Archive | February, 2012

Birthday

19 Feb

My birthday.  I feel no particular anxiety about it.  Although I will now be closer to forty than thirty– who gives a shit, really.  I mean, you get concerned that your life isn’t going in the right direction, but, the only direction any of us are going is the fucking grave.

I have all my limbs and my family loves me and I have sweet wonderful friends.  So there you go.  I look pretty fucking good for my age.  My hair is turning gray but it actually looks kind of good.  My nut sack hairs are also turning gray.  One would think this would be horrifying but it amuses me.

I have noticed that I do not recover as quickly from drinking, weight lifting, or the stresses of work.  These are the early signposts of impending death.  I have  a great deal of difficulty achieving an erection when drunk, which is the only time an erection is truly useful to me. But this may have always been the case.  I still ejaculate extremely quickly when masturbating, and produce copious amounts of semen.

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Don’t Date Me

19 Feb

I have a shitload of ants in my house because I never take out the trash.  I put my cat’s food bowl in a plate of water  to keep them out of it.  And that’s all I’m going to do.   Otherwise I would have to research ant control products, figure out which ones are safe for my cat and aquarium, find them, buy them, apply them, etc. etc.   Which, no.  I already have a fucking job.

Every morning when I’m sitting on the toilet, a few of them crawl onto my scrotum and bite it.  It really hurts.  They have sharp, serrated pincers.  But still.  No.  No more work.  I’ll take the pain.  It’s the price of freedom.

Plus it’s funny that they’re taking tiny pieces of my ball sac back to the nest to feed their young.   Maybe it’s a special delicacy reserved only for the queen.

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It Would Mean a Lot to Me, Nicole

18 Feb

if you would move out from Steve’s place and move in with me immediately. I would give you foot rubs and bake you stuff all day. Ice cream for every meal. Unicorn rides. I’m not talking about some gross metaphor for my penis, either, I’m talking about a literal unicorn. I know they’re kind of played out as camp but fuck it, fuck what people think. Unicorn *and* pegasus rides. Uni-pegasus rides. Any shit made from a horse and some other thing, you can ride on it. Centaurs. Hippogriffs. The Sea Monkeys’ aquatic horse.
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Burger King

17 Feb

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had this coupon from Burger King. It was in my wallet for at least five years; now it’s in my glove box. It’s good for a free Whopper™ at any location and it has no expiration date. I haven’t used it because I’m never in a Burger King and remember about the coupon at the same time.

I often think about this coupon. The fact that it will never expire makes it special, almost magical. I almost feel like I *shouldn’t* use it. What if there’s a time when I need a free Whopper™ much more than now? What if I’m starving, and outside a Burger King, and my only remaining possession is the coupon?

I will give this Burger King coupon to my children. I will laugh from my grave as my great-great-grandson presents this eternal, unrenounceable coupon to the aghast heads of Galactic Burger King Incorporated in exchange for the last Whopper™ in the universe, valued at one hundred trillion dollars.

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Diary: An Actress

16 Feb

I need to jack off, to that chick (REDACTED), whatever the fuck her name was.  She showed up to dinner with (REDACTED)’s parents wearing dark gray yoga pants and when her legs hit the right angle you could see the outline of her vagina.

She is hot.  Skinny, in good shape, perfect bone structure hot.  In her youtube videos she looks merely “quirky hot,” like, her face looks a little fuller and her teeth look like a mouth full of jagged chiclets and she just, you know, looks like the kind of chick you would see across a room and think “that chick is kind of hot.  Maybe I have a chance.”

Then in person it is clear she is the kind of chick with whom you have no chance.  She has that sleek, lithe build like a lemur, or one of those whippet-looking marsupials that just went extinct– the thyalacine.  A thyalacine I want to fuck.

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Reader Mailbag: How to Be Attractive to Women

15 Feb

(REDACTED) asks:

Long time lurker, first time poster. Needless to say, I love your writing. My question is, “As a guy, what should I do short-term and long-term to increase my attractiveness to the opposite sex?” Please answer the converse question about what a woman can do to increase her attractiveness. Don’t give obvious answers like “hit the gym.”

Well, look, do hit the gym.  Don’t forget how shallow women are, in case you think they’re not.  Women are great about systematically lying to themselves and everyone else about everything, and they have this collective con set up where we think they care most about confidence, personality, etc.  Women and men are much more alike in shallowness than people seem to think– women like a chiseled jaw, a small nose, pumpkinseed shaped deltoids, visible obliques, etc. etc.  The standards for an attractive male body are much more exacting than they are for women.  You better have less than ten per cent body fat, which is physically not so tough but psychologically impossible to maintain unless you take speed.  But get close.  Do hit the gym.  Make yourself look as good and stylish as you possibly can.

