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.
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.
I’d like to see an entry on professional dominatrices.
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
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
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.
say they “like nerdy guys,” they mean a guy in an indie rock band who gets laid more than Tiger Woods, but wears the black glasses like the Central Casting nerd. And when you take them off, it’s like when the “ugly” chick takes off her glasses in that Freddy Prinze Jr. movie. In other words, they’re not talking about you.
So I hershey squirted on the way to work this morning. Just as I got on the freeway. Couldn’t turn around. I just sped to work as fast as possible with my ass clenched thinking: I’ll pop in the (shared) restroom and rapidly clean myself up, throw out the boxers, and commando it at work. Should be fine, as long as I’m alone in the can.
I get in– there’s no parking, but I figure it out. Get in the can. Lo and behold there is an extremely dignified elderly man in a bespoke London tailor type suit meticulously cleaning his contact lenses in the sink. So I have to go in the stall and pretend like I’m just taking a shit till he leaves.
This man was very fastidious about slowly cleaning his contact lenses. Finally he leaves. I clean up– situation is not nearly as bad as I thought. Boxers were not even streaked. But I’m still pissed, frustrated– now running late for a very important day at work. So as I’m leaving the stall I’m loudly cursing and muttering, “JESUS MOTHERFUCKING FUCK, OF COURSE, THE ONE DAY I FUCKING SHIT MY PANTS THERE’S NO GODDAMN PARKING AND FUCKING GEORGE PLIMPTON IS PERFORMING SURGERY ON HIS MOTHERFUCKING CONTACTS…”
And I leave the restroom. And standing RIGHT OUTSIDE the door is Julia Roberts.