The Romans got him, and he asked God why he’d been forsaken. Which seems to imply that he really didn’t see his death coming. And then rose three days later and… what? You don’t get to see much of the resurrected Jesus. He doesn’t seem to have stuck around terribly long. The whole thing just feels like a “hook,” you know? A retcon. He was either supposed to not die, or the world was supposed to end, but that’s not what happened. So instead, he did in fact see the whole thing coming; we will explain away the Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabacthani as having some meaning that’s the opposite of the obvious. This was the plan all along, see. And then Christ returned, kind of did nothing, just tipped off his cronies that he was back, basically, and disappeared. And we’re left not with a story of the resurrected and supernatural Christ powerfully changing the world but a ghost pretty much hanging on words from when he was naturally alive. What was the point? Continue reading
I’ve been playing a video game called Oblivion. It’s the predecessor to Skyrim– you wear armor and cast spells and fight skeletons in caves and shit. The point of these games is they are “sandboxes,” meaning: there’s a story to the game, but you don’t have to follow it. You can wander around the wilderness picking flowers and just chatting with the townsfolk if you want. It’s liberating, or it’s supposed to be– most video games constrain you to solving puzzles to get to the next cutscene. Nothing has changed since 8 bit Nintendo. Not so with this shit– you can be whoever you want, do whatever you want. Continue reading
I was supposed to go to Mexico with my buddy El Chuco. Go to Tijuana and fuck some whores, drink, do some drugs. Look at little kids selling chicle, goats on ropes, whateverthefuck. Local color. The girls at the whorehouses are all leathery but the streetwalkers, you luck out once in a while. Stumble into someone who is only beginning a long journey of human agony. Pay her twenty bucks for a throw. Her timidity with your dick makes you feel bad but the boner is a monster that has to be fed.
But he got into some legal trouble. I don’t know what, yet, except it’s a restraining order and he’s gotta get rid of seven grand worth of guns. Going to transfer them into my name and I’ll have to sell them. I hope someone tries to rob me when they’re in my house. Continue reading
I’m worried that I’m fat now. Because Nikol is dating a guy who is a professional bicycle racer. He must maintain an absolutely lean physique at all times, burns 8000 calories a day or something. This guy has abs, real abs, not a mushy six pack with a little pooch at the bottom like mine. When you talk about an ideal male body you’re talking about a guy whose stomach doesn’t fold when he’s sitting down. You’re talking about 5 per cent body fat. Michael Phelps. You’re talking about people who have that for a living. Merely flirting with single digits body fat isn’t enough. Looking good lit from the side with high contrast lamps while flexing down isn’t enough. You gotta look like the cover of Men’s Health even when there’s Vaseline on the lens and you’re in the fetal position with all muscles relaxed. So that is my new fitness goal. I’d been lifting a lot; put on a few pounds of muscle. Now it’s time to drain the remaining fat so you can see striations. Tendons. Fat blue veins snaking over my forearms.
Physically this can be done, but it’s the psychology that gets you. It burns out some fuse that tells you how much to eat. You are constantly hungry as shit and constantly just thinking don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat, 16 waking hours per day. The smells coming from restaurants become something primal, like the musk of a cow’s cunt to a rutting bull. Don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat and it’s one of those things– you fuck up once and suddenly you’ve thrown down 1600 calories worth of ice cream. If you use cardio machines you begin to appreciate the horror that is calorie math. You can be on a Stairmaster at a full sprint for an hour, it won’t burn off food that takes you two minutes to put down. Continue reading
A DUDE asks:
I was reading your hilarious OKCupid Opener post, and was thinking that if I’d sent you a dollar for every time your blog made me laugh out loud, you would have a nice little side income.
There must be other people who feel this way. Have you ever considered some sort of subscription service? Maybe, like, a $3 a month for some sort of premium content?
Thank you for your kind words. Many people have suggested I “monetize” this site, or my work in general, and I have thought about it.
But: let me tell you a secret. Nobody reads this blog. Nobody. Nobody reads anything in life except S & M fantasies about rich corporate overlords and children’s literature about vampires not fucking. Nobody reads anything on the internet except shit about Justin Bieber and how one of the political parties is trying to DESTROY THIS GREAT COUNTRY with the latest minor tweak to some obscure law. Or about how the Jews did 9/11. Or how everything is rape culture and also there need to be more plus sized clothing stores. A few people read web sites about men trying to have sex with women but 5 guys have that space sooooo covered, and they make minimum wage after ten years of work. This site is a niche of a niche of a niche. People who would be happier if they turned off the computer and went to the library and checked out books by Charles Bukowski, but don’t want to get up. That’s my audience. There are thousands of you, but, thousands isn’t money. Continue reading
My new collection The Pussy is out. Pay for The Pussy, own The Pussy, put The Pussy on a pedestal, etc.
These are all ones I’ve actually used:
1) You know, I bet Jennifer Connelly’s own mother looks at her and thinks “ass to ass.”
2) You are attractive, and I want to go out with you.
3) Let’s get coffee in a well-lit public place and then rut urgently, like jackals.
4) Haruki Murakami has no idea how much ass he’s leaving on the table not having a profile here.
5) I want to take that picture of you (doing stupid thing) and paint it on the ceiling of a church.
6) I want that picture of you (doing stupid thing) tattooed on the back of my eyelids.
7) I want to take that picture of you (doing stupid thing) and engrave it on a plate of purest gold; launch it into deep space so it’s the first evidence aliens find of our civilization.
8) When you (did that stupid thing in your picture), that was your Ulysses. You were put on Earth for that moment.
9) You and me are gonna have houses, cars, servants (username). We’re gonna have so many yachts we’ll begin calling them merely “boats” to differentiate ourselves from the nouveaux riches who gauchely call them “yachts.” How about it.
10) Just saying I would honor and respect the living fuck out of you.
11) One day I’m gonna lasso a bull Tyrannosaur and ride him into the heart of the sun to the strains of some motherfucking Motorhead, and if you want to hold me back, I fucking dare you to try. Also, you look good in that sweater.
12) You seem like the type of girl whose last words are gonna be “hold my beer, watch this.”
13) No pressure but if you don’t message me back a nest of cute baby birds will be stomped beneath Hitler’s boot. Continue reading
How has the new “You should message me if…” section been working out?
Not well, but who gives a shit. I had one date. A girl I messaged when she had no picture. When it finally went up she was cute, but we had established rapport. If OKCupid’s World War Z unlaid hordes had known she was hot before I talked to her, who knows. The date was OK but we will not go out again. She is allergic to cats, and also, she does not like me.
Sent out a couple other messages, got nothing. They were my copypasta:
“I want to go out with you.
The girls were cute and seemed interesting. Their bones had been picked clean by World War Z no doubt. Continue reading