Photo credit: the reptilians
My new collection The Pussy is out. Buy The Pussy, get The Pussy, tell your mom about The Pussy, etc.
If my sister reads this she’ll try to get you fired, she says. Even with the fake name. She gets vengeful about this sort of thing.
Well what can you do. What I said is true. So I said it. Maybe someone will get me fired. Maybe I should have started anonymous. Not shown anyone my shit. Not put up Youtube videos of my face for radio and voice for silent film. But: some people find me to fire me. Some people find me to fuck me. I want to get fucked more than I don’t want to get fired.
I have a zero drag lifestyle. An unmarried childless drone who rents. No girlfriend, no serious prospect for a girlfriend, no serious prospect for having a serious prospect for a girlfriend, ever. I’m 40. Every male relative dies at 67 from cancer. Before that their minds slip from chemo. Maybe 15 years left of being sharp, if you can call this sharp. My hips are going. My eyes. My hair going white and I have the ball sac of a 120 year old man. You can’t beat me. I’ve already lost. If your sister gets me fired I’ll stand by the banks of the river, and wait.
Part of me would welcome being doxxed. Fired. The greatest job I’ve ever had still sucks. Allows me material possessions I don’t fucking need. I could pack all this shit in a pit and toss a match on it and go sleep on the ground somewhere and laugh. Life leaving me. Time speeds up. Days upon days I don’t remember. Getting old; it’s already over, I do not fucking care what happens as long as it’s not a maiming or prison– anything that takes my freedom. A great job– I make enough that I pay enough taxes to support another one of me. He’s in a Section 8 studio up in the Hotel Cecil. Some haunted spot downtown where they find suicides in the rooftop water tank. Disability checks cashed into Steel Reserve the instant they arrive. I pray that that’s where the money goes. The other me. The happier one. Find me. Fire me. I do not fucking care.
Last thing I was living for was my cat. The neighbor’s pit bull shook him to death. No reason I can’t leave except being scared about retirement money. So I can retire with no memories of a good life; I spent the whole god damn time working. Worked like a dog since I was fucking fourteen. I’ll die alone, slowly, in the worst way imaginable. That is a certainty.
I hate this city. I hate it in my bones because of the women. Not one good woman in LA. Probably not one in America. They live to abuse you. They live to make you dance. Then they have the sheer balls to accuse you of entitlement.
Or: I love the land but hate its people. Great birds here but my rent is over sixteen grand a year for a stucco building. Cinder block walls around the parking lot. Family of three upstairs playing tympani on the pergo floors at 3AM– and that’s a steal. My landlady has dementia. She’ll die and the place will be bought up in aggregate by Berkshire Hathaway. Rent will instantly blow up to market rate, which is to say 88% of median household income. Increased cost of living makes money meaningless, always. There is always market efficiency. I. e. whatever you have they’ll take– the Rothschilds, the Waltons, the reptilians, whatever you call them– they. The inherited money people. The interest of the interest of four hundred years of slave ship money people absolutely will extract any inefficiency aka money freedom happiness.
Destroy my job, destroy society, destroy the planet. I have nothing to lose. I am connected to nothing. Find me fuck me fire me– fucking free me.
I have a 401K. It did not go up with good news in the stock market. It will go down with Brexit. Because of course. When oil prices rise, gas prices rise the same day. When oil prices fall, gas prices take months to catch up. Of course. There’s some wonky reason some second-tier ivy schlump can explain to you on CNBC. Some NPR twat who was driven to field hockey practice in a toast colored Volvo 240 wagon with a Choate Rosemary Hall sticker on it can explain over piano jazz, but any bum can tell you: they want more money, and they can take it. The government exists only to speed this up. The government is hideous money spergs hypnotizing fetal alcohol syndrome snake handlers. TED talk tax cheats hustling the background cast of Denny’s fight videos.
If you want to predict the future, ask what makes heirs more money. What takes the masses’ time, freedom, happiness. That’s what will happen. We had a movement to free women. It multiplied the misery of both sexes. Women forced to work, men forced to work more when women don’t want a man who doesn’t have more than her. Pure evil.
What will you do if you get fired. You could write full time. No I fucking can’t. You can’t write and eat. Nobody reads. Every web site, every publishing house is Buzzfeed. Liars forever chasing shrinking money. The whole culture, sweatshops of pure shit run by reptilians for aspiring reptilians. I’ll clean toilets.
