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Throwing in the Jizz Towel

16 Apr

So– I no longer give a shit about getting laid.  Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny.  Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal.  We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing.  I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.

Except I don’t, because that’s the thing.  Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid.  I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid.  I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid.  Which I’m not.  Trying to get laid.

Like– twice in the past few weeks I’ve had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I’ve gotten along well with.  Perfectly solid girls.  4 stars on OKCupid for sure.  Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn’t take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her.  So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn’t happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night– sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED.  And both times, I blew it off.  I did the thing that girls do to me– I texted them that day that I couldn’t make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out.  Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass… I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates.  I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree.  Too much work.  These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when I was already drunk basically.

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Diary: Gas Powered Leaf Blower

14 Apr

A fucking gas powered leaf blower going. Which is illegal,right? Gas powered leaf blowers are banned. But I have never seen a leaf blower operating without the sound of a fucking outboard motor blasting. The ban on gas powered leaf blowers has had absolutely zero effect. What did they do– was there some amnesty where you could turn in your gas powered leaf blower in exchange for a toy or something? For an electric powered leaf blower? I’ve never once seen anybody using an electric powered leaf blower.

Still, the fucking gas powered leaf blower. Accelerating now. Crescendoing. And then diminuendoing, murmuring almost, then roaring again as its operator discovers a new patch of leaves. What the fuck does the gas powered leaf blower do? How is this a more suitable tool for cleaning up the approximately 30 leaves that accumulate in front of an apartment building in Studio City, where the flora consists almost entirely of evergreen or tropical trees? Why, in the area I am from in New England, where there is a legitimate problem with the enormous mountains of leaves dropped annually by oaks, birches, maples, etc.– why in that place where there are genuinely a shitload of autumn leaves to deal with, do you never hear a gas powered leaf blower? People go out with a rake and rake their leaves into piles. Kids jump in them.
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Protected: Old News: Seventy Seven Cents on the Dollar

5 Apr

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Everything Used to Suck Monster Balls,

1 Apr

and now it completely kicks ass in comparison.

For instance: geopolitical affairs.  Yes, we got wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Paul Kony going all crazy witch doctor and giving a bunch of kids guns that they don’t know which end the bullet comes out.  Well, when I was a kid, there was a place called the fucking USSR that had thousands upon thousands of multimegaton nuclear warheads pointed at your house and the entire world lived under the threat of total annihilation via thermonuclear war.  It wasn’t gonna be a clean death, either.  You would get directly incinerated by a nuclear blast if you were lucky, otherwise you would just have half your face blistered off and then suffer from accelerated cancer that turned you into a bubonic mutant.  And your very genes would be mangled, so that you had no hope of repopulating the earth.  Your children and your children’s children would be hideous flipper-limbed sentient tumors, and the water would be poisoned for ten thousand years and the sky would be full of lethal clouds fifteen miles thick and every food crop would wither and die and if they didn’t you wouldn’t want to eat them anyway because they would be full of cancerous poison.  And you would have dreams about it, as a kid– about once a week you would dream that there was global thermonuclear holocaust and you survived somehow but your parents were dead and the water was poisoned.  Because you’d turn on the TV and Ronald Reagan would be talking some hardass smack about how dangerous Russia was and we were gonna fight ’em and not roll over and that would sink into your head and all your dreams were about the end of the world, when you were eight years old.  What do kids have nightmares about now, 9/11?  Maybe kids in New York can get away with that shit, but we all know nothing is going to happen to you in Indiana.  9/11 isn’t shit.  Your real nightmare should be that no one even cares enough about you to bomb you. What are we afraid of now– Israel vs. Iran?  Who cares.  Continue reading →

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Old News: Occupy LA Part 2

31 Mar

Originally Posted 10/16/11:

I went down to Occupy Wall Street yesterday.  Occupy LA, rather, in front of City Hall.  I wanted to see what it was about, what people were actually protesting, what they actually wanted.  Also, I figured there would be girls there.

The talk on the internet seems to be that OK, it is understandable that people are pissed off about “the way things are right now,” but the “movement” has no concrete goals and really stands for nothing besides inchoate frustration. And so while it’s growing, while it’s spreading worldwide, while cops are cracking heads in Zuccotti Park and Carbanieri vans are on fire in Rome, until this “movement” gets its shit together and actually asks for something it’ll all be for nothing.

