Alpaca Farming
24 AprYeah, just stay away from alpacas, though. Because I know they have those ads late at night, between “BUY GOLD NOW” and “they’ll bring the diabeedus kits right to yer home,” and they show a little blonde boy frolicking with the angelic baby alpaca, you know. But it ain’t like that. They’re fucking surly, they bite, and their natural defense is to spit a hardened wad of mucous at your eyes or chest at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Also, the alpaca costs like 30 grand and it produces ten pounds of wool per year, which retails for $17 per pound. You are trapped breeding more and more thirty thousand dollar alpacas to sell to the next sucker, forever.
Dear Roxanne: Seeking a Second Job
22 AprOK seriously- why are you doing this? Is there any universe in which you do not land one of the worst jobs in America? Is there any way this gets you enough money to help with your debt in any meaningful way instead of merely making you so miserable that you are useless at your actual job, which you attended this expensive grad school to get? You are going to be “expressing” dogs’ anal glands at the pet groomer. You are going to be chastised by the most vigilant janitorial supervisor in the world for leaving a chunk of excrement in the executive washroom toilet which said supervisor discovered checking under the bowl rim with a dentist’s mirror. You are going to be hauling the giant bag of the day’s fetuses out to the biohazard dumpster behind the late term abortion clinic, to the jeers and taunts of protesters, and the abortion clinic will have been too cheap to even spring for an opaque bag. It will be a clear plastic bag which will on some days have a particularly horrible mutilated fetus part that will put you off your lunch, or, occasionally, a relatively intact fetus head that seems to make pleading eye contact with you from behind the plastic, and its forlorn mommy-why-did-you-kill-me look will haunt you forever. Something like this will happen. There is no one who knows you at all who doubts for one second that the second job you get will be something horrible, debasing, and destructive to all positive aspects of your life, because that is just the kind of shit that happens to you.
Don’t do it.
Old News: R.I.P. Arch West, Inventor of Doritos
9 AprOriginally posted September 27, 2011.
The last bag of Doritos I ate before the death of Arch West were the best I’ve ever tasted. We were up in the mountains, me and my fake girlfriend. Smoggy and hot in the city but up in the Sierras it was cool, clear day, and we stopped at the Native American Cultural Center to check out some artifacts—longbows and shit made from pelts. It was a welcome relief from a tough week, and the two stoned Mexican guys running the federally funded shack and posing as Native Americans had a cooler of soda and basket of various chips for sale. We chose original flavor Doritos and a Coke. The classic American snack.
Something about the mountain air, the rigors of the wilderness; something about the long grueling week– the experience of eating those fucking Doritos was magnified. I could taste freshly harvested corn pulled from a heartland field in the dawn. Chilis hand dried in an adobe marketplace by a Toltec woman with hard, withered fingers. Salt delicately culled from the nurturing bosom of the sea. These Doritos tasted like life, seriously.
It brought to mind how about every three months for the past several years I’ve thought, apropos of nothing: who is the guy who invented Doritos? This man will get no Nobel Prize, but what he gave the world brought more joy than virtually anybody. In retrospect, I might have known that the universe was giving me a chance to truly taste the man’s masterpiece before he passed to the great beyond. Continue reading
To the 35 Year Old Virgin
4 AprGo lose your virginity at a whorehouse.
Do it tonight. Forget about it being something “special.” You have been a virgin for 35 years- no matter what you do it is going to be “special.”
Think of your virginity as a cancerous growth on your face. It pops up at puberty, and at 13 it’s cute, like a beauty mark. But it slowly grows. By 17 it’s starting to look a little weird and people that still have it are at a social disadvantage. By 20 it’s malignant, with irregular borders and three huge Armenian chest hairs coming out of it. By thirty fucking five you have something that looks like it should be on Baron Harkonnen about to pop all over some poor slave and you need to get it cut off before it metastasizes to your brain.
So here’s what you’re going to do. There is a neighborhood in Fontana called “Felony Flats”. This is about a 45 minute drive outside L.A. Basically you’ll come to a whole district of cinder block buildings with big signs in front that say things like Osaka Massage and Kyoto Massage. These people will actually be Koreans, but let’s not split hairs. I applaud them for not giving a fuck that we think all Asians are alike. Pick any one of these places. They all have ample parking.
The front door will be a steel grate style like the athletic cage in high school- a place your fat ass never visited, so, like the athletic cage in a high school from a movie. Behind it will be a steely-eyed Asian man with whom you might not even exchange words- he might just hold out his hand. Give him $40. Forty in the door, and you’ll tip the girl sixty, but you don’t do that until after the whole thing is over. The man will lead you to a small cell-like room with a bed in it. It may double as a storehouse for disinfectant and Korean Bibles, seriously. Take all of your clothes off and lay down on the bed, with a towel (provided- do not bring your Spongebob Squarepants beach towel) over your dick. It is important that you take off your clothes right away- if you don’t the girl will know you have never been to a whorehouse before and may laugh at you, or try to extort you for more money. Do not ask how I know this. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 