a bittersweet feeling.

I buy a beer. It is $4 for a pint of beer at this  fucking dive bar in Armpit, California. That is San Francisco prices.

I am angry.

This bar presents to me a situation I have never encountered before. Most bars you will see a good mix of hot girls and DUFFs (Dumb, Ugly, Fat Friends. If you don't know what a DUFF is, see my blog post which will come later. For now, all you need to know is that the DUFF is the one who stops guys from flirting with the hot chick. She is Captain Cock Block.)

Cue and Brew breaks all laws of nature, because there isn't a mix of hot chicks and DUFFS, there are just DUFFs. Only DUFFs. A plethora  of DUFFs. So many fat, ugly, dumb ass women. And not just girls, men two. So many fat, ugly, dumb ass people. In one room.

If I liked having sex with rolls of cellulite, I would have been in heaven.

And someone kept feeding them alcohol! Someone wanted these wastes of oxygen to get drunk and become even more stupid. If I had bombed this bar, I would have been acquitted because I did the world a favor. I'm pretty sure the judge would wink at me at my trial. 

Three of these disasters on legs get up and do a tone-deaf version of "Lady Marmalade".

I am enraged.

We finish our game of pool, after being in this hell hole for almost an hour, and go to return the pool balls. The women at the bar hands us a bill. IT COSTS $11 AN HOUR TO PLAY POOL! Are you fucking kidding me? So not only do I have to listen to these sub-humans sing renditions of "Lovin is What I Got" and "I Like It When You Call Me Big Poppa" but I have to pay them an hourly wage to play pool?

I am beyond furious.

The one redeeming moment of this entire experience happened on our way out. I got a glimpse of a middle-aged woman sitting at the edge of the bar, drinking a Cosmopolitan, alone, and clearly asking herself where her life went wrong. I wonder if she can pinpoint the exact moment?

No matter what has gone wrong in my life, I can always take comfort in the fact that I am not drinking alone at the Cue and Brew.

Priorities

Today I read two very interesting articles from the New York Times. One is an opinion article about the rate of consumption that we as a species are operating at. Basically, it states that we are using up more resources on this planet then we can replenish (duh), but the interesting part, to me anyways, is that we are currently using up 1.5 earths of resources. Seeing as we only have one earth, this is a problem. The other article is a discussion about sexting as a trend among adults, something inspired by the recent events concerning Mr. Weiner's online indiscretions.

Not that a discussion about cyber-infidelity isn't appreciated and interesting, but is that something that we as a people need to really worry about at this present moment? Politicians have alway wrestled between their personal life and their private life. Wether a conservative Congressman is trying to touch your foot in an airport bathroom or a liberal President is getting a blowie in the oval office, I don't think that is a valid reason to ignore the real problems of this world.

It is funny the level that we will go to distract ourselves from the real things in our lives. I believe that is called denial?

When I took my psychology class in high school, we were taught the different defense mechanisms. There are different levels of defense mechanism (thank god humor is considered to be among the mature defense mechanisms with altruism and thought suppression) and denial falls under the lowest level category of defense mechanisms: pathological. 

When ever I hear that word, it is never good. You will never hear someone speaking at a university commencement be described as pathological. "Our next speaker is, an inspiration to the students, pathological and psychotic, and has a substantial collection of kiddy porn." Ya, not the guy I want to shake hands with as I get my diploma. 

So here we have this negative word "denial"which falls under the "pathological" category of defense mechanisms. And my favorite part of denial, is that it is willful. It is the willful altering of ones reality to inhibit the realisation of what exist or is known to be true. 

This is why things such as TMZ and E! Entertainment News exist. We as a society have decided to ignore the problems in our own lives by becoming completely ensconced in the lives of the famous. What about our lives change when Blake Lively posts naked pictures? NOTHING!!! Nothing changes. Yet, the last time I asked an adult waitress what NATO was (and yes, I do this often) she looked at me with a completely blank face and said, "do you want sourdough or wheat toast?"*

Also, I completely realize that posting this on a blog that, up until this point, was about complaining and telling funny stories, is truly the definition of irony. 

