I’m gonna fuck a goat and set a school on fire. I’m gonna inject my wang with saline so it’s nine inches long and four inches wide and then run naked through a church service. I’m gonna eat a Volvo 240 station wagon and shit out a perfectly sculpted steel statue of Minnie Pearl fully nude delivering an infant Kenny Rogers while forest creatures look on in awe. I’m gonna grow six extra tits and suckle a pack of needy orphans. I’m gonna huff household cleaning products ’till my eyes look like an albino rabbit and take a journey that is at once within myself and also to the outermost reaches of the cosmos. It will last a lifetime but when I look at my watch only seconds will have passed.
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The Googleplex
1 SepI love the big fantasy, that people who work for Google are playing ping pong and napping in giant bean bag chairs all day at the Googleplex. That the whole company is just a giant rumpus room in a split level ranch home from 1972. Florence Henderson will bring pigs in blankets around and there’s plenty of Sunny D in the fridge. In fact it has to be a giant taint smelling veal pen where unlaid nerds are just staring glassy-eyed at computers and coding for sixteen hours at a stretch. Or managing people who are coding, figuring out how to extract the most amount of coding out of them for the least amount of money. And there are no women, despite, I’m sure, their efforts to bend over backwards to try to recruit as many women as possible to code out of a sense of social justice or whateverthefuck. There are no women for them to hire. Women aren’t interested in coding. And it’s because coding sucks. Women are right not to be interested in coding. In math, engineering, science, the so-called STEM fields– all those things are fucking excruciating and women are smart to stay the fuck away from them and the flabby Aspergian gnomes who populate those fields.
But if I were a recruiter, I would save a bunch of dough on the ping pong tables and face massages and just hire five decent looking chicks. Every coder in the world would flock there.
Ron Paul Gives Me One of Those Rock Hard Pulsating Erections with a Dewdrop of Precum on the Tip
30 Aug
Reposted from the comments section of my esteemed colleague’s post.
I was sitting in my house getting hammered last night and for some reason cued up some Ron Paul youtube videos. Or not “some reason–” I was thinking about politics, and I remembered how at Occupy LA the Ron Paul people were the only folks there with any kind of coherent idea of what the protest should be about. And they had the hottest chicks. “Who is this Ron Paul fellow,” I thought. “His acolytes acquit themselves shockingly well.”
Watching Ron Paul youtube clips felt like discovering porn clips of a crazy fetish you never knew you had. That first weird porn that gave you the fastest, hardest boner of all time, and forever rendered all the vanilla porn you had watched “meh” in retrospect. I’d watched other pols and occasionally felt like “mmm… that’s kind of true, I guess.” But every fucking thing out of Ron Paul’s mouth made me pump my fist in the air and say “fuck yeah” out loud. It was emotional. The profound joy of hearing and agreeing with truth, mixed with shock at hearing a politician in a major party debate speaking the truth. Like– “holy shit, I’m watching a politician, on the news, and he’s telling the truth about the way shit should be!” I would have been less surprised by Godzilla ripping into the building and eye-lazering Wolf Blitzer to a crisp on live TV. And I felt shame at being so surprised. That our society and politics are so fucked that this guy is considered nuts. Every fucking thing he said was obviously true and right– how is he being dismissed as a lunatic jerkoff. Not only by “the establishment” but by every person I know who basically feels the same way about politics as me. Look, I fucking hate Ayn Rand too, and believe me I thank the Lord every day for abortion, but– get fucking past it, people. The guy is eighty years old and from the kind of town where a sign says “N*gger, don’t let the sun set on you here.” You can forgive a couple rustic reactionary tics. Continue reading
Well at Least
25 AugI’m not short. At least I’m not fat. At least I’m not bald, although if I ever start going bald you better god damn believe I will have plugs planted in rows like a freshly planted cornfield. At least I do not have clinical micropenis. Merely an average sized white man’s penis, which in the face of inflated penis expectations due to pornography and only guys with huge dicks ever feeling comfortable showing their dicks, feels like clinical micropenis. At least I don’t have AIDS. At least I don’t have herpes. At least I don’t have adult acne. Or anything that needs to have “adult” in front of it. Adult ADD, I don’t need to use adult diapers, etc. At least I’m not out in the street wrapped in 6 parkas swatting yellow jackets away from my collection of malt liquor cans, hypervigilantly guarding my hoard of layers and layers of plastic grocery bags wrapped protectively within still more layers of plastic grocery bags from the watchful eye of the government.
