Archive | February, 2012

The Power of Prayer Part 2

29 Feb

Seriously: do not read this if it’s about you.

A little background.  Remember the future wife?  I prayed to God that I meet my future wife at the Short Stop; that night a hot chick talked to me.  I  went out with her, and a) I wasn’t that into her and b) I kind of blew it.

More background:  last week I went out with a girl off OkCupid.  She was kind of (REDACTED), but a) really, really, really beautiful and b) turned out to be literally my next door neighbor.  Like, she told me a bunch of stories about my cat.  I (REDACTED), but God damn she was fucking gorgeous.  One of those girls— like, beauty is just the absence of ugly.  It’s impossible to describe a beautiful woman’s face.  For a guy, you can say “strong jaw,” “high cheekbones,” etc. etc., or “chiseled” features, but for a girl, it’s basically— all beautiful women have the face of a six year old white child. And she does.  And I took her home; it got physical. We didn’t fuck but (REDACTED). But it was a win. I texted her the next day and said come over Friday and have some chicken.

Nothing back.  Nothing for days.  You start thinking– oh shit, did I blow it? Did I have no game, and should have waited, etc.  Well, fuck that.  Fuck “game.”  If you even have to think about game you have already lost.  I text girls when I want to see them.  Or when I think of a funny text.  I call them when I feel like talking to them.  Which is rarely.  The second you start communicating with a script and an agenda you are completely fucked; you are trapped in this counterintuitive, mercenary process, undermining yourself at every turn.
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Stage Fright

28 Feb

When I was a kid in the 80’s, we used to go to ballgames at Fenway Park. And when you had to piss, it was– there were no urinals.  There was one toilet and it always looked like a Dinty Moore™ beef stew grenade had exploded in it.  No– you had to piss in a long communal  cast-iron trough shaped like a bath tub with rusty, tetanus-y looking pipes feeding a trickle of water into it.  I was like 8, and you had to stand around this thing with no less than a dozen middle aged men, all drunk, with their schlongs all out right near 8 year old eye level.  And something about Boston– these were old world schlongs. The ungroomed old country schlongs of rough and brutal men.  Somehow no man born of pure immigrant stock ever has anything less than a giant winking sea worm, ascending back into a tangle of salt and pepper pubes that have never once been trimmed.  Men of this time and place never fucked with their pubes once, in their entire lifetime.  Irish guys with flame orange thickets.  Swarthy, suspicious men, with Bin Laden dickbeards and brown snakey uncut sausage three shades darker than the rest of them.

I don’t know if you’ve seen a lot of underage wang, but the penis of an 8 year old white child is like a doll’s pinky finger, and beholding these veiny, hideous anacondas was terrifying.  I couldn’t pee.
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Dear Roxanne

27 Feb

God damn do I want a Pop Tart now though. Frosted Raspberry. They never have those anymore– the Pop Tart shelf is cluttered with cinnamon and fudge abominations, and glittery drag queen children’s trifles whored up with lurid florescent goo. Oftentimes the only fruit flavor is the Robitussin-tasting Cherry.

What happened to our society, Roxanne? Frosted Raspberry was the BEST ONE! But our fat, hideous children prefer the WORST flavors and have destroyed the dignity of this pastry.

It’s Never

26 Feb

going to work. You want Edward Cullen to teach you how to tame a magnificent but previously abused horse. I want you watching Mexican soaps in the lobby of Planned Parenthood with a sense of dread.

Reader Mailbag: Professional Dominatrices

25 Feb

(REDACTED) writes:

I’d like to see an entry on professional dominatrices.

~A.

I mean, look– doesn’t that whole thing feel a bit fucking quaint?  What you picture, when you picture a professional dominatrix, is a tall chick with Elvira hair with a skin tight black latex outfit on and you know, high boots with big impractical heels and a cat-o-nine tails, and some middle aged businessman on all fours saying “yes, mistress.”  Both parties showing a Midwestern dinner theatre level of acting skill.  The whole thing feels so milquetoast now that I bet ACCORDING TO JIM had an episode where Jim’s wife walked in on Jim being spanked by a professional dominatrix, in some zany misunderstanding.

Plus, all of “BDSM” feels like the Nerf version of rough sex.  If hot, rough, dangerous, borderline nonconsensual sex is slaying a dragon, stuff like professional dominatrices and the “BDSM Community™” at large are LARPing. Just like the “Swinger Community™” is the Nerf version of cheating and the “Poly Community™” is the Nerf version of David Koresh putting down his Fleetwood Mac Custom Ovation for a few minutes to tear up his third hot teenage virgin of the day. Organized “communities” with tons of rules, and jargon, and extreme touchiness about being judged and nit-picking concern for participants’ safety and well being are about as sexy as the Rotary Club.  You are going to end up in a smelly room full of fat old people who describe themselves as “sex positive,” which is as sexy as hearing that someone is “HIV positive.” This kind of thing is what happens when sex is controlled by damaged women. Continue reading

You Ever Feel Like

24 Feb

Your whole life is just that moment when you’re trying to leave a voicemail, and you hear I’ll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up, or press “pound” for further options.  To send a fax, press– and you’re like, OK, fuck this.  You press “1” to get straight to the beep.

But the voicemail woman cuts you off, and suddenly her tone is somehow much smarmier.  I’m sorry: “1” is not a valid option.  I’ll record your message at the tone.  When you are finished, you may hang up… and it goes again, from the beginning, through this whole long litany of options you have, such as somehow implausibly sending a fax to someone’s mobile phone.  Because unbeknownst to you this is one of the approximately 40% of phones where pressing “1” will not get you straight to the beep.  Instead it will trigger a stern-sounding non-apology from this woman, where the voice actress completely nails the tone of someone ostensibly apologizing to you for some inconvenience, but who in her heart is only sorry that you are too retarded to know that pressing “1” will avail you of nothing.  It will only force her to patiently repeat the many options she has already taken the trouble to lay out for you very clearly and now has to waste her precious time explaining again. Continue reading

Dear Nicole: The Future Wife

23 Feb

Here’s what happened.  As you know, Nicole, I despair of ever finding a mate and hate & resent that you have a live-in boyfriend.  In fact I hate and resent anyone who can find a relationship.

Anyway, I was driving home Thursday night and despairing about this.  I actually resorted to prayer.  I said, please, God, let me meet my future wife.  And I had this kind of premonition that said: if you go to the Short Stop tonight, she will be there.

Normally I would dismiss this sort of thing, but it felt different, and realer than my other crazy thoughts.  Also, last time I actually prayed, it was “please, God, just let something good happen to me tonight,” and I went to the Short Stop, and a hot girl was actually there, alone, and I took her home and boned her.  So God has come through for me at the Short Stop before, seriously.

So I went.  I was tired, and had shit to do, but I went, just in case God was sending my future wife there.  The idea was that if I sat down and had two drinks, I would meet her.  So as soon as I walk in I start scouting out the talent.  Fat Mexican chicks, ugly girls— one cute girl but clearly a Lesbian…. nothing.  But as I’m ordering my second drink I see a really cute but just flawed enough that I might actually have a shot type chick, with a dude who is way better looking than me.  I assume this is her boyfriend.  But just as I’m getting down to the LAST SIP of my second drink this girl comes up and stands next to me, and asks me what I’m looking at on my blackberry. She needs to stay by the bar to give the dude, her roommate, space to hit on a chick.

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