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
Since it seems you’ve banged a ridiculous amount of women from OKC, would it be possible for you to drop a datasheet/guide on OKC from opener-bang?
Or at least, yoda, just help this young man along, mentor him and pass on your legacy? HAHA
because I get many profiles views, replies, and numbers but I have a hard time turning that into dates. I know all the basic logistical shit and I’m not new to game. can you show me a screencap/transcript of how you play things?
I typically have decent openers, but the replies from women are so banal or the profiles are bare and generic, I have very little to work with. How do go from opener>chatting>IRL meeting. I’m getting phone numbers but having difficulty with getting meet ups.
You’re probably sick of jackasses like me asking you things like this so I understand. >_>
Don’t listen to me. I know nothing. I’ve blown more easy ass than I’ve gotten. What I do get doesn’t make me happy. My OKCupid tricks will not help anybody. The short version is: be me. Then go on a date and behave like me. I am over six feet tall, white*, and not ugly. I am a hilarious genius. Fuck off if you don’t think so. The way to get pussy on OKCupid is to be a tall, not ugly, hilarious genius.
Then again I’m broke as shit and a filthy alcoholic pervert. I make this known. Reading my profile, you can almost smell my broken, hissing toilet. See the house centipede as long as a dollar bill gnawing a fresh log of tuna fish shit in my cat’s litter box. You read my profile and you know that there’s a half empty flour sack sitting torn open in the back of my cupboard, swarming with weevils. I come out and say it: I want to have filthy unprotected gutter sex on our first date and then never speak again. I still get laid. The women are often wonderful. So maybe there’s something to it. Continue reading
My asshole bleeds and bleeds now. From shitting so much. I shit, I wipe my bloody ass, grind the shit right into my bloodstream. Shit that is filled with third world parasites. I should see a doctor. But what are they gonna do. Been through this before. Round 1: ride it out for a few more days, they will say. Stay hydrated. Eat a high fiber diet. On your first visit, a doctor gives you as much new information as the warning on a pack of cigarettes. “Uh, try living healthier. Do healthy things you’ve heard about on TV.” 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
I’m sorry I called the cops.
Actually I’m not sorry, you fucking jerkoff. I hope they kick your fucking teeth in while your fat cactus eating mother watches and cries. You thieving sack of shit. But I’m saying I’m sorry. Because I don’t want you and your vatos to find me and beat my ass with the wrench you adjusted my seat with. My handlebars. You made it more “low rider.” Your taste is appalling.
But look: I’d filed a police report that it was stolen. So if I found it I could scare you, or whoever you sold it to. Make you give it back. Turned out that wasn’t necessary. Just the serial number on an envelope was enough. The shop you sold it to is the one closest to my house. I pass it several times a week. The front tire tube was bought there. Since it’s a nice bike, they displayed it on the sidewalk. With their best merchandise. I passed by. Could that be it? Nahh…. but, I’m obsessive compulsive. Had to make sure. Dumb fuckin luck. Continue reading
Woke up on the toilet. Forehead against the edge of the bathtub. I was dreaming about the Red Worms of Maguey. We ate them out by the pyramids, they were a specialty of the restaurant. Some kind of Aztec staple. In the dream, of course, they came to life and squirmed around on the beans and the authentic® blue corn tortilla. Raised little blind heads at me, waved pincers. I had a bath drawn. It had gone cold. I got in it anyway. Had to wash out my ass. I couldn’t wipe it anymore. My asshole and the inside of my crack were swollen. Pulpy. Touching them felt like picking up a rotten beached jellyfish half baked in the sun. Toilet paper felt like Freddy Krueger fingerfucking my colon. I climbed into the bath. Shivered. I fell asleep again. Bad dreams. Woke up, my skin felt like a dead man’s. Little chunks of brick red shit in the water. Cat hair from when I was writhing around on the rug. I had to shit again, bad, and the water was already fucked up. Why not just let go. No. Have some dignity man. Continue reading
I got a letter. It said I owed 62 dollars plus late fee to the city of San Francisco. For a parking ticket in June. It was for a car I no longer own. A car that’s sitting in a wrecking yard in Van Nuys, according to the man I sold it to. Come see, he said. You can look for yourself, I swear. I believe him. The head gasket was blown. There was no way he was going to get it running again.
I could remit payment by calling, by going to the city’s web site, or by mailing the money to LDC Collection Systems. I looked online. The city web site was real. The ticket was real. On the letter it said it was a white Mercedes, with the correct license plate number. My car was silver. I figured the guy sold the license plate. No, no. Come see it, come take a picture, it’s here. The car hasn’t been in San Francisco for five years. Continue reading