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STD Diary 2006: Tales from Non-Gonoccocal Urethrographic Oceans

20 Jun

I hope this is my last STD news until the warts show up. Negative for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

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Ooh— you little motherfucker. New job, new bathroom, new stage fright story. This disease makes me piss every fifteen minutes. My prostate is inflamed and it gets all swollen with urgency at these times. And so I go in there to take my piss and there’s a guy— nerdy, nebbishy looking guy, obviously a screenwriter, and again, I go in, give him a cursory head-nod, and he gives a subdued “hi.” Nothing wrong yet. Except now I’m about to piss and he starts going to town over at the sink, riding the fucking soap pump like it was a slot machine and activating— they have those stupid laser-activated sinks, and they give no hot water, and only this stingy one-second burst— and he’s waving his hands in front of it again and again. And then he grabs about fifteen c-fold paper-towels out of the dispenser and rubs them over every hand surface with great vigor, and then REPEATS the process— so at this point it’s clear that he’s an obsessive-compulsive. Continue reading →

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STD Diary 2006: Non-what-the-fuckal What-the-fuckitis

19 Jun

Non-gonoccocal urethritis.  The parking ticket of STD’s. Or if gonorrhea is the parking ticket of STD’s , this is the jaywalking ticket of STD’s— a good metaphor because you don’t even have to get in the car. I got it from a blowjob. FROM A BLOWJOB! When I was about to bone this chick the first time I was about 75% hard and she blew me , briefly, so I could get the condom on properly. There are ironies there I don’t even want to get into. But that’s how you get “NGU,” I guess. It’s a bacterial infection– ok, wait— who gets an STD FROM A FUCKING BLOWJOB? Continue reading →

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Remember

17 Jun

Whenever you jack off, all your dead relatives are watching you.

And they, too, are jacking off.

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The Crustaceans

15 Jun

When I was a kid, I used to always have this vision, this sensation, that there were these slimy black crustaceans, kind of like a crayfish, visible only to me. They lived underneath everything. And whenever I would touch a wall or a chair or something they would latch on to my hands and fingers with their knobby little black pincers, first a few and then more and more until there were thousands of them swarming up my arms fast as fuck and eating me. They had prickly little pincer-legs, glossy black eyes on twitchy little stalks, rows of serrated little mouth-feelers rippling up to a weird spiny-armored alien mandible– and I would basically have to shake the shit out of my hands to get them off, so hard that my thumb would snap into my fingers and make a loud noise. That was the whole point: my mind wanted to make me do something loud so that other people would notice and I would be embarrassed. When I saw that other people could hear it and were looking the sensation would only get worse, more vivid. I could feel their sharp little serrated mouths chewing into my skin, and the urge to shake them off would just fucking amplify… and I would just be standing there like a dick, everybody looking at me, with my arms kind of hanging out by my sides like a crippled bird, shaking the shit out of my hands and snapping my fingers and thumbs together. This was from like 10 to 13.

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Celebrity Sighting: Busta Rhymes

13 Jun

From 2005:

I saw Busta Rhymes in the gym. He was with a whole crew. They stopped the regular gym music and put on… a fucking Busta Rhymes record, the one where he says “If you really wanna party with me/ Put your hands where my eyes can see.” The entourage was rocking out to it, and Busta started repeating the lyrics to them in weird primitive English, like: “it say: ‘put yo’ hands where my eyes can see!’” But speaking, not rapping. And they would laugh uproariously for some reason.

That’s how I want to travel someday- with a cadre of jewel-encrusted black men the size of tyrannosaurs, who laugh whenever I speak like it was the funniest fucking thing they ever heard.

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Protected: Inflatable Pig

12 Jun

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Eulogy for a Lizard

9 Jun

A couple weeks ago I came home and there was a lizard in the hallway.  Little one– one of the brown lizards that are always crawling on the walls of my apartment building.  I tried to catch him; scoop him up with a pizza delivery menu, because I figured my cat would get him and torture him to death.  But he was too quick.  He scampered under my dresser.  Which, OK.  If he’s fast enough to get away from me, maybe he’s fast enough to get away from the cat.  Now I have a lizard in my house.

I saw him a couple times after that– he’d come out into the bathroom where there are spiders and silverfish and moths and stuff, presumably to hunt. I liked this idea, of having a lizard in my house.  I liked that there were adequate insects in the place to feed him.  He was part of the household. You know.  Doing an important task.  Taking care of harmful pests. Continue reading →

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I Live Alone

7 Jun

I live alone.  It’s great if you like shitting with the door open, which I do.  It’s great if you like jerking off.  I can jerk off anywhere, any time, for any reason.  It’s great if you like making food with strong-smelling sauces that you then fail to refrigerate because you’re drunk and instead let sit on top of the stove at room temperature for several days. It’s great if you like leaving your brightly colored American Apparel® “mantie” underwear scattered in various corners instead of the readily available laundry basket, and the clean laundry is also in an unsorted pile next to this laundry basket, and you forget which brightly colored American Apparel® “mantie” underwear you have worn and which you have not, and you can’t tell by smelling them, even the clean ones still smell slightly like taint, the way your mouth still tastes a little bit like puke even after you brush your teeth– but who cares, because no one’s going to be smelling your balls today anyway.  Maybe just turn them inside out to be safe. Continue reading →

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Jury Duty

6 Jun

Jury duty.  I have fucking jury duty.  Which I would LOVE, I would LOVE to be on a jury, if I didn’t actually have responsibilities at work.  Go in, see a slice of life, you know, a cross section of all of Los Angeles.  Watch a video about our founding fathers.  Jury of your peers, because the British practiced Roman law where you were guilty until proven innocent and your fate was decided by some aristocratic judge, some fifth cousin of a baronet with a powdered wig on who always sided with whoever owned property.  I would love to be on a jury– because whoever walked in, whoever was accused, there is no WAY I am sending that motherfucker to jail.  No matter what the crime, no matter how strong the evidence.  Sorry.  We throw too many people in jail over too much bullshit and some nineteen year old black kid who did something stupid is neither going to be deterred nor rehabilitated by getting thrown in a piss-smelling concrete warehouse with a bunch of dudes covered in tattoos made with sharpened paper clips. You are walking, sir.  I don’t give a fuck if it’s the trial of the guy who robbed me. Continue reading →

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The Title Sequence from Me & Nikol’s Aborted Youtube Puppet Show

2 Jun

We open on:

Blackness.

Blackness blacker than black.  The blackness of the darkest soul.  The blackest night.  A really really black guy, standing in a very dark room, not smiling.  Or if he is, he is wearing a mouthgaurd that is black as Hitler’s dick.

Then a single mote of light slowly fades into view.  A tiny spec.  Light.  Hope.  This dot, containing multitudes, seems to be struggling within itself.  Suddenly, in the briefest of moments, the mote EXPLODES with unholy force.  The sound of a thousand school buses being dropped on a canyon full of tympanis and aluminum foil.  The light EXPANDS, pushing out into STARS, GALAXIES.  NEBULAE.  OTHER COSMIC TERMS.  Camera FINDS within this infinite maelstrom of twisting spirals and hot colorful gases a TINY BLUE DOT.  This is EARTH.  VOLCANOES are exploding.  ROCK FORMATIONS, jagged and cruel, are pushed up out of hot magma only to recede, crushed. Continue reading →

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