The Book of Leon Read online

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY

  As I mentioned earlier, a certain party challenged me, and I am always ready for a challenge. Fuck around, lie around, don’t come at me like that. Second of all, “bullshit”? You ever see actual bullshit? Bulls make big piles of shit, a whole lot of nasty ass shit! But then I got to thinking that I do have a whole big pile of shit to share with the world and some of it is nasty, so at the moment, I decided to write a manual on how to live life the Leon Black way. Now, you heard me right: I said “manual” and not “book.” There’s a big difference. A book is something you read, some romantic shit with long-haired sexy ass men and women making love on horseback. A manual is something you study, work with; it has diagrams and instructions. If you sit down to study a manual, it requires you to be ready to put in some hard work. Hell, think of anyone you ever met named Manual.

  I bet that muthafucka worked hard for his money! Bottom line, you write a book but you compile a manual, and that’s what the fuck I did! I compiled an instructional manual just for your ass!

  Consider this book the blue shit swirling in your toilet. Sure, you could take that disgusting bathroom brush and clean all the shit out yourself. Or you could let the little blue hockey puck do the work for you. Lucky for you, I’ve been the fucking brush. I’ve been through a lot of shit, caused a lot of shit, flipped a lot of shit. I’ve been chased out of a lot of cities, counties, villages, museums, stores, strip clubs, bars, even a fucking pickle factory. Not anymore, though. Now I’m the blue puck. I topsy-turvied that shit. Now, people see my face and yell, “Oh shit! That’s Leon!” “Leon helped me through a divorce!” “Leon helped me get laid!” “Leon helped me feel good about shipping my kids off to some expensive ass boarding school!” That’s how I doozit.

  The truth is, you can be fucked up and happy. I know, because as a fool, I’ve fucked up a lot. I’ve run my ass into the ground like a rental car. I’ve turned my fuck-ups into champagne-filled croissants. Not to mention, I can make my fuck-ups seem less fucked up than your fuck-ups. You see, the problem is that your fuck-ups have fucked you up. And all the advice in the world hasn’t helped you stop fucking up. Because you’ve been getting the wrong kind of advice. You’ve been getting “good” advice. All that Zen-mindfulness self-help bullshit you’ve been reading: “Avoid carbs!” “Consume less dairy!” “Stay in the moment!” Fuck that.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to give you bad advice either. The last thing I want is you getting incarcerated. I’m here to give you good-bad advice.

  What is “good-bad advice,” you ask? It’s the kind of advice you didn’t know you needed. Answers to questions you didn’t know to ask. It’s the type of advice where the good just barely outweighs the bad—like when you buy your kid a PlayStation 4 for his graduation, then sneak it out of his room in the middle of the night, return it to Target for a refund, but tell him it was stolen by some white man. Of course some white man didn’t steal it, but I’m just preparing him for the real world: stealing PlayStations, jobs, etc.—it’s all the same thing. You know what I mean?

  Well, I’m sure some of you did. See, your child got the joy of receiving a gift, learned a lesson about life and you got your money back—that’s the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

  LOW BLOW

  This book is about to come straight at you. It’s like how in boxing, some fighters throw looping ass punches. Not me. I punch a muthafucka straight in the nuts with my shit, I don’t care if I’m gonna get disqualified. See now my opponent will be so paranoid I’ma punch him in the nuts that he’s gonna keep his guard, leaving his nose wide open for a punch that he’ll see coming, but won’t be able to stop it. That’s the way I think, and I’m gonna give you shit like that, more outside-the-box ways of thinking, crazy shit you may never have thought of before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to tell you to do dumb shit. As a matter of fact, I’m not gonna tell you to do anything. I’m gonna give you things to consider. That way, you’ll have a different way of thinking bouncing around in your head. And one thing I know for sure: You can’t get arrested for your thoughts. Hell, I would be serving life if you could. Look, if I can just help you change the way you think in stressful situations, eventually you may change how you react. That’s the way you change: You can’t change all at once. You can’t be Leon in an instant—only I can be me, ’cause that’s how I doozit. As for you, you just have to look to change a little at a time. Don’t go snatching that Joe Pepitone jersey off that stranger just yet. I mean, you may get that jersey, but on the other hand, you may just get your ass fucked up.

