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“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 1)

This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Tracy Cohenstein didn’t have classes on Fridays during the summer, so she had spent her day engaged in, what she called, “happy stuff.” In the morning she served breakfast at a homeless shelter, and in the afternoon she finished knitting a sweater and completed her Aerospace Structures extra-credit homework. After that, she enjoyed her favorite guilty-pleasure — watching a romantic-comedy.

As the final scene in Pretty Woman began, Tracy sat on her couch with a box of tissues in her lap. Having watched it a dozen times, she could quote practically every line. She’s been told she looked like a younger, and perhaps even more attractive, version of Julia Roberts, the female star of the movie. Tracy’s dark brown eyes were the kind that pulled you in and could’ve been Van Morrison’s inspiration for “Brown Eyed Girl” had she been born when he wrote the song. Her appearance was unblemished, except for one flaw — one embarrassing, well-hidden flaw.

Tracy watched intently as Richard Gere’s character stood out of a limousine’s sunroof while he was driven through a rundown L.A. neighborhood. With Verdi’s La Traviata opera playing for all to hear, Julia Robert’s character went out onto her fire escape and saw him below holding a bouquet of red roses. As he climbed the ladder to her top-floor apartment, she couldn’t wait and rushed down. When the love-crazed couple met in the middle, their lips inches apart, Tracy pulled out a few tissues and spoke along with the dialogue.

Richard Gere, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?”

With a half-smile, Julia Roberts answered, “She rescues him right back,” and they kissed like they meant it.

Tears ran down Tracy’s cheeks — just your average day in Hollywood where a rich businessman “saves” a prostitute. Not feeling the least bit odd about longing to be Julia Robert’s character, Tracy’d gladly turn a few tricks to have a fairytale like this one come true. While the closing credits rolled, she wiped her tears and wished Chad Stanwick, the president of Sigma Alpha Mu, would be her “knight in shining armor.” Ironically, if the rumors were true, her two crushes, Richard Gere and Chad Stanwick, shared the same fetish — a rather peculiar one satisfied by prostate-tickling gerbils.

Tracy moved from the couch into her office and shut the door. On her desk was a studio microphone, and behind that, a VCR and small TV. She retrieved a set of ear-covering headphones, put them on, and plugged them into the TV. A videotape labeled “When Harry Ate Sally” waited for her — a play-on-words for what happened to be her favorite romantic-comedy. Frightened, yet curious, she shrugged — Work is work. You see, Tracy had the type of voice that oozed sex. One time at synagogue, while reading a passage from the Torah, she managed to arouse ninety-percent of the congregation. Now a broadcast major at the University at Buffalo, one of her audition tapes landed in the right hands and led to a part-time job doing voice-overs — actually, more like moan-overs — for pornographic movies.

Tracy popped in the tape and watched Harry and Sally start their drive from Chicago to New York City. The atrocious acting, horrific dialogue, and road-head that followed was par for the course. She fast-forwarded the movie, watching the actors boink at high-speed like rabbits until she reached the famous diner scene — the one where Harry and Sally banter about women faking orgasms. Harry claimed that no woman has ever faked it with him, and then he proceeded to climb under the table to prove it.

In sync with Sally’s crescendoing orgasm, Tracy pounded the table and shouted her own version of “Yes! Yes! Oh! Oh!” into the microphone. When Sally finished and all eyes were on her, a woman at nearby table repeated the original line from the movie and told her waiter, “I’ll have what she’s having.” Naturally, the waiter was more than happy to oblige and, in a similar fashion to Harry, “serviced” the woman. Then, just like in real life, an orgy broke out.

Sally, now engaged in a threesome, said the dirtiest things during the rare times her mouth was phallus-free. Slurping and voicing-over these parts was easy for Tracy, but she recognized her muffled-gagging skills still needed some work. Fully immersed in the film, Tracy closed her eyes and genuinely moaned. She then had a worrisome feeling — not because of the unholy things being done to Sally’s holes, but because the two men sandwiching her onscreen-identity reminded her of Zabka and Magnum — an unexpected turn-on. She admonished herself, I’d never!

