Archive | June, 2013

Waiting Room Diary: The Dancing with the AIDS Results Show

7 Jun
one in two std

No they won’t, liar

I’m in the waiting room. Waiting to get my STD test results. The clinic door is open to Echo Park Avenue and someone is blasting Eminem at the stop light. Shut the fuck up, Eminem. Can’t you see I have AIDS?

I have AIDS and herpes and syphilis and HPV and gonorrhea and chlamydia and non gonococcal urethritis (unspecified) and hepatitis C and probably A, B, and D through J as well, and dick cancer and brain damaging spirochetes and crabs and whateverthefuck else, I must have it all. My appointment was for 3:30 but they flat out told me to come late, that’s when the doctor takes lunch. Why did I come at 3:30. I am a fucking idiot. I should have stayed home where there’s youtube videos to distract me and not just this blank document and my gnawing thoughts of all the dick eating infections I have. All the people I’ve killed, girls I fucked whose ovaries will get chewed into dust because of me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, whateverthefuck your name is. The Chinese chick with the purple toenail polish. You didn’t deserve this. Continue reading

Shit Jobs: Telemarketing

6 Jun

image stolen from j.p. sims consulting

You’re sitting there in a tiny cubicle in a moldy beige room with acoustical tile and you are separated from a bear sized homeless man with a loud booming voice by what is basically urinal divider. You have a headset on, an old one with one foam earphone and a curly wire going into a battered phone. You are listening to a cavernous hiss. And then it beeps and your back tenses and it’s showtime.

“…. Hello? HELLO!!???!!!”

The person on the other end of the line has been listening to silence and clicks for five seconds. They are tipped off to what you are. Because the autodialer waits for what it thinks is a human voice to connect you. The person is already pissed off. You have a dumb terminal in front of you. It’s the 21st century but you have a monitor with green block letters on black from the 70’s with what is putatively the person’s name and address, but a lot of times it’s empty or some guy who was about to get fired had put in “Harry Stiffey, 69 Cumshot Drive.” Continue reading

Survey Says…

5 Jun


I get my STD test results tomorrow. I’m such an old hack at this that I feel no fear. Used to be, I’m sure you know the feeling– you go over and over in your head all the filthy holes you plumbed with your scabrous open cut laden dick, all the men these girls had been with that you’ve now been with too. They give you that demonstration the first week of college– they bring tons of people onstage to show that you’re fucking everyone who the person you’re fucking fucked and whoever those people fucked and etc. Then when you’re finally with a girl, if your dick goes in a millimeter past the condom ring you feel like you tripped and landed on the button that launches the nukes. Years go by and, tentatively at first, you begin rawdogging in the morning when you’ve been grinding each other naked all night. And you are stunned.  You learn that what you were doing with condoms isn’t fucking at all, more like a puppet show about fucking. Later you get to the point where you’re rawdogging everyone all the time. The type of girl you pick up in an afterhours party at a freeway underpass. You would rawdog hookers if they’d let you. You even ask them. You just stop giving a shit. Continue reading

Clean Living

5 Jun


Spent most of the week in the wilderness, drinking only detox levels of alcohol. The amount it would take to stop me from shaking and hallucinating giant worms chewing their way out of my body, etc. I haven’t actually tried not drinking. I am probably not at the level where I’d have any real effects, I’d probably just be crabby. But I read somewhere that you can’t just stop drinking, that it could kill you. So I use this as an excuse to drink. I am “tapering off.”

After this, who knows. Maybe I’ll join Alcoholics Anonymous. Except every person I’ve ever known in Alcoholics Anonymous sucks. They’re either a sanctimonious pain in the ass who can’t shut the fuck up about “the program” or they’re just– you sit in a room with them and you feel the waves of misery shimmering off them. They broadcast unhappiness. They are touchy, sensitive to slight, humorless, cruel when they have a chance. I don’t want to be one of these people.

They tell you you can get laid in Alcoholics Anonymous, but of course, like all the other places they tell you you can get laid it’s bullshit. I’ve been to a couple meetings and it’s a sausage fest. 8 to 1, 9 to 1. About a Los Angeles bar ratio in other words, and the guys who are pulling ass are probably the long haulers, the experienced AA guys who can reassuringly quote the Big Book to the girl bass player who just got her third DUI. Like any cult, the new guy doesn’t get pussy. You probably have to spend years horning your way in to some social scene of people who drink coffee in diners at 1am and trade stories about relatives they ran over. Shaky failed comedians who sit around and one up each other with stories of how bad they once were.

And who wants to hear about shit like that.

Searchy the Search Terms Puppet

4 Jun

I’ve been out in the desert for a few days getting over my head injury, and haven’t written shit. Instead here’s a video of a puppet reading this week’s search terms. I left the kitchen window open while taping and my neighbor’s visiting family walked past.

As always, hat tip to UTB, the originator of search term mayhem.

Reader Mailbag: A Crack in the Dome

1 Jun

image stolen from


Various readers write:

I’m concerned about your head injury. I’m not normally the kind of person who freaks out over this shit, but you really need to see a doctor. You could die or be retarded, etc.

As always, thank you for your sweet concern. But it’s nothing. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m only cognitively impaired insofar as I’m distracted by pain. It’s just a knot on the head. It’s on the right side right on top of my occipital lobe so if there were brain damage it would be evident in my eyesight. Left side. Because of the optic chiasm– the nerves that read from your eyes cross over in an X and run to the back of your head, for some reason. Meaning your left eye transmits to the back right side of your head. See? I remember all that shit from class, that was almost 20 years ago. No brain damaged person can say shit like “optic chiasm.” I bet it’s even called that because it’s shaped like the Greek letter “chi.” See? I remember the Greek alphabet. Continue reading