image stolen from thegailygrind.com
Our generation’s Van Gogh will never flower. He has to work sixty hours a week. Photoshop retarded bug eyed cats so they’re looking at Miley Cyrus.
Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize this week. Our generation’s Alice Munro captions sassy GIF’s for Buzzfeed. Lucille Bluth shakes her head flamboyantly. Makes some kind of “no” gesture. She is reacting to Miley Cyrus. Our Mark Twain writes for Gawker. Commentary about Vice’s commentary about The Atlantic’s original opinion about What Miley Cyrus Means for Our Times. Gawker’s angle is that the Vice one is racist. The comments go down and down and down. Click to see 87 more replies. Black people and white people saying why they hate each other. Women’s Studies majors shocked and indignant. People reacting to an 800 word GIF-laden throwaway like the guy who covered the Hindenberg. Continue reading
image stolen from careerealism.com
I’m writing to apply for the (TITLE GOES HERE) position you posted on Craigslist. Per your request, below you will find a detailed cover letter. My resume is also attached.
Or rather, a .pdf of a medium-resolution color portrait of my scrotum is attached, entitled “Delicious Tacos Resume.” Taken during the recent heat wave. Note the varicose veins. Like the back of your eyelids when you blink after lightning. The hairs, uniformly white. Wiry. I trim vigilantly but the brain coral contours of the human sac ensure that I’ll have missed a few. They grow to inordinate lengths. Form elaborate kinks and curls. Take on lint. Chunks of skin. Brown and pink wads stuck to them, hideously dangling. I have the balls of a one hundred twenty year old man, in other words. But rest assured I am of prime working age. Continue reading
image stolen from dog.blog.abc101.com
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
Astrid was trying to set me up with some girl she works with. Some cunt. I mean, maybe she’s not a cunt but she didn’t want to be set up with me, so, she’s a cunt. She’d been telling Astrid she likes “built” guys, and Astrid showed her a picture of me with my shirt off. And she said:
“Yeah, but he looks like he works out on purpose. I want a guy who’s just burly like he’s been chopping wood.”
Let me tell you something. Nobody looks what is now called “good” through normal activities. You have to work at it, for the sole purpose of vanity, like it’s a second fucking job. I was listening to an Opie and Anthony bit with Louis CK, which I now can’t find. They were talking about how every hot male movie star from the past would get laughed the fuck off the screen today if they took their shirt off. Charlton Heston. Steve McQueen. These men who had the “hot” body of their time would be flabby schlumps today. The standards of the male body have gone fucking nuts. Continue reading
is due. Way past due, months. We’re at the two missed calls every hour stage; they come from different numbers. My phone number is 831, from Santa Cruz, and they mix it up lobbing calls at me from 408, San Jose. Their computer thinks I’m in Santa Cruz so therefore I would see a number from a neighboring county and think: that’s legit. I’ll answer, since it’s obviously a person and not a computer from the phone company looking for money. Maybe it’s a chick.
Of course, I’m in L.A. No one in San Jose would ever call me. And I know I owe the phone company money, and I want to pay them; I just don’t have it. Even if they hadn’t sent me emails and texts and paper bills with sternly worded warnings on the inside and IMPORTANT CONFIDENTIAL ACCOUNT INFORMATION on the outside to fool you into thinking there’s some contract change and it’s not just “give us money.” Even if I hadn’t had a previous round of missed calls from 800 numbers and weird area codes; I’m aware that the phone costs money you are supposed to pay every month. I paid them what I had. It wasn’t enough apparently. Continue reading
Photo from numeroteca.org
Note: this piece steals many ideas from Adam Carolla.
