Archive | June, 2012

Julie Kim

22 Jun

I’m trying to track down my college ex girlfriend. But She’s Korean, and Koreans are impervious to Google.

So are Mexicans, generally.  Kenny Rogers the dog was owned by somebody; there was a name on his chip but it was something to the tune of “Miguel Hernandez.”  Try googling “Miguel Hernandez Los Angeles” or even “Miguel Hernandez Echo Park” and see where that gets you.  It sucks if someone’s considering returning your lost dog but it’s great if you’re on the sex offender registry I guess.  Mexicans have 8 last names and 15 first names so good luck finding one individual. And then Koreans are WAY, WAY worse because you have 5 last names if that.

I’m trying to track her down because she was hot, and we had hot sex, and I want a picture to remind me what she looked like so I can beat off to her tonight.  Except– what the fuck happened to Julie Kim?  How is somebody not on facebook and tons of people knew her and yet no one has spoken to this person in over a decade?

What if she’s dead? What if she died on 9/11? What if I’m beating off to her later and she died being roasted alive by jet fuel and had to leap flaming through a plate glass window and fall 100 stories to her death?

Nikol Is Having Surgery Today

21 Jun

So, pray to whatever god you pray to.  Cast your wishes into the deaf and uncaring wind.  I almost did.  I almost prayed: “Lord, please don’t let Nikol die,” but then I thought God would hear me and think “oh, this jerkoff” and hit that red button and a game show buzzer would play– BAAAHHHHH– and she’d be dead.  Or maybe the losing horn from “The Price is Right.”



Nikol is having surgery today.  Eight hours to remove seven lymph nodes.  Or something.  Maybe five, I don’t know.  Some number of lymph nodes where it makes the math extremely difficult to divide by eight hours.  The surgery is so long and complicated that there is an intermission.

Lord, please don’t let Nikol die. Please please please, don’t let Nikol die.

There is a chance, a twenty per cent chance, that when removing the lymph nodes, one or more will break open and cancerous cells will leak into her bloodstream. This would result in a much quicker death from the disease.  The cancer would be everywhere.  Twenty per cent chance.  Please don’t let this twenty per cent happen.

When she recovers, if she recovers, her immune system will be permanently compromised. She will have to take prednisone for the rest of her life.  I don’t know what predisone is.  I didn’t know what lymph nodes were; that they were part of your immune system.  I didn’t know what the spleen did until Nikol had to have hers removed.  Having a terminally ill friend is like having an old car– you learn how things work by watching them break all the time.

A lot of people are helping her.  Someone is with her at the hospital; someone’s on her facebook keeping her friends up to date; Xeni Jardin, who is internet famous, is tweeting about her.  Other people cleaned her house so when she returns home with her decimated immune system she won’t immediately fall prey to plague.  My job is to take care of her son tonight.  Spend the night over there, make him dinner, make him breakfast in the morning.  Make sure he gets on the school bus.  I guess– I don’t know.  I should have paid more attention when Nikol was telling me these things on the phone.  Maybe her anesthetized soul is floating over me watching me type these words, thinking I told you exactly what to do, you fucking retard.  I gave you specific instructions; it’s not building a god damn particle collider– well, I’m sorry, discorporeal spirit of Nikol.  My best friend is having fucking cancer surgery, it’s kind of fucking distracting.  Jerk.

I always used to joke with her that I would take Trast to a whorehouse to lose his virginity.  I almost posted that on her facebook– Trast and I are finally gonna take that field trip to Fontana.  But she hated that joke.  And plus if she dies it’s an asshole last thing to have posted on her wall.  But then, she would have been even more pissed that I didn’t post a joke about taking her son to a whore on her wall. And if I had said “I love you and miss you and I am terrified that you are going to die and I am praying that you are going to be safe” she would have been infuriated.

Well, I love you.  I miss you. I am terrified that you are going to die. I am praying that you are going to be safe.

Take that, fuckface.

Continue reading

Diary: More on the Dogs

21 Jun

I threw a bucket of water on those dogs again this morning.  They were barking, or at least the one was.  They have been starting at 6:45 AM for several days.  Their bark volume is exactly high enough to still be audible over every fan in the house turned up to the maximum setting and placed in my bedroom, along with the loud guttural motor from the bathroom blower.  The next move is to turn on the AC on “fan” mode so no cold air is blowing from it.  In total this creates about the same amount of white noise as standing next to a jet engine.  And still,  still, you can hear the fucking dog: bark bark bark, bark bark bark.

So I got up this morning and filled a five gallon bucket with cold water and went to the bottom of my driveway and listened directionally so I could tell which of the 12,000 unruly dogs on my block was the one doing the barking.  I surmised that it was the border collie two houses down who either stands on his high porch bark bark barking or, if a person is walking by, runs down the stairs with his little white terrier friend and maniacally circles over and over again while bark bark barking and occasionally trying to bite through the gate.  I stood in front of his house; he and his buddy came down, and I dumped the water on them. Continue reading

I Am a Crab

20 Jun

and then… and then I clatter out from behind the piling, over the barnacles, and I find that a sea worm or other large benthic invertebrate has perished and washed up on the shore, and I drag it away with my disproportionately large right claw to a secluded area where my fellows cannot covet my succulent briney flesh-hoard. And I greedily munch it down with my little paired-mandible apparatus and generally wallow in the stink and decay of the sea. Delicious!