  So brace yourself for some profound observations, practical advice, things I like to call “Leonisms.” What are “Leonisms”? you ask. Leonisms are those little bits of clarity. They are bite-size morsels of knowledge that are easily digestible.

  This book needs to be ingested like medicine. You can’t just swallow it whole or you’ll overdose from your own wisdom. You’ll start living vicariously through me, wearing an open robe with a lost belt, house slippers, and a do-rag, and carrying a large plastic juice cup with “Leon” written on it. So I suggest taking in a chapter at a time; take a break after each, digest that shit, then jump right back in before you forget what the fuck you were reading.

  One last thing . . . and before you say some shit like, “You keep saying you’re gonna start the book, when is this damn book gonna get started!” Muthafucka, the moment you started reading the book, the damn book started—I did say fuck a forward!

  PEE-PEES AND JOHNSONS

  In case you don’t know what a “pee-pee” or a “Johnson” is, they are both terms I’m using for your penis. I will also use the name “Dick.” I know a lot of you white people, and folks in the porn industry use the word “cock,” but I think “cocky” just sounds too serious. Shit, I prefer “schlong” over that—at least a “schlong” sounds like something fun, the life of the party!

  Now that we got that straight, on to my point: For all you guys out there, you begin your life with a little pee-pee, you understand? Eventually you grow up and go through that awful shit called puberty. You grow that itchy ass puberty hair, gotta get your shots to keep you from getting shit. Some of you people even have to deal with pimples—all that shit is a pain in the ass. You can’t wait to get out of that phase.

  Eventually though, your little shriveled up pee-pee of a caterpillar turns into a beautiful butterfly of a Johnson . . . is what I would say if your Johnson was some soft, delicate shit BUT it’s not, so don’t you ever refer to your Johnson as a beautiful butterfly! At least not out loud—keep that shit in your head! Hell, for convenience I wish my last name was Johnson. See, a new Johnson has a certain kind of swagger to it! A good young Johnson will get the ladies talking—before you know it, your young Johnson has a rep. For clarification, a young Johnson can get a rep, but an old Johnson can get a rip. Oh yeah, you can fuck around and tear a tendon and wind up with a broke dick, take you out of circulation. So make sure to enjoy your healthy young Johnson. For years you have the opportunity to do amazing things with it and you had better, because, trust me, it does have a shelf life! Then before you know it, you’re an old man and your Johnson turns back into a little pee-pee. You can’t do shit about it, either.

  Blue pills, you say? Contrary to belief (“Contrary to belief”—I always love that phrase, it makes you sound smart), that so-called blue pill is just going to give you an old hard pee-pee, not a young hard Johnson. Once you revert back to having a pee-pee it can never—you hear me: never—be a Johnson again. Which is good, ’cause your old ass body could never keep up with a new Johnson! It would fuck your back up! Your spleen! You would have blood going to all the wrong places! Fucking nose would start bleeding for no damn reason because the blood wouldn’t know where to go! So sadly, one day, you’ll just be sitting on your favorite recliner, lounging in your crusty old-man pajamas, sipping a can of Ensure, watching an episode of Matlock on TV Land you seen a thousand damn times, and y
our grandkid will walk in and yell, “Mommy! Grandpa’s pee-pee is out again!”

  A fuckin’ pee-pee . . . Sad shit.

  Now, I’m not here to guide all you young neurotic dudes who can’t get it up ’cause you’re in your head worried about stupid shit. My simple advice to you is calm down, stay focused, and make sure you’re living in the real world. Nobody’s fucking no famous actress or reality star here, so focus on what you are capable of. That sweet, sexy but borderline strange-looking lady in accounting, or the almost pretty waitress in that dirty diner who always flirts with you—potential successful scenarios like those should be your goal. Look, you’re young, your Johnson is young, get out of your head and get out there, you have no excuse!