But maybe I have more to offer then shallow, obvious, and disgusting humor. Maybe I can branch out and change this world. 

Who the hell am I kidding? My blog has a picture of me with a mohawk on it. I'm not going to be one of the most Influential People of 2011. 

But I think this is the start of me branching out. Don't get me wrong, I will still be posting stories and such. But you will soon see a small transformation. From a Tucker-Max-esque website to a platform for and topic that I care to touch upon. 

Come with me, as we journey down this blogging path, full of booze, babes, and bears. 

Bears?

Maybe, just maybe...

The Saga of the Homeless

I should preface this by saying that I don't hate all of the homeless people in the world.

I do, however, harbor a lot of anger towards a large percentage of the people who bother me for change as I walk down the streets, trying to mind my own business.

Why do I hate these people?

Well, lots of reasons. Quoting Jim Carrey from "Liar, Liar", "Because I believe you will buy booze with it! I just want to get from my car to the office without being confronted by the decay of western society! Plus I'm cheap. Ahh!!"(On a side note, I'm not cheap, I'm a recently graduated college student. I'm not cheap, I'm broke as hell. There is a difference.)

Remember when cell phones first came out, and you could avoid talking to anyone by pretending to be on it. Whether it was a bum, a green peace fundraiser, or some tourist with a fanny pack asking you where the nearest public transit stop was, they all left you alone. Well, sad to say for all of us, this no longer works. With the exception of the dude in socks and sandals, people will stop you, disturb your phone call (be it made up or real) and even ask you to take headphones out of your ear to listen to them. Do they not understand that the point of the headphone is to ignore the rest of the world?

Come on!

But the thing that really pisses me off about homeless beggars is the indignation they have when you don't give them money. Every time someone asks me for money, and when I inevitably don't give them any, they are upset and angered. As if it is my duty to give them my money. That I worked for. That, according to the rules of the capitalist economy we live in and abide by, is my money and belongs to no one else. It is not my duty to give my money away, and however nice it is (and believe me, the false sense of superiority is fantastic) I don't HAVE to give money to anyone.

People have said, and will say, that most of these people can't help their situation, right?

WRONG!!!!

According to The United States Conference of Mayors study on "Hunger and Homeless Survey" in 2008 (look at me, backing up my rants with facts and such), the leading cause of homelessness among single adults and unaccompanied youth is substance abuse (68%).

Here is the link to the study:
http://usmayors.org/pressreleases/documents/hungerhomelessnessreport_121208.pdf

So, statistically, if I give one homeless person sitting by themselves a dollar, that is one dollar going towards alcohol or drugs. Do you still want to tell me that I'm a bad person for not wanting to donate money to the "heroin for the homeless" fund?

When you think like that, how can you not help but get just a little bit angry at the man who gets upset at you for not giving him his beer money.

But this is not to say that the homeless people of the world don't have something to offer.

Some offer amazing advice. Such as The Guru.

The Guru is a character that myself and a good friend of mine, WopCulture, ran into on a BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station. Somehow, the guru gathered enough nickels and dimes to get into the station, and was pestering the good citizens with jobs (or citizens that had parents with jobs, such as me at that time) for money. When he got around to us, WopCulture and I both said, "Sorry, I don't have any." It was at this point that the Guru looked WopCulture directly in the eyes and said, with complete conviction and sincerity, "Don't be sorry. Don't EVER be sorry." And then the Guru walked off into the night. After imparting such profound and deep wisdom to us, he ventured forth to continue to spread the gospel of the unclean. Clearly, his advice had really helped him so far.

Some homeless are just plain entertaining. Such as the World Famous Bushman.

Bushman is a god damn San Franciscan Legend. If you come to this city without seeing Bushman, then you haven't officially been to San Francisco.

