Old News: The Magic: the Gathering® Guy and That One Chick

18 Apr

Originally posted