Archive | August, 2012

Protected: The Rubicon

31 Aug

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Ron Paul Gives Me One of Those Rock Hard Pulsating Erections with a Dewdrop of Precum on the Tip

30 Aug

Reposted from the comments section of my esteemed colleague’s post.

I was sitting in my house getting hammered last night and for some reason cued up some Ron Paul youtube videos. Or not “some reason–” I was thinking about politics, and I remembered how at Occupy LA the Ron Paul people were the only folks there with any kind of coherent idea of what the protest should be about. And they had the hottest chicks. “Who is this Ron Paul fellow,” I thought. “His acolytes acquit themselves shockingly well.”

Watching Ron Paul youtube clips felt like discovering porn clips of a crazy fetish you never knew you had. That first weird porn that gave you the fastest, hardest boner of all time, and forever rendered all the vanilla porn you had watched “meh” in retrospect. I’d watched other pols and occasionally felt like “mmm… that’s kind of true, I guess.” But every fucking thing out of Ron Paul’s mouth made me pump my fist in the air and say “fuck yeah” out loud. It was emotional. The profound joy of hearing and agreeing with truth, mixed with shock at hearing a politician in a major party debate speaking the truth. Like– “holy shit, I’m watching a politician, on the news, and he’s telling the truth about the way shit should be!” I would have been less surprised by Godzilla ripping into the building and eye-lazering Wolf Blitzer to a crisp on live TV. And I felt shame at being so surprised. That our society and politics are so fucked that this guy is considered nuts. Every fucking thing he said was obviously true and right– how is he being dismissed as a lunatic jerkoff. Not only by “the establishment” but by every person I know who basically feels the same way about politics as me. Look, I fucking hate Ayn Rand too, and believe me I thank the Lord every day for abortion, but– get fucking past it, people. The guy is eighty years old and from the kind of town where a sign says “N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you here.” You can forgive a couple rustic reactionary tics. Continue reading

Reader Mail Sac: I Am Insecure about My Vagina

29 Aug

“Every Girl I Know” writes, and says constantly:

“I’m afraid after I have kids it’s gonna be a hot dog down a hallway.”

“It’s for real, roast beefy. Like, the inner lips are way too big. That shit looks like it’s been chewed on. Fruit leather.”

“I’m insecure about the smell, taste, and appearance of my vagina and blah blah blah endlessly.”

Continue reading

Business Review: Royale Junior Liquor Market, Echo Park

28 Aug

Image stolen from Flickr user “OrangeCounty_Girl”

(Originally posted on Yelp.)

I must say I like the lack of personal interest the clerk at the Royale Junior Liquor Market has in my purchasing habits.  I mean, he may not even notice– he’s working at the type of place where he’s in front of a giant wall of Old Crow pint bottles and novelty skull and pistol shaped fifths of tequila, behind three quarters of an inch of GE® Lexan™ bulletproof plexiglass.  He faces a large shelf of pornographic DVD’s specifically tailored to the prurient interests of working-class Mexicans, whose bright eye-catching covers leave nothing to the imagination.  Shit is distracting. He has more things to worry about than my weird unnecessarily frequent and expensive daily purchases of small bottles of alcohol.  He has to stock nine different kinds of non FDA-approved herbal pill packets designed to enlarge your penis, give you bigger and more meaningful erections, enhance your sexual desire until is as that of el tigre.  He has to eyeball stumbling drunk day laborers as they come dangerously close to shoplifting a Payday; ward off these miscreants with merely the shaming power of his gaze.  He has to vigilantly head off customers steering toward the inoperable ATM machine in front– he clearly prides himself on sparing them a useless button push and confounded few seconds of bewilderment– “Hey! Is not working.”  The ATM is never working, but the giant glowing sign telling the public that the store has an ATM is always working. Continue reading

The Bills

27 Aug

Just going to work should be enough.  Just having a job should be enough.  Going in there ten hours per day.  “Networking.”  Reading work related material on weekends.  All the absurd time and energy demands of any “professional” “career” type gig in 2012 are more than enough of a burden on a human being’s brief life.

But you gotta pay the bills.  You gotta register your car.  You gotta serve jury duty.  You gotta do your taxes.  You have to go to the doctor, and sit in the waiting room, and fill out insurance forms which you have already filled out many times.  You have to go to the doctor again because the first doctor never knows what the fuck he is talking about. No general practitioner on the entire god damn planet is ever of any use whatsoever in terms of diagnosing, treating, or curing disease.  Always has to be the specialist, which you have to go to the general practitioner so you can even get told to go to the specialist. Find the specialist covered by your insurance plan.  Call the specialist, make an appointment with the specialist.  The specialist, like every other professional and business, is only open at the exact same time as you are working; you will have to take the time off of work.  This does not mean that amount of work goes away, mind you.  There is no one “covering” for anybody at work in 2012; productivity is maximized; man hours are stretched tight as a drum.  You will need to do this work in off hours, still ailing from what the specialist was unable to diagnose, treat, or cure, because it turns out all doctors are completely useless. If you are a doctor, fuck you.  Call the insurance company about the bills you got from the general practitioner and specialist, argue with them; get put on hold, get hung up on on hold, call them, get on hold again.  The toilet is broken.  Call somebody to fix the toilet.  They only operate during normal business hours.  Wait for the guy to come fix the toilet.
Continue reading

What Do You Do Part 2

26 Aug

I started telling people I was a falconer.

