Get Off My Lawn
22 MarHad a run in with some kids in the park. High school kids. One of them looked like he wanted to beat my ass. Talked like it too. They were getting hammered on the hill, it’s Easter break, and a couple of them were holding up their buddy who couldn’t walk. Just look at the path homie. Just look at the floor. The big guy, the oldest guy, glared at me and was like hey, what’s up homie. Something something nosy people get it too. What the fuck was he talking about. I wanted to understand and say the right thing so I could look “cool” to these hardass EXP gangsta teens. But, all I could say was, what?
Something something, you gonna piss people off, staring like that. Oh Jesus. I don’t give a fuck how drunk he is, I’m sure he could kick my ass, and there are fifteen of him all wearing the same color.
Oh, dude, I was just ah, your friend seems a little fucked up.
Whatchoo readin’?
I was reading Charles Bukowski. A collection called Septuagenarian Stew. In the future, everyone give your books simple fucking names. Give your sons simple fucking names, so I can say “Darkness by John Jones.” Septuagenarian Stew by motherfucking Charles Bukowski. Thank God I wasn’t listening to a Fiona Apple record. Continue reading
This Is An Attempt To Collect A Debt
5 MarI got something in the mail, some debt collector out of Oklahoma offering me some settlement on a credit card I never had. Someone stole my identity. Good for them. I hope they bought TV’s and Xboxes and got huge cash advances for massage parlors where they could prematurely ejaculate into some Korean sex slave. I only wish I didn’t have the ethical hangups that keep me from doing that kind of shit.
But now I have to call… not the debt collector, because if you’ve ever dealt with any kind of debt collector, you know they will give you no information. They’re like one of those grass seeds that gets up a dog’s nose; little thorns and barbs that make it only slide further up when you grab at it. Get some kind of admission from you of who you are and take this as an agreement that it’s your debt and bug you and bug you and bug you. They are masterful about this. Well, it is under your name sir, and you are liable. No, I have to call Citibank; I have to pay for a credit report, I have to identify in whatever jargon is used thereupon what item matches up with a Citibank credit card. The amount won’t be the same. The debt collector just makes up some huge amount and knocks off most of it to make it look like a deal. Then one in one thousand checks roll in. Free money. From a person so stupid and unsophisticated they think any official looking letter is gospel. Free money from the only sort of person who really needs it. Continue reading
I Beat The End Boss
4 Mar
I’ve crossed the cock rubicon and I can’t jerk off to porn anymore. For the first few weeks of my unemployment it was six to eight times per day. When I discovered that Bing enabled perfect porn searches I was in a kind of heaven. There was no hour unjerked. My penis was beat up and scabby but it responded nonetheless. Looking back now this was the penis Beatles. Studio 54 in the 70’s. Now nothing excites me. Continue reading
Hipsters Part 2
20 Feb
I am in a coffee shop slash independent book store drinking a 3 dollar cup of tea called “White Orchard.” In ancient China, only kings and queens were allowed to drink white tea, the foil packet tells me. I am wearing a cardigan. Avant garde jazz featuring baritone sax is playing. I am surrounded by people looking at Tumblrs on brushed titanium Mac laptops that were not purchased with their own money. The coffee shop is owned by Dave Eggers. I want to walk in and beat my own ass.
I am an unemployed white man with skinny jeans on and three days’ growth of beard hunting and pecking into a laptop in a coffee house at noon on a Wednesday. This is like the moment where a promising young black guy on his way to college makes one small mistake and finds himself on the prison bus. I am looking down at my shackles contemplating how I threw everything away. I would bristle when they called me a hipster. Nothing hip about me, I would say. I work in an office. No one can be hip when they use Microsoft Excel regularly. Not now. Continue reading
I Will Cure Your STD’s with the Power of Prayer
7 Feb
There is a Paypal link now, per a kind suggestion in the comments. It’s under “Support” in the Sidebar. It’s not a “Donate” button per se, because Paypal fucks you on “Donate” buttons now. They will freeze your shit for not being a 501(c)3 tax exempt charity. So instead it’s a button where you “buy” “support” for this web site and name your price. You may have to put a shipping address in there because it’s an imaginary “product” but I don’t give a shit where you live and will never share your info with anybody. They could have a hot knife to my balls and they aren’t getting shit out of me.
I won’t love you any less if you don’t give me any money, and I’m not going to hassle you about it. I don’t do this for the dough. Money I receive will be spent on alcohol and women. Meanwhile a child will die from preventable illness.
Thanks
Hey Birds:
30 Jan
So I hear cats are killing two billion of you per year. Listen up: you can FUCKING FLY, for Christ’s sake. If cats were taking out penguins that’s one thing, but you can FUCKING FLY. You sit on a telephone wire all day. If you can’t keep an eye out in your five minutes on the ground eating some old woman’s stale Wonder Bread and FLY AWAY when you see a cat, I have no sympathy. Good riddance, you winged jerkoffs.
New Book
delicioustacos 