Archive | 2012

STD’s

13 Mar

I had an STD once.  It was “non-gonococcal urethritis.”  This means- something is in your dick, hurting it, and we know that it is not gonorrhea.  We don’t know what it is, but we know what it isn’t.  Thanks science.

I took a bunch of antibiotics for it.  It still did not go away.  This was terrifying of course.  I went to doctor after doctor, had my dickhole abrasively rubbed against microscope slides, had a guy milk my fucking prostate to test if some identifiable virus was lurking in the very most profound depths of my well of pre-cum— no. Nothing.  I was terrified, but every doctor was just like: “meh.”  Don’t worry about it.  Sometimes this shit happens, and eventually it just goes away.

Really?  Because I was told that if you get an STD you will carry it for life, infect everyone you ever look at, and then when the poor chick goes to have a baby 20 years from now its eyes will come out sealed shut with massive grapelike clusters of warts and the fucking thing will meekly flail its Chernobyl flippers before exploding and taking out 20 city blocks, and it will all be your fault.  I was told that if you even think about sticking your dick in someone without a condom, a dental dam, spermicidal jelly, and the pill you will instantly get AIDS and impregnate the girl with a spider’s nest full of three-headed demons.

Continue reading →

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To Noelle, on the Occasion of Her Underboob Tattoo

12 Mar

I am going to build a high school guidance counselor’s office.  Every motivational poster, every prop, everything.  I’m going to put on a cardigan and tie.

Every so often I’m going to call you in. I will be looking forward to this bright spot in my week.  You are one of our most promising students— not like the rest of these pregnant, glue-sniffing fuckups.  You’re smart and pleasant and goddamn can you put a sentence together.  Maybe you’ll be a journalist, or a lawyer or something. Or a congresswoman!

You will walk in and I will not be able to hide the gleefully expectant look on my face as I ask what you’ve been up to lately.

After you leave, I will sob quietly into my travel mug for hours.

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Write Her Number on a Post-It

11 Mar

Put it in a drawer.  Erase it from your phone.

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You Should Message Me If

10 Mar

You have to live in Echo Park.  Or at least not fucking Venice, I mean come on.  You can’t be an actress.  You can’t not smoke.  At least, you can’t be one of those girls who won’t even take a drag after three glasses of wine.  Because if you’re one of them, I know you’ll never fuck me.  You have to be better looking than me.  You have to be downright good looking, even though I am not that good looking.  I am in crazy shape though.  I don’t give a shit if you’re out of shape.  I’m not going to ask you to lift anything.

I don’t give a shit about your money, job or car.  But you may give a shit about my money, job and car.  I have no money, a shitty job, and my car is worth $800.  It’s primer colored, and the seat belt, windows, sunroof and A/C are all broken.  Or rather, the A/C works but only when it’s not hot.  And someone jacked my stereo.   And the car is older than you.  You have to be younger than my car.

I don’t care what you think of my cat but you can’t be allergic to cats.  I care about your relationship with your dog, meaning—shut the fuck up about your dog.  I like dogs but I don’t like you if you have too many pictures of your dog.  Believe me, the fucking thing is sick of being your boyfriend.  Stop putting up pictures of him. I will not be dating your dog. Unless I’m sure you’re good and passed out.

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Friends of Nikol

9 Mar

For people who see all these health updates and are worried, I mean- yes, it is bad, obviously.

But you should know that Nikol is still Nikol. When you are around her, she still acts like the Nikol you know. Even with the 104 fever and softball sized subcutaneous lumps of pure blood poison and needle marks and hair and eyebrow loss and etc., when you are talking to her, it’s still, you know– she is still the same funny and vulgar person. You don’t get the impression that you are dealing with some sort of late night infomercial shit like this is Pedro and he can’t afford shoes so he can’t walk to school because worms will go into the soles of his feet and into his brain and even if he had shoes there is no school to go to anyway and if there were it would be a catch 22 because the brain you were hoping to educate would have been eaten by the worms, but all this could change for the price of a cup of coffee. Nikol is not doing a half assed job of swiping flies away from her eyeballs and stroking a gas-bloated stomach while a lone vulture looks on. She feels bad a lot but is still Nikol and can complain about the whole thing humorously.

