You get scared when you leave a white collar job that you’re gonna end up picking up trash. Well, not to worry. You can’t get that job. It’s a union gig. A city gig. You get scared that you’re gonna get trapped in some soul-crushing civil service shit for years like Bukowski. But you can’t get a job at the post office. They’re cutting back. You have to know somebody. You can’t get a job flipping burgers. You’re overqualified (in my case, this is true). You can’t do shit labor on a construction site. Half of Mexico is up here trying to do that.
So what can you do. You can get a job in a STEM field, they tell you. If only you had gotten your degree in a STEM field, you would be in great demand. Science, technology, engineering, mathematics. A computer programmer, in other words. Do you know how fucking hard that shit is? I could barely pass my intro to C++ class, and I’m smart. Your ability to do that shit is purely genetic, and it’s the same gene that makes you smell like cheese and talk like that pedophile’s RealDoll from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Hearing that little pussy talk makes me think we need more bullying in schools. There is no talented computer programmer on the face of this earth who can buy a six pack at the liquor store and make small talk with the clerk normally. There certainly isn’t one who can speak to a woman.
The oil boom. That’s the place, they tell you. One hundred thousand dollars per year to live in a dorm in North Dakota and sweep up steel shavings or some shit. They need welders, they need engineers. I am a massive pussy and clumsy as fuck; if I were anywhere near one of those giant grinding fire belching machines I would get sucked in and pureed on my first day. I would make some smartass comment and an ex convict with a third grade education would beat me within an inch of my life. I would go crazy from lack of pussy and torch the whole operation. That shit is the fucking fires of hell, man. Still, there are jobs out there. Negative twenty degrees and the air is like sucking a diesel truck’s tailpipe, but it’s a living.
I hate immigrants now. Because I think things would be so great without them– it could me making eight dollars an hour to toss goat carcasses into a giant blender at the cat food factory. They do the jobs nobody wants, people say. Well of course that’s bullshit, but then, I go to their country and pay ten bucks to fuck their daughters. Turnabout is fair play.
There’s nothing out there but then again I haven’t looked. I’m waiting for my State of California jobs pamphlet to show up. See what jobs the government thinks are appropriate for someone of my skill set. Tossing goat carcasses in the blender most likely. Fine. Someone’s gotta do it. But seriously, I kind of want to take a day job out of the State of California jobs pamphlet just to see what fucking happens. Who on Earth turns to the state of California to fulfill their staffing needs in this, the most management-friendly labor market in the history of the First World. The country is a Home Depot parking lot and we’re all flannel-clad Mesoamericans with third grade educations and ringworm. We are all clamoring to jump into some white man’s UHaul, possibly to be hunted for sport. All we want is enough for tall boy of Tecate and a bag of tortillas. Maybe one of those weird foam cups with the colored salt on the rim. And still, that’s too much of a dream. Lawyers can’t get jobs. Doctors have to see two hundred patients a day. Porn stars can barely suck dick for money; they gotta do the hardcore paywall shit like have a speculum stuck in their ass. There is only one way to make money and that is to inherit it, or push it around for people who inherited it. Eighty hours a week squinting at spreadsheets, looking for a way to make eight one hundredths of a cent every time some prince’s firm in Dubai cuts back on a steel order from Poland.
I would propose some social change, but it would all boil down to: just give me some money. Redistribution. Just take money from rich people and give it to poor people. They have a word for that, they tell you: Communism. Why not take your absurd share of the world’s GDP and give it to some kid in Africa then. I don’t know, but fuck them. Let them eat hyenas. I just want to get paid a living wage to jerk off and play Xbox. I don’t see why that’s too much to ask.
delicioustacos 
Work is everywhere. It would help massively if you would move. But that has been mentioned before, and you are not going to do it.
Blue collar is where the money and jobs are. Because pussies aren’t willing to do them.
Seriously dude. You could just go to South Korea and teach English or some shit. Then again, I wonder what Korean parents would think if they left their sons and daughters alone with you. Point is, hilarity would ensue and that would make it all worth it.
Tallboy of Tecate is where it’s at. Jerk off too. Playing video games? gimme a break, let your picking hand nails grow and dust off that classical guit-fiddle.
Please write a book you lazy sonofabitch. If you don’t I’m going to write a book with you as the main character and get rich off your life. Don’t let that happen.
The publishing industry isn’t what it used to be, sadly. Even NYT bestselling authors are having to turn to self-publishing and pimping themselves out on their own websites. Advances for unheard of authors are at pittance level 😦
This is true, but self-publishing is very easy now-days, DT has a base audience to work with and he’s a genius with an original voice. Maybe he’s not getting rich but he definitely isn’t if he doesn’t try.
You’re right James, I would purchase his work.
Would you buy my work based off his life?
Yes!! Start writing!
