When I was a kid, I used to always have this vision, this sensation, that there were these slimy black crustaceans, kind of like a crayfish, visible only to me. They lived underneath everything. And whenever I would touch a wall or a chair or something they would latch on to my hands and fingers with their knobby little black pincers, first a few and then more and more until there were thousands of them swarming up my arms fast as fuck and eating me. They had prickly little pincer-legs, glossy black eyes on twitchy little stalks, rows of serrated little mouth-feelers rippling up to a weird spiny-armored alien mandible– and I would basically have to shake the shit out of my hands to get them off, so hard that my thumb would snap into my fingers and make a loud noise. That was the whole point: my mind wanted to make me do something loud so that other people would notice and I would be embarrassed. When I saw that other people could hear it and were looking the sensation would only get worse, more vivid. I could feel their sharp little serrated mouths chewing into my skin, and the urge to shake them off would just fucking amplify… and I would just be standing there like a dick, everybody looking at me, with my arms kind of hanging out by my sides like a crippled bird, shaking the shit out of my hands and snapping my fingers and thumbs together. This was from like 10 to 13.
OKCupid: Poly People
14 JunAnyway, poly people. I agree with what they’re saying, when they explicitly outline the tenets of the poly lifestyle, or movement, or whateverthefuck it is on their profile. And they always do. There is always an apologia– I’m just doing what your husband is doing, but I’m doing it honestly. There is always a knee jerk paragraph pre-empting some boilerplate criticism with their boilerplate response. And that’s what sucks about poly people– their put-uponness. Their humorlessness. Same with the “S&M subculture” and all this other shit– I like fucking a bunch of girls; I like pulling their hair and maybe throwing a forearm into their neck once in a while, but I don’t like how much people who self-identify as liking these things talk like some tiny marginal religious group constantly bitching about how they just want to be left alone on their compound. Trust me, people do not give as much of a shit as you think and it would just– it would just make you easier to be around if you weren’t so god damn touchy. It’s like this with porn stars too. Every conversation with them, they’re so guarded, so conscious that they’re going to be held in contempt– they’re nerds, these porn stars. They’re nerds sitting in the AV club constantly bitching about the jocks, who are everyone who doesn’t take a load in the eye for a living.
One of My Dreams Is Coming True
14 JunMy posts about fatties are getting torn apart in Jezebel comments, in a thread about a Hugo “let me take a break from preaching sanctimonious feminist boilerplate to try to kill my girlfriend and fuck a couple of my nineteen year old students” Schwyzer article no less. Sadly the discussion is now in their “groupthink” area which is un-trafficked, but the ladies do not disappoint:
http://jezebel.com/groupthink/forum?comment=50609638
And you know, they are not wrong. I am an asshole. I am a “Piece. Of. Shit.” with three periods. I am a “sad little loser.” I deserve to have my “balls shrivel up and fall off.” I am “wrapped in a muscle suit of hate.” A muscle suit, of hate. Continue reading
Celebrity Sighting: Busta Rhymes
13 JunFrom 2005:
I saw Busta Rhymes in the gym. He was with a whole crew. They stopped the regular gym music and put on… a fucking Busta Rhymes record, the one where he says “If you really wanna party with me/ Put your hands where my eyes can see.” The entourage was rocking out to it, and Busta started repeating the lyrics to them in weird primitive English, like: “it say: ‘put yo’ hands where my eyes can see!’” But speaking, not rapping. And they would laugh uproariously for some reason.
That’s how I want to travel someday- with a cadre of jewel-encrusted black men the size of tyrannosaurs, who laugh whenever I speak like it was the funniest fucking thing they ever heard.
Dating in LA: Pros
11 JunHere is the real problem with “dating in LA.” I hate even typing that phrase. “dating in LA.” Which, everyone says it over and over again that “it’s hard to meet someone in LA.” Yes, it is hard to meet someone in LA if you are stupid, ugly, annoying, old and fat. It is perhaps not as hard to meet someone in Mobile, Alabama even if you have one or more of these qualities because once you find someone and they find you, you are sticking together because what the fuck else can you get.
But it is “hard to meet someone in LA” even if you are a six foot one employed white male with 9 per cent body fat and a decent tan and a full head of hair that even has some cool, like, the perfect very slight amount of graying going on, and a reasonably strong jawline, and an IQ three and one half standard deviations above the norm, which is supposedly valued, and a sense of humor probably also three and one half standard deviations above the norm, and good skills and knowledge w/r/t art, and music, and other disciplines that chicks are supposedly interested in and want to discuss. And a face that, while, no, you are not George Clooney, is litotically “not unattractive,” which is all that everyone except a vanishingly small percentage of the population can hope for. Continue reading
Article Review: Cat Fancy: The Cat That Changed Debbie Gibson’s Life
10 JunCAT FANCY: THE CAT THAT CHANGED DEBBIE GIBSON’S LIFE
From CAT FANCY, August 2010. Print Edition found in the waiting room of Angelus Pet Hospital of Glendale, CA., as your correspondent waited to get his male Domestic Medium Hair “Bud” his annual vaccinations.
Summary:
“Deborah” Gibson, which she insists on being called, and is thusly referred to in the actual article even though the cover says “Debbie,”* found a newborn kitten outside of a Miami concert hall. The beast was ill and badly injured. Years later “Gleason” and “Deborah” are inseparable, thanks in part to the mothering done early on by Gibson’s cocker spaniel.
Now Gleason enjoys laying on the piano as Gibson plays whatever musical ideas she is pursuing in a misguided attempt to reattain cultural relevance. Aside from his tendency to lay directly in front of her sheet music, this habit is a pleasure to both Gibson and her furry friend.
Analysis: Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 