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Number One Fan

19 Apr

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A woman is flying from back East to visit me.  A fan.  She is fucking crazy, but I’m having her come out anyway. I need it that bad. Plus, Bukowski did it. Had girls fly out to fuck him for a couple days. He also killed a guy with a typewriter and slept on garbage cans– should I do that shit too? But if you write a couple hundred thousand words about fucking fat chicks and jerking off you start to get emails. Girls asking after your impotent, prematurely ejaculating micropenis. It can’t be that small, can it? They don’t want the image to interfere with some fantasy they have. Girls read about your emotional and sometimes physical abuse of other women and think: do me next! Continue reading →

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Coffee Shop Diary: A Pretty Girl

17 Apr

Damn, this girl is really pretty. Which means she’s dating some guy in a band. Some guy with a job. Some guy with a smaller nose and a bigger dick. Some guy who is more confident. Some guy who would go talk to her at a party. Or perhaps this selfsame coffee shop. She sits there reading wishing a not bad looking guy would talk to her and one day one of them did and now he’s dating her. Listening to her discuss her boring schoolbooks, yes, but also fucking her. White skin black hair. Like she ought to be in a Frazetta painting wrapped around some barbarian’s thighs as he lofts a claymore over a dragon’s corpse, its eyes still glowing. Her fingers digging into the meat of your back. She notices the mass you have added to your rear deltoids. A tough muscle to isolate but you took care to hit it hard and now she notices. Her sweaty pussy on a hot day. She’s maybe 24. Young enough to have that glow, but an adult. Someone has her. Not you. You should have bought an amp and got in a band. Whatever. Her shoes are stupid.

Protected: Weekend Journal 4-13-13: Pay for Play

17 Apr

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Protected: Weekend Journal: Curse of the Monkey’s Paw

8 Apr

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Reader Mailbag: Fantasy Island

3 Apr

sw snacks

A GIRL I’VE BEEN CORRESPONDING WITH ON THE INTERNET WHO WANTS TO VISIT ME FROM OUT OF TOWN writes:

can you write a thing of all the things you’ve fantasized about doing to/with/on/in/etc me?

or am i not allowed to see that yet

because that’d be entertaining

I mean: I want to fuck you. That’s pretty much it. You know what fucking is like. The dick goes in the hole. Maybe I’ll put your wrists behind your head but I’m not gonna choke you or any of that shit on the first date. My cat will probably come in the sliding door I’ve left open, walk in the room, and meow. We’ll have a little chuckle. The mood will be ruined. I will continue shuffling my flagging erection into you in a workmanlike manner but I won’t be able to cum. I’ll jokingly apologize and get up and get more booze. Give the cat a can of food. Then you’ll stand behind me as I read shit on reddit. We’ll laugh but you’ll be thinking: what the fuck? This guy could have my wet young pussy and he wants to watch Russian dash cam videos? I’ll be thinking: who cares. I fucked her. Check. Now I can not think about it for a while. Also, unlike these World Star Hip Hop fights, the fucking Russians know how to break it up with a left occasionally. Black guys it’s just right right right right right. Continue reading →

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You and Your Men

2 Apr

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The new one is a professional swimmer. He has raced with Michael Phelps, he must have to say as soon as every single person asks about Michael Phelps. He can swim slightly faster in a straight line than virtually anyone else in the world, except Michael Phelps. Also, many creatures with no frontal cortex can beat him easily. But he is connected to something shown on television. I bet guys who worked for Bernie Madoff got pussy when he hit the news. Just be something they’ve heard of.

Before that it was a guy who worked for Brad Pitt.* She liked him. He had access to Brad Pitt’s luxury box at Dodger Stadium and she took her kids and they all met Brad Pitt. Before that it was some director. Before that, some DJ. Before that a porn star, whom I envied until I saw what he had to fuck in his porns. I hope they paid him well. Before that it was a comedian. Then an editor who had money somehow and had just moved out from the South where he was cutting cartoons; before that a guy who had his own theatre production company. A guy who had worked at the White House as the Undersecretary of Something. The old guys with white hair had money, always. That was nice. Nice dinners, a present for the boy. Continue reading →

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Reader Mailbag: How’s OKCupid Working Out?

25 Mar

worldwarzpostersmall

Background here.

