I’m worried that I’m fat now. Because Nikol is dating a guy who is a professional bicycle racer. He must maintain an absolutely lean physique at all times, burns 8000 calories a day or something. This guy has abs, real abs, not a mushy six pack with a little pooch at the bottom like mine. When you talk about an ideal male body you’re talking about a guy whose stomach doesn’t fold when he’s sitting down. You’re talking about 5 per cent body fat. Michael Phelps. You’re talking about people who have that for a living. Merely flirting with single digits body fat isn’t enough. Looking good lit from the side with high contrast lamps while flexing down isn’t enough. You gotta look like the cover of Men’s Health even when there’s Vaseline on the lens and you’re in the fetal position with all muscles relaxed. So that is my new fitness goal. I’d been lifting a lot; put on a few pounds of muscle. Now it’s time to drain the remaining fat so you can see striations. Tendons. Fat blue veins snaking over my forearms.
Physically this can be done, but it’s the psychology that gets you. It burns out some fuse that tells you how much to eat. You are constantly hungry as shit and constantly just thinking don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat, 16 waking hours per day. The smells coming from restaurants become something primal, like the musk of a cow’s cunt to a rutting bull. Don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat and it’s one of those things– you fuck up once and suddenly you’ve thrown down 1600 calories worth of ice cream. If you use cardio machines you begin to appreciate the horror that is calorie math. You can be on a Stairmaster at a full sprint for an hour, it won’t burn off food that takes you two minutes to put down. Continue reading
I jerked off to some horse porn and then went to the coffee shop. Got the table by the counter where you can look at girls’ asses as they order. They try to cover up, they sit down quick, but they have to stand up there to order coffee so you have at least ten seconds of just drilling lasers into their beautiful asses in unholy tight jeans. Thinking: I just want to spread open that sweaty little crack and suck a Taco Bell shit out of her asshole.
I get that men need to be horny. Otherwise no one would ever fuck and we’d just die out. But this seems excessive. Like a cruel joke. I could operate at about a tenth of my current level and still blast enough sperm into people to populate a fucking continent. You are born so god damn horny and you are then dropped in a world where you have to fight for pussy against impossible odds.
There was an article, about sea otters. They found out sea otters were raping and murdering baby seals. It was the unlaid males– ten per cent of otter men fuck one hundred per cent of the women, and the other ninety per cent still have a hard on. So they drown baby seals performing the otter courtship ritual on them. They bite the seal on the nose and then hold it underwater, which an adult female otter can handle apparently. Not the seal; they drown. Still, the otter fucks the dead seal for weeks, again and again and again. Until the smell and the sea worms get to be too much. There’s an old joke about marriage in there somewhere. Continue reading
I desperately want to have sex with Miss Teen Delaware. Even though she’s the kind of girl who wrecks the one good thing in her life for five hundred bucks from a guy who’s too dumb to turn off the air conditioner when the camera’s rolling. Five hundred bucks and a free Days Inn towel. She could be a murderer, but she is three months past her eighteenth birthday with what they call a “neotenous” face. This is the nonthreatening latinate way of saying all hot women look like little kids. What does this tell you. Girls are six and that’s the prettiest they’re ever gonna be. No pedo. Continue reading
In case you give a shit, here is WordPress’ “Year In Review” page for this web site. Many wonderful memories.
My favorite parts are the world map that reveals that people have looked at this blog from a buttload of countries, and that the biggest search term that isn’t the name of the site is “fake rape sex.” Also popular were “underage cock” and “pubescent tits.”
I was also amused by revisiting my longest comments section. I miss that guy “pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn.” I wonder where he went. His comments were better than the fucking blog.
I do not plan on taking the blog in a new direction in 2013. Nor do I plan on taking my life in a new direction. I plan on doing the exact same shit and typing about it into the exact same free WordPress “Bueno” format, which was the first one offered when I set up the page. But I’ll probably get cancer or be crippled in a car accident or something, or go nuts from being unemployed, so, there will be new material.
Anyway. Thank you all for coming, seriously.
I love the big fantasy, that people who work for Google are playing ping pong and napping in giant bean bag chairs all day at the Googleplex. That the whole company is just a giant rumpus room in a split level ranch home from 1972. Florence Henderson will bring pigs in blankets around and there’s plenty of Sunny D in the fridge. In fact it has to be a giant taint smelling veal pen where unlaid nerds are just staring glassy-eyed at computers and coding for sixteen hours at a stretch. Or managing people who are coding, figuring out how to extract the most amount of coding out of them for the least amount of money. And there are no women, despite, I’m sure, their efforts to bend over backwards to try to recruit as many women as possible to code out of a sense of social justice or whateverthefuck. There are no women for them to hire. Women aren’t interested in coding. And it’s because coding sucks. Women are right not to be interested in coding. In math, engineering, science, the so-called STEM fields– all those things are fucking excruciating and women are smart to stay the fuck away from them and the flabby Aspergian gnomes who populate those fields.
But if I were a recruiter, I would save a bunch of dough on the ping pong tables and face massages and just hire five decent looking chicks. Every coder in the world would flock there.
Yeah, but fuck Winnie Cooper. Winnie always looked a little alien, or like a Hapsburg or something. Her skull was shaped like a Lego person’s. And she always seemed uptight.
Really, it should be a much bigger deal to press caps lock. They shouldn’t put it right next to the other buttons. 95% of the time I press it, it’s unwittingly when my pinky hits it instead of “A” or “Shift.” I look like a douchebag on IM when i’m like “i’ll totALLY CALL YOU LATER.” It’s fucking stupid, and my advice to you is you should do something about it. Get your head out of your ass and take some action.
We gotta reclaim this word “geek,” away from the “sexy geek” concept. It doesn’t mean anything anymore besides what kind of eyeglass frames and t shirts you wear. Real geeks play tabletop Warhammer at the hobby shop and their face & mannerisms give off a slight whiff of chromosome damage. Or they’re on the business end of the autism spectrum and they will appear “sexy” when their computer program makes enough money so that the one attractive Asian woman who works at their company decides she can tolerate a lifetime of his weird nasal monotone.