Tracy thought back to when they all lived in the UB Ellicott dorm. She remembered them partying and acting like idiots, but also being “nice guys” — maybe too nice.

While Meg Ryan’s X-rated doppelgänger was getting stuck more than a pincushion, the well-hung gentleman with a curly blond mullet — Zabka’s twin from the waist up — flexed his pecks. At the same time, another stallion’s face was buried deep between her legs, eating her Happy Meal. Upon completion, his head arose, exposing his glistening Magnum-like mustache. As the scene came to a dramatic, DNA-filled conclusion, the only logical recommendation from the Department of Public Health would’ve been to torch the diner.

Tracy stopped the video, took off her headphones, and wiped the sweat from her brow. Not having thought about Zabka and Magnum in a while, her feelings were conflicted. Whatever happened to those dimwits?

Scene 0 | Scene 1 | Scene 2

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 0)

This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Once upon a time in Buffalo, NY… A waitress balanced a tray of orders on her palm and carried it to a table. She handed out lunch to three young men and said “Enjoy,” in deadpan.

Zabka stabbed his fork through some lettuce and a cherry tomato and brought it to his mouth. His hand was shaking, so he had to concentrate to not drip any dressing on his cheap suit.

Bob intentionally dropped his knife, clanging it on the table. “Who the fuck orders a salad?” He glared at his friend. “No good story ever started with, ‘So, I was eating a salad…’ But here you are, eating a fucking salad.”

Zabka chewed — his face scrunched, pondering Bob’s words of wisdom. “Yeah, but what if I was tossin’ some chick’s salad?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’d be a good start to a story, right?”

“It sure would be… except you’re not.” Bob threw his polyester tie over his shoulder. “Anyway, if we don’t have a blast today, it’s your goddamn fault.” He attacked his greasy cheeseburger, devouring half in one bite.

“Whatever.” There was sweat on Zabka’s forehead and his skull was pounding.

“You look like shit,” Bob commented. “Did you throw up in the bathroom?”

“No…” Zabka took a sip of his Bloody Mary. “But I wish I had.”

“Come on, you need more than a salad.”

“Listen, I couldn’t make it to the gym, so I’m eating light.” Zabka flexed his arm and made a muscle. “You don’t get a ripped body like mine without sacrificing every once in a while.”

Their college housemate, Magnum, was wearing a similar off-the-sale-rack suit. He asked, “Seriously, why bother? You know today’s gonna be a repeat of last night and you’ll drink like a hundred beers again. What’s the use?” He popped a new roll of 35mm film in his Kodak compact camera and set it on the table.

As buddies do, they called each other by their nicknames — Zabka, because his doppelgänger was William Zabka, the blond actor in The Karate Kid whose character is an arrogant prick; Magnum, although younger, taller, and skinnier, for his bushy mustache and likeness to the Hawaii private investigator on TV; and Bob, the jovial moniker for Robert.

It was a muggy summer day, and they were having lunch in a restaurant-bar called The Steer. Located near the University at Buffalo’s city campus, it was popular with students from Long Island. Its dark wood interior and the bull’s skull and horns that hung on the wall gave the place a western vibe. A country pop-song by Billy Ray Cyrus started playing in the bar.

Magnum commented, “I’m so sick of this song. It’s on the radio all-the-damn-time.”

“Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky Heart?” Bob was physically agitated. “This sucks donkey-balls.”

“I’d Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky that guy’s nose if he was here.” Zabka laughed.

“Why? I figured that tard was your idol. Why else would you have the same stupid mullet?”

“Cuz I make it look cool,” Zabka replied. “To be honest, I could get up and line-dance to this shit and make it look cool.”

“God, please don’t.” Bob closed his eyes and shook his head. “But seriously, Zabka, why’d you make us come to this hellhole? I hate this fucking place.” He watched a group of girls in matching sorority shirts and with matching nose jobs, chat up the bartender. “Oh, that’s right… because you’re sniffing around for Tracy Cohenstein.”

