This is a story about a girl named Astrid, and a boy named Filbert Kim.
Astrid was a foster child who grew up getting gang raped like most kids play tag. She lost her virginity at age four to her foster brother, who was chopping wood, and when she asked to help, called her a stupid baby. Then he raped her and dumped her in a kiddie pool. It didn’t get any better for twenty years until she booked a couple commercials and a TV pilot and came out to LA. The pilot didn’t work out– they never do, but she stayed. She ended up being a hooker for a while for some Russian guys off craigslist, sucking old Indian perverts’ musky rotten spice-smelling dicks. And that’s how she became the type of person who was of interest to Filbert Kim.
Filbert Kim was a lawyer. He had gotten into Harvard but blew his admission by writing a snarky letter to the student council or something, so he went to the University of California instead. He was Korean, as you can tell by his last name. Which means go ahead and google Filbert Kim; you’ll never find him. There are fifteen Filbert Kims in his Berkeley graduating class alone. He got good grades as an undergraduate. He did well in law school. He got a job as an associate at one of those firms that are in a skyscraper in LA and made an awful lot of money. He got married, to another Korean, which is how you know he couldn’t have been happy. They had a dog. It was a small white dog suitable for elderly women and gays, so it had a grandiose name to the tune of “Brutus” or “El Conquistador.” The wife’s mother moved in with them and he paid for both their cars, their gas, their insurance, the whole mortgage. This is how you know he was not happy. He did everything his parents told him to do in life and look where it got him. The mother in law was a shrew. She followed them everywhere. Thank God they didn’t have kids. Continue reading
Good afternoon. It is almost 4 motherfucking PM. I have been looking at stupid shit on the internet all day. Wikipedia articles about George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. Articles I had already read previously. I am in the second day of a cocaine hangover.
Who gives a shit. What else would I have done. It’s fucking Halloween weekend. The whole town awash in stupid parties; people who think they are going to get laid. You are not going to get laid on Halloween. It is motherfucking amateur hour out there. Everybody who couldn’t get their dick in a pussy if their life depended on it is out there on Halloween, in a meticulously planned costume for which all the labor and planning and money gets you half a sentence of conversation. And you can’t even use it again next year. Everybody for whom three and a half vodka Red Bulls is a wild night is out on Halloween, ready to rage. Every girl who withers at the sight of a penis is out dressed as slutty nurse or slutty Teletubby or sexy slutty zombie reference to some pop culture fad and she is not going to fuck you. You are going to make out with her at best and walk around with a big smear of zombie makeup on your face and costume.
At this point it’s almost like “what do I have to do.” I’m the Whitey Bulger of herpes, flagrantly committing crimes and then dodging punishment for decades while walking around with my hugely recognizable face in a heavily populated city. What do I have to do to get an STD. I mean, maybe this girl– there could still be an incubation period. When did I start fucking her– probably like a week before this test. So no AIDS would have come through or anything.
But what the fuck would SHE have to do to get an STD. It’s easier for girls to get it than guys, right? That’s what they tell you in sex ed. Sixty per cent of new HIV transmissions are women, eighty seven per cent of new syphilis transmissions are women, blah blah blah… That’s what they tell you in health class. They also tell you there’s a big chance that if you fuck someone unprotected you’ll get an STD. So fuck what they said in health class. I’m not gonna believe anything that came out of that shit anymore. I’m gonna go back to my childhood understanding, based on speculation from an ass porn mag given to me by a hobo, that a baby is made when a guy puts his penis into a girl’s butt and pees. Continue reading
Before I became an obscure blogger and show business peon, I was an aspiring academic. I have a B.S. in Cognitive Psychology and have studied many statistical and data modeling techniques for dealing with large multivariate data sets. I’ve tried to stay fresh in these skills over the years.
As such, I’ve been following the election polls closely. And playing around a bit with some of the polling data; looking into the methods and models of the various polling outlets. I’ve discovered a pattern in a few battleground state polls, particularly Ohio, which I can’t find anyone else noticing, at least anyone you can google. Pollsters are almost uniformly under-weighing a couple unsung but key variables in “likely voter” data. In my opinion, the correctly weighted model points to a clearer Barack Obama electoral victory than anyone in politics or the media anticipates. To explain what I mean, look at the latest “poll of polls” from Ohio via the Huffington Post:
Which shows debate-driven fluctuations, and a slight Obama lead, but essentially a race that could go either way. I’ve taken what raw data I could find and re-weighted it a bit according to my hypothesis, into a new graph below:
I was awake. There was a bird outside my window performing a miracle. He had memorized the calls of dozens of other birds after hearing them just a few times and was performing them flawlessly. Some of this bird’s brain cells die in winter and grow back in spring in time for him to learn new songs. Discovering this fact led scientists to conclude they had been wrong when they’d said your brain is just slowly dying. In fact it can build new skills and learn new ways of being for your whole life. It was revolutionary. There is hope for us all. I was annoyed at the bird for waking me up.