  But you middle-aged dudes, your Johnson has aged with you. It won’t be long before that Johnson’s gonna go back to being a pee-pee. So take caution. Think of your Johnson like a car—you want to put some good miles on it. You want highway miles, not city miles, know what I’m talking about? For instance, you hook up with a fine ass lady and she takes you back to her place for a night of crazy lovemaking with her and her sexy ass roommate, that’s highway miles on your Johnson. You can really open up your Johnson on a trip like that, see what it can do. Yeah, those are good ass highway miles! Now, on the other hand, you’re at a bus station and you run into a not-so-attractive lady from your past and wind up hitting that in a custodian’s supply closet, in between mops and cleaning fluids and shit, that’s some city miles. You don’t want to put too many miles like that on your Johnson. I mean sure, you’re gonna drive in the city sometimes, but just know them city miles are fucking your shit up! With a real car, those are the type of miles you would put on a rental. You know, most people take care of their own car but they beat the fuck up on rentals. I wish there was some way you could rent a Johnson to run all your fuck errands—late-night rendezvous, cheating, escorts, you know, that kind of shit, so you don’t fuck up your personal Johnson. And that way you don’t give your lady no diseases, just drop that dick off and go back home.

  WHO YOU?

  Someone else gave you your name; you had no say in the matter. For all you muthafuckas with fucked-up old ass names like Herbert and Henrietta, I feel bad for you because someone did a number on your ass! Luckily, as we get older, making our own decisions and deciding who we want to be, we can give ourselves nicknames that represent us better. And yes, I know you can legally get your name changed, but that creates more problems than it’s worth. You get that new name and start giving it out to people and they start calling you by that name but your older friends call you by the old name. Then one day you’re at the mall with a new friend and an old friend is screaming your old name and your new friend is like, “Who is that muthafucka screaming at?!” And you act like you don’t know because you’re so committed to that new ass name and before you know it you’re in so deep you forget who the fuck you are! It’s not worth it! You can’t tell your mother you’re a new muthafucka! You can’t tell your grandma that you’re not Chester anymore! How you gonna look that sweet old lady in the face and tell her Chester is dead? See what I mean—some people go too far. That’s why a nickname is a simple alternative.

  Now, when it comes to selecting a name, really consider the image you want to broadcast. Mufasa is a powerful nickname. Let me tell you something, that name would look great on a license plate. You get seven characters to create your personal plate, so that name would fit right on there! And everybody loves that movie! Who doesn’t get emotional when they think of the image of that fuckin’ monkey Rafiki holding Simba, the newborn baby lion, up to the fucking sun! Powerful shit! What?! People will be behind your car, see that damn plate, and race up to see who’s driving! That’s why you gotta make sure that if you get a personalized plate, you pick something that represents you. Clever shit like A-Q-T is cool but you’ve got to back that shit up by actually being cute. And don’t just pick shit because it fits. S-O-D-A-P-O-P has seven letters, but what the fuck does it mean . . . is exactly what I asked this dude when I caught up to his car. You would think he owned his own beverage company but that muthafucka just liked soda. Hell, I like soda my damn self, but worth the price of personalized plates? Nah I don’t think so.

  Or some nicknames just fit perfectly, like if your name is Andy, and you tell a lady they call you Andy-Conda. The anaconda is one of the biggest and most dangerous creatures in the world! Can you imagine that shit on a license plate? Do you know how many ladies would chase your car down to get a look at who’s driving!?! That’s called planting seeds! As awesome as Andyconda would be, though, you can’t do it—nine letters, that’s two too many. Drop two and it’s Andycon, which either sounds like a criminal or a Comic Con–like convention filled with people dressed like Andys—Andy Griffith, Andy Dick, Andy Cohen, Andy Samberg, Andy Warhol, all the fucking Andys . . . either way you are not getting the ladies. Still, though, walk up to a lady and tell her they call you Andy-Conda, that’s some different shit—that sets you up perfectly! First she’s gonna smirk, ’cause she’s gonna think you’re fucking around. But you say that shit with a straight ass face. She’ll probably ask you if that is the name on your driver’s license. In that case, you look her in the eye and say, “No, but I can whip my shit out and show you some positive identification . . .” Then walk the fuck away, just like before. Trust me: With ladies, you gotta plant the seeds any way you can.

