Pet Theory: Barack Obama Sucks Now Because He Quit Smoking

12 Oct

You ever quit smoking?  For a year? Five years? A decade?

No.  No you didn’t.  Because if you ever smoked, you still look at a cigarette in front of you like it’s the other guy on the deserted island turning into a talking hot dog in those old Looney Tunes cartoons. You walk past one of those tall outdoor ashtrays with a nice long butt in it and you turn your head as you walk, track it with your eyes.  And your heart beats a little faster.  You imagine it– the feeling, the tickly rush over your limbs as you take that first deep drag, hold it in; your head takes off with sparkles and stars and suddenly everything’s going to be just fucking fine.  You will never feel that again.  You will never even feel “OK” again.  If anything remotely adversarial happens you will ascend into an ever-escalating paranoid freakout and blame everyone around you for everything bad that ever happened until you want to murder your own children with your bare hands. And you will never, ever be able to do anything about it. You didn’t quit smoking.  You’re just waiting too god damn long for your next cigarette. Fiending for decades while your mind slows and your soul turns into a hard flinchy thing that only knows hate.  Friends, family, society, helping people– who gives a fuck.  I need to glare out the window and mutter about those who done me wrong. Gonna get them back some day.  Once I get the energy.

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Reader Mailbag: Are You Dead or Something?

11 Oct

My 4 fans ask:

How come you haven’t posted in so long– did you die?

No, I just took a week off.

It was just such a weird week that I didn’t even beat off.  Or I did, but less than usual.  I have beat off just about every day for the past 26 years, but this week– the car was dead; I would have to take the bus home.  The 218 half an hour over Laurel Canyon, drop off at Sunset and Crescent Heights, wait half an hour for the 2– not the 302, which Google Maps had assured me in its public transit directions would pick me up and take me home toute fucking suite— the 2.  Because the 302, which is the bus that comes by two minutes after the 218 reaches Sunset and Crescent Heights, that one will just blow right by you as you stand hanging half off the sidewalk holding your briefcase like a jerkoff in a whirlwind of leaves and wrappers stirred up by the 302 and you’ll swear that the driver had a malicious gleam in his eye. Black guy.  I assume he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you, cracker!” as he deliberately ignores my stop.  In reality, he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you cracker!” As he goes about his prescribed route which does not include my stop.  Go ahead and think “fuck you, cracker,” by the way, black people.  None of us care. Continue reading →

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Diary: Gertrude Part One and a Half

11 Oct

You get a text on Monday morning from a girl you left at your house. The text is inventorying the contents of your jack drawer.  Notably there is an artificial vagina in it made by filling a plastic cup with water and flour paste, pushing a hole into it, and covering it with a condom.  You microwaved this creation while on cocaine and affixed it to your vibrating rubber duck and ergonomic airline neck pillow and it was the ne plus ultra of artificial vaginas; so far above and beyond the not inconsiderable amount of previous prototypes.  This is the one that flew.  It is has now taken on opportunistic airborne yeast and sat in the sun and become a perfectly formed uncooked dinner roll with a warped cast of your half-stiff cocaine penis in the center.  She’s amused.

She had written you a letter.  Like out of Bukowski’s WOMEN.  Dear so and so, I’ve read your blog and your OKC profile and blah blah blah.  We should have sex.  Well, yes.  Yes we should.

Still.

Still. Shouldn’t have sent her that second text this morning.  But no.  No.  Don’t overgame.  She’s a very straightforward person.  The larger issue is, making decisions about whether you want to hang out with a girl when you’ve been fucking her at night, receiving her unparalleled blowjobs, but not cumming.  Not cumming because she told you very matter of factly that your small penis could not get her off.  Also because you were fucking her and it got hot, she got into some position that was going to make you pop instantly; you stopped, and she said you should have gone ahead and cum anyway because your dick is too small to get her off.  You can’t tell if it’s because of this or just getting past that rubicon; sometimes you’re either going to cum prematurely or not at all.  Then you sleep with her all night naked and just keep making out with her in the morning; her little body… and you should have beat off in the shower, but you didn’t, so all day in the office your nuts feel like some swollen half-fermented fruit hanging overripe from the tree ready to fall off. You can feel your heart beat in your nut sac, painfully.  So you desperately want to see this person again but it’s just because you’re horny like an animal at your desk and you just keep seeing that ass, that ass, that ass, the way holocaust survivors must see the mule carts stacked with bodies flashing in their mind’s eye over and over again.
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How Did They Know

2 Oct

 

I only looked at this web site to read about the world’s largest pumpkin.