But the Art World always has money actually. You have to frame yourself as a New Media Narrative Experiment. Then treat grant cycles as a job schedule and research. You can’t get a job because you don’t fit into the very tight molds. That is an advantage if you can overcome the self-defeat.
i mean, if you have already succumbed to “hipster”– then go all the way–be an Artist.
right?
If you thought Intro to C++ was hard, you might be retarded. You know, maybe if you notify the state of California that you had trouble with that class you can get some sort of retard welfare check.
Actually, that’s a thought. Permanent SSI when the EDD checks run out. Start racking up an history now of depression/anxiety (although that will be pricey without health insurance) and then a well-orchestrated suicide attempt (make sure someone’s on hand to “rush” you to the ER and have your stomach pumped) and maybe a nice 72 hour hold…best if you can get it extended though…and then apply for disability and Cha-Ching!!! (My friend took this route, for real though, and got SSI on the first try even though everyone kept telling her she’d be denied and have to appeal at least twice).
Sounds like you took this post a little personally. Do you smell like cheese?
Don’t feel too bad, DT. C++ is a dogshit language to teach someone how to program with. Most commercial software could be written with a working knowledge of control flow and basic data types, but you walk into a C++ class and it’s “explicitly instantiated template methods” this and “const-reference iterator to a pointer” that, “unresolved symbol in @#155533_fuckedup_mangled_name_@” this, “access violation at 0xFFFFFFFFF” that, “null-terminated byte array” this…you get the idea.
Much work has been done so that people can avoid this kind of bullshit, which is one of the reasons introductory programming is increasingly taught in Python.
Not that it really matters, anyway. Nobody wants to hire someone to program over the age of 30, even experienced. The progressive and technology overlords don’t like paying their employees, so they fund campaigns to bring in a bunch of coolies to do the work and drive down wages. Even now, Vishnu and Dmitri are more than happy to do my job for half the rate overseas.
Write a book already you lazy asshole.
The most obvious and overlooked option for you is F-ing graduate school. You should be celebrating the fact that you have not already gotten one–and therefore will be completely enabled to achieve one. It is THE WAY to get the time to transition from being a slave to published author who is paid to teach, visit, lecture on his practice. Seriously—you will be drowned in young pussy, be EXPECTED to read all day, be critical, self important–and get infinite attention and response to your work. UCLA is amazing for writing. think about it man.
“gotten one” — obviously meant a “Masters Degree”.
Breath in, Tacos. Smell that? Your solution is dripping off of this blog post. Goat Carcass Speculum Porn. No one’s seen that shit yet. Grab some Guatemalans from Lowe’s (Mexican’s from Home Depot are passé), some of those aforementioned hard-up porn gals, speculize their orifices, and start tossing goat carcasses into those gaping cavities. Call up Hasler, see how she feels about a goat carcass dry run. Open her up, work out the kinks, and change the world.
Hey, Tucker Max did OK writing about getting drunk and laid. So he was from a rich family and a lawyer? He hated work, just like you. And your stories are almost as good as Roosh’s. He ain’t doing too bad.
“…almost as good as Roosh’s”
revised
“as good as Roosh’s”
revised
“better than Roosh’s”
I agree, Roosh is too long winded and bitter without the levity and charisma of DT.
Might you consider selling your services to teh gays and rich old ladies. The needy can sure use the companionship in these isolated times.
If not, you could always try welfare.
“’m not gonna work for you. Other guys might, but I already have a god damn job. If you want me so bad, you have to put something on the table, and that thing is you eating my cum and then probably leaving immediately afterwards.
So how about it.”
have things changed?
I was doing a side job one time for this lady, she lived in Medford Lakes, NJ; this idyllic little town on the edge of the Pine Barrens. It used to be a summer resort for city people back in the day before suburbs and interstate highways and commercial airlines and all of that. When you wanted to go on vacation you loaded all of your belongings in a steamer trunk, hand-cranked up the Model T, hoping it didn’t backfire and kick back breaking your wrist, just to travel twenty miles to a lake cabin in the woods. This was considered an ideal honeymoon back then; virgin newleyweds in full length, one-piece bathing suits sitting lakeside sipping Pimm’s cup cocktails chilled with ice cubes harvested right from the lake, full of pond scum and icehouse sawdust. Now it’s your typical upper-class historic town, with newly built Mcmansions filling out the space between the old log cabins, quaint colonial houses, antique shops, summer camps and family farms that make more money giving hayrides and letting people pick pumpkins in the fall than from selling any crops or livestock. Home to the kind of people who drive Subaru Foresters with “save the Pine Barrens” license plates and roof racks for their L.L. Beans kayaks. Meanwhile, 200 acres of Pinelands ecosystem was razed to make way for the cookie cutter development they live in.
