Guest Post at Nikol Hasler Dot Motherfucking Com
14 FebI guest posted for my beloved Nikol over at her web site. It’s called “Take Valentine’s Day and Shove It Right Up Your Stupid Ass.” Have a look.
The Girls Cried When They Got Dillinger
12 Feb
Monica Quan was a human being who didn’t deserve to die. Keith Lawrence was a human being who didn’t deserve to die. Michael Crain was a human being who didn’t deserve to die. The San Bernardino deputy who died today didn’t deserve to die, although at least he saw it coming. In any case, these people were murdered in cold blood. Their mothers and fathers, their kids, their friends, are mourning.
Still, when I heard they got Dorner, I thought: fuck.
His fucking axle broke. Ain’t it always some shit like that. You have a perfect plan, and some random bullshit comes out of nowhere. It was like he slipped on a banana peel. They had Feds in Las Vegas, cops in Tijuana raiding hotels for him; they said he stole a boat, that he was stocking up on SCUBA gear. He may have accomplices and caches of food and weapons; he’s using burner cell phones; he could have a whole network across the country and they may never catch him. He could come out of nowhere at any time and kill any cop to get vengeance for everyone the cops ever fucked. And the cops became chickens without heads, falling over themselves to shoot up any pickup truck within 500 miles. We saw what really moved them. You call the cops and nothing happens. When they were afraid for themselves, that’s when they kicked into high gear.
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Work Diaries: Work Shit
11 FebDecember 2012
It’s too fucking cold. It’s too cold and I may have to take the dreaded work shit. Breaking a covenant I made with myself long ago, that after every shit would come a shower. They scoff at me for this, society. What’s the matter, can’t you wipe? Yes, I can, but this is not an FDA-permitted 3 rat hairs in your can of chili situation. Any amount of shit on your body ever is unacceptable. I wipe till the paper comes up clean or bloody, but that is not enough. If I shat on your hand, would you give it a couple dry passes with a napkin and call it a day? No, knave, you’d wash your fucking hand.
I live in mortal fear of any pair of underwear I own getting skidmarks on them. The white bits turning brown from my musky taint sweat is not an issue; holes are not an issue– there are boxers where my distended left nut hangs fully outside the garment and grinds into my car keys. I still keep them around. But once I see a skid mark, those underwear will be immolated. No exceptions. Continue reading
No New Messages
9 FebI want this 20 year old girl to message me back. This 20 year old girl with big tits and a big ass and a cute face, good bone structure, 20 years old. Looking for casual sex. What kind of sexual experience, she asked, do I have to give you to get my own entry on your blog. I ought not to have answered while drunk. A terrible one, obviously, I said. A shitty one. Well it’s the truth. If you just come over and talk to me and fuck me good and we’re not alone in the world for five minutes, where’s the fun in that. I need you to get in my head. I need you to hit me right away with the foreknowledge of loss. That’s what Gertrude pulled off. She had her flaws but I knew she was gonna leave me so there was something to think about. Plus I needed someone to come over and pick up booze on the way home. Life is pretty simple.
Autopilot
8 Feb
(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)
He was awake. Hands on a steering wheel. Trees rushing by. Most cars were self-driving these days but he enjoyed it the old fashioned way. Everything was coming back to him. He was on his way home. Emily was making a chicken pot pie. His favorite.
The day was over and he remembered nothing. The new stuff was perfect. Used to be you’d get an image peeking through once in a while, an emotion of some kind. The phone would ring and you’d get a little stab of fear. You’d still have no idea what it was about, but you’d flinch. Now, nothing. Waking up, nice hot coffee, kissing Emily goodbye. The drive to work; starlings swirling over the river. Pull up to his parking space– it was in god damn Siberia, but, who cared; he would forget the walk. Twist the dial in the crook of his elbow left, right, left again. Then he was awake and driving and the sun had moved. Ten hour shift gone by like it never happened. Continue reading
I Will Cure Your STD’s with the Power of Prayer
7 Feb
There is a Paypal link now, per a kind suggestion in the comments. It’s under “Support” in the Sidebar. It’s not a “Donate” button per se, because Paypal fucks you on “Donate” buttons now. They will freeze your shit for not being a 501(c)3 tax exempt charity. So instead it’s a button where you “buy” “support” for this web site and name your price. You may have to put a shipping address in there because it’s an imaginary “product” but I don’t give a shit where you live and will never share your info with anybody. They could have a hot knife to my balls and they aren’t getting shit out of me.
I won’t love you any less if you don’t give me any money, and I’m not going to hassle you about it. I don’t do this for the dough. Money I receive will be spent on alcohol and women. Meanwhile a child will die from preventable illness.
Thanks
Coffee Shop Diary: One Who Is To Be Loved
7 FebThere is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis. She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that. Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse. Not to talk about astrology. Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up. This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve. The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah. Interesting.” Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there. Her name is Amanda.
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New Book
delicioustacos 