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Coffee Shop Diary: Pussy Capitalism

1 May


Good morning. I’m at Woodcat. Again, this coffee shop is poorly designed. Everyone can see over my shoulder. If you can read this: suck my dick. I love raping children. Hitler was amazing. Nigger nigger faggot Jew, etc. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: First World Problems

5 Feb
image stolen from

image stolen from

All right. New coffee shop. This place and Dinette and Ostrich Farm are all– they’re all the stereotype. 43 year old white people in tangentially creative fields with robust salaries. Drivers of unusual Mini Coopers with ski racks. Girls with weird old money inbred jawlines and purple hair discussing a Tumblr about Women in Tech. People using the word curate. Curate is the new monetize. Get paid for something worthless. I hate white people.

The feng shui is off here. Every seat exposed so everyone in the room can read your laptop. It’s hard to look at girls’ tits. So it was designed by an idiot. Then again, I’m not what they want here. Weird aging lecher who spends little and leers at girls and frighten them. Maybe it’s made so I wouldn’t like it. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: Ass

14 Jun
image stolen from

image stolen from

She’ll break my heart but I don’t care because my asshole hurts. She’s going on a date with another dude. I don’t want her to. There’s other complicated shit. Who cares. My ass.

I’m afraid it’s cancer. A polyp. Started hurting after four days of diarrhea from bad spinach. Figured it was the acid. My asshole was just overworked and surly. But it got worse. It hurts a little when I sit and a lot when I cough. When I adjust. Until your asshole hurts you don’t know how much you pucker it in life. Suck it in. It’s like a second mouth and all day you’re nibbling your lower lip. When I do that it’s like a rat’s chewing through it. Abrasive pain. You understand why Richard Gere pulled the gerbil’s teeth. It hurts when I shit, obviously. But also when I jerk off. Your asshole pulsates when you nut. Who knew.

Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: Power Outage

1 Mar
image stolen from

image stolen from

Fucking shit. Storm knocked out the power at home. Had to go to the coffee shop. Bought my fucking chai and the wireless doesn’t work. Everything is a hassle. At least the girl next to me is pretty. Model face, like Chelsea. Broad nose, blue eyes. Fat pink top lip stuck out like Jimi Hendrix ripping a solo. Black yoga pants with a little zipper on the top of her ass crack. Chelsea’s eyes. Smart enough that you want to talk to her, dumb enough that you have a shot.

I have fucking shit to do and the power will never come back on. We will revolt and starve and die. I should have bought a gun. If society collapses, at least I can rape this broad in the tight black pants.

And of course, she walks behind me; sees my screen. Sorry. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: Megadrought

17 Jan
image stolen from

image stolen from

The coffee shop. It’s hot today. There was a fire. Big brown clouds out of Glendorra that make the light look like the apocalypse. It’s not going to rain, we are told. Ever again. The pine trees in the park are cracked and brown and the city’s going to come and raze them all. Their bark has been ravaged by the pine beetle. It preys on vulnerable pines in times of dearth.

What’s more this jerkoff’s gigantic head is blocking my view of the one hot Asian chick in the cafe. Do not sit between a man and a hot young piece of ass, if your skull is the size and shape of a wall mounted air conditioning unit. There is another girl across from me. Ruddy faced Irish broad but she’s wearing a low cut V neck dress and about an inch and a half of tit is showing. I’ll have to make do. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: Cock Magellan

12 May

diverse smiling women

Look at that. Fat floppy Mexican teenage ass in yoga pants. Some men would be appalled by this, but I want to know what that ass looks like naked.

My buddy who travels around the world fucking whores says at some point you get sick of fucking. You’re not horny and you don’t want to cum but you keep buying three dollar malnourished Cambodians anyway because you just want to see what your dick looks like going in a new one. You’re just curious.

That’s the deeper difference between women and men, I think. Not how horny one or the other is but that chimplike curiosity, or the lack of it. Women never see your ass and think what kind of panties is he wearing. They never summon Jedi concentration to envisage a black strip of thong fabric rubbing against a little puckered pink butthole. Does she have a hairy pussy, a waxed pussy, a shaved pussy, an innie, an outie; is it pink, is it dark– hard to guess; she has dark hair green eyes. Continue reading

Coffee Shop Diary: The Smell of My Wang

3 May
The girl in this story looks somewhat like adult film performer Christine Young.

The girl in this story looks somewhat like adult film performer Christine Young.

I can’t stop fucking looking at this woman and I can’t stop being aware of what a fucking dork I must look like, resting my face awkwardly in my fingers. It is extremely uncomfortable but I can’t stop doing it. Because she’ll know I stopped doing it because I was afraid she would think I’m a dork. I can’t make eye contact but I can’t look away so instead I give her this squinty side-eye. And she knows, she knows, that I am supremely unworthy to ejaculate into her fertile young womb.

If I had a huge wang it wouldn’t be like this. I would just shoot her a glance that implied “hey, I have a huge wang.” I know I’m a jittery weirdo in a coffee shop at noon on a weekday but my member is unusually thick and lengthy. Therefore, nothing else matters. She could smell it on me. The smell of my wang. Her mind would try to resist but her loins would be inflamed by some pheromone and she would have to give me doe eyes. She would be forced to gesture that I follow her into the bathroom where she would “present” to me, bending over against the cardboard ass gasket dispenser upon which somebody has sharpied “Free Cowboy Hats.” Her cooch would pucker wetly in anticipation and I would slowly drive my impossibly thick fleshy snake into her hot meat tunnel and fill her with thick spurts of my manly seed. She would convulse, satisfied that I had given her a son who would also have a huge wang. We would shake hands, businesslike, and part company. Instead I look for something in my tea.