Archive | July, 2013

Why Bicyclists Are Such Assholes

29 Jul
image stolen from bicyclingmatters.wordpress.com

image stolen from bicyclingmatters.wordpress.com

Walking down the street, a couple weeks ago. Guy on a bike was going down a steep hill. Meanwhile a mother was unpacking her BMW® X5™ Sport Utility Crossover. Both drivers side doors open into the bike lane. She was laying groceries at her feet; pulling out her baby in the plastic safety chair. The guy started screaming. “Watch your FUCKIN doors, CUNT!” He swerved around her. Was going fast. But he stopped. Backtracked a little. This was so he could give her hood a couple solid hammerfists before speeding off.

At the time I thought: what a nut. But now I understand. Now I remember. Because now I got a bike for the first time in ten years. I had forgotten: riding a bike turns you crazy.

You’re cranking up a hill sweating your balls off and your heart is going four beats a second and you feel every cigarette you’ve ever smoked as nails scraping up and down your trachea. And suddenly a ’94 Honda® Odyssey™ in metallic beige cranks a hard unsignaled right right in front of you. Almost clips your wheel. You are so pumped with adrenaline that you just become an animal. You have to chase the driver down. Catch up to them at the light. Gesture for them to roll the window down. Tell them: next time that happens I’m gonna pull you out of your car and stomp your fucking teeth into the curb. Provided, you know, that they’re white or Asian. African American males get to cut me off all they want. Continue reading

Look upon Two Hours of a Woman’s Inbox, and Despair

23 Jul

womans inbox

I’ve covered this before, but in case you need further discouragement.  

Search Terms: Boner Machine Abraham Lincoln

22 Jul

Welcome horsefuckers.  Hat tip to UTB.

Relax, You Are Doomed

21 Jul
image stolen from findagrave.com

image stolen from findagrave.com

You’re not gonna get throat cancer from eating pussy and you’re not gonna get dick cancer from HPV. You’re not gonna get AIDS or syphilis or herpes. That thing on your dick is an inflamed hair follicle. Trust me; I know. I have made my body an experiment, fucking the entire internet unprotected on a first OKCupid date and then living through the paranoid terrors of a slightly itchy penis the next morning. It’s all bullshit and your doctor knows it as soon as you walk in the door. Heterosexual men are basically immune to STD’s. You couldn’t get one if you tried. Continue reading

There Is No God, But

21 Jul

we still have the mountains and the hummingbirds. Or a good drink and a good fuck. Even a good shit and a good jerk. Try as you might, you cannot escape small pleasures. The flowers please you in spite of yourself, as you walk down the street muttering. Despairing over no text message from some girl you’d get tired of if she texted you back. Worrying about work. The clouds look painterly at sunset every god damn day and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. Even if you shut the blinds the magic hour light leaks through. A baby smiles at you in the checkout line. Sees something in your eyes. It was not lost.

An Open Letter to My Neighbor with the Dogs

19 Jul
image stolen from dog.blog.abc101.com

image stolen from dog.blog.abc101.com

6:45AM

I am a nice person. You’ve seen me in the street. I have nodded warmly. If you then said “how are you,” I responded “great,” or some other polite lie. I am a nice person. I take care not to back up too close to your car on street cleaning day, even though spaces are tight. I once thanked you for planting rosemary and sage in your sidewalk median where I can easily access them in a pinch. They have flavored many chickens.

But here’s the thing with you: every morning I want to crucify you. And your son, the one with the stupid haircut, his oafish teenage smile and his stupid god damn baseball hat– I want to crucify the two of you. I want to do it in front of your dogs while they’re duct taped to a bench or something. Restrained in some way that they’re immobile but not so distracted by the pain of their bondage that they can’t pay attention to the tableau. Which is you, in agony, radius bones splintered with galvanized nails pounded through some scrap two by fours as I take one of those little torches they use for crème brulee to the most sensitive parts of your body. Continue reading

The Future Burns with Promise

15 Jul
image stolen from call4health.com

image stolen from call4health.com

It’s almost 7:30. I had a long commute. I worked hard. I did well at work. Found people looking for buildings. This is my job now. I drive out to the desert and sit in an office at a veneered desk and talk into a phone. In front of me is a giant monitor filled with a grid of warehouses located in a desert county, along with names and phone numbers. I call the place, try to find out if the person is interested in moving. If they are, I get money.

