Archive | December, 2012

Skeptical Dinklage

11 Dec

Skeptical Dinklage

does not believe your height keeps you from getting women.

Passions: Interlude– Custom Jerkoff Encouragement

9 Dec
Image: "Ordeal of Man-E-Faces" by Deviant Art user ~danbrenus

Image: “Ordeal of Man-E-Faces” by Deviant Art user ~danbrenus

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Interlude 1

Interlude 2

Part 4

Custom Jerkoff Encouragement Videos.  That was the new idea.  Men would pay you to make a video where you sat with your legs spread and talked to the camera about their fetish, liberally incorporating their name.  I want you to cum inside me, Darren.  My life is almost complete but I want to have a baby.  Your baby, Darren.  I want to feel your cum spray inside me, Darren.  This was the example Yuri showed her.  He had bought a studio, which is to say a building with a camera in it in Pacoima between a CLINICA FAMILIAR with posters of frightened pregnant girls in the window and Rudy’s Auto Shop, Specializing in Transmissions Since 1989.  I need you to give me a baby, Darren.  And she smacked her pussy, the star of Yuri’s first producorial effort, betraying her stripper roots.  Smacking your pussy makes a guy who’s staring into his vodka red bull look back up at you in a titty bar; on a laptop video screen it looks cheap and clownish.  Astrid would do better.  Darren had paid one thousand dollars to have somebody tell him she wanted his baby.  The girl got two hundred.  It was eight minutes worth of work and it didn’t seem to be a problem that the girl ran out of material at the two minute mark and just repeated herself.  The American sex industry is the last place in the world where the buyers are so desperate that incompetence is forgiven, even expected.  The quality of acting– the insincerity of the enthusiasm, or the horror in the case of something like rape porn, would have got any Wal Mart greeter fired on his first day.  But you could still feel pity and disgust pretty transparently in the passenger seat of some guy’s Honda as you took off a pair of panties that you’d been supposedly sweating and cumming in for two days and handed them to him for a hundred dollar bill.  You could still be obviously  creeped out as long as you held eye contact.  She bought them in packs of six and swabbed them in her armpits after jogging. Continue reading

Work Diaries, Part Three

4 Dec

November 2012

OK, how am I gonna get money.  Maybe Charles Bukowski’s Factotum was not an appropriate book to read when experiencing anxiety about finding a job.  He’s cleaning toilets.  Polishing the brass rail around the L.A. Times building.  I don’t want to do that shit.

I have cleaned toilets.  Worse, I have cleaned toilets for a boss who then inspected each toilet, maddeningly thorough about detecting the tiniest bit of excrement left behind.  As though someone would have to shit, look at the gnat-sized chunk of stubborn waste on the bowl, and scoff.  I can’t shit here!  This was in an office building that hosted small insurance companies.  This was not the president’s toilet, or Madonna’s.  These were men who shit when the spirit moved them, specks of lingering asscrust be damned.  But still.  What is this, she would ask.  I thought you scrubbed the toilet.  Why is this still here. Continue reading

Protected: Lunch Break Diary: Fifteen Year Old Girls, and a Conversation

4 Dec

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Work Diaries, Part Two

2 Dec

main-rotating-images-telemarketer

September 2012

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty god damn motherfucking good at work today, except for, you know, I fucked some little things up.  Who cares.  I hate that menial part of my job, I hate it I hate it I hate it- it’s over.  It’s over.  God damn, it’s fucking over, thank you Jesus.  Thank you Lord.

Now all I gotta do is figure out how to get some god damn motherfucking money.  Cobble a living together.  Cover scripts for money.  Get some bullshit job.  Work for (REDACTED), doing some real estate scam.  Something.

I will make it.  It will be OK.  I came to California with no money.  Or, my grandmother had given me a $500 savings bond and I used it to buy a bicycle, a mattress, and pay the rent on a room.  I got a job out of the newspaper the next day.  Cold calling places.  The job was telemarketing.  I was good at it, but it killed me.  Jobs kill me.  I wasn’t built to work. Continue reading

Work Diaries, Part One

1 Dec

The hammer has fallen and I am finally losing my job. To celebrate, I am digging through my journals and reminding myself how much it sucked:

August 2012:

Work did not turn out as badly as I expected today.  This is another way of saying it is one of the top ten work days in my career history.  I expected for months and months worth of tiny fuckups and general laziness to be exposed today, and that I would be rightly castigated.  But my boss is too busy.

I always think: he’s an asshole, but it’s also true that I fucking suck at my job and I don’t give a fuck about it.  I do not give a fuck about movies and TV shows and the various processes and means of support necessary to make these things.  The whole enterprise is too much motherfucking work for very little return.  There are too many hustlers and opportunists and salesmen cluttering up the phone lines and making it impossible to actually see material that is good.  There are too many people trying to be screenwriters.  It is too easy for them to get agents and managers, and too easy for these agents and managers to call me with these shitty screenwriters’ projects and waste my time and exhaust me and it’s because I’m afraid of saying no to them.  And in some corner of my soul I find it offensive because I think I’m a better writer than these people.  Which is not the case.  Three paragraphs a day about jerking off does not compare to writing a fully realized screenplay, no matter how stupid or unfunny it might be. Continue reading

I Wish I Had a Gigantic Wang

1 Dec

I feel like a lot of shit would bother me less.  I feel like I wouldn’t be as concerned about whether it had been too long since I had used a Biore deep cleansing pore strip; the filth and visibility of my pores.  I feel like I wouldn’t be so concerned with my meager paycheck and doomed career prospects, because, fuck it, at least I have a huge wang.