Author Note:  Ax L. Orchid is an alter-ego, a wellspring of improbably elegant debauchery, a fictional character brought to life on MySpace, and while many have accused me of being every bit as much of Ax as I am Aaron, the distance between the two of us is considerably more vast than anyone had ever imagined, a chasm in fact that may never be bridged again.

People are afraid to confront the uptight personnel at Beverly Appraisals in West Hollywood.  This is the first thing I tell myself when I return from the second ten minute smoke break at the anger management seminar.  Though that thought shouldn’t bother me, it stays in my mind for an uncomfortably long time.  Nothing else seems to matter.  Not the fact that I’m thirty-four and it’s May and the dude in the back of the room has a wavy blonde mullet that nearly reaches the top of his hairy ass crack.  Not the unusually attractive Native American identical twins who took the Greyhound bus all the way from Bakersfield and reek of cheap malt liquor.  Not the diagram on the large erasable chalkboard that is kind of well-drawn but not really and perfectly centered beneath the large capital letters that spell out the words, THE ANGER WELL.  Not the deep breathing yoga techniques, or the Wounded Spirit video, or the Anger Situational Survey that had been placed so neatly in my Time Out packet provided by the sponsoring treatment facility, which now sits in a tightly crumpled wad on the opposite end of the room because I had flung it there in a compulsive fit of rage.  Not the questionnaire that asks me if my vision blurs or feels funny when I get angry or very annoyed.  All of this seems irrelevant next to that one thought.  Nothing else seems to matter to me but those seventeen words.  Not the stench of the body odor that permeates this small basement conference room, or the continuous vibration of my Blackberry Storm because I have a friend on the fourth floor of Cedars who will not stop obsessing about a small faux-suede pouch of Sour Patch Kids dipped in LSD-25 that I was supposed to drop off yesterday.  All it comes down to is that I’m a full grown boy living in a Mulholland Drive mansion paid for by my parents and people are afraid to confront the uptight personnel at Beverly Appraisals in West Hollywood.

It all started when I walked past the propped open front door of that small, unassuming facade on this unseasonably warm ninety-two degree May day and took a long, deep drag from my Marlboro Red cigarette and exhaled the Marlboro Red cigarette smoke into a wind that somehow wafted the apparently offensive stench into the cramped, cubicle-filled office of Beverly Appraisals in West Hollywood, which prompted this young uptight bitch (who probably earned a double BA in marketing and business from USC and used to flash her small perky tits at Thursday night fraternity keg parties, after one of the gigantic steroid freaks imported from Texas to play Division I football would drop a Rohypnol in her Bartles & James Peach Bliss wine cooler) to bark “Seriously?” and shoot me a death stare and slam shut the clear glass office door with such contemptuous force that I expected to see these large, sharp pieces of broken glass smash loudly against the hot uneven asphalt of the West Hollywood office complex.  And I hadn’t even noticed that my teeth were clenched until I could hear one of the lower molars crack, and my heart was beating so fast that you could see my fingertips pulsate as I spent the entire remaining three grueling hours of this stupid anger management seminar to craft the nastiest, hate-filled, threatening letter I could think of, and the draft reads as follows:

Beverly Appraisals:  Residential, Commercial, Industrial
7065 Santa Monica Boulevard, West Hollywood, CA, 90069

Date:  April 21, 2009
To:  Thomas S. Dobson & Anderson M. Graf (Co-Owners)
From:  Brewster T. Whipple, Esquire

To whom it may concern:

It has been brought to my attention that your firm has grossly devalued my client’s highly coveted Holmby Hills estate, which, given his grave condition of late phase Alzheimer’s, has rendered him incapable of making a single sound economic decision, namely one that concerns the vast complexities of real estate appraisals, of which your firm voluntarily offered, in effect rendering an offensively and indeed substantially inaccurate appraisal of three-quarters of a million dollars—an appraisal for a significantly appreciating asset that is in fact more accurately (albeit somewhat conservatively) valued at one-hundred forty-seven million dollars but which my client subsequently sold for a mere five dollar Monopoly bill and an expired coupon that would have allowed him to receive fifty cents off the regular price of a caramel peach cobbler pie at Perkin’s restaurant on his 98th birthday.

It is indeed with both professional obligation and great pleasure that I exercise the immense legal wizardry granted me by my summa cum laude Harvard Juris Doctorate and heretofore file suit that will in turn burn your incompetent soft-batch appraisal “business” to the ground and swiftly strangle you (Mr. Dobson, et al) with prohibitively exorbitant legal fees that will continue to rise and engulf you in the raging flames of an embarrassingly but well deserved public spectacle that will be all the more ignited by the unremitting sharpness of my double-edged razor Ivy League pedigree that should sufficiently crush and ultimately destroy your families and close associates for many generations to come, so much so in fact that newborn baby boys will likely no longer be born with a single testicle, and that the once rich, well cultivated chromosomal blueprints that had previously established such a strong foundation of nearly flawless physical beauty and ever gushing financial success will be all but eradicated, save perhaps the rare still-birth of an androgynous freakazoid forced rather inconsequentially through the labor process and indeed ridiculed by the scientific community as sound empirical proof of devolution; and this grotesque specimen will finally be pickled  and shrunken and jarred and auctioned off on Ebay for approximately 998 million Euros to some trust-fund internet geek in Denmark who masturbates for weeks on end in front of his Mac G7 to pastel-colored amorphous shapes that are intensely sexual to him and to him only.