STD Diary 2006: Tales from Non-Gonoccocal Urethrographic Oceans

20 Jun

I hope this is my last STD news until the warts show up. Negative for gonorrhea and chlamydia.


Ooh— you little motherfucker. New job, new bathroom, new stage fright story. This disease makes me piss every fifteen minutes. My prostate is inflamed and it gets all swollen with urgency at these times. And so I go in there to take my piss and there’s a guy— nerdy, nebbishy looking guy, obviously a screenwriter, and again, I go in, give him a cursory head-nod, and he gives a subdued “hi.” Nothing wrong yet. Except now I’m about to piss and he starts going to town over at the sink, riding the fucking soap pump like it was a slot machine and activating— they have those stupid laser-activated sinks, and they give no hot water, and only this stingy one-second burst— and he’s waving his hands in front of it again and again. And then he grabs about fifteen c-fold paper-towels out of the dispenser and rubs them over every hand surface with great vigor, and then REPEATS the process— so at this point it’s clear that he’s an obsessive-compulsive. Continue reading

STD Diary 2006: Non-what-the-fuckal What-the-fuckitis

19 Jun

Non-gonoccocal urethritis.  The parking ticket of STD’s. Or if gonorrhea is the parking ticket of STD’s , this is the jaywalking ticket of STD’s— a good metaphor because you don’t even have to get in the car. I got it from a blowjob. FROM A BLOWJOB! When I was about to bone this chick the first time I was about 75% hard and she blew me , briefly, so I could get the condom on properly. There are ironies there I don’t even want to get into. But that’s how you get “NGU,” I guess. It’s a bacterial infection– ok, wait— who gets an STD FROM A FUCKING BLOWJOB? Continue reading

STD Diary 2006: Gonorrhea Gonorrhea Gonorrhea

18 Jun

NOTE: This is from 2006.  Do not read this, if you have had unprotected sex with me in the last six years, and think that I gave you some STD.  I did not.

Gonorrhea, Gonorrhea, Gonorrhea

Actually I think it might be chlamydia— the discharge is transparent, not all chunky and creamy and green— but whatever the fuck it is, it’s getting worse by the second. Chlamydia chlamydia chlamydia. Papilloma… these are really nice sounding words. I want to go into Planned Parenthood tomorrow and say “hello, i’d like to be tested for” (thick italian accent) ”Papilllllomaa… Gonnorrrrhea…” anyway, at least I had to get fucked to get it. The chick was hot. She was Filipina, which is an ethnicity I’d never fucked before, although I hate how people are all creepy about that. I hate guys who are “into Asian girls…” it’s like the white chicks who only date black guys. There’s always something wrong with them. But anyway, I have gonorrhea! Gonorrhea gonorrhea gonorrhea! Continue reading

Bio from Me & Nikol’s Aborted Internet Dating Advice Column

17 Jun

Cornelius J. Tacos is an underemployed drunkard living in squalor in an undesirable area of Los Angeles. He has no money, no ambition, and his face looks like it got hit with a shovel.  His car is the color of primer, and the A/C is busted and the windows don’t roll down.  And YET he still gets tons of dates, sex, and relationships, often with not bad looking nineteen year olds, off the internet.

Nikol Hasler is a twice-married single mother of three who lives in a decaying stucco house in Van Nuys with a cadre of rude drunks.  She is an alumna of the Wisconsin state foster care system—the Harvard of child sexual abuse—with all the self–esteem issues, broken sexuality, and lifelong substance abuse that that entails. AND YET she still meets and dates tons of handsome, funny, and rich men off the internet. Often they are of above average height with penis girths up to one and one half standard deviations above the norm. Continue reading


17 Jun

Whenever you jack off, all your dead relatives are watching you.

And they, too, are jacking off.

Diary: Back to the Pussy War

16 Jun

OK, now I am back to wanting an actual girlfriend.  Like, I want one.  I want to get married, settle down, have kids, etc etc. So I gotta find one now.  What a fucking pain in the ass.

I mean, seriously.  I have tried this.  We have been through this.  And I failed.  But apparently you are not allowed to simply fail– if you go through twenty years of trying to find a nice girl to get married to, and you come out of it beat up and exhausted and you just, you’d like to enjoy a couple months of just sitting on the porch with your cat and a nice room temperature glass of inexpensive pinot noir on a  Friday night instead of let’s go out to bars where girls used to go, look at the girls, and be too scared to talk to the girls—you can’t do it; some mechanism in your glands fires off after a few weeks of defeated but relaxing non-activity and says “OK, good halftime, let’s get back out there.” Continue reading