A four bedroom house in Hot Springs Montana is 99 thousand fucking dollars. Estimated mortgage: $382 a month. You get a separate detached cottage. The cottage alone, in this shithole fucking city I live in – this disgusting extension of Mexico but with additional loud helicopters and barking dogs and garbage taxes and women who’d rather be set on fire than smile at you– a cottage next to a stucco nest of murderous bike stealing cholos who grill cactuses and light off fireworks and gun Harleys 24 hours a day, as many of them in there as termites in one of those twelve foot mounds in Kenya– this shed costs seven hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars, plus property taxes to pay for schools with the literacy rate of the fucking Hills Have Eyes family; the mortgage after a hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars down is the entire pre-tax income of the median American household. Continue reading
Two years of nothing. Then three little earthquakes. A big one is coming, said everybody in Los Angeles. The big one.
I prayed. Dear Lord, if you make an earthquake, make it kill. None of this middle of the road shit. Swallow my workplace whole. Otherwise, if you just do damage– I’ll still have to go in. In fact I’ll have more to do. Picking up, salvaging shit… toiling to rebuild from your half assed wrath. Haggling with electricians. Nitpicking over permits. Repairmen will be in demand; everyone will be after the same four guys who can fix earthquake shit. On me to get them fast and cheap. Cajole them on the phone and suck up and if that doesn’t work yell at them. Sit on hold. I’m sorry, 0 is not a valid entry. Goodbye. Hold again. Please Lord destroy the phone company. Destroy the computer with the hard drive with the recording of the lady who talks to you on hold, who curtly jumps on every 30 seconds into Gabor Szabo or whateverthefuck to say “PLEASE WAIT.” What a cunt, that woman. Swallow her into a crack in the Earth. Swallow it all. Make a quake so big the whole ocean pours in and eats LA; every gas main blows, we all sizzle and scream and then sweet quiet blackness.
Last night I consumed a pint of Christian Brothers® brandy from Royale Junior Liquor Market and sat down to determine my position on global capitalism and the future of the labor market. This was not inspired by Drunk History:
There are three people who want a job for every job. This doesn’t count people who said “fuck it” and just left the workforce. People underemployed, part time, cleaning toilets with a lit degree.
We don’t make anything physical in America now. The thing we do make, computer code– Mark Zuckerberg is lobbying congress so he can import labor for it. Otherwise he might have to train people. Those people might take that training and do something with it other than make him richer. Can’t have that.
It will get worse. Practically, there will be no jobs soon. First you will be replaced by cheap overseas labor. Then cheap overseas labor will be replaced by robots.
We hear this and we ask: but what will we do for work?
How will we be slaves? Continue reading
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
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
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