Or maybe that’s just for me and the rest of you get some Debra Winger shit, who knows. But I find it reassuring and I thought you should know that she is still fun to spend time with. People get sick and you get scared that when you visit them you’re walking into a Meredith Baxter Birney Lifetime movie, but it’s not gonna be like that. You’re gonna be drinking beers and talking about dicks just like old times. Or whatever you normally discuss. Needlepoint maybe.

So go visit Nikol. Or don’t, if she wants to be left alone. I should have asked her before I wrote this.

For people who don’t know Nikol, she’s my friend who has cancer and is possibly  gonna bite it.

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Who Cares If He Calls You

9 Mar

Who cares if he’s into you.  There is nothing special about this dude.  There are  dudes around every corner.  We live in a universe of cock.  If you want to meet another dude, simply go to any place, any time, ever, and there will be a shitload of lonely dudes there.

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Hollywood

8 Mar

I might lose my job. As a weenie Hollywood “development executive.” Which, fine, I fucking hate my job. Work work work all goddamn day and then come home and read scripts, garbage scripts that will never amount to anything, but I need to read them to preserve relationships. Relationships that will never amount to anything. My job completely eats my life, leaves me a wrecked, miserable shell of a man each day, destroys any chance of my spending time with women and friends, and it doesn’t even fucking pay anything, so fuck my job.

The problem is, after 7 years of doing this– answering phones, learning names, mastering the bizarre mandarin etiquette and arcane structure of Hollywood– I am now only equipped to do this one thing that I hate. I have no choice but to pursue another, similar job. Which, there are two reasons you would want this: to make movies, and to impress girls. Making movies is impossible, and if you have one of these gigs you’re not even around girls enough to impress them. That’s why guys like (REDACTED) have to stock their reception pool with hot young USC pieces of ass– it’s the only exposure they will have to a woman. Most of their life is spent hobnobbing in rooms full of jowelly old William Morris agents. Continue reading →

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Dick Extender

7 Mar

I totally get why women get ridiculously huge breast implants. Because if such a thing existed for your dick I would get one immediately and it would be huge.  A cartoon.  It would be the dick some girls talk about when they are transparently trying to console you about the fact that your dick is not huge, the “you know, I don’t really even like huge dicks.  Sometimes it’s just not even comfortable.” I would get that dick.  Because she would talk about it.  She would say to her girlfriends “you know, Jesus, it’s just too big; I don’t even want to fuck him sometimes because it hurts.”  And the girl she was telling- it’s not like I picture her immediately wanting to fuck me, but maybe she would just want to see it. She would just be curious.

But the best you can do is something like this.  Apparently if you hang those weights off your dick, or whatever this device does- basically this study found that certain kinds of mechanical penis enlargement actually work.  They will extend your flaccid penis by a tiny but non-negligible amount after using the device for six hours per day for like six months. Continue reading →

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Diary 4/2/11: David Foster Wallace

6 Mar

I got the new David Foster Wallace. It doesn’t come out for a few weeks, so, I got it early. Because I am the type of person who can call swanky book agents and request early copies of high profile books because I can pretend I am interested in making it into a movie. So now I am taking this book everywhere. Hoping someone will notice. Hoping someone who is a) attractive, b) a woman, and c) between the ages of 18 and 33, will know a) who David Foster Wallace is, b) despite the fact that he is dead, he has a new book coming out, and c) that this book does not come out for two more weeks and therefore this man who is carrying it must be interesting and important.

This has never worked in the past. Particularly not with my galley of THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING that I conspicuously left on my end table for months before it was published, taking care to write the name of the book in sharpie on the unmarked ICM covers. Even though everyone says they love Joan Didion.

I think, for this to work, it would have to be something by David Sedaris. All girls say they love David Sedaris. In fact, every single girl in the entire internet dating universe lists their favorite book as “anything by David Sedaris.” So now I will have to find out when David Sedaris has a new book coming out, procure a copy from his agent for film and television rights consideration, and walk around town with whatever side says (book you’ve never heard of by David Sedaris,even though you love David Sedaris and know about everything he’s ever written) facing out, and then make quick eye contact with whatever attractive woman happens by and squints briefly in puzzlement at the cover. Which sucks, because Sedaris just had a new one, that one about animals, and he only comes out with a book like every three years.

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Protected: Reader Mailbag: How to Suck a Dick

5 Mar

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