image stolen from cultofandroid.com
I should tell you I’m married, she said. This after you’d taken off your expired Trojan, the ribbed kind that comes in a gold wrapper; it was so old the gold foil was flaking off so you took the condom and filled it up in the sink after and watched it for leaks. Your jizz chunking up and swirling around like a snow globe. If you had known you would have just stayed in raw and blasted in her. If you’d known some other guy would pay for it. Her husband must be white too. What Mexican married to a Mexican cheats on fucking Tinder. The plan could have worked out and your bloodline might have lived on. Not now that she waited to tell you. No sense of timing. But we’re separated, she says. Ah well, you were smart after all. Continue reading
image stolen from boingboing.net
Go do this right now. It’ll take 30 minutes:
1. Open your profile. Get your photos in order. Put your 3 hottest pics from facebook on top.
2. In “details,” add 2 inches to your height and give yourself a $20,000 raise. Like every other dude.
3. Cut and paste the below essays. Do not edit. In “About Me,” add the name of your town. If you’re a girl, change “cock” to “pussy,” but– you’re not a girl. Get rid of “I’m Really Good At” & “I Spend A Lot of Time Thinking About” if you already have them: Continue reading
image stolen from conanevolved.wordpress.com
They were laying in bed. He had her ipad on his lap to watch Conan the Barbarian. Golden Age Schwarzenegger had fled across frozen wastes. He came upon a hut. A woman with 1982 plastic surgery stood in the door. Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire?
I’ve been unfair to you, she said. He paused the movie.
I shouldn’t even tell you this but I forgot my texts come to that fucking thing.
Well I didn’t look. But now you better tell me.
It might hurt you.
… Continue reading
image stolen from musicblogfunpartytime.wordpress.com
Let me pitch you an idea.
We’ve set a date. Your doorbell rings. It’s me. I am dressed nicely. Perhaps holding a bouquet. Peonies– nothing too suggestive. You approve of my shoes. You’re like “Hi!” And I’m like:
(BEGINS BEATBOXING “TOM SAWYER” AT INCREDIBLE VOLUME, ROCKING OUT LIKE AN ASTEROID IS ABOUT TO HIT THE EARTH AND PERFECTLY– I MEAN *PERFECTLY*– PANTOMIMING NEIL PEART’S FILLS)
And you’re like “wow, that’s pretty impressive! Would you like to come i–” and I’m like:
(VOCALS KICK IN AND I JUST GO OFF IN GEDDY LEE’S CANADIAN GRANNY VOICE “MODUHN DAY WARRIUH MEAN MEAN STRIIIIIIIIDE….” MEANWHILE I AM STILL PERFECTLY PANTOMIMING THE DRUMS)
And you’re like “holy shit, you’re really good at that, should we get goin–” and I’m like
(DUH NUH NUH NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH AND I JUST KEEP GOING THROUGH AN EXTENDED SYNTH SOLO AND ETC. You get the idea. Meanwhile the neighbors have come out and you’re maybe a little apprehensive but also, you can’t resist feeling the music in your bones. Beginning to move. Shake your head. Dance in the only awkward way it is possible to dance to Rush. When it finally ends you are exhausted. Dripping with sweat. Spent. But changed. From this moment you will live each day as though it were you last.)
The song finishes. I hand you the peonies. Turn around and leave silently.
How about it.
I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.
How about it.
image stolen from 6thgradeliteraturevocabulary2011.wikispaces.com
Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.
I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Continue reading