Anyway, her house was this big, ugly, 70s style postmodern honeycomb shaped thing, with huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows and floating staircases, tucked away down a long gravel driveway in the woods. It looked like something out of “The Jetsons”. The original owner I think had been an architect and designed it himself. She was getting an addition put on with an indoor pool in it, and me and my friend had to wire the pool equipment. One side of the pool was gonna be completely flanked by a bigass “natural” rock wall that ran the entire length of the room and kind of jutted out towards the center to form a waterfall over the pool.
This crew of Mexican stonemasons came out to build it the day we were there. These guys were artists, I mean they were mesmerizing to watch. They had this big pile of fieldstone boulders, they would grab one and rotate it in their hands while they meticulously chipped it down with a rock hammer till it was a perfect fit in the intricate interlocking puzzlework of the wall. They did it so quickly and perfectly. The skill and effortless ease by which they hammer dressed these stones and pieced this waterfall together made it seem like they were working on some instinctive reflexes – ancient Aztec masonry techinques ingrained in their DNA. Rubble masonry, they call it. Squat little brown figures, like Pokemon characters or something, working in perfect rhythm together, spitting staccato bursts of insidious sounding heathen blasphemies at one another in a grotesque Nahuatl-Spanish tongue virtually unknown to linguists. I can’t say for sure, but I suspect they were a part of some primordial savage cult with roots and rituals in pre-Columbian dark religions, for
there was no other explanation for these otherwise wretched subhuman’s supernatural masonry abilities.
At lunch time, as I was coming back from Wendy’s with my dollar menu Jr. bacon cheeseburgers, fries and frosty, the Mexicans were unpacking a cooler full of exotic culinary staples; spicy peasant foods that upset and offend the delicate sensibility of the pure American stomach. They had commandeered the “salamander” – a kerosene-fueled space heater that looks kind of like a chimney cap – to prepare a veritable banquet of strange tortilla shell concoctions. One threw a tortilla shell on top of the rusty, red-hot heater, while another fished ingredients out of the cooler: fresh red chili peppers, guacomole, onions, sour cream, bell peppers, tomatoes, jalapeno peppers – and yet another began slicing and portioning the vegetables. They had turned the jobsite into a fucking Chi-Chi’s.
I cursed them under my breath while bending my fingers to form the “mano cornuta”, a method my grandmother swore by, of warding off any “malocchio” possibly being thrown my way by “iattatore” within their beady eyed ranks.
After lunch, as they went back to work, I noticed there were inscriptions on the rocks, and as they built the wall a message formed, it said: “Sylviasarah es a chaparra y panzona piruja jajajaja” To this day I have no idea what that mysterious phrase means, and I’m not sure I want to know. There are just some otherwordly horrors the human mind cannot endure.
You sir are a gentleman and a scholar. Bravo.
Thanks, buddy. True story, except for the part about the inscriptions on the wall. I threw that in just to fuck with one of the commenters here, but I guess she didn’t read it. They busted out all this Mexican food and started cooking tortillas right on this rusty-ass space heater on the job. It looked good, though. And I had to admire their ingenuity and the fact that they still, you know, have a culture.
I read this H.P Lovecraft story a couple days before I wrote it called “The Horror at Red Hook”. It was filled with all of this manifested, irrational xenophobic fear of Southern Europeans who were flooding through Ellis Island at the time. In other words, my great grandparents. It was funny to me, so I tried to parody it a little.
I think Lovecraft bought in to all of that 19th century intellectual racist bullshit. Madison Grant type shit. H.P Lovecraft strikes me as the type of dude who, if he were alive today would probably be the type of character that existed most vibrantly on the manosphere. He would probably be a regular poster on Stormfront.
Don’t get me wrong, I hate Mexicans as much as the next guy, but not for any stupid-ass racist reasons. I hate them because they undermine the wages of my fellow tradesman and fellow countrymen. And in an economy with a %10 unemployment rate, or whatever it is, I think it’s crazy that we have millions of illegal immigrants doing all kinds of jobs that “Americans won’t do for themselves.” I heard John McCain pleading their case the other day, now that the Republican party all of the sudden supports them. He said something along the lines of, “these people mow raise our children, clean our houses, mow our lawns, pick our crops.” And I’m thinking, what fucking America does John McCain live in where everybody has nannies and housekeepers and landscapers. It was the most unintentionally arrogant fucking speech I’ve ever heard, and speaks to the vast disconnect between politicians in
Washington and American citizens.