Magnum’s eyes grew wide as he thought about the last time he saw Tracy during junior year. It was the end of spring semester and she was sunbathing in her backyard. He was perched in a tree with binoculars.

Zabka put his fork down. “Screw you, Bob. Stop trying to stir the pot.”

“Who, me?” Bob placed his hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Zabka shook his head. “Yeah, never.”

Bob was indeed stirring the pot, knowing that both of his friends had a thing for Tracy and had exhibited some unusual behavior the night before.

Bob gulped down some beer and shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “Hey, remember the last time we came here? The bouncer launched some douchebag off the steps outside and into the street.”

“Oh yeah, that was hilarious,” Magnum responded. “No offense, Zabka, but I’m shocked that’s never happened to you.”

“Someone’s got the balls to try to throw me out?” Zabka chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

Bob commented, “Actually, I’m surprised Brewer didn’t toss you outta Third Base last night. You’re a walking-talking shitshow.”

“They’d never — they love me. Plus, it’s not like I started it.”

Magnum shook his head. “Everything… and I mean everything… was a fiasco yesterday.”

Bob added, “Fiasco isn’t quite the right word. It was a… clusterfuck.”

Magnum studied his scraped knuckles. “Yep, one giant clusterfuck.”

“I was mentally scarred by what I witnessed at our house, too.” Bob shuddered. “Actually, can we please just talk about something else?”

“Sure. How about hangovers?” Magnum finished his beer and raised the bottle. “Thank god for hair-of-the-dog.”

“More like shit-of-the-dog. Dog shit — that’s what I feel like. So no, I don’t want to talk about hangovers.”

“Okay, then how about the Bills?” Zabka asked. “Their second preseason game is today.”

“Come on, I thought we were changing subjects.” Bob rubbed his temples. “The Bills are the NFL’s version of a hangover. They lost against Detroit last week. Fuckin’ Detroit!”

“Relax,” Zabka told him. “The team was probably a little rusty from partying during training camp. I’m sure things can get a little wild down in Fredonia. No big deal.”

“To be frank, Buffalo is done,” Magnum stated. “They lost the last three Super Bowls — they’re done. It’s all about Miami this year. Go ’Phins!”

Zabka picked up his fork. “Fuck Miami, and fuck Marino.” He then speared a piece of chicken with his next helping of salad. “Shouldn’t you root for a Hawaiian team, Magnum? Oh shit, that’s right, there isn’t one!” As he gnawed on the meat like it was a piece of gum, his face turned green. “What the fuck?!” He spit the chicken onto the table, inspected its pink flesh, and dry-heaved. “It’s raw inside!”

Their waitress heard the commotion and hustled over. “Is there a problem with your order?”

Zabka’s adrenaline spiked. “A problem?! You’re goddamn right there’s a problem! The chicken is under-fucking-cooked!”

“I’m so sorry. Let me take care of that and get you a new salad.”

“No. I’ll handle this myself.” Zabka stood with his plate, marched toward the kitchen, and slammed through the aluminum swinging-door. “Who the fuck made my salad?!”

The kitchen staff froze, alarmed by their uninvited guest.

Zabka scanned for the most-likely culprit and landed on the man who’d been chopping lettuce. “Hey, chico! Did you do this?! Did you put raw chicken in my salad?!”

The Panamanian food preparer replied, “No, sir. I just make the vegetables.” His nervous eyes implicated the guy cooking at the grill.

“I see.” Zabka turned to the cook. “So it was this fuckface, eh?” He walked over and dumped his salad on the man’s head. “Why’d you do this?! Tell me right now or, I swear, I’ll strangle your fucking neck!”

The guy gulped, fully believing Zabka’s threat. “Okay, okay. Some girl paid me fifty bucks to do it. Please don’t tell my boss. I beg you.”

“Some girl?!” Zabka looked around. “So, where is this conniving cunt? Keep talking and I might let you off the hook.”

“She was out at the bar.” He was shaking.

“Take me to her.” Zabka punched his palm. “Let’s go, motherfucker.”

