What is this girl, texting me– she is nineteen years old and works as a go go dancer at an S & M themed nightclub. She says on her profile that she is looking for an older man. She does not appear to be a prostitute. She has literary pretensions.
What do you even do with this information. When you can’t stay up past ten thirty and don’t even want to. My ball hairs are white. My scrotum looks like a disgusting wizard. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with this nineteen year old go go dancer, it’s that– I can’t even conceive of the logistical hassles to get there. She stays up until four in the morning. It’s like a sparrow wanting to fuck a bat– they just aren’t around at the same time of day. What do I do now, invite her over for the pork roast I’m about to make? A nice hearty meal with some roasted root vegetables while the cold winds blow. Nice glass of red wine and a video. The flavors of rural France. I enjoy the things that old people enjoy, except for the part where I need to impregnate a girl whose professional attire is electrical tape over her nipples.
Jury duty. I have fucking jury duty. Which I would LOVE, I would LOVE to be on a jury, if I didn’t actually have responsibilities at work. Go in, see a slice of life, you know, a cross section of all of Los Angeles. Watch a video about our founding fathers. Jury of your peers, because the British practiced Roman law where you were guilty until proven innocent and your fate was decided by some aristocratic judge, some fifth cousin of a baronet with a powdered wig on who always sided with whoever owned property. I would love to be on a jury– because whoever walked in, whoever was accused, there is no WAY I am sending that motherfucker to jail. No matter what the crime, no matter how strong the evidence. Sorry. We throw too many people in jail over too much bullshit and some nineteen year old black kid who did something stupid is neither going to be deterred nor rehabilitated by getting thrown in a piss-smelling concrete warehouse with a bunch of dudes covered in tattoos made with sharpened paper clips. You are walking, sir. I don’t give a fuck if it’s the trial of the guy who robbed me. Continue reading