And then there are my favorite type of homeless. The ones who move beyond conscious entertainment. These are the people who no longer live on this planet. The type of characters you would find in a Samuel Beckett play. They exist in a world that none of us are lucky enough to comprehend past our fifth birthday. They have imaginary friends, and problems, and lives, and possibly jobs. They don't ask for money, they don't ask for pity, they don't even ask you for a second glance. All they ask is that the six monkeys sitting on their shoulders stop chattering for one minute so they can tell the president of Uganda the very important sandwich recipe they have.

I was in Rome with two of my good friends, Emcee and TheModel. As we were walking around the city, we encountered RockLady. RockLady had striped back and white tights, a purple jacket, Ms. Frizzle-esque blonde hair, and 2-inch black heels. I never saw her face, because it was obscured by a main of fucked up hair that would make a lion drag queen jealous. We watched her gather a series of rocks from the street. And when I say rocks, I mean these big, jagged, pieces of concrete that were between softballs and american footballs. She gather her pile of rocks near what we assumed to be her base camp of garbage. It was at this moment that we realized what she was using the rocks for. It was her arsenal. She began throwing the rocks at the feet of passerby's. Not trying to hit them, but just trying to scare them a little. And this was not a one time thing. We watched her repeat this cycle at least three times. RockLady was a regular feature in Rome, we saw her at least half a dozen times, and each time she would just reaffirm my belief that she was a Hershey's side winder. And although she never topped her rock-a-pult act, she continued to entertain us for over a week. Oh RockLady, this ones for you.

But if there is one thing that infuriates me more than the hordes of uppity homeless people, it is Gypsies.

God Damn Gypsies.

And I don't mean the ethnic group of nomadic people, as in Gypsy.

I mean the army of organized "homeless" beggars who aggressively attempt to get your money from you, typically found in major European cities, especially in Paris, France.

Here is my horrifying Gypsy experience in Paris, just one of many. It still gives me nightmares.

I was in the Gare Du Nord train station with Pops, when a raggedy looking woman with a shawl around her head. The GypsySoldier asks me if I speak Enlgish. Like a dumb ass, I say yes. She holds up a sign that reads something like this; "My husband was killed in Algeria, and I have no home and no money. Please help, God Bless."

#1- I don't believe in God, suckah!

#2- This message would draw more sympathy from me, except that EVERY SINGLE GYPSY IN PARIS HAS HAD A HUSBAND WHO HAS BEEN KILLED IN ALGERIA. And with the exact same phrasing.

#3- It is around the time I finish reading this message that I notice there are 4 or 5 other GypsySoldiers working the area we are in, with a GypsyGeneral directing their efforts. They are working us in teams!!! WE ARE UNER A GYPSY ATTACK!

All I know at this point is that Pops and I need to get the fuck out of there. But here is the thing, no matter where I move, the GypsySoldier stays with me, with her hand outstretched and whispering please. Over. And over. And over. And over. Following me around.

At this point I am panicking. I am honestly scared that I am about to be mugged or eaten. So, I have a bright idea. If i give her money, she will go away! Fellow travelers, this never works. I give her 2 Euros ($3.50), but apparently this is not enough. She continues to follow me!! The fucking nerve on this GypsySoldier. Luckily, Pops steps in and politely tells GypsySoldier to "Fuck Off!" Luckily, Pops is a pretty muscular, tattooed guy who looks pretty damn intimidating. GypsySoldier regroups with her GypsyBatallion while Pops and I walk away briskly.

A friend of mine, TheGlasses, once encountered a GypsySorceress. She slipped a ring on his finger, and when he refused to pay her, she cast a curse on him. Needless to say, TheGlasses got the ring off his finger, threw it away, and sacrificed a lamb just to be safe.

You know, the funny thing about rants is that sometimes you end differently then you thought you would. Like this.

If I had to boil all of this down to one sentence, it would be this;

Homeless people may be irritating, but Gypsies are fucking terrifying.

You're welcome.

And now I leave you with a true success story, about a homeless man with an incredible voice.