Someone may get me fired. I may or may not fuck them up. But I’ll for sure make them think I might. Every minute of the shoe not dropping another minute I could be prepping to hurt them bad. Really I’ll be beating off. I won’t say to who. She’s the type to get revenge.
delicioustacos 
Back to whining about your stupid cat. Thanks a lot. Terrific.
Ah yes, the constant threat of getting fired from one’s job for any deviation from boring orthodoxy, another delightful feature of modernity. Your case also seems to fit the classic mold where the threat comes from someone without the skills to do your job, or indeed any useful job at all.
People at my last job always wanted to join me on Facebook back when I had Facebook, I would always add them on LinkedIn instead. LinkedIn is the sterile social network, I have nothing but professional picks, claim to be married, and work and academic achievements. My Facebook account that I do have is a fake name, fake job, real party pictures and fake education. If my private (see real) life was on Facebook under my real name with photos the nosey bitches at my last temporary job would lose their shit. Once on a temporary document review gig I mentioned that my date that weekend went to Emory and was a freshman, the women were pissed- they were saying I was 37(at the time) and what did we talk about,in my head I was thinking we hardly talk all we do is fuck.
Online and especially with the Manosphere (or debaucherysphere) alias is the way to go. People take this online shit to seriously, especially women. Women post crazy shit online and they can claim sexism or mental illness, men do the same and collect unemployment.
I deal with the problem by just not posting on Facebook, but I agree that there’s very little upside and a lot of downside to having work and personal life being generally merged, at least outside the level of genuine friends at your job.
Of course, the main risk of pseudonymity is that you end up telling someone you know about the pseudonymous writing, they later get pissed at you, and you get stung as a result. Not telling anyone makes for good opsec, but makes the writing process much less fun.
Also, the term ‘debaucherysphere’ is a winner.
I stole the tem debaucherysphere from Nikiolai. You are right it kind of sucks that pseudonyms must be used because unlike The Economist, sometimes ideas are conveyed better with knowledge of the writer. Sometimes when I am commenting online and someone ignores the my point to insult me personally it is kind of weird to be called a “small dicked insecure short fat white male” when with one photo of me all of that would be dispelled as an insult. However if I am truthful with my identity, and post pictures of myself I court disaster in my career. My (honest and tested) views on women alone could result in blacklisting from all the legal temp jobs, and in my residency interviews it would for sure be brought up.
A good friend of mine from law school applied to a state bar and they did a background check like all states do. He has no criminal record, never been arrested and had good grades. His application was held up for two years because of some pictures on MySpace and Facebook of him partying, drinking and smoking weed. He was eventually admitted but on five year probation with mandatory drug testing and monthly meetings with a state bar monitor. Social network sites just ain’t worth it without an alias and a burner phone.
Work sucks, that is why it is called “work” instead of “fun”.
Wouldn’t it be jerking off *to whom*, dumb fuck? You’re fired for sure.
Tacos! My office, now! Whom the hell do you think you are?
I agree with what you wrote.
Try to stay poz, and keep at it buddy. Get fired or don’t, up to you. It’s within your control to cover your tracks, e.g. take down your youtube vids, twitter pics, scrub any way of connecting your real name to this site.
And like you mentioned, even Bukowski’s early shit was not good before he was 50.
At the rate you’re going you’ll be fine in a couple years. You just need some friendly encouragement from your readers. You can do it, we believe in you.
I’ll be buying a hard copy of The Pussy once I drop by the local water fountain and then coinstar what I scoop.
More royalties coming your way, don’t be such a melancholic fag.
Go visit the LA Arboretum. There are PEACOCKS just walking around. Take the Dirty Mexican Cunt with you. She’ll like it.
P.S. We really need to deport the Jews.
This Comment was Sponsored by the LA Arboretum.
Jesus fucking christ, you’re a great example of narcissism. We get it. You had sex with him and you’re special. Read the whole fucking blog, you ninny, not just the parts about you. And give up your ass, already. That’s what the readers want.
The writer known as “Delicious Tacos” is the GREATEST writer in the entire Universe/Multiverse/Jewniverse, and is a TERRIFIC lover in bed, and has a HUGE cock.
We’re going to get married in the South of France and then live in a chateau, whilst Amazon royalties stream effortlessly into our co-mingled bank account.
Don’t be jealous.
-Angela Angie Angina XOXO
hey hey hey, settle down