I Will Cure Your STD’s with the Power of Prayer

7 Feb

pat robertson

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

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Coffee Shop Diary: One Who Is To Be Loved

7 Feb

There 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.
Continue reading →

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Unemployment Diary: Money

6 Feb

Handling_atStore

Fuck– I gotta get gas.  Money down the drain.  Gas is too fucking expensive.  I hear there’s an oil boom in North Dakota; domestic production is gonna outstrip imports and we’re closer to energy independence.  Great, I’m sure we can all expect gas prices to drop real soon.

But, fuck it.  Who cares. I have no money, and I don’t give a shit.  I have no wife; I have no kids; I have no ailments.  Whatever education I need I’ll get off Wikipedia.  I have cheap internet so I can beat off and a bigass package of Von’s brand assorted chicken parts for 87 cents a pound.  What more do you need.  My car cost twelve hundred bucks and if it breaks I’ll buy another one for even less.  You can buy an old car for how much fixing a scratched bumper costs on a new car.  The Cubans are onto something; you can keep these old beasts running forever. High priced liquor is bullshit; all alcohol is caustic poison and it all tastes like ass.  So Von’s store brand brandy at 6 dollars a quart is just fucking fine.  They give it some fancy Dutch name, Van Der Hobo or some shit.  Getting drunk on it feels just as good. Continue reading →

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Work Diary Part Four: Bossman

6 Feb

July 2012

My boss is  a subhuman monster who should be tortured and killed in the most gruesome ways imaginable.  Flaying, fire, iron maiden– pruning shears nipping piecemeal at the genitals.  Acid.  Wild dogs.   Ants– fire ants, molasses.  Death by a canoe full of flies, like they had in ancient Greece.  Maybe psychologically broken first.  Call him fat or something.  Then physically tortured.  Then killed in a slow agonizing manner.  Then the corpse defiled, slashed almost but not quite beyond what is recognizable, and paraded in front of his family and whatever true friends he has, if any.  Then the family should also be killed.  Anyone sharing any genetic connection to this cruel and petty demon should be purged from the earth, maybe three or four generations back.  Incinerate the corpses, crush the bones, launch the remnants in small packets into deep space lest they reform into this thing again.  This thing that looks like a person but knows only hurt and selfishness.  This weird being, animate, but without a soul.  Without empathy.  Torture and kill him and play his screams over the PA system in schools, as a warning.  This is what happens when you are like this man. Continue reading →

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Unemployment Diary: What Do You Do

3 Feb

???

Pussy is heroin for the ego.  And I need a fucking hit.  It’s been a month.  Little more.  New Year’s Day was the last time.  I know I said New Year’s Eve is an ass desert and don’t go out and fuck New Year’s and etc.  But I was wrong; I took home an attractive woman I met at a  great party, and fucked her in the morning when I was sober enough for my dick to work.  Don’t ever listen to me.  But that was a month ago.

Gotta get back on OKCupid now but what do you say, you know.  All girls want to know what you do.  I’m unemployed.  I had put that I had a shitty job, but, a job is a job.  I had listed that my income was between forty and fifty thousand dollars a year.  Now it’s zero.  When girls asked what do you do, I would lie, I would tell them some outlandish shit.  But it was a lie with a powerful truth behind it, which was: I work on movies and TV shows you know about and love and I get to meet famous people and, you know, I have a place to go in the fucking morning Monday through Friday. Continue reading →

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Protected: Work Diary: God Damn Do I Want to Fuck My Intern

2 Feb

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Getting Fired Diary: Freedom Day Eve

31 Jan

Image stolen from flickr user andysternberg.

Tomorrow is Freedom Day.  My last day of work.  Most people in my work orbit don’t even know.  I don’t know how to tell them.  I don’t want to have the same conversation over and over.  I’m leaving the company.  They’ll try to sound out whether I left or got fired.  In fact, there is some nuance.  I’m getting fired, but I fucking really wanted to get fired.  Like when your house burns down but you hated that fucking house anyway, it was the fucking Amityville house with demons crawling out of pools of blood and you hallucinated that every meal was full of maggots, and at least now you can collect insurance.  They want to say I’m so sorry; they want to show sympathy for what they think I must be unhappy and scared about.  I don’t know any of these people, I realize now.  They don’t know me.  Because these jobs are like getting paid to slam your dick in a car door over and over  and anyone who does them is a fucking idiot.  We have such a short life; I have wasted so much of it at this.  I am glad to be free and I am sorry you’re still here, saying your work is going great like a battered wife talks about her marriage. Continue reading →

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Hey Birds:

30 Jan

cat-coot

So I hear cats are killing two billion of you per year.  Listen up: you can FUCKING FLY, for Christ’s sake. If cats were taking out penguins that’s one thing, but you can FUCKING FLY. You sit on a telephone wire all day. If you can’t keep an eye out in your five minutes on the ground eating some old woman’s stale Wonder Bread and FLY AWAY when you see a cat, I have no sympathy. Good riddance, you winged jerkoffs.

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Always the Same Shit with These Women

30 Jan

Don’t read this if it’s about you.

She is going crazy.  Asking if she can delete my number and facebook, then instantaneously OKC messaging me saying I DON’T HAVE YOUR NUMBER OR FACEBOOK SO I DON’T KNOW HOW GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU. CAN YOU TAKE ALL REFERENCES TO ME ON YOUR WEB SITE DOWN.  She is going to accuse me of rape or something.  Or have some guy kick my ass. Oh well. Continue reading →

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Shit Jobs: McDonald’s

27 Jan

mcds

Previous McDonald’s talk here and here.

I was sixteen and my mom made me get a job.  Again.  Learn the value of work.  She was right, it’s a lesson I retain decades later: the value of work is less than fucking zero, a negative eating away at your soul and your life.  So, thanks.  I applied at the McDonald’s in Kingston, Mass.

You had to buy your own McDonald’s shirt and special synthetic pocketless pants so you couldn’t walk out with a ninety nine cent hamburger warmed to ass temperature.  They took the money out of your first couple checks.   The checks came three weeks late; they’d docked sixty eight bucks for the uniforms they’d sold you, and taxes were taken out, something like a third of your check.  At that point you’d been working dozens of hours in the sweltering hissing clamoring kitchen, alarms constantly blaring, six hundred degree grills an inch away from the meat of your hands, swabbing the greasy tiles over and over with a filthy mop every time there was a two second lull in orders, getting yelled at– you got your check and it was fucking nothing.  You had known what taxes were in an abstract sense, the ten per cent federal tax bracket, but what you didn’t know was state tax, city tax, FICA, SDI… weird acronyms… your check came an ungodly amount of time later and there was nothing left.  The value of work.  Cleaning the toilet, a filthy log of shit breaching in piss yellow water with toilet paper snaked over the bowl and onto the floor about one out of every four times you went in there– the value of work. Continue reading →

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