Because you’re pretty smart, but you have fallen into every single trap that good looking girls do. You believe in astrology, The Law of Attraction™, organic carrot juice being put in your ass to cure cancer. You are acutely interested in shoes and handbags. The weird thing is you discuss all this shit intelligently. You hear any of this shit from a fat chick and they’d rightly be told to fuck off. Get back to the farm. But you, you’re gonna carry this stupid shit with you for your whole life. Nobody ever wants to tell you there’s no tooth fairy. Like, the greatest genius in rural Swaziland still believes in sorcery, because no one’s around to tell him: “no, physics.” Instead he becomes the best shaman with the farthest reaching knowledge of how sodomizing a bull and having virgins drink the collected semen while wrapped in asps will ensure power, strength and virility for seven years.
I have a headache from drinking almost a whole fifth of Mexican brandy and smoking like eight cigarettes. I went upstairs and drank with my neighbors and watched Saturday Night Live. It is horrible and unfunny. Their new Obama impersonator sounds exactly nothing like Barack Obama. Seth McFarlane was the host and his monologue was him showing off Family Guy voices. He has four hundred million dollars. Saturday Night Live is so awful, and I was so blind drunk that I was almost hallucinating, like it was an acid trip, and watching the hackish and cheap and predictable television show made me think I had gone back to the 50’s. Like there would be a news break and Edward R. Murrow would come on smoking a Pall Mall and talking about Dwight D. Eisenhower. There are probably a hundred creative staff on that show and they have all week to come up with 55 minutes worth of stuff and you always hear about how the new players are crushed when their sketches get cut and tons of material is culled so it’s only the best of the best of the best and the show fucking sucks so hard. It’s because it’s people who went to Harvard. It’s upper middle class WASPs and Jews who grew up in Westchester County or the nice part of Jersey and their parents were prosperous oral surgeons or Attorney General of the State and were not alcoholics and did not beat or molest them. The writers and actors on Saturday Night Live are establishment types. The cream of the crop of normal people. And their suffering is only suffering to try to get on Saturday Night Live– having to have bad auditions for six months and living in Manhattan with five roommates after college. People like this are just walking job interviews. They are incapable of ever being honest about anything. But if you put Artie Lange, who is a fat ugly heroin addict who tried to kill himself, if you just put him on TV for 55 minutes plus incessant commercial breaks it would be funny as fuck.
Nikol, you should text that to Lorne Michaels next time you’re drunk. That his show fucking sucks and I’d rather watch my family on fire than anything he’s put his name on in the last fifteen years. Throw an anti-semitic slur in there too, why not.
I’m getting fired. I know it, but my boss hasn’t told me yet. But I know it. I can’t say how, because the way I found out was (REDACTED), and people who know me through work read this web site. You people will soon not know me through work. Maybe you will know me as a human being.
Anyway, I’m getting fired. I got tipped off when the H.R. lady for the large corporation– fuck it, I’ll just say it, who cares now. I work for a production company that has what’s called a “term deal” at (REDACTED), the studio, not the network that you’ve actually heard of and is what any sane person would assume you mean when you say “(REDACTED)”– this is why I fucking hate show business, having to explain this god damn shit to people at parties– anyway, my boss gets a chunk of money to have an office at (REDACTED) and in return all the TV shows we make have to get underwritten by (REDACTED), the studio.
