Archive | March, 2013

Old News: Adria Richards

22 Mar

This is a post about this person.

Adria Richards is not a person. She is a hologram reverse engineered by woman-hating reactionaries to perfectly fulfill every antifeminist nightmare. There is just no way that this human being can really exist.

Or if she does, I salute her canniness. She is the hedgehog who knows one thing: how to latch on to PC self-flagellants with computer money and promote herself without actually doing any work or spreading any knowledge. She is a perfect creature of our time.

She doesn’t deserve death threats, but, as a Developer Evangelist she ought to know that a twitter death threat is as credible as a craigslist ad for free pussy. The guy didn’t deserve to get fired but, who knows. Maybe they just needed an excuse. He mentioned liking his job, which means he sucked at it. If you’re leaving enough on the table to be happy at the end of the day you aren’t a productive worker. Like a wise man once said, what would it take for them to kick Jordan out of the league versus a guy riding the bench?

Continue reading

Get Off My Lawn

22 Mar

Had a run in with some kids in the park. High school kids. One of them looked like he wanted to beat my ass. Talked like it too. They were getting hammered on the hill, it’s Easter break, and a couple of them were holding up their buddy who couldn’t walk. Just look at the path homie. Just look at the floor. The big guy, the oldest guy, glared at me and was like hey, what’s up homie.  Something something nosy people get it too. What the fuck was he talking about. I wanted to understand and say the right thing so I could look “cool” to these hardass EXP gangsta teens. But, all I could say was, what?

Something something, you gonna piss people off, staring like that. Oh Jesus. I don’t give a fuck how drunk he is, I’m sure he could kick my ass, and there are fifteen of him all wearing the same color.

Oh, dude, I was just ah, your friend seems a little fucked up.

Whatchoo readin’?

I was reading Charles Bukowski. A collection called Septuagenarian Stew. In the future, everyone give your books simple fucking names. Give your sons simple fucking names, so I can say “Darkness by John Jones.” Septuagenarian Stew by motherfucking Charles Bukowski. Thank God I wasn’t listening to a Fiona Apple record. Continue reading

Protected: The Lives of Beasts

21 Mar

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Protected: Video: Fatburger Challenge

20 Mar

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Protected: Some Day

20 Mar

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Grow Up

15 Mar

“You better grow up” sounds like “you better be miserable.”  It sounds like “why are you not doing something that sucks right now.”  Why aren’t you home with your kids, swabbing shit out of the crack of their ass with a woefully inadequate hand-e-wipe.  Why aren’t you rich.  Why don’t you have a mortgage.  Why don’t you own your own home and if you do why aren’t you on the phone with the contractor right now improving it in a manner that will increase its value so you can flip it.  Why didn’t you get your cholesterol tested.  Why is your credit rating below eight hundred.  Why don’t you have kids yet and if you do why aren’t they enrolled in the finest schools.  Why don’t you have a complete cable and internet package with a million channels you will never have time to watch.

Your eggs are dying.  Your kid will be a mutant.  He’ll be born with no digestive tract and your life will be wheeling him around all day worried about finding a public rest room where you can empty his colostomy bag.  Why aren’t you married.  Why don’t you even have somebody you might marry.  Why does that person not have an advanced degree in a lucrative STEM field.  Why don’t you have an IRA– if you had begun investing when you were 22 you would have ten million dollars now due to logarithmic growth.  But don’t spend it– you’re gonna need ten times that much by the time you retire.  You will have cancer and Alzheimer’s and stroke and kidney failure and fifteen years worth of logarithmic growth will pay for one alcohol swab to swipe the crack of your ass.  Nobody’s gonna help you when your arm is just veiny turkey skin flapping off shivering tendons– why can’t you take some god damn personal responsibility. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: Not a Vegan

15 Mar

 If she were interested in fucking me she would have asked how the mac and cheese was.

I thought I had an opening. I had asked about the macaroni and cheese. I actually don’t know how it is, she said. I don’t eat cheese.


I’m not vegan.

An in. I like that you threw that in there, as though I were gonna judge you. “As though,” I said, not “as if.”  I wanted her to know that if I were to ejaculate in her our offspring would use conjunctions correctly.  I’ll tell you if it’s any good.  That way you can present an informed opinion from now on.  Keep the eye contact.  She bites her lip; I am in.  I will dig out this coffee shop waitress’ musky snatch after one of her stupid band’s shows.  She’s a drummer, I gather, from her not being able to shut the fuck up about it to everybody.

Later she walks by and I’m eating it and she doesn’t ask how it is.  She remembers nothing of my perfect off the cuff banter.  All your charm is written in water.  On the wind.  By a unicorn that is only in your imagination.  Women don’t remember you.  They only remember famous people. 

I need to get some notoriety from this shit.  Plus I need my words and ideas to change lives for the bett– no, I just need some fucking pussy.  I need the pussy EZ-Pass; actually talking to these girls is too damn hard.