Scene 0 | Scene 1

zerofucksgiven

Wait! There’s a “Squish the Fish” Song?!

The lyrics below are from the funny and catchy song “Squish the Fish (feat. Sticky)”. It accompanies the hilarious novel “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy.

When I first saw her, I grabbed my fishing pole.
She gave me that look, ta slip it in her waterhole.
Advance down her field, ta penetrate that vertical line.
No block below the waist, and now it’s time to dine.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, it all ain’t nothin’ new.
Inhale your ocean breeze, goddamn it smells dee-lish.
Time ta do my favorite thing and, squish, squish, squish the fish.

Entering your end zone, you’re as excited as me.
Your eyes rolled back so far, no way ya can possibly see.
Excessive celebration flags, the refs just made the calls.
Yeah, yeah, caress me there, and deflate my balls.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, it all ain’t nothin’ new.
Was it good for you, to fulfill my wish?
Ya want me ta do it again? Ta squish, squish, squish the fish.

It was great at first, couldn’t imagine nothin’ better.
Got soaked in a hurricane, and you were much, much wetter.
Tired of dolphin-free tuna, at your tailgate party.
Hey, there goes a school-a snapper, I don’t wanna be tardy.

(Chorus)
Oh girl from Miami, there’s one thing I gotta do.
For this boy from Buffalo, I’m off to catch something new.
Don’t care what her name is, don’t matter if it’s Trish.
My clock’s at high-noon ta, squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.
Squish, squish, squish that fish.
Squish, squish, squish the fish.

Copyright © 2017 by Bottoms Up Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this song may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Only in Buffalo!

This excerpt is from the beginning of “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy. The bestselling novel has won numerous comedic awards and been called “The Hangover” in Buffalo, NY.

Trapped like a turtle flipped on its shell, a man flails his limbs through the puffy snow. As he passes out, the alcohol in his bloodstream celebrates with wildly inappropriate dance-moves inspired by the night’s sins. The glow from a streetlamp punctures the darkness like a police helicopter’s spotlight and frames the helpless fool in his jagged snow-angel.

A few hours later, at dawn, an elderly woman is walking her Saint Bernard down the quiet street when she notices the collapsed body. Her first thought — What the fuck? — naturally is filled with compassion. But after she reminds herself of one critical detail, it all makes sense — This is Buffalo… of course there’s a drunk jackass lying in the snow. As she shrugs-off the aspiring Darwin Award winner, an alluring scent pulls the dog in the man’s direction. Tearing the leash from its master’s grasp, it dashes to investigate.

snow angel

Now above the lush, the shaggy beast pants and stares in wonder. Masked by a pair of pink cotton panties, the man looks like some sort of deranged bank robber. If the dog could form complex thoughts, it might speculate — For what ungodly reason is he wearing that? Is it a desperate attempt to prevent his face from freezing off? Perhaps it’s a provocative fashion statement? Or is it, quite possibly, some next-level form of perversion? But it can’t contemplate such things, so it just wags its tail in blissful ignorance. Incapable of resisting the undergarment’s exotic aroma, the hound licks the guy’s noggin like it’s a lollipop. The mutt’s tongue bursts with flavor and knows it’s struck gold — tangy, delicious gold.

Nearby, a fresh line of boot-prints mark a path up to the man and continue past him. “SUN 7:16 AM” displays on the frosty LCD of his Casio watch. Gusts of wind blow across the ground, fusing his bare hand with a frozen bottle of Genesee Cream Ale. In his other hand, a tattered envelope labeled “Buffalo Tickets” flaps and scatters a rainbow of glitter dust into the air.

The slobbering dog belongs to a breed known for saving people buried in snowstorms, however, this pooch’s glowing eyes foretell that a rescue is far from how things are about to go down. The inebriated fellow, unaware that his forehead is the soon-to-be target of an amorous assault, remains oblivious when the canine launches into its grand-finale. The funny thing is (which can only be said when you’re not on the receiving end of such an act) humiliations such as this can’t compare with what the city has endured throughout its outlandish history.

