What Do You Do
The Zombie Zone
Marcy Pendergrass was putting up the Halloween decorations. The one hot girl in the office. He’d been promoted but his cubicle was the same. Gray desk behind a gray wall five feet high. She held two rolls of fake police tape with cartoon letters. Do you want the vampire zone or the zombie zone, she asked. Continue reading
Every morning he thought: I can’t do this one more day. Often by the 5 offramp where a line of buses switching freeways made a bottleneck behind a blind curve. He’d be going fast around the bend and suddenly slow buses like a herd of elephant. Behind them an 80’s Jap pickup with six extra feet of steel pipe hanging out the back. Sometimes with a red rag tied on it. Sometimes not. Drivers from lawless places.
Pipe right at eye level and once a week he almost got lanced in the face like a jousting accident. He’d read about a woman killed by a flying manhole cover. She was driving and an oil truck bumping over it set it spinning like a giant Chinese star. Through the windshield into her eyes like the Simpsons’ dog with the frisbee. My luck it’d just make me uglier, he thought. Ugly blind and retarded. Then I’d step in the manhole. Continue reading
image stolen form aqua-freshwater.blogspot.com
I’ve psyched myself out of writing chapter 4 of Finally, Some Good News. Good. Fuck it. I can’t do it. Suddenly writing a blog post isn’t enough. What you need to feel you’ve written something just escalates. Fuck writing. Take a year off. You’ll never be famous and you’ll never even get laid from it again. Your readers are ingrates and bums. Fuck them all. Write something great and bury it, burn it. Make a statue and hide it behind a wall. Piss on the wall. Continue reading
The Women’s March worked. Trump was deposed. A pink pussy hat now president. Horny killers from Damascus welcomed at LAX by your girlfriend. Schools teach in Mexican. New Chief Usury Officer of Goldman Sachs is trans. Brianna Wu on the $100. Eye in the pyramid now Lena Dunham’s asshole. All pregnancies terminated; late term abortions turn babies into pugs. Ploughshares beat into social media brand management. All workers sponsored content ambassadors for Huffington Post. Doritos knows Black Lives Matter. New twins in Beyonce’s cunt brought to you by Audi. Lyft pledges allegiance to Sharia. Hadiths mandate polyandrous slavery to blue haired genders that OKCupid knows no word for. Something to do with My Little Pony. All porn now clips of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Sheryl Sandberg merges with flesh NSA servers like an anglerfish, stares back at you from the place you dare not look. Honey Boo Boo’s Mom Lost 200 Pounds You Won’t Believe How Gorgeous She Is, she says in your inner voice. Like This. Justin Trudeau’s hot soft hand on your back like your gym teacher who drank before noon; his robust yoga pants package crawling and awake. Angela Merkel’s spindly tendons twitch as she palpates your Soylent incubation sac. We won, you guys. Pepsi stands against racism.
Out in the park on a stump. Looking at snow capped Mount Baldy. A hummingbird hovers by a tall tree top. A nice day. I have therapy in 30 minutes. It will be the last time. I spent money on this, to get my AA sponsor off my back. Make him stop browbeating me about finding peace with women. It was this or go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. The therapist got me through grief about my father. Through panic about my own death. Life slipping away. When it came to women he said: sign up for a community college class. Continue reading
image stolen from waytofamous.com
I’m six foot one. Barely over peak age for a man. Visible obliques. Even in soft light now. I earn ninety four thousand dollars a year. Drive a new car. Live in a cool neighborhood. Not birth defect ugly. Hobbies. Passions. Rough edges but I’m basically a good person; I play guitar at expert level. Draw. Paint. Write at a supernatural level. Travel the world to see monkeys in exotic destinations. Good sense of humor. Discuss any topic. Genuine desire to learn and engage with these stupid women. Not into the rough sex thing but don’t mind wrapping a sinewy gym forearm and/or hand with insane classical guitar grip strength around her– not the throat– you want to cut off her blood supply. I don’t mind using my anatomical knowledge to painlessly crush her carotids while jamming a stiff finger the shitpipe; watch her watch herself sputter and weep in my full length mirror. Which is what it takes all women to cum now. At a minimum. I don’t like it. I do it for her. Continue reading
Jesus Christ I’m a middle aged man living alone in a one bedroom apartment with no door on the oven. I used to say a dirty toilet but you can eat off it now. I have an app where a different maid comes every month. Never anyone you’d fuck. Nowhere is there ever anyone you’d fuck. Life is work, AA meetings… the gym. Well there are girls at the gym and why don’t you talk to them. Because I’m a pitiful insect. Not rich not famous. I have saddlebags now. Double digit body fat; not fully visible obliques– I’m a hog, in other words. Occasionally a decent writer but that just means girls who don’t live near me want to fuck an imaginary version of me. Who do I have– a married woman in SF, college professor back East. A Chinese girl who lives in Switzerland now because she’s rich. Various red state types. Actually there’s a lot of girls who would fuck me from my stupid web site. So this paragraph that was meant to be a complaint actually makes things look pretty good. 1500 die hard fans contains at least 15 girls who are good looking. I’m pissed none of them has sucked me off this morning. Continue reading