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Stage Fright
28 FebWhen I was a kid in the 80’s, we used to go to ballgames at Fenway Park. And when you had to piss, it was– there were no urinals. There was one toilet and it always looked like a Dinty Moore™ beef stew grenade had exploded in it. No– you had to piss in a long communal cast-iron trough shaped like a bath tub with rusty, tetanus-y looking pipes feeding a trickle of water into it. I was like 8, and you had to stand around this thing with no less than a dozen middle aged men, all drunk, with their schlongs all out right near 8 year old eye level. And something about Boston– these were old world schlongs. The ungroomed old country schlongs of rough and brutal men. Somehow no man born of pure immigrant stock ever has anything less than a giant winking sea worm, ascending back into a tangle of salt and pepper pubes that have never once been trimmed. Men of this time and place never fucked with their pubes once, in their entire lifetime. Irish guys with flame orange thickets. Swarthy, suspicious men, with Bin Laden dickbeards and brown snakey uncut sausage three shades darker than the rest of them.
I don’t know if you’ve seen a lot of underage wang, but the penis of an 8 year old white child is like a doll’s pinky finger, and beholding these veiny, hideous anacondas was terrifying. I couldn’t pee.
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You Ever Feel Like
24 FebYour whole life is just that moment when you’re trying to leave a voicemail, and you hear I’ll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up, or press “pound” for further options. To send a fax, press– and you’re like, OK, fuck this. You press “1” to get straight to the beep.
But the voicemail woman cuts you off, and suddenly her tone is somehow much smarmier. I’m sorry: “1” is not a valid option. I’ll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up… and it goes again, from the beginning, through this whole long litany of options you have, such as somehow implausibly sending a fax to someone’s mobile phone. Because unbeknownst to you this is one of the approximately 40% of phones where pressing “1” will not get you straight to the beep. Instead it will trigger a stern-sounding non-apology from this woman, where the voice actress completely nails the tone of someone ostensibly apologizing to you for some inconvenience, but who in her heart is only sorry that you are too retarded to know that pressing “1” will avail you of nothing. It will only force her to patiently repeat the many options she has already taken the trouble to lay out for you very clearly and now has to waste her precious time explaining again. Continue reading
Everybody Thinks
13 Febit’s so easy for everybody else.
I was at a party. A party full of gays. Me and a gay guy were talking about dating, and he said something to the effect of: “well it must be great for you, because you’re a straight guy in LA. You can get whatever you want whenever you want.”
WHAT THE FUCK????!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Does this guy not know? Has he not seen every single party and bar and restaurant and grocery store line, ever, in Los Angeles? There is never an attractive enough to fuck girl ever, and if there is she has a boyfriend, or there are three of them and 10,000 guys, or there is one by herself but she is creeped out at the prospect of even looking at you. And of course he’s never been on one of these online dates where it seemed like it was going pretty good until you went for the makeout halfway in and she turned her fucking cheek toward you, because it turns out she is new to online dating and hasn’t yet gotten the memo about how the plan is we show up, we drink, we fuck. She thinks it’s going to be some old-timey courtship from the antebellum South where maybe you get a kiss on the third date if her chaperone nods off after a mint julep on the porch, and then I high five the slaves on my way out.
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To My Future Son: Don’t Have a Career
10 FebThey tell you, and I don’t know who “they” is because frankly nobody ever told me this but I somehow got the impression anyway—they tell you to get a job and have a career and make money and women will be attracted to you. “Men like looks,” they say. “Women like success.” It’s a common countercomplaint when feminists accuse men of objectifying women; the guy will say back “well, you women better stop objectifying my wallet, amirite?” The “take my wife, please!” of antifeminist arguments.
So you go out and get a job. You try to get into a good college and you study and you intern and you get a toe in the water of some status-y “career” field and you get up early and you stay late and you read work-related material after work and you network with work-related work jerkoffs and you suffer under some cruel old work prick who believes himself better than other human beings because of his work in some lofty status-y career field and you work and you work and you work and you work. And part of what drives this is the dread instilled in you when you read that in 2020 to put a kid through college will cost sixteen billion dollars and Social Security will have dried up and you better be sitting on a cash hoard of ten million billion trillion dollars conservatively invested because health care costs will have reached the level where only a class of feudal overlords can afford a tongue depressor. And there will be no “safety net;” there is literally nobody who believes programs like Social Security and Medicare will still exist in our financially post-apocalyptic future. We all know we are headed toward a Randian thunderdome where our old age will be spent guarding a 55 gallon drum of drinking water with a shotgun and removing our own tumors with steak knives. If you don’t want this to happen, you better sink a bunch of borrowed money into school, and then work. And you better not spend whatever pittance is left of the 22 grand your post-college job earns you on fun; you better save and invest, according to the 401k presentation the commissioned salesperson who gets a small piece of what they withhold from your meager check tells you, because if you don’t, at age 23, begin taking advantage of logarithmic growth to accrue a massive privately-invested nest egg, you will be cannibalized by gangs of cyborg Hottentots, and your bones picked clean. And your children. And your children’s children. Continue reading
Fuck “Your” and “You’re”
10 Feband “there,” “their” and “they’re–” I need a chick who throws a diæresis in “coöperate,” and an “æ” in “diæresis,” but doesn’t use a diæresis in “diæresis” because you are not, without this forewarning, going to pronounce “diæresis” as though “iæ” were a a monosyllabic diphthong. I need a chick who carefully searches for the correct combination of keys to make a circumflex over “rôle,” but ONLY when discussing a part played by an actor. I need a chick who says “AN historian.” In fact, she better really hammer the “ANNNNN” in a sly nod to anyone else out there who thinks someone who says “a historian” is an illiterate savage. I wouldn’t date anyone who says “I would like” unless they’re talking about some counterfactual fantasy universe. I wouldn’t like to date that person. See, I can say it, because I’m not really ever gonna hear someone say “I would like to go out with you” outside of a counterfactual fantasy universe. I’m never gonna hear someone use the correct “I should like to go out with you,” either, but I WOULD really fucking like to date that person. She’d have studied classics and she’d use words like “Grecism” pronounced as though it had a cédille, but she would cringe a little every time because pronouncing a “c” like that is the fucking opposite of a Grecism.
Also, no fat chicks.
Peanut Allergies
3 FebI had a buddy who was allergic to nuts. Before it was cool. I didn’t even know about it until a dish featuring almonds was served and he politely declined. He just tactfully, simply stated: “I can’t, I’m allergic to nuts.”
No one does that now. Anyone who is allergic to nuts, or especially people whose children are allergic to “peanuts and tree nuts,” which like “autism spectrum disorder” is now something that happens to approximately seventy per cent of all rich kids—everyone who is allergic to nuts makes it into this big movie-of-the-week where they’re going to swell up and die just from looking at a god damn peanut. Continue reading
Diary: The Dogs Bark
1 FebThe stupid fucking barking dogs. Incessantly, always barking. They begin at about seven every morning. Must be when they’re let out of the house. They walk out the door and down the steps to the front gate and just stand there and bark without ever stopping even for one second. Bark bark bark. Bark bark bark. And of course, there are fifteen other houses on the street with multiple loud, unruly dogs, who all join in a chorus of bark bark bark, bark bark bark. But these two, this neurotic border collie mix and his little white terrier buddy– the smaller dog, as is often the case, seeming like the boss– these two are the instigators. These are the guys who will bark at anything, must bark at everything. If you are in doubt about whether you should bark at something, you better bark at it. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 