As the animal’s pleasure-romp reaches a fever pitch, its owner strolls into the spectacle like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. While reaching for the leash, she halts abruptly and scratches her scalp. Anger builds as she reads a urine scribbled message in the snow that audaciously proclaims “GOD HATES BUF…” and trails off into a wavy drizzle.

Now in control of the tether, the old woman gives it a harsh tug. While dragging her pet away, she reflects for a moment and mutters to herself, “Is that clown, right? Does God hate Buffalo?”

Copyright © 2017 by Bottoms Up Publishing. All rights reserved.

"Squish the Fish" Front Cover

I’m Dave Lundy, and I’m a Buffalo Bills Fan.

Published November 4th, 2017

Damn right, I’m a Buffalo Bills fan… well, maybe more than a fan. I love Buffalo and the Bills so much that I wrote a song and published a book about them called “Squish the Fish.” If you think that sounds crazy, keep reading.

Let’s take a step back — I didn’t even grow up a Buffalo Bills fan. So why would anyone in their right mind choose to be a Bills fan? Four Super Bowl losses in a row — torturous. The Music City Miracle — a kick in the nuts. O.J. Simpson — let’s not even go there. In the past 17 years, Buffalo has had more drunk fans fall from the upper deck of their stadium (one) and more dildos tossed on their field (one) than they have playoff appearances (zero). So again, why am I a Buffalo Bills fan?

Five Bryan Cox
Mocking Bryan Cox of the Dolphins before the Miami game in Buffalo, 1995

I grew up in Binghamton, NY and, like most people there, was a New York Giants fan. I hate to admit it, but I didn’t root for the Bills in their first Super Bowl. A year later, in 1992, I transferred to the University at Buffalo for the spring semester. On January 26th, I watched Buffalo play in their second Super Bowl with my new friends in our Ellicott dorm. That year I was rooting for the Bills — admittedly, it was more like rooting against the Redskins — and again they fell short of victory. After the game, people were crying and throwing crushed beer cars out of windows — until everyone just said “fuck it” and we partied our sorrows away for the rest of the night. (Side note: I have a couple of good postgame stories, but unfortunately because of legal reasons, I’m not allowed to share them.)

The next two years of college brought two more Super Bowl losses, both at the hands of the Dallas Cowboys (F Dallas!). After I graduated, I took a job at a local company in Cheektowaga and finally went to my first game at Rich Stadium in the winter of 1995. It was a game against the Miami Dolphins and was one of the greatest days of my life. I’m not lying, it was that much fun. I loved the tailgating, the third-down train horn, the fan spirit, and the support of the team. There was electricity — and booze — everywhere. I watched Kelly, Thomas, Smith, Tasker, and Christie lead the Bills to victory over Dan Marino and the much-hated Bryan Cox (F U! You gave us the finger — we gave you 160,000 middle fingers back). That was the day I truly became a fan. The day I first watched the Bills “Squish the Fish!”

Now I live in San Francisco and gather with the rest of the Bills Backers at the Northstar on game day. There’s nothing like wearing Zubaz pants and drinking Labatt Blue with friends to make you feel at home. Last year, we met at the bar and took a charter bus over to Oakland when the Bills were in town. Our amazing organizers, Maggie and Jeff, set up an incredible spread with wings and garbage plates. But here’s the best part — Andre Reed hung out and tailgated with us! What a trip that was!! As for the game, however, I’m still trying to forget how we folded in the second half.

Earlier in the season, a bunch of us also flew down to LA for the Bills game, and I finally met the legendary Pinto Ron at Busby’s West during the Saturday welcome party. That was a great weekend and we won the game! I also was at the 49er game in Buffalo and partied in the famous Hammer Lot! It was incredibly fun! And we won that game too!!

Like in any twelve-step program, the first step is admitting you have a problem. So here it is — I’m a Buffalo Bills fan. And you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing and I’m sure-as-hell not moving past step one. I’m a Bills fan for life and I can’t wait to celebrate in Niagara Square when the Bills bring home the Lombardi Trophy! Until then, cheers!!!