From what I saw at occupy LA this is entirely accurate.  First, I was a little disappointed that it is in fact a peaceful, organized protest.  There was a march right before I got there, which seems to have gone smoothly and in an orderly fashion.  There is a tent city around City Hall that is completely confined to the grass with fastidious volunteers appearing out of nowhere every five minutes to pick up cigarette butts.  Protestors happily stayed contained in the few streets that the city had conscientiously blocked off to keep shit from getting out of hand, and gathered around a stage and PA system that seems to have been set up with all the appropriate permits.  There was an adequate amount of Port-o-sans.  The few cops visible were the LAPD’s bike-bound squad of “courtesy officers,” or whateverthefuck they’re called.  They wear purple shirts that make them look like the world’s most militant kickball team.  They kept to themselves, returned eye contact and smiled when smiled at.  This is different, I gather, from New York, where the NYPD is crushing people’s femurs and throwing haymakers at nancy-boy college kids.  As is their wont. Continue reading →

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Old News: Occupy LA

30 Mar

Originally Posted 10/15/11:

Thinking about going down to Occupy LA today.  Not that I give a shit. Or rather, not that I think it is a meaningful movement with any concrete goals. And if they did have concrete goals, they would be impossible to achieve.

Not that I’m against them either—while the “I am the 99 per cent” people complaining about student loans seem dopey to me, far worse is this “I am the 53 per cent (of legitimate income tax payers)” canard; the people holding up signs that say  I bootstrapped my way to the bottom attending a state school while working 30 hours a week at a minimum wage job and never having an instant of freedom, now I will buy a shitty house in Phoenix and have kids who will also have to work 30 hours a week getting yelled at by some undereducated jerkoff because they didn’t adequately mop down the little channel between the beef and chicken grills at Arby’s — congratulations, you’re a fucking idiot.  I wasted my youth grinding myself down to the bone in the most debasing manner possible and now I insist that people with billions of dollars be able to contribute nothing, is what you’re saying.

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As a Miserable Human Being,

28 Mar

the concept of “hope” is still possible, but it’s hope in the negative. Hope that something doesn’t happen, such as a car accident or sickness or someone you love having a car accident or sickness. Hope that the toilet doesn’t break.  Hope that you don’t lose your job, even though you hate it.  Hope that that thing on your dick doesn’t turn out to be what you fear it might be.  Or if you’re a chick, hope that the guy you slept with after six glasses of inexpensive pinot noir didn’t fire that first drop inside you and that instead the reason your period is four days late because of some vitamin deficiency.  Like, it would have happened on time if you had eaten more spinach or chicken is what it is, not that you are now carrying the seed of a guy with visible pores in his nose and why does he keep such long stubble even though his beard is grossly sparse and patchy, and his hideous long nipple hairs… Hope that you didn’t leave the stove on, as you suddenly and vividly suspect you might have at 9:15AM in the office and you are going to be at work until 7 and that greasy pot holder was laying close enough to the burner you boil your coffee on that the air will be so hot that the potholder will certainly catch flame; you picture your cat trapped screaming in the smoking house roasting alive and the upstairs neighbors horribly disfigured, skin grafts from their thighs giving their faces that weird newtlike appearance for the rest of their lives because you left the fucking stove on… hope that that doesn’t happen.  That’s what hope is.

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Hepatitis C

26 Mar

Once you get desensitized to constant STD hysteria, there’s a new one.  This time a girl wouldn’t fuck me because she was scared of Hepatitis C.    Another silent killer that you don’t know you have, except Steven Tyler has it and look at him now.  Pamela Anderson has it and look at her now.  Well shit dude—I don’t want to look like Steven Tyler, but if I spent two decades smoking freebase rocks the size of basketballs and my dick hadn’t spent more than ten minutes outside of some MTV watching slag since the 70’s, I would count myself LUCKY to look like Steven Tyler, i.e. ambulatory and breathing.  But this Hep C is the new one; the new silent killer. Can’t scare ’em with AIDS anymore so we better tell the kids they’ll look like Steven Tyler.  Or worse, they’ll write songs like Steven Tyler.

Or they trot out syphilis, like it’s 1532 and we’ve been fucking cave bears.  Or they point out that Chlamydia sneaks up on you and goes untreated and ravages your ovaries and you’ll die alone a childless spinster.  These things have been around, you know—these are things that a 1942 sailor would laugh off after a quick shot of penicillin.  These are things they made funny posters about in World War 2—she may LOOK clean, private, but Rosie’s got a surprise.  And dudes fucked Rosie anyway and then their dick hurt and they got a shot and it was over.  And they laughed about it.  Which is what you SHOULD do about STD’s. Continue reading →

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Diff’rent Strokin’ Some Underage Cock

25 Mar

I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF’RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike.  Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth.  It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was– he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups.  But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass.  And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick.  Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired “tops” of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood.  Probably.

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Diary: Butternut Squash

23 Mar

Trying to cut a butternut squash. They should make the president’s limo out of this fucking shit.

What animal that has ever existed could possibly eat a butternut squash?  Isn’t the point of a fruit that wildlife eats it and disperses the seeds?  A fucking triceratops couldn’t get through this thing.

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