I saw the first one right after Easter, on a garbage truck. “SCAVENGING IS ILLEGAL.” A picture of some poor fucker bent over a trash can trying to scrounge up a couple bucks worth of bottles and cans for a beer. They’ve finally done it. They have made a sign that would literally make Jesus Christ puke. Even the little crossed out baby sign on the dumpsters isn’t as bad. That one is trying to help people. You don’t have to throw out your baby, just take it to the firehouse. Also, what part of “Yard Waste Only” don’t you understand. But this one might as well be a huge middle finger flipping off a hobo and read “FUCK THE POOR.” Continue reading
“You better grow up” sounds like “you better be miserable.” It sounds like “why are you not doing something that sucks right now.” Why aren’t you home with your kids, swabbing shit out of the crack of their ass with a woefully inadequate hand-e-wipe. Why aren’t you rich. Why don’t you have a mortgage. Why don’t you own your own home and if you do why aren’t you on the phone with the contractor right now improving it in a manner that will increase its value so you can flip it. Why didn’t you get your cholesterol tested. Why is your credit rating below eight hundred. Why don’t you have kids yet and if you do why aren’t they enrolled in the finest schools. Why don’t you have a complete cable and internet package with a million channels you will never have time to watch.
Your eggs are dying. Your kid will be a mutant. He’ll be born with no digestive tract and your life will be wheeling him around all day worried about finding a public rest room where you can empty his colostomy bag. Why aren’t you married. Why don’t you even have somebody you might marry. Why does that person not have an advanced degree in a lucrative STEM field. Why don’t you have an IRA– if you had begun investing when you were 22 you would have ten million dollars now due to logarithmic growth. But don’t spend it– you’re gonna need ten times that much by the time you retire. You will have cancer and Alzheimer’s and stroke and kidney failure and fifteen years worth of logarithmic growth will pay for one alcohol swab to swipe the crack of your ass. Nobody’s gonna help you when your arm is just veiny turkey skin flapping off shivering tendons– why can’t you take some god damn personal responsibility. Continue reading
I have to piss. You are never going to be able to piss in this coffee shop. The rest room key has not once been on its appointed hook. Other people ask about it, but you know the score. “Someone must be in there.” Someone must be in there taking the longest shit in human history. They have one of those diseases where the organs liquefy and they are shitting them out one inch at a time. Someone won’t leave the bowl till his asshole’s dry and he’s reading Infinite Jest taking care to study the footnotes within footnotes. Someone is building a supercomputer out of his own shit, or a life sized statue of Napoleon. No one, no human being, could ever, for any legitimate reason, stay in a coffee shop bathroom that long. What kind of person shits in a coffee shop. What kind of monster. We’re all puttering around drinking hot liquids, we all have to piss, and you’re in there crafting a flock of origami swans out of C fold paper towels, you motherfucker. And another guy just asked about it. Now he gets to go in before me, if this shitter ever emerges. Great. No doubt he’s got a hot sauce burrito log to squeeze out too. They are all shitting in coffee shops, these huns. Whatever happened to take a quick piss and you’re out. Fuck anyone who even washes their hands. Pussies.
My stupid fucking ball sack and its god damn demands. Better go out; maybe there will be girls. There’s one now; go talk to her. What the fuck are you so charming for if you’re not gonna get in that girl’s pants. What purpose do ideas and words have if they’re not going to get you inside some woman. Looks like school got out, better look up that girl’s skirt on the bus. Better leer. Better make a fool of yourself. Yeah I know you want to write but Bing does perfect video searches for porn, anything you want. How about chubby girls who just turned eighteen taking unwanted creampies; we could probably find something. We have the technology. OK now go empty me into the sink. OK let’s do it again. Continue reading
I have sixteen free hours per day to cure cancer, travel the world, find my soul mate, write something that changes someone’s life or at least makes someone feel less alone for two minutes. Instead I’m looking at fucking Gawker and Jezebel. Yahoo CEO Marissa Mayer has done something that made people angry. Also she is good looking. Some TV show is racist. Someone on Reddit’s cat did something and it’s been viewed ten billion times, and now it’s on Gawker and people are trying to be clever about it. Behind me is a shelf piled with the great books of western literature; on top of the Works of Plato is a butterknife and when I moved it there was a butterknife-shaped clean spot in the dust. Some guy who got out of prison doesn’t know how to read; you can go to the L.A. public library and sit down with him and teach him. You could save his entire fucking future and that of his children and think of the stories he would tell you. A sign told me about this adult literacy volunteer program when I went to the library two weeks ago and checked out the collected short stories of William Faulkner, which I haven’t cracked. I thought about volunteering for a second. Now would be the time do do something like this. Nah. Continue reading