If you wish to withdraw, rebuke or have any complaints or concerns, please contact my legal assistant:
Miss Barclay Drummond Huntingcourt, Certified Paralegal
Signed,
Brewster T. Whipple, Esquire.

And I stuff this into my Time Out packet provided by the sponsoring treatment facility along with the following, which is handed to me by Amy Hornburg-Sterling-Mackarel, M.S.:
Discount Resolutions

7063 Santa Monica Boulevard, Suite 2B

West Hollywood, CA, 90069

Date:   April 21, 2009
To:  Attorney Brewster T. Whipple
From:  Janet Smith-Villalobos, M.Ed
Amy Hornburg-Sterling-Mackarel, M.S.
Re:  Ax L. Orchid
Attendance of Anger Management/Conflict Resolution Seminar

Ax L. Orchid attended and completed the Anger Management/Conflict Resolution seminar held on April 21st, 2009.  The Anger Management includes but is not limited to:

Understanding the challenges of anger
Letting anger go
Turning negative anger into a positive force
Identifying and choosing good options for conflict
Learning new techniques of anger release
Grief and loss over a relationship
Dynamics of power and control
Positive Parenting
Effective Communication

If you have any questions or concerns, please contact us at 323-555-4177.
Thank you.

Certainly I do not want to leave the impression that I will not take away with me the tools requisite for an enhanced sense of anger control.  In fact, it remains to be seen if the letter to Beverly Appraisals will ever be sent out at all; perhaps it will instead resurface in a lame internet post, inert, glossed over, ridiculed.

It has, however, crossed my mind to rock the Ninja costume I brought back from Hidden Door Boutique in Tokyo and hop in the 911 Targa and drive as incognito as possible over to the Beverly Appraisals office in West Hollywood some time during the middle of the night and deposit a small brown paper bag filled with steaming Rotweiller excrement on their immaculately manicured door step, or at the very least steal a tube of ruby red lipstick from the tranny I occasionally pay to urinate on my chest and sloppily scrawl “Die You Fucking Pigs” on the clear, clean window glass of the front door of the “business.”

Nevertheless, it all comes down to the fact that I’m thirty-four and it’s May, and even though I live in a Mulholland Drive mansion paid for by my parents and cannot sustain a job in the traditional sense of the word, and even though those seventeen words—People are afraid to confront the uptight personnel at Beverly Appraisals in West Hollywood—are still there, and have stayed in my mind for an uncomfortably long time, I do know that I suited up and showed up today and that I paid my twenty-five dollar seminar fee and that I can now return to that same grueling four hour seminar (free of charge) anytime hereafter since I have paid the initial twenty-five dollar fee; although I also know that I will possibly probably maybe never again place myself in a position that will force me to endure the four long grueling hours of this anger management seminar, and so basically I probably likely will never take them up on their kind but nonetheless pointless offer; and certainly I cannot with confidence convince myself that the world will become a better and brighter and happier place where we can all live in sweet unmolested harmony and never again make those wild-eyed terroristic threats from behind the safety of our automobile windshields when that spineless motherfucker in the canary yellow Hummer H2 with gigantic spinning chrome rims swerves past us and cuts us off while chatting frivolously, unnecessarily, on his Bluetooth Smartphone to his Saturday night fellow weekend-warrior poker buddy as he fiddles with the 300-plus stations on the factory-installed Sirius Satellite radio in the canary yellow Hummer H2 with the gigantic spinning chrome rims and the huge black snorkel and the safari cage big enough to hold three large gorillas atop the roof and the fifty-seven fog lamps and the enormous chrome bull grill and the official size American flag that flaps up into the smog from the long pole fastened to the tow hitch beneath which hangs the massive castrated horse balls dipped in platinum and hanging low enough to shower sparks across the Boulevard when cruising for cock.

But I do know that I will leave this anger management seminar somehow bolder, somehow more self-confident, and whether or not this translates into me being a better person than I was one year ago to this day, sitting all alone and afraid for my relatively unbroken-in asshole in that Los Angeles County cell block, unsure of my fate, unsure of whether the felony would stick, or if it instead would be reduced to a mere misdemeanor that required some candy-ass form of so-called redemption, like a half-day nail-picking anger management seminar that I will eventually just forget, blank out.
Well, I guess only I will know.  Only I will know if I am truly at last reformed and am sufficiently doing my part to make the world around me a better and brighter and happier place.  Only I will know that.  Only me and my higher power, the mighty Jade Emperor, will know that.  Only me and the mighty Jade Emperor and the poor fucking retarded canary yellow Hummer H2 driving bastard at the business end of my hard-hitting Ping nine-iron, because he didn’t know how to merge.

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