  For ladies, pick a name that makes you feel like you’re on vacation—become a destination. Men love that kind of shit! Make sure it’s a place that somebody would want to visit, though, something like Belize. See, that just sounds sexy and all-inclusive. Never—I repeat, never—pick some shit like Hackensack or Hoboken. No offense to anyone who lives there, but Hoboken just sounds like Ho-broken. Sounds like some place where your car would break down and someone would have to come and get your ass! Also, we all know wines and cocktails and exotic cars offer some of the best names (strippers have known that for years). But you might not know that some of your cute household pets have sexy names. Names like Bunny and Kitty seem like cute, harmless ass names, but go up to some guy and tell him your name is Katherine but people call you Kitty-cat . . . watch that dumb ass man melt, see, ’cause that’s some sexy shit. And since I mentioned the name Bunny, I just want to throw out there, from my experience, Bunnys always have big asses and for some reason they all walk pigeon-toed. Don’t know why, they all just do. Pigeon-toed, with them fucking knocking ass knees, with a fat ass, sexy ass shit. And not too bright, from my experience. (No disrespect.)

  AND VICE VERSA

  Let me tell you something: You’re gonna learn early on that you can’t fuck with everybody and everybody can’t be fucked with—it goes both ways. So one of the most important things you’re going to have to do in life is choose your friends wisely. You know how many muthafuckas consider me their friend but I don’t consider them mine? I don’t claim a lot of people; I’m a lone wolf. You don’t need all that shit! Keep your circle as small as possible. And if you do add a new friend, remove a friend. Plus, if you have a lot of friends, you have to worry about your friend liking your friend. Nothing more irritating than going out with a friend who doesn’t get along with another one of your friends. Look, I’m not gonna make this complicated. Bottom line: you need to find a friend who tolerates your shit and whose shit you tolerate—you call that a Vice Versa relationship. For example, you and your friend are at a club and you notice two ladies checking you out. Now, in the movies both of them ladies would be attractive, but this is real life and one is pretty while the other is ugly as fuck. A true sign of a Vice Versa relationship would be the two of you being able to accept the fact that one of you is going to get that ugly girl this time. Vice Versa is a way of keeping a running tally so that you never have to get stuck with that ugly girl two times in a row. Basically, your friend takes the bullet. He looks at you and says, “I got this one, brother . . . And Vice Versa, muthafucka!” And with that simple “And Vice Versa
” you know you’ll have to take the hit next time. Just know a Vice Versa can’t be reversed, once the Vice takes the initiative to enact a Vice Versa. See, that’s the number one way of keeping a good friendship: being willing to get the short end of the stick, knowing in turn you will eventually get the long end—Vice damn Versa! Now, on the other hand, if your so-called friend deserts you every time he gets the ugly girl, he is clearly not a Vice, he is a Versa. “Versa” from the root “versus,” meaning he is against you. Once you identify that your friend is a Versa, I suggest you take your Vice ass and wait for the right moment to Vice Versa him. This entails secretly switching up and Versa-ing him when he least expects it. For instance, in the situation with the ugly girl and the pretty girl, leaving him to deal with both ladies. When the ugly girl doesn’t have anybody, she’s always ready to go and drags the pretty girl with her. And as you leave with that cock-blocking ugly girlfriend telling her pretty friend, “Come on, let’s go, Denise!” (I always found “Denise” to be the perfect “Let’s go” name!), you get to look back at his shocked Versa ass and say, “redde est canis,” which loosely translated from Latin means, “Payback’s a bitch!” I know how to say that in twenty-seven different languages. And Vice Versa, muthafuckas.

  ROOMIES

  Too many dudes live together as roommates. Whether they have no money, their parents won’t let them live at home anymore, or their girlfriend kicked them out . . . there’s no excuse! No apartment should have more than two or three sets of balls walking around, that’s just how it is. Balls banging around sound like klackers (a dangerous ass toy they had when I was a kid—Google it) or, better yet, a clean pool break. If everyone lowers their TVs, puts down their cell phones, and shuts the fuck up for a minute, and all the guys started to walk around, all you would hear are balls clacking. By the way, the noisiest balls are long balls. Am I right, Larry?