Archive | January, 2012

Back from the Pussy War

31 Jan

I’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15.  Maybe sooner.  You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy.  You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.

Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown.  Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows.  But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war. Continue reading

Did you ever

31 Jan

know someone who owned a ferret? Didn’t they always go out of their way to tell you they were the pet of kings in olden times? Always, really defensively, they would say that.  Like, as if anticipating you saying “this musk-secreting weasel is going to make your house smell like taint,” they hit you with “you know historically, ferrets could only be owned by royalty.”  As though somehow this makes them royalty, having this special weasel. Or like, some hot girl is going to be transported in time from 16th century Bohemia into their apartment, and see the ferret, and just start blowing them because they must be the king.

Also: have you ever known someone that had a ferret, and then you saw them again two years later, and they still had a ferret?  No.  Never.

The Gays

30 Jan

Someone stole my underwear at the gym.

It’s a West Hollywood gym, where lots of huge gay muscle studs work out.  So someone stole them to sniff them and jack off, I think.  That was the first place my mind went, after I fruitlessly searched through my fucking bag for them like Tel Aviv airport security going through some  Palestinian college kid’s backpack.  Someone stole my underwear to sniff ‘em and jerk off.

I can feel no moral outrage about this, because  a warehouse full of underwear would have to be stolen from me, sniffed, and jacked off into before the cosmic scales are balanced.  I used to do this same shit all the fucking time. When I did coke, getting down to my last couple bumps, I knew I would be up for several more hours with no drugs left and a crazy desire to beat the meat, and I would go to my building’s laundry room and raid the lost and found shelf.  Nine times out of ten there would be a pair of panties there.  If I was lucky, it would have been one that tumbled out of the laundry basket before even going in the washer and they would still have a good head of cuntmusk on ‘em. This was when I was living on a floor full of aspiring actresses so the odds were good that I would be sniffing the vagina residue of someone hot. Continue reading

OKCupid: Fatties

29 Jan

You know how it is.  Lotta fatties on OKC.  Your first harbinger of this— I mean, besides everybody knowing that the internet is full of fat chicks, this fact having suffused our popular culture, etc.—your first harbinger of this is the weight class list it makes you pick from, which has like two words for skinny and fifteen different kinds of fat.

Because of course we all know “average” means fat. These eighteen to thirty-five year old L.A. girls are generously assorting  themselves according to the national average across all age groups. Not the average for eighteen to thirty-five year olds in Los Angeles, California, as a reasonable layman would expect “average” to mean when looking for that age group in this city.  These girls are following the letter of the law and not the spirit, like Hasids who string yarn along the telephone wires on their block so they’re technically in an enclosed space and can walk around on the Sabbath. So “average” means fat.

Continue reading

Balls

28 Jan

Balls are nature’s greatest mistake.

Your heart, for instance, is obviously an important organ. So what does nature do. It’s behind a wall of muscle and bone, centrally located where much of its work can be done by gravity. Similarly, your stomach is in behind your abs where it would be a real fucking chore to eviscerate you and get it out. Plus all the movement of your midsection helps with peristalsis. This is great engineering.

Notice that neither of these things is hanging off the side of your gut in a veiny membranous sac covered with long gross hairs, and so rich with nerve endings that flicking it with your pinky feels like a shotgun full of rock salt was blasted into you at close range. Neither of these things hangs in a hideous wrinkled little pouch that anyone could lightly tap and it would incapacitate you for hours. Your brain is not dangling six inches off your body on a hot day to the point where in loose pants you could snag it on the corner of the coffee table and kind of feel nothing for a few seconds until suddenly wave after wave of nauseous burning agony washed through your gut and you could literally do nothing but lie curled up groaning on the floor for the several minutes until it went away. So why the fuck does a nut sac exist? Continue reading

Premature Ejaculation

27 Jan

Michel Houellebecq once said “there are two stages in a mans’ life: the first when he comes too fast, and the second when he can’t get hard anymore.”

This is close to the truth, but the reality is more like you are constantly in one or the other stage at all phases in your life. I am thirty five and a half years old and I STILL feel like I’m going to blow the second I get in the pussy.  Or I’m too drunk and I can’t get wood at all; you have to come out and tell the chick she has to suck you off to get you hard and this is not a proposition that your average first date off OKCupid smiles on, you know.  Sucking off some drunk’s musty whiskey dick.  Really the only way you’re going to get laid on the first date, unless you really have a live one on your hands, is to masterfully eat her pussy for a good five minutes and then just vault up on top of her and put your dick in smoothly. Any break in the action is going to kill it. Continue reading

As a miserable person,

26 Jan

the concept of “hope” is still possible, but it’s hope in the negative. Hope that something doesn’t happen, such as a car accident or sickness or someone you love having a car accident or sickness. Hope that the toilet doesn’t break.  Hope that you don’t lose your job, even though you hate it.  Hope that that thing on your dick doesn’t turn out to be what you fear it might be.  Or if you’re a chick, hope that the guy you slept with after six glasses of inexpensive pinot noir didn’t fire that first drop inside you and that instead the reason your period is four days late because of some vitamin deficiency.  Like, it would have happened on time if you had eaten more spinach or chicken is what it is, not that you are now carrying the seed of a guy with visible pores in his nose and why does he keep such long stubble even though his beard is grossly sparse and patchy, and his hideous long nipple hairs… Hope that you didn’t leave the stove on, as you suddenly and vividly suspect you might have at 9:15AM in the office and you are going to be at work until 7 and that greasy pot holder was laying close enough to the burner you boil your coffee on that the air will be so hot that the potholder will certainly catch flame; you picture your cat trapped screaming in the smoking house roasting alive and the upstairs neighbors horribly disfigured, skin grafts from their thighs giving their faces that weird newtlike appearance for the rest of their lives because you left the fucking stove on… hope that that doesn’t happen.  That’s what hope is.  Continue reading

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