Not even in a “game” way; I just got so sick of the fucking question. I just spent sixty hours “doing” what I fucking “do” and now I’m trying to enjoy a beer in my hairsbreadth of free time and you’re making me think about the merciless glare of the computer screen; my cruel, sniveling boss; the phone constantly ringing with bullshit every two god damn seconds so that even in my dreams I hear the bleating of that ringer like the call of some horrible demon bird. It’s the first question boring people ask every single motherfucking conversation and it’s rude. So I gave them a bullshit outlandish answer as a way of telling them to fuck off for even asking.

But the girls always believed me. They would get excited and intrigued and ask engaged follow up questions, way more than they would about my actual job, which is as a weenie Hollywood “development executive.” Even though my real job is supposed to get you laid (it does not). So I kept padding it out. I am genuinely interested in falcons. In raptors at large. Nothing delights me more than seeing a kestrel alight on a fence post. Than seeing a mating pair of goshawks performing aerial acrobatics together. Where I’m from seeing a red tailed hawk waiting on the phone lines for a squirrel to get run over is a red letter day so the embarrassment of riches w/r/t falcons, hawks, owls and eagles here in SoCal has been a great boon to me. I would regale the girls with knowledge about these birds. Continue reading

Well at Least

25 Aug

I’m not short.  At least I’m not fat.  At least I’m not bald, although if I ever start going bald you better god damn believe I will have plugs planted in rows like a freshly planted cornfield.  At least I do not have clinical micropenis. Merely an average sized white man’s penis, which in the face of inflated penis expectations due to pornography and only guys with huge dicks ever feeling comfortable showing their dicks, feels like clinical micropenis.  At least I don’t have AIDS.  At least I don’t have herpes.  At least I don’t have adult acne.  Or anything that needs to have “adult” in front of it.  Adult ADD, I don’t need to use adult diapers, etc.  At least I’m not out in the street wrapped in 6 parkas swatting yellow jackets away from my collection of malt liquor cans, hypervigilantly guarding my hoard of layers and layers of plastic grocery bags wrapped protectively within still more layers of plastic grocery bags from the watchful eye of the government.


25 Aug

is going to be the name of my child, if I happen to conceive one today.

Penisworkmoneychickenxbox Jones. Because those are the things I’m thinking about.

Also, it’s an ancient Hebrew name.

Someone Copypasted My OKCupid Profile

24 Aug

(Note: this post is old; the guy took “his” profile down.  Thus, no link.)

I was gonna give him the “Brilliant Profile” award, but I don’t want to blow his game.  In fact, nobody send him a message about it or anything.  I don’t want to tip him off.  I posted about this on reddit too so I’m sure he’s getting a million visitors.  A million scruffy dudes from the East Coast and Canada between the ages of nineteen and twenty five, is who uses reddit apparently.  But don’t tip him off. Continue reading

Old Dads’ Shriveled Five-headed Sperm Makes Their Kids Autistic and Crazy

22 Aug

At least, according to this.

I knew it.  I knew it couldn’t be this easy.  Whenever I talked about how my kids are going to have severe mental impairments because I’m so old, everyone would reassuringly jump in with “no, the father’s age doesn’t matter blah blah blah.”  Well no.  My elderly mutant nutcrust is going to create a race of paranoid dwarves who think the refrigerator is their mother.  Mine in particular, as I’ve spent my whole life smoking, drinking and doing hard drugs, which I’m sure only accelerates the random mutations that addle your sperm as you age.

Or maybe not.  Maybe most diagnoses of autism are actually bullshit, and maybe aging parents are precisely the type of well-off white people who bring their kids to the doctor and the psychiatrist and the neurologist at the slightest sign of anything, and are the types of people who have the money to pay for the egregiously expensive treatments that do absolutely nothing for autism, or “autism spectrum disorders.” Maybe it’s a whole bullshit industry for people desperate for something to be wrong with their kids. Mass hysteria meets Munchausen by Proxy.  Meets the type of doctor who rich folks go to, who is never gonna tell you “chill out; it’s probably nothing.” Just like the type of dentist that rich folks go to can always find something wrong; every kid in the rich part of town always has braces. Continue reading