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EXCLUSIVE Preview Chapter from Kenny Rogers’ Upcoming Memoir: Luck or Something Like It, Available October 2

1 Oct

Kenny’s first-ever autobiography, Luck or Something Like It, releases on October 2, 2012! Kenny wants to thank you for your unending support “through the years” by offering an exclusive preview excerpt from the book to his fan community. This exclusive sneak peek is available only to those who are directly connected to Kenny through his social networks.

I was staying on the outskirts of Nashville, working on some new song ideas in my hotel, when I received a call from Larry Butler.  Now, you may not know Larry’s name, but you know his work.  He was the legendary producer behind the some of the greatest hits of yours truly, Johnny Cash, John Denver, and countless more.  You got a call from Larry Butler, you listened.

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Gertrude Part Two

30 Sep

She makes me cum too fast.  I can’t be completely honest about her because she reads this, but this is one thing she already knows.  Fucking on that couch; it’s hot, my balls keep slipping under her ass on the sweaty leather and getting squashed but it’s pleasurable.  Her ass is just wringing out my distended sac, and it makes me pop off in two seconds every time.  I want to say: let me take a moment to reel in my dirigible sized nutbag so your sweaty ass doesn’t keep rubbing it in the leather; this is what’s making me prematurely ejaculate, but– how do you ever say that sentence.  I can barely even type it.

But also because she is twenty two years old and small and not on birth control.  Just the smell of the back of her neck.  Just the smell of her.  Laying around my hot apartment for two days without showering.  My bed is awash with her twenty two year old ovulating cuntmusk.  I wish it had been fifty days and we lived in god damn Nigeria.  In some malarial swamp where she would sweat more.  I wish she would eat Indian food and go jog up a mountain in the one hundred and eight degree heat and then wrap herself in layers and layers of every piece of clothing I own under a heat lamp.  Twenty two.  There is no faking it.  This is the thing that billions of dollars and millions of man hours of science are trying to recapture; white bunnies getting their eyelids ripped off in stacks and stacks of wire cages and sprayed with chemicals; people getting their faces slashed up and pulled back like Ed Gein, soaps and lotions and perfumes and hours of grueling tendon wrenching excercise.  All to approximate this: the version that God made. Continue reading →

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Gertrude Part One

28 Sep

I received an email via this blog:

************
Want sex/need STD test

I’ve been reading your blog for the past hour or so. I saw your OkCupid profile on my handle (REDACTED), in which I’m a 29 year old bisexual woman who lives in Los Angeles. I am actually a 22 year old straight woman who lives in Long Beach. But I work in (REDACTED neighborhood). I’m also 5’4, not 5’10. We should have sex.

You haven’t seen my views on OkCupid because I turned on anonymous browsing. I use that profile to look at exes and people like (REDACTED), who I had awesome sex with for two months until he broke things off because he found out that I was fucking (REDACTED minor celebrity).

(Phone number)

Oh, it’ll have to be protected sex unless you want to wait until my October 2 STD test.

********* Continue reading →

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The Way Things Should Be

27 Sep

All work is beneath me.  I should spend my days enthroned, being sexually serviced by sixteen year old virgins.  I should just be constantly impregnating our nation’s teens.  All of womankind should exist solely to serve as vessels for my offspring.  I should have a variety of fruits constantly available to me, regardless of whether they’re in season.

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OKCupid: Online Now!

25 Sep

Ain’t that the motherfuckin truth; OKC blowing your game with the constant “Online Now” shit. I’m trying to appear aloof here. It’s like these people never tried to get laid before.

I’m trying to appear like the kind of person who doesn’t have to seek out dates on the internet when I’m seeking out dates on the internet. Like I’m too busy failing to return the texts of, you know, models and stuff who are constantly haranguing me for a date. Models and PhD’s and like United States Congresswomen. Supreme Court Justices, but hot. Tennis stars from Russia. I’m way too busy ignoring this army of gorgeous accomplished women who would give their left nut to go on a date with me to be browsing this site as constantly as this status indicator would have you believe. Just so you know.

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Dear Molly Part Twelve

25 Sep

Look- here’s the deal:

You are broke

Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt

You just turned thirty, and your eggs are dried up, only good for autistic retarded children

Our industry is collapsing

You live in squalor with filthy pets

You are a revolving door of meaningless relationships with untalented comedians who will only endlessly break your heart

In a cycle of diminishing returns

BUT

BUT, MOLLY

Wait, brb

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