Maybe a lot of money. A piece of the deal. Warehouses are typically leased for periods of ten years so a lot of money changes hands if one of these things come through. But before that happens I have to punch in a lot of phone numbers off this white grid. I am in an ill fitting suit; behind me men walk around and chatter in other ill fitting suits. Their shoes are newer than mine but we pretty much look the same. Talk into the phone and try to make money come out. Outside my window are mountains. An apartment complex. Trees tossing in the desert wind, occasionally a bird. No one gets naked in the apartment windows, ever. Still, I keep a vigilant watch. Continue reading

Site News: World Domination

12 Jul

world domination

In case you give a shit, this web site crossed half a million views today.  Per the above map, it has been viewed in basically every country that a) has a computer and b) doesn’t tie you up and hook a car battery to your nuts for looking at the internet.

This brings me happiness.  Thank you all for reading.  Especially you, Swaziland.  New Guinea– take a break from customizing your penis gourd and please take a look.

Now on to a sobering economic reality.  If I had been running ads on this site, assuming a CPM of 1– the most generous estimate possible for a site whose number one search term is “horse fucking–” I would have netted $500 before taxes. About 50 cents an hour.  I know this seems like a king’s ransom to some of you folks on the map, but to the rest of you: it is virtually impossible to make money with a “creative” blog and it’s only gonna get worse.  So if it’s your dream to make a living doing this, let me piss all over that for you.  Also, your mom did not actually send your dog to a farm where there are lots of other dogs and endless room to run around.  She killed him.  Probably shot him right in the face.  Then she stood over his twitching, tortured carcass and laughed thinking of your bitter tears.  Maybe she even shat in his wound, I don’t know.  Seems like the kind of thing your mom would do.

It won’t make you money, but it can get you laid.  Shocking amounts of laid with shockingly little effort, as long as you don’t count hundreds of hours coming up with hundreds of thousands of words as “effort.”  And as long as like five girls counts as “shocking amounts of laid.”  But it does for me– I mean, I write about stealing girl’s sweaty panties and sniffing them while I jerk it at the end of a coke binge.  Strange women email me saying “let’s fuck,” and I send them my address, and they show up nice and musky and they leave their salty chonies behind knowing I will be wearing them as a Bane mask that weekend.  I hadn’t expected that to happen once, much less several times.  The world is a darker, weirder place than you’ve been led to believe.

Anyway.  Onward and downward.  

Reader Mailbag: How to Propose

10 Jul
man proposing

image stolen from sodahead.com

“Andres” writes:

: hello um im going to propose to my gf soon and am looking for any creative ideas on how to do it if you have any suggestions. 

Don’t get married. Every married person I know completely hates their relationship and is miserable. Single people are miserable too but married people have this thing that focuses all their hatred. They all feel completely trapped, like their lives are over. Every single one of them cheats. Your wife will cheat on you. You will cheat on your wife, but not nearly as much, because you’ll have to work for it. Continue reading

Weekend Journal: Can’t Live With ‘Em, Can’t Live Without ‘Em

7 Jul

tarzana-sign

This is what I remember. I went back in to tell the crazy black chick with the fake blue eyes: come on, just give us a fucking ride two exits up the freeway. You promised you would drive us back, I said. I knew the whole time she would Welsh but I thought she could be reasoned with. She could not. She got angry, very angry, she was yelling at me to get the fuck out of the house and take that crazy ass bitch with you and I said all right, all right. And I’m pretty sure she popped me one. I have no marks on me but I remember laughing and telling her that if she was going to hit me she ought to put some body into it. When in fact it hurt, she had put plenty of body into it. She was African American and a “top” type Lesbian so even though she was a chick, you know, demographically she had the ability to punch. I went back out to the parking lot to find you and go. Figured we would split a cab, which would have taken up all the money I had left, but, we had to get out of there.

I went back to the parking lot to find you and you were gone. You had been lying on your face in an empty parking space against a cinder block wall one minute and then you just disappeared. The crazy black chick with the vampire-y blue contact lenses followed me out, yelling, motherfucker this, motherfucker that, nigga you better get the FUCK out of here RIGHT NOW and I was like, look, let me wait till Astrid comes back. We gotta get a cab. She kept yelling. So I thought: fuck it. I asked her to open the gate so I could go. She wouldn’t open the gate. She was calling the cops. She was telling them I was menacing her and wouldn’t leave when in fact I was prevented from leaving by the giant electric metal gate to the parking lot, which had no way of being opened without some remote of hers. Yeah, he has a plaid shirt on, she was saying into the phone. I was pleased I wasn’t wearing my distinctive blazer and pocket square or lavender cardigan. I imagined blending seamlessly into a sea of plaid shirts. Eventually I just jumped the wall. Continue reading

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