Archive | May, 2012

Yoga Pants

24 May

No woman in the entire Los Angeles area, outside of those compelled to wear a work uniform, now wears pants. Or a skirt.  The entire cohort of Los Angeles women is now to a one wearing black or dark gray “yoga pants,” which is to say, sheer insubstantial tights.  Of course, they cannot wear underwear with these things.  So you are seeing fully defined, flatteringly compressed ass and pudenda at all times, everywhere you go.  I feel, sometimes, like I must have willed this into existence.

Advice for Anorexics

24 May

Weigh yourself once a week. 2-3 days before your weighing day stop eating salty food of any kind. The morning of your weighing, do not hydrate yourself. Preferably you should have gone out drinking the night before and made yourself piss like crazy and smoked cigarettes and then woken up in the morning and taken a massive acidic liquidy shit. Then do your longest cardio workout of the week without drinking any water, and weigh yourself afterwards. The whole week you will feel thin.

My Future Retarded Child

24 May

I am thirty six years old and just at the age where my ball sack is becoming full of retards.  If I met my soul mate TOMORROW I would have kids by age 39 at the very minimum, and I am not going to meet my soul mate tomorrow.  If you extrapolate current trends, I am forecast to meet my soul mate never.  Or even someone who would not get an abortion if I impregnated them.  So by the time I have kids they will be virtually guaranteed to have severe chromosome damage and have to blow themselves around in special wheelchairs.  They will have to wear corrective skull helmets and occasionally have the strength of a bear when startled.  They will probably want to watch LIFE GOES ON reruns constantly.  I’m going to have to buy another television because I need that shit for Xbox. Continue reading

Protected: Now I Call It an A-Line Sleeveless Undershirt

23 May

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

They’re Gonna Hang My Cock from the Rafters

22 May

I can’t be bothered to go on a fucking date anymore.  The whole thing has just become so joyless.  And  it’s not them; it’s me.  There are plenty of nice attractive girls.  I get unsolicited OKCupid messages from them.  It would be so easy.  But… fuck it.

There was an old episode of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION.  Or maybe DEEP SPACE NINE.  What happens is, the Klingon messiah from thousands of years ago comes back to life.  Kahless.  And there is debate among the Klingon community as to whether it’s the real guy, or merely a clone.  As one would expect with Klingons, words are not enough to settle the dispute and there has to be a ritualistic duel of champions with crazy crescent shaped two handed knives.

So the pro-Kahless and anti-Kahless guy are having this grim battle with the knives; sour, determined faces, cunning and strategy; and Kahless steps in and is like- “what the fuck is the matter with you guys? You are taking no JOY in this! We’re Klingons! We fucking LOVE fighting– you guys look miserable!”

That’s what internet dating feels like to me now.  And dating at large. I love dating; I love women, but it’s become just this rote, mercenary thing, you know.  It’s become an assembly line.  Find girl.  Message girl two to three sentences exactly– longer messages and shorter messages get far fewer responses. Fifty per cent of the time they respond, almost always continuing whatever joke I made.  I “cut the thread,” say some other funny thing that is unrelated, and ask for the number. Fifty per cent of the time I get it. Ten minute phone call on the drive home a day later.  Propose a specific plan. A specific bar on a specific night, and the bar is a place close to my house that serves artisanal beers with undetectably but shockingly high alcohol content; three of them will get any girl into the fuck zone.  Go for the makeout on the second cigarette break.  Walk her to her car and ask her to drive me home.  Ask her to come inside.  Get her inside, more making out, more booze, get her into bed, eat her pussy till she gets horny enough to let me put it in unprotected.  She’ll ask if I have condoms; of course I don’t. Continue reading

Diary 11/20/11: Feelings

21 May

My grandmother died. I still haven’t cried about it, and now I don’t think I can.

Crying is not like cumming that way.  A weird thing to type after the death of one’s elderly grandmother, but true.  Crying is not like cumming.  If you are about to cum and you get interrupted, the next time you are faced with any sexual stimulation whatsoever you will blow the load of your life with such force that it’s almost painful. With crying, the thing hits you initially, tries to hit you, and then if you don’t cry right at that instant you aren’t crying at all.  The moment passes and it just goes away.

The same with joy.  You have about a minute to experience joy when something good happens, and if you don’t whoop and celebrate and all that shit, well, the thing that made you joyful just becomes another fact; it can be fit into a larger philosophical pattern and it becomes: I better not fuck it up. Or: this is just going to go away.  Or: in order to sustain this thing that gives me joy, I better not get too excited about it.  Especially with girls, if you meet a girl whom you like so much, you know– if you meet a girl that gets you excited enough to actually feel teenage hopefulness and excitement, that very feeling will make you fuck up.  It sucks that the state in which women are interested in you is basically apathy.  Because that means anhedonia.  If you need to not feel anything to get the people who would make you feel something interested in you, what is the fucking point. Continue reading

More Molly

20 May

You have the body of a fetal pig soaked in formaldehyde and your teeth are like corn kernels stuck in Play Doh. But I am still completely in love with you.

Further Discussion of Kenny Rogers

20 May

Today I’m afraid we must venture into the darker corners of Kenny.

A devoted Kenny fan such as yourself will know that in the last decade Kenny has undergone a series of cosmetic surgeries, turning into a hideous, shiny shell of Kenny.  Worse, he has disconnected the goatee portion of his beard from his iconic mane by removing his lustrous Civil War-era muttonchops.

Kenny as a young man never looked quite right.  His face was chubby and oafish, and his tawny, sloppily feathered hair made him look like a drunken St. Bernard.  No matter how high he climbed on the charts, his unconventional appearance must have haunted him.  Yes, Kenny is the closest thing we have to a god.  But also a man, with human insecurities. Continue reading

Diary 3/13/12: Nikol Has MRSA

19 May

So, Nikol now has MRSA.  This means “(Something) Resistant Staphylococcus (Something).” Which is the “superbug.”  The strain of ordinary bacteria that a TV news piece comes out on once every few months, that you can get in the gym, that eats away your flesh until you die and normal antibiotics can’t do anything about it.  This is the sort of thing that organic farming types are warning us will happen with all sorts of bacteria because we pump our livestock full of antibiotics constantly.  The germs, for whom a generation is about three minutes long, are going to out-evolve drugs so fast that we will have created virulent megagerms that we can’t kill.  Now we will again be vulnerable to bacterial infection, as we were through most of history and as we still are to viral infection.  If you have a virus, they can’t do shit for you.

Well, this feels like a wash to me.  1,000,000 BC-1920whateverthefuck, whenever penicillin was invented: no cure for germs.  1920’s-2012: cure for some germs.  2012- on: no cure for germs.  I mean, it was nice having that little vacation I guess but really, humanity survived eons without any protection from bacteria except our immune system; if it goes back to being that way it doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

Continue reading