I knew when the lady from (REDACTED) corporate H.R. was calling for my boss. And he didn’t want to take the call when I was there. A couple times she called, meaning, he had called her back. There is no other call he would ever make himself, when I wasn’t around. It means he’s firing me. He shut his door and was talking to her. He is an idiot, which means, he does not know that everyone in the entire building can hear every word of every call he’s on when both doors of his office are closed. It causes maybe a ten per cent reduction in the noise he’s making, closing these hollow-core doors that resonate like tympanis. I would have brought it up to him but then he would have made me get into a long involved struggle to get the doors replaced with soundproof vault doors but without him paying for it; I would have had to convince people whose entire jobs are to ensure that (REDACTED) Corporation does not spend money, to spend a ton of money replacing the doors in the building so that he wouldn’t need to speak slightly more softly, and bringing it up would have made him forever vigilant about the acoustics of the free doors and etc., so fuck it. There is no winning. Bringing up a problem means it is yours to solve, and it is ultimately unsolvable, and any problem with the solution is going to be blamed on you. So fuck it. Anyway, obviously, I am going to eavesdrop on this call. I can’t not eavesdrop in any of his calls; I constantly have to hear his voice. When I go to hell it will be piped in. But this is the one time I desperately wanted to. I had to know. Continue reading →
Fucking flies all over me, in my house. And ants who come in seeking water. It’s a hundred and eight degrees and I’ve left some chicken bones in the trash and instantaneously dozens of flies appear; swirling around the kitchen like that witch woman’s planetary machine in THE DARK CRYSTAL. What the fuck are those things called. Something-ary. Anyway, like one of those things. Throw away the chicken and immediately, flies. Their life cycle is so short– born, maggot, fly, fuck, shit die. Do they even eat as adults, or do they just look for a place to lay eggs. They’re dying of natural causes now and the chicken bones have only been in there for three days. I am forced to contemplate the fleeting nature of life. Fucking flies.
Born, baby, eat, adult, fuck, shit, die. In the span of geological time our lives are three days long; we’re born in a trash can eating a chicken bone, we fuck and make a baby once or twice if we’re lucky, and we fucking die glued to the window, trying to get out into the sun. We just want to die outside. Continue reading →
What if she texts you the next day before you even get out of bed and says “I just want you to know that I had a REALLY great time last night– let me know when you want to hang! ” And then later that same day– “Dinner? ” And so on and then like four days later “I think I might be having a problem with my phone- some people aren’t getting my txts– are u doing anything 2night? ” What if you didn’t pull out and in the back of your mind all day at work you are just thinking about having a stupid baby with this person, having to talk to her every day for eighteen years; you just want to text her to see if she got her period but you know any contact is gonna be met with fifteen thousand prompts to do something with this humorless and semiliterate person. Who looked kind of like Emily Blunt when you were drunk but when you woke up it became clear that she had that weird bad skin where the makeup they use to cover up the bad skin gets trapped in the craters and on the protuberances and thickly coats the weird fine downy hairs all over her face; her gums are far too large and vividly purple for her small teeth, and yet she feels no compunction whatsoever about smiling with her top lip all the way up by her nostrils like the giraffe at the zoo that constantly reaches for the eucalyptus branch that is hanging just outside the bars of its cage… any person with any degree of self awareness who had ever once smiled in a mirror would have immediately taken rigorous steps to train themselves to smile while leaving their generous top lip draped over these fifteen thousand miles of veiny grape Hubba Bubba colored gums… why is her mouth the same color inside as that of a black German Shepherd; shouldn’t the inside of everyone’s mouth be the same color… must be these weird Mexican chicks with their Aztec blood… but anyway, that’s the real problem. Not that she has these minor physical drawbacks but that she’s the sort of person who never even notices them, even though everyone else does instantly and they are appalled. God forbid I have impregnated this woman and the resulting offspring inherits this subhuman level of self-examination. This person smiles like a dog drags its gross pussy and ass across the rug in front of company for sexual gratification. Just go home and go to bed for Christ’s sake.
Someone was talking about “Cities of Refuge,” apparently an old Hebrew tradition where if you killed someone and sought sanctuary in certain towns, vengeance seekers couldn’t come get you. Continue reading →
Having you as a girlfriend would be like having a wolverine as a pet. I don’t want you as a girlfriend. I would rather have a lamprey as a fleshlight than have you as a girlfriend.