I’ve come to similar conclusions re: immigration. Seems to be the same story with each generation, each of us agreeing to hate the true “bad” immigrants, meaning everyone who came after us. Seems like immigration reform basically screws the laborer class, while giving elites cheap lawn care/construction/child care/housecleaning/etc. I have mixed feelings myself. I really can’t believe people who are already here, willingly and knowingly illegally, may soon be able to apply for green cards, while people who have followed the law are waiting decades just to get over here. For example, my cousin has been waiting over 10 years for his green card. When he visited the US once before people told him to just overstay the visa and apply for asylum or something, which he likely would have received, but he followed the rules and left. 10 years. He will only make it to the US again if his mother, a US citizen, lives long enough for USCIS to get to his application. His mom is sick and may not live that long. My cousin is a doctor and wants desperately to see his mom before she dies, and also to practice medicine in the US. Back of the line for him.
If you have ever visited a USCIS office you see that after you are naturalized, just as you are leaving the building, there is a table set up next to the door: “Register to vote here.” The Democrats and Republicans are basically fighting over a potential wave of 11million new voters. There is no long-term plan, it’s just one continuous campaign.
I don’t know why I was lamenting the disintegration of ethnic cultures here earlier when I have done nothing to preserve my own. For instance, my Mother can cook a thousand different Italian dishes and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how to go about making any of them. You grow up eating all of this stuff: stuffed artichokes and broccoli rabe and pasta e fagioli and big pots of Sunday gravy with sausage and meatballs and bracciole and struffoli: these little fried dough balls you make for Christmas, they’re covered in honey so you can shape them, my grandmother would shape them like a Christmas tree and cover them in green, red and white jimmies. Tarallis dipped in home made wine and on and on and on. But you take it for granted. You think everybody eats like that until you go over one of your friend’s houses for dinner and it’s takes every ounce of your being to choke down the fucking hamburger Helper slop recipe their mother made, that she got right off the back of the box, while concealing your gags and dry-heaves like you’re on an episode of Fear Factor. I’ve found that most Americans can’t cook for shit, that’s why they eat out so much. Or they cook the most bland shit imaginable: dried-out roast beef with boiled carrots and peas, cardboard mashed potatoes – they eat like some fucking medievel serfs living on the manor. Not only do you take it for granted, but you get sick of it. If I never ate another plate of spaghetti in my life I wouldn’t give shit. Well, except spaghetti and clams.
The rest of it, it’s so watered down and disconnected from tradition as to make it seem pointless to celebrate. Or you resent it. Like the Catholic Church, for instance. I was raised Catholic. And not just Catholic, but tacky dago Catholic. Like Mary on the half shell statues in your front window Catholic. Praying to St. Anthony when you lose shit Catholic. Pinning dollar bills to a statue of Magdalena de Pazzi Catholic. You have that shit drilled in your head for so long you just reject it. That brand of Catholicism is so old-fashioned and superstitious, it has no place in a postmodern capitalist society. The Sopranos did a good job dealing with this phenemenon with the “The Ride” episode. Say what you want about The Sopranos, but it was probably one of the only shows/movies that dealt with the Italian American experience in a nuanced way. It wasn’t just a mafia story.
On Easter my mother makes these wheat pies. Traditionally you made wheat pie to celebrate the end of lent and the coming harvest. Nobody fasts for lent anymore, not even my mother, we’re not peasants in the Appennines harvesting our own wheat anymore. It doesn’t hold up. Then you have the commercialization aspect, all these dumb fucking TV shows, where people whore themselves out as caricaturized versions of Italian Americans, it’s fucking embarassing. You don’t even want to be associated with it.
Reminds me of this: http://www.returnofkings.com/10209/open-letter-to-fat-girls#comment-881411997
I had a similar experience to yours growing up, that’s why usually it was friends coming to eat at my house, and saying “this is the best chicken and rice I’ve ever had!” and me shrugging, nbd, I eat this every day. Food is made from ingredients put together by someone who loves you, “food” is edible dehydrated substance packaged at an unknown location and purchased at a store.
I was at the coffeeshop yesterday and saw a man I admire for his professional achievements, I met him briefly at an event last year. He was carrying his newborn child in one of those front-backpack-baby-carriers. He came over to chat, had a huge smile, we were all happy for him. Then a creature literally twice his size (250lbs easy) came waddling up behind him, and I immediately lost a significant amount of respect for him. She worn a huge grin, obviously: she beat the skinny bitches, and took her husband completely for granted.
I’m beginning to think we’ve all forgotten the meaning of the word “discipline” and replaced it with misdirected “shame.” If only people would realize shame is a tool to increase the amount of love in the world by encouraging self-improvement through discipline. Though complaining about that other imaginary bogeyman, “privilege,” is easier.
By the way, for startling reference: http://www.mybodygallery.com/search.html?height=any&weight=250
#ThEw$ff13PATT#rN0nspielbergsass
#ThEw$ff13PATT3rN0nspielbergsass
Oh my god,I love your blog. I’ve been obsessing on and on about how people don’t want do admit that there are no fucking jobs out there anymore and about STD’s myth and how condoms suck to no end. I’m 22 years old and I’m good looking. We should talk.