And then there’s the whole other part.  Things having to do with extroversion and self-assurance and etc., which all boils down to: the way to be attractive to women is to already be fucking other women.  I get that it’s kind of hard to separate cause and effect here– maybe the guys who are fucking other women are just intrinsically more attractive, but— I don’t know, I’m gonna get religious here for a second: I really do believe they can “smell it on you.”  Walk into a party with a hot chick and walk in solo and see the difference in the way other women treat you. Just like you have to have seed money to get rich, you have to already be getting laid to get laid. Continue reading →

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I Shot a Mockingbird

14 Feb

I think I killed him but I don’t know.  It was five in the morning.  He’d been sitting right outside my window every night for months, singing.  Like one of those car alarms that switches up every 5 seconds.   Different songs.  Not nightingale songs, either, but rather our abrasive local birds.  Jays and tits. Grackles. I would turn on all the fans in my house to drown him out but that treble cuts right though.  I put earplugs in but you roll around on your pillow and they either jam painfully into your eardrum or, if they’re the silicone kind, they roll out and get stuck in your hair.

I had almost made my peace with him, but then yesterday I got chewed out hard at work and had to wake up early to work on this big pain-in-the-ass project, and I was just stressed out, spending the whole night just barely on the verge of sleep.  And every time I was just about to get there, here comes the fucking mockingbird.  I have this BB gun, a big rifle with a scope on it leaning against the wall in the closet and the fucking thing was just crying out to me.  Use me.  Use me to kill this bird.  This is what I am for. Continue reading →

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Everybody Thinks

13 Feb

it’s so easy for everybody else.

I was at a party.  A party full of gays. Me and a gay guy were talking about dating, and he said something to the effect of: “well it must be great for you, because you’re a straight guy in LA.  You can get whatever you want whenever you want.”

WHAT THE FUCK????!!!!  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  Does this guy not know?  Has he not seen every single party and bar and restaurant and grocery store line, ever, in Los Angeles?   There is never an attractive enough to fuck girl ever, and if there is she has a boyfriend, or there are three of them and 10,000 guys, or there is one by herself but she is creeped out at the prospect of even looking at you. And of course he’s never been on one of these online dates  where it seemed like it was going pretty good until you went for the makeout halfway in and she turned her fucking cheek toward you, because it turns out she is new to online dating and hasn’t yet gotten the memo about how the plan is we show up, we drink, we fuck.  She thinks it’s going to be some old-timey courtship from the antebellum South where maybe you get a kiss on the third date if her chaperone nods off after a mint julep on the porch, and then I high five the slaves on my way out.
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Wait a Minute– Am I Attractive?

11 Feb

Somebody called me “attractive” last night.  For the first time that it was actually meaningful.  Because every other time it’s either been:

a)     in response to my saying “Jesus Christ, my face looks like it was hit with a fucking shovel.”

b)    a horny gay guy trying to get laid or

c)     an even less attractive friend saying “Jesus, you must have it so easy, you’re attractive.”  To him, I am “attractive” just like to a Somali war orphan the guy clocking fifteen grand a year at Arby’s is “rich.”

Or it was my friends, or my girlfriend, or my mom, etc.  I don’t believe any of them.  For my entire life it has been my absolute bedrock belief that I am a hideous unlovable mutant whom no woman could let her eyes linger on for even a second lest she gag.  And this is borne up by reality, because no women ever look at me, talk to me; no woman ever makes the first move to approach me, ever.  Gays do it all the time, but you know, I hit on fat chicks all the time.  Gays want to fuck me the same way a drunk guy wants to fuck his couch. Continue reading →

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To My Future Son: Don’t Have a Career

10 Feb

They tell you, and I don’t know who “they” is because frankly nobody ever told me this but I somehow got the impression anyway—they tell you to get a job and have a career and make money and women will be attracted to you.  “Men like looks,” they say.  “Women like success.” It’s a common countercomplaint when feminists accuse men of objectifying women; the guy will say back “well, you women better stop objectifying my wallet, amirite?” The “take my wife, please!” of antifeminist arguments.

So you go out and get a job.  You try to get into a good college and you study and you intern and you get a toe in the water of some status-y “career” field and you get up early and you stay late and you read work-related material after work and you network with work-related work jerkoffs and you suffer under some cruel old work prick who believes himself better than other human beings because of his work in some lofty status-y career field and you work and you work and you work and you work.  And part of what drives this is the dread instilled in you when you read that in 2020 to put a kid through college will cost sixteen billion dollars and Social Security will have dried up and you better be sitting on a cash hoard of ten million billion trillion dollars conservatively invested because health care costs will have reached the level where only a class of feudal overlords can afford a tongue depressor. And there will be no “safety net;” there is literally nobody who believes programs like Social Security and Medicare will still exist in our financially post-apocalyptic future.  We all know we are headed toward a Randian thunderdome where our old age will be spent guarding a 55 gallon drum of drinking water with a shotgun and removing our own tumors with steak knives.  If you don’t want this to happen, you better sink a bunch of borrowed money into school, and then work. And you better not spend whatever pittance is left of the 22 grand your post-college job earns you on fun; you better save and invest, according to the 401k presentation the commissioned salesperson who gets a small piece of what they withhold from your meager check tells you, because if you don’t, at age 23, begin taking advantage of logarithmic growth to accrue a massive privately-invested nest egg, you will be cannibalized by gangs of cyborg Hottentots, and your bones picked clean. And your children.  And your children’s children. Continue reading →

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