Archive | March, 2013

Protected: Video: Fatburger Challenge

20 Mar

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Protected: Some Day

20 Mar

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

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.

Reader Mailbag: Do You Get Laid, Or Do You Not Get Laid, Or What?

15 Mar

Various readers ask:

You talk all the time about how you can’t get laid and then you turn around and talk about how you got laid. Which is it, are you a loser or a player?

I am not a player. I am an alcoholic.  I sit at home or in a coffee shop miserable all day muttering to myself and terrified to even look at a woman.  Waiting for the sun to go down so I can drink. Then I have a couple pops and alcohol turns me into a pussy superhero.  I will approach anyone, say anything, come up with hilarious and insightful shit off the cuff and push and push and push until they fuck me. Any drug you get into enough, even depressants, will eventually start energizing you.  Heroin newbies nod off and sleep through their high but an old time junkie feels pumped up after a hit; he’ll be prancing around the room and shadowboxing. Because I am a practiced drunk, I can stay lucid enough to be funny when drinking.  I can stay on my feet as I drink and drink and drink until inhibitions and fear go away.  Getting a girl to fuck you is a 12 round match.  Just stay on your feet and don’t get knocked out by your own fear, by “shit tests,” by logistical problems, whatever. Your opponent will tire herself out.

I’m a sadass Clark Kent during the day and pussy Superman at night. That’s why there are so many bitter diaries talking about how I’m never gonna get laid, and then fuck stories from that same evening. Valentine’s, New Years, Fourth of July, Halloween, were all like this. I hate special occasions but I always get pussy on special occasions.  It’s like I’m two different people.  Both are assholes.

Litter Box

13 Mar


He’d been up since eight but had done nothing.  He had masturbated, to a midget.  That was it.  Two hours of culling through this midget’s oeuvre to find the optimum clip to masturbate to.  Little person, rather.  If he ever encountered a midget, he would have to take pains to correct himself.  They consider “midget” a slur.  Their vaginas and assholes are as deep as a normal sized woman’s, he had learned.

He’d been laid off six weeks ago and had accomplished nothing in that time, but that was fine.  He’d accomplished nothing at work either and at least now he wasn’t being brutalized by assholes.  He wasn’t stealing from anybody, or killing people. His old job had been in insurance and he’d spent the day fucking people over.  Getting to zero was a net gain for the world.

Work was gone but there was still the same sense of urgency, just about bullshit now.  The gas bill was due, the phone bill was due.  Or rather, so far past due that Verizon sent texts with important new information about urgent changes to your account.  Give us money.  The DMV had important information about his auto registration, which was that it had been suspended because Progressive hadn’t sent along the required confirmation of insurance.  To re-register, give us money.  Progressive hadn’t sent the papers to the DMV because his bill was precisely one minute past due.  Their text said sorry that you left us.  Sorry that you left us, give us money.  Fuck you, pay me, was all every letter and text and phone call ever said.  If they actually used those words maybe he’d pay on time.  It would certainly make the mail more interesting. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: The Shitter

13 Mar

I have to piss.  You are never going to be able to piss in this coffee shop. The rest room key has not once been on its appointed hook.  Other people ask about it, but you know the score. “Someone must be in there.”  Someone must be in there taking the longest shit in human history. They have one of those diseases where the organs liquefy and they are shitting them out one inch at a time.  Someone won’t leave the bowl till his asshole’s dry and he’s reading Infinite Jest taking care to study the footnotes within footnotes. Someone is building a supercomputer out of his own shit, or a life sized statue of Napoleon.  No one, no human being, could ever, for any legitimate reason, stay in a coffee shop bathroom that long.  What kind of person shits in a coffee shop. What kind of monster.  We’re all puttering around drinking hot liquids, we all have to piss, and you’re in there crafting a flock of origami swans out of C fold paper towels, you motherfucker.  And another guy just asked about it.  Now he gets to go in before me, if this shitter ever emerges.  Great.  No doubt he’s got a hot sauce burrito log to squeeze out too.  They are all shitting in coffee shops, these huns. Whatever happened to take a quick piss and you’re out.  Fuck anyone who even washes their hands.  Pussies.

Protected: Diary: Valentine’s Day

12 Mar

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Hey Olivia Part 2

11 Mar


Why can’t people just be normal when you see them.  Just fucking say hello for Christ’s sake.  Now I’m carrying this weird awkward memory around as I try to order at the god damn coffee shop; it is inhibiting my ability to hit on my server.  I’m at the ATM.  I’m in profile, unmistakable from the sidewalk, intent on my deposit.  I turn to leave and sidling up to the next machine is you, Olivia, turning your head to the side in hopes that I don’t see you.  Because there are so many other ginger chicks with mammoth jugs out there wearing that same dress you wore on our first date.  You’re with a dude, maybe that’s the issue.  Or you’re just a weirdo.

Well, God damn, you look good.  Like you reverse aged.  I forgot that you have good skin.  I was reading this morning, the foreword to a book of Charles Bukowski’s, and it mentioned some Latin title I hadn’t known was his.  It was your tattoo.  So that’s where you got it.  You were a Bukowski fan, I thought.  So that’s why you liked me.  I’m the shitty version of him, but then, not nearly as ugly.  A good compromise for a date.  I didn’t know his work when we went out.  Continue reading

How to Be a Screenwriter in Hollywood

7 Mar


If I were a horrible person, I could make money telling people how to write and sell their screenplays.

I could have a hustle as a “script doctor” or “putting your screenplay in front of top young Hollywood execs.”  I am qualified to do this, since I am technically a former “development executive.”  Really I was an assistant with a fancy title and my creative work was far less important to my boss than calling somebody to fix the toilet.  But I made material creative contributions to projects that won big Oscars and Emmys and are probably somebody’s favorite movie and/or TV show.  I remain friends with a ton of people you would suck Abe Vigoda’s dick to get in a room with.  I could make a living. Continue reading