Penisworkmoneychickenxbox
25 Augis going to be the name of my child, if I happen to conceive one today.
Penisworkmoneychickenxbox Jones. Because those are the things I’m thinking about.
Also, it’s an ancient Hebrew name.
How to Not Kill Yourself
20 AugTony Scott killed himself. Tony Scott made a bunch of awesome movies that kicked ass, lived the A list Hollywood life in the 80’s where he presumably did tons of blow with Don Simpson, made millions and millions of dollars, lived in a nice house, had nice cars, and not one single piece of pussy on the entire face of planet Earth was off limits to him. Late into his life he was still an A list director, the hardest job to get besides President of the United States, and a place in life that thousands upon thousands of people struggle and fail to get to and almost nobody is able to sustain for so many decades. He produced TV shows that will continually crank out sums of money so vast that no one could ever spend it, forever. He worked for his whole life with his brother. Most of us can’t stay that close with our families and wish we could. He jumped off a bridge.* Continue reading
I Have a Dream
15 AugEvery four months or so I’ll have a dream that I can suck my own dick. I’ll be—you know in dreams, sometimes you just appear in a situation—I’ll be there with my dick in my mouth, thinking “holy shit! It’s not a dream this time! I can really suck my own dick!” Continue reading
Tippy the Thirsty Squirrel
14 AugIf I didn’t have to fuck, I would move to Montana. Get a cabin; get some acreage. Out there you can own a pond. Maybe; I have no fucking idea. But I’m pretty sure you can get a place on a fuckton of land with a breathtaking view of snow capped mountains and possibly a creek running through it where you can flyfish, if you’re into flyfishing. Huge meadows, maybe lightly forested, that bloom in the spring with tiny delicate wildflowers. Songbirds massing on trees to pick berries in the fall; stopping through on their way to Panama. Elk. Deer. Wolves maybe. Bears. Maybe one nosy and mischievous bear with whom you are constantly in an arms race as he finds more and more fiendishly clever ways to get into your garbage and you find more and more Rube Goldbergian ways to keep him out, and you secretly respect and take delight in such an adversary until one day he mauls your dog and you have to just shoot him. Then he becomes an awesome rug for your hearth. His face snarling in the firelight, even though in life he just looked a bit curious and dumb like a gas station attendant who hasn’t done math in fifteen years trying to figure out a piece of long division. Continue reading
I Hope the Light Changes
11 AugSo I don’t have to keep avoiding eye contact with this man who risked his life for our country and is now destitute, while I live in comfort that I did nothing for.
Diary: Halloween
10 AugI now hate Halloween after blowing my lunch hour buying a hair dryer for my Warren Beatty/ SHAMPOO costume and getting embroiled in a pre-Halloween day line at the Goodwill like it was 1939 and people were trying to get out of fucking Czechoslovakia, and it was caused by an elderly woman at the front disputing the price of a pair of underwear. No joke. Fighting for it like it was the last pair of high waisted rayon panties on earth and similarly her two dollars represented the very last American currency in existence. Or something. I should have just walked up and given her a buck, but you know, fuck helping people. Or I should have left. But I couldn’t risk it. I might never again have had an opportunity to purchase so perfect a replica of Warren Beatty’s hair dryer so cheaply again. When the world hands you an opportunity like that you have to fight for it, with every fiber of your being.
New Book
delicioustacos 