Cigarette. Honey Nut™ Cheerios®. Coffee. Read things on the internet. Take a shit. Always a good one; I haven’t had a bad shit in years. Hot shower. Another miracle worn into banality by enjoying it every day. The hiss of warm water, the warmth like the womb. Safe and private. I washed my ass at least seven times. Car. Radio, NPR. Old people talking about old time musicians no one gives a fuck about. Or no– about people who were once in those dead old time musicians’ orbit. How on Earth does anyone give one single fuck about the guy who served as the archivist for Ira Gershwin, brought to you by Mercedes Benz of Southern California. The only way this could be less interesting is if they interviewed the archivist for the archivist of Ira Gershwin. “The Dow” is up seventeen points. Again, who gives a fuck. That tells me absolutely nothing. Continue reading
At the AAA office. The staff is helpful, courteous and efficient. If you are not a member of AAA, go fucking join AAA right now. Call their number and a helpful, courteous and efficient person will explain to you in plain language exactly what you need to do to join and the benefits you will attain. If your car breaks down, they will tow it somewhere for free. If your battery dies, they will come give you a jump for free. If you have a flat tire, they’ll come change it for free. Their staff that you talk to on the phone will be unrattled and actually know what the fuck they’re talking about. The tow truck driver who shows up will be a nice dude from somewhere interesting who won’t try to jack you for extra money. He will commiserate with you over your car trouble and put whatever music on the radio you want as he drives you to a mechanic of your choice for free.
You will receive a complimentary biweekly magazine with travel tips and day drive ideas tailored to your local area. Like, this is what you should check out in San Juan Capistrano. When the swallows are there and how you see them. What local restaurants are suitable for the type of person who reads their local AAA newsletter, whom I infer to be between 60-75 and not wanting to do a great deal of strenuous exercise. There will be an open letter in the front of the magazine from some higher up in AAA, who looks like the principal of Council Bluffs High School in 1955. Or the Undersecretary of Agriculture from the Eisenhower administration. He will spout platitudes about AAA’s mission of quality service and the long sterling history of delivering such, from the early days of cars you had to crank to today with added support for hybrids and natural gas vehicles. Alternative fuels are an important part of our energy future and the Auto Club is committed to ushering in this new era of environmentally sound driving. Letters to the Editor support these claims of excellence, and herald the newsletter’s usefulness. Dear AAA Westways Magazine, thank you for your recent tips on San Juan Capistrano. The swallows were beautiful and the AAA recommended motel was a real gem. Sincerely, Frank and Lois Gildersnatch, Whittier CA. Continue reading
This chick. It pisses me off that she’s fucking other guys. I wish we could be in a monogamous relationship, because it would make it so much easier for me to pull other pussy.
I need some new ass. I have a hankering for a chubby chick. When you are dating a slender Asian woman you get a stirring in your loins for a freckly strawberry blonde with giant milky titties, so white there are blue veins visible, and a squidgy muffin top. A chick with a big fat pussy, a fleshy pubic fat pad laid out so that there is no boundary to the outer pussy lips. No separation between vulva and gunt, it’s just a big mound of flab tapering down to a “V” with a sweaty slit. A meaty ass with just a hint of cellulite; stretch marks like a zebra. The type of girl who knows you’re not going to call her. Who wonders why you’re even going out with her in the first place. The type of girl who knows she better make the pussy count. Who isn’t pissed if you cum too fast; she’s grateful that you fucked her at all. In other words, a girl from OKCupid.
The foot tattoo makes her seem more accessible. Such a person makes poor sexual decisions. No impulse control. If you have a tattoo on top of your foot, you have no concept of such a thing as “the future.” Having this poem written in script on your foot, a poem I can only assume is something unbelievably stupid, is now and is always going to be an awesome idea, the way to a dog consuming an entire roll of toilet paper will always be an awesome idea.
Nikol D.S. Hasler, the person with the most accurate middle initials in the world.
You know that feeling when you’re having a shitty day at work and people are assholes and you have no money and the car you just bought is now beginning to show signs of a flawed cooling system, but you just tore off a new piece of ass the night before so nothing can really get you down? Well, Nikol’s cancer is in remission. So nothing can get me down today. Also, I tore off a new piece of ass. But mostly it’s Nikol.
Nikol’s cancer is in remission. I never even thought about her cancer, when she had it, unless some big shit like surgery was happening, or it was right after her hair fell out. Unless it was in my face. She was sick, but she’s always sick, because she can take a handle of Von’s brand whiskey to the head and does tons of drugs; she’s the kind of person who texts you “I just took 30 tylenol PM’s and I’m going to die” and you can just laugh it off because she can eat pills that would make a billygoat puke. She’s a tank. But you could never tell if she was just hung over as fuck or if it was, you know, terminal illness. She wasn’t one of these cancer talk people, cancer cancer cancer all the time, my treatments, my symptoms, my positive thinking program, my misguided attempt to use alternative medicine from Mexico that will only accelerate my death. You didn’t think about it. Continue reading