(REDACTED) asks:

Hey Cornelius,

How has the new “You should message me if…” section been working out?

Not well, but who gives a shit. I had one date. A girl I messaged when she had no picture. When it finally went up she was cute, but we had established rapport. If OKCupid’s  World War Z unlaid hordes had known she was hot before I talked to her, who knows. The date was OK but we will not go out again. She is allergic to cats, and also, she does not like me.

Sent out a couple other messages, got nothing. They were my copypasta:

“I want to go out with you.

Basically.”

The girls were cute and seemed interesting. Their bones had been picked clean by World War Z no doubt. Continue reading →

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Old News: Adria Richards

22 Mar

This is a post about this person.

Adria Richards is not a person. She is a hologram reverse engineered by woman-hating reactionaries to perfectly fulfill every antifeminist nightmare. There is just no way that this human being can really exist.

Or if she does, I salute her canniness. She is the hedgehog who knows one thing: how to latch on to PC self-flagellants with computer money and promote herself without actually doing any work or spreading any knowledge. She is a perfect creature of our time.

She doesn’t deserve death threats, but, as a Developer Evangelist she ought to know that a twitter death threat is as credible as a craigslist ad for free pussy. The guy didn’t deserve to get fired but, who knows. Maybe they just needed an excuse. He mentioned liking his job, which means he sucked at it. If you’re leaving enough on the table to be happy at the end of the day you aren’t a productive worker. Like a wise man once said, what would it take for them to kick Jordan out of the league versus a guy riding the bench?

Continue reading →

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Coffee Shop Diary: Not a Vegan

15 Mar

 If she were interested in fucking me she would have asked how the mac and cheese was.

I thought I had an opening. I had asked about the macaroni and cheese. I actually don’t know how it is, she said. I don’t eat cheese.

(pause)

I’m not vegan.

An in. I like that you threw that in there, as though I were gonna judge you. “As though,” I said, not “as if.”  I wanted her to know that if I were to ejaculate in her our offspring would use conjunctions correctly.  I’ll tell you if it’s any good.  That way you can present an informed opinion from now on.  Keep the eye contact.  She bites her lip; I am in.  I will dig out this coffee shop waitress’ musky snatch after one of her stupid band’s shows.  She’s a drummer, I gather, from her not being able to shut the fuck up about it to everybody.

Later she walks by and I’m eating it and she doesn’t ask how it is.  She remembers nothing of my perfect off the cuff banter.  All your charm is written in water.  On the wind.  By a unicorn that is only in your imagination.  Women don’t remember you.  They only remember famous people. 

I need to get some notoriety from this shit.  Plus I need my words and ideas to change lives for the bett– no, I just need some fucking pussy.  I need the pussy EZ-Pass; actually talking to these girls is too damn hard.

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Reader Mailbag: Do You Get Laid, Or Do You Not Get Laid, Or What?

15 Mar

Various readers ask:

You talk all the time about how you can’t get laid and then you turn around and talk about how you got laid. Which is it, are you a loser or a player?

I am not a player. I am an alcoholic.  I sit at home or in a coffee shop miserable all day muttering to myself and terrified to even look at a woman.  Waiting for the sun to go down so I can drink. Then I have a couple pops and alcohol turns me into a pussy superhero.  I will approach anyone, say anything, come up with hilarious and insightful shit off the cuff and push and push and push until they fuck me. Any drug you get into enough, even depressants, will eventually start energizing you.  Heroin newbies nod off and sleep through their high but an old time junkie feels pumped up after a hit; he’ll be prancing around the room and shadowboxing. Because I am a practiced drunk, I can stay lucid enough to be funny when drinking.  I can stay on my feet as I drink and drink and drink until inhibitions and fear go away.  Getting a girl to fuck you is a 12 round match.  Just stay on your feet and don’t get knocked out by your own fear, by “shit tests,” by logistical problems, whatever. Your opponent will tire herself out.

I’m a sadass Clark Kent during the day and pussy Superman at night. That’s why there are so many bitter diaries talking about how I’m never gonna get laid, and then fuck stories from that same evening. Valentine’s, New Years, Fourth of July, Halloween, were all like this. I hate special occasions but I always get pussy on special occasions.  It’s like I’m two different people.  Both are assholes.

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