Five Head

Sex falls into three categories; awful, good, and great. You never hear about the “good” category, because it is your average, run of the mill, sex; nothing outstandingly good, nothing horrifyingly bad. Talking about it would be like putting a “C+” test on the fridge, unnecessary. Great sex is pretty self-explanatory. You fucked, and it was awesome. Unless something particularly dirty or kinky happened, the description of it rarely goes beyond, “ya, we had sex. Dude, it was fucking awesome.” And then there is awful sex. Awful sex, much like a car wreck, is unexpected, traumatic, and by the time it happens it is too late to do anything about it. You just have to relax your body, let it happen, and hope you come out ok.

This is a story about some awful sex.

I was talking to this girl. Wow, great way to start the story.

This girl had one of the biggest foreheads I have ever seen. If I needed to break down a door, I would use her head. Zinedine Zidane would have cowered in fear at the size of her dome. You could land the entire US air force on her face, and have room to move about. It was so big, that it could hardly be called a forehead. It was more like a fivehead. (I know it’s a bad joke, but god damn it, I love that joke)

So Five Head and I were getting along all right, couple of day dates and all that. Eventually, I head to her house one night and we start making out. Like you do.

Twenty minutes into the make out session, she tells me, “she can’t do…that”.

In case you are wondering, “that” means “bone”. I give her a confused look, she tells me she is on her woman time, and I go home.

A couple of nights later, I get the text. I’m sure you know what that text is. It’s the one that comes after midnight that says something innocent like, “hey” or, “what r u up to?” This text means it’s on (once again, “it” being “coitus”).

So, I get the text, and it is on.

A few winky face emoticons later, and I’m braving the northern England cold to get laid.

I barely get in the doorway when she latches on to my face with hers. Literally, we didn’t even get the door closed all the way. We clumsily stumble up the stairs, and by the time she drags me into her room she is pulling at my clothes.

No one could have predicted how the night would turn out. But from the way she pulled me into her room like I was a prisoner of war being pulled into a cave in Northern Afghanistan (too soon?) I should have made an educated guess.

In an increment of time too small for my phone to measure, my clothes were off and I was being coerced onto the bed. He clothes were also off, but I don’t remember taking them off. Maybe they dissolved.  Or maybe she clawed them off with the same gusto she used to disrobe me.

Let me set the scene for you; it is 2am, in a town at the same altitude as southern Alaska, in the winter. It is fucking cold. And I have had a very long week (not spent doing anything exciting, but when you play video games with your housemates until 4 in the morning, then go to classes at four hours later, you get worn out pretty quick). This means that my brain is trying to tell my body to go to sleep, but my body is trying to tell my brain how excited it is because there are naked people with me. Needless to say, it is difficult to get an erection.

On top of all this, we have to use a condom. Now, this may not be what I’m supposed to say, but I hate condoms. So much. With a passion. But, I don’t know where she has been, she doesn’t know where I have been, she isn’t pro-choice, blahblahblahblah.

So I have to get hard enough, for long enough, to put on a condom and then fuck her? Oh god, when did sex become so much work?

I finally get my boy all wrapped up and safe, and she climbs on top of me. We start going for a bit, she’s kind of holding my hands down above my head, whatever.

Five Head is now rocking all back and forth. It is hard to put this motion into words. She is moving her hips back and forth, with no up and down motion. This is not the best feeling in the world for guys. Especially if the girl isn’t lubricated enough… and she isn’t.

Because this isn’t exactly enjoyable for me, I start to move my body up in order to subtly suggest she flip onto her back. It was at this moment, that the night went from awkwardly unpleasant to dear-god-get-me-out-of-here bad.

Like a switch has been flipped, she grabs my wrists and, quite literally, slams them down onto the bed and holds them there like I am about to be tortured. She makes a loud grunt, and while pinning me to the squeaky bed, she picks up her hip movement to a rapid pace that I have never seen before or since. It is still the same back and forth movement, but to a point of angry speed, like I wronged her in some way. One way I described this motion was, “it was if she had a carrot in her vagina that she was trying to grate it along a cheese grater, but instead of a carrot she had my penis.”