But goddamit, I also do want you as a girlfriend. In that little place where, you know, most chicks don’t stick with you; you go on a couple dates with them, maybe you fuck them a few times, but you don’t wake up on your couch with your boner going into your pillow and think for just a second that you’re waking up next to them. And it’s the sweetest second of your life. That little place, where like, that cute chick from work that you IM with all day, and when she says that she had a fight with her boyfriend your heart kind of gets ahead of your mind and you get a headrush for a second. And then the next day she says they got back together and it’s like your dog died. And your eyes tear up a little. You can’t help it. Probably if she saw it she would think you’re a fucking chump, because, you know, nothing earns a woman’s contempt like being into her.
I don’t know what it is. You are a ridiculous wastrel who is probably a decade away from being done fucking boys in bands. But still.
There is an attractive woman sitting across from me. A very attractive woman. A “9,” in the parlance of those people who use numbers for these things. An “L.A. 9.”
She looks familiar. I feel like she was the casting assistant on some movie I worked on. It is completely plausible that such a person would be sitting across from me on that bench. But if it is her, she doesn’t recognize me, or doesn’t want to acknowledge me. Maybe it’s not even her though. All good looking people essentially look alike. All perfect looking people.
I would never in a billion years go over and talk to this person. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what to say, aside from some obviously fabricated ruse that was just basically– I think you are good looking, and I would like to have sex with you. There is no other reason on the planet anyone would ever speak to anyone out of nowhere, except maybe abject loneliness. And yet here I am. I am thinking about her. I am writing in my stupid journal about her; she is looking at her phone and eating a ham sandwich. On wheat bread, with lettuce peeking out from the crusts. Homemade sandwich. Someone made her this sandwich, or she conscientiously packed it for herself. Good for her. More people should take the time and care to prepare their own meals. It’s good for your health, it’s exactly to your tastes, and it saves money. Continue reading →
Your taxes are not going to go up or down. And if they do, who gives a shit. It won’t be a meaningful amount. You are not barely hanging on by the amount that your taxes will increase. You are not going to get some windfall by the amount your taxes will decrease. They are not going to up the taxes enough that the debt and deficit are lowered meaningfully, nor are they going to lower them so that the debt and deficit are raised meaningfully. All that shit, the money shit, is going to stay pretty much exactly the same.
If you can get an abortion now, you will still be able to get an abortion. If you live in North Dakota, you will have to drive very far to get an abortion. But you already have to drive very far to get an abortion. You have to drive across the equivalent of France to get a fuel filter for a Japanese car, or a burrito. If you live in North Dakota, you probably do not need or want or would consider having an abortion. Why is it such a big fucking deal, the five abortions performed annually in North Dakota. Or in Mississippi– when have you ever heard of someone getting pregnant in Mississippi, and no matter how young they were, how poor, no matter how abusive and drunk the father is, how many babies he already has with thirty other women, how much chromosome damage the baby was going to have from the mother pounding from whatever clay jug labeled “XXX” they drink from in Mississippi– when was the last time you ever heard of someone getting pregnant in Mississippi and not keeping the baby. Any state considering outlawing abortion is an entire state of Honey Boo Boo. Every birth is from statutory rape by a multiple convict, and every six fingered IQ 80 baby is considered a huge blessing from Jesus where you wouldn’t even think about terminating the pregnancy. Why do we argue so much about this. Continue reading →
I’m gonna fuck a goat and set a school on fire. I’m gonna inject my wang with saline so it’s nine inches long and four inches wide and then run naked through a church service. I’m gonna eat a Volvo 240 station wagon and shit out a perfectly sculpted steel statue of Minnie Pearl fully nude delivering an infant Kenny Rogers while forest creatures look on in awe. I’m gonna grow six extra tits and suckle a pack of needy orphans. I’m gonna huff household cleaning products ’till my eyes look like an albino rabbit and take a journey that is at once within myself and also to the outermost reaches of the cosmos. It will last a lifetime but when I look at my watch only seconds will have passed.
delicioustacos 