It was at this moment that my fight-or-flight response kicked in, and the only thought in my mind was, “how in the hell do I get out of here?!” Thank god that her face was buried in the pillow behind my head, because the look on my face could only be described as absolute and pure terror.

She keeps riding me and I keep fearing for my physical and emotional well being. After a few minutes of this, I notice something. You know that feeling you get on your inner thighs after you run or walk for along time? Now imagine that, but on your penis (if you have one, that is). So on top of the borderline rape scene going on, it starts to hurt. All of this makes me lose my erection while I am still inside of her.

Let me repeat that. I lose my erection while I am inside of her. I didn’t finish and we hadn’t stopped. She was still fucking me, and I lost my erection. This has never happened, to my knowledge, in the history of forever. I think it might have happened once to a knight in the 1400s, but no one ever talks about that.

But here is the real kicker.

What would you do if the guy you were sleeping with lost his erection inside of you? Would you awkwardly stop, roll over, then cry yourself to sleep? Would you look at the guy in his eyes and say, “really?” Certainly, you wouldn’t just keep going. That would be the last thing you would do, right? You would feel the guy go soft, and stop. Right? That is the only thing that could happen? Right?

Wrong.

She kept going. She was fucking my limp dick so hard I thought it owed her money.

And when I say that she kept going, it wasn’t for a few seconds. We kept having sex for another 5 minutes. At least. Everything that I learned in my sex education classes was undermined that night.

I guess she decided that she was done using my body as a perverted playground, because she climbed off of me. I’m pretty sure I said thank you under my breath. It took every ounce of self-control I posses not to run out of the house and back home. In fact, the only reason I didn’t leave was because it was below zero outside. Survival beats awkward situations every time.

The next morning I set a world record for speediest dresser, and was out the front door before 8 am under the pretense of going to some class that I didn’t actually have. I went home, and was able to slip past all of my housemates, who knew where I was the night before. Luckily they were asleep and I was able to shower and scrub myself like a rape victim.

When they woke up, they asked me how my night was. And this, verbatim, is what I said.

“It’s like I was Seabiscuit, and she was riding me to that photo-finish. But not in a good way.”

LATER

Apparently, she didn’t think the entire experience was as horrifying as I did, because a few weeks later, I got “the text” again. Luckily, I had a legitimate excuse (working on a paper or some nonsense like that) and was unable to meet her at the disgusting bar she frequented.

To this day, I still don’t understand how she enjoyed that experience. To me, it is the closest I will probably every get to being forced to have sex. Physically forced, anyway. I guess this could be a lesson in perspective; one person’s trash is another’s awful sex. But, regardless of perspective, the fact remains that I went soft inside of this poor girl during sex, and she kept going. No perspective on earth will change that.

Five Head, you went down on me, and now you will go down in history. 

Have you ever read Jekyll and Hyde?

No.

That's fine. You don't need to have read it in order to understand the point of this blog. 

The fact of the matter is, that everyone has good and bad impulses. Whether those qualify as "sides" is really up to your own personal judgment. 

However, I think that one thing we can all agree on is that sometimes, you have to give into the bad impulses. No one is 100% nice. You never can be, so don't even try. The good catholic girl who spends her weekends volunteering at the local animal shelter loves to be tied up and choked in the bed room (I am not naming any names, so don't ask). 

Everyone needs a socially acceptable way to let their bad impulses out every now and again in order to get control of them. Batman does this by beating up bad guys. Dexter does this by killing people. And Tucker Max doesn't do this...

So, instead of killing people, I've decided to write about what ever is currently pissing me off. Or to tell you about the latest escapade or funny story I happen to do. Or maybe it was something I did a while ago. 

But here is the great thing, it's not really me saying all this. It's my alternate ego. My standard go-to fake name. The person that I'm going to let take the fall for everything I say (but it's ok, he doesn't really exist). Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Riley Dare. 

And now I can do and say what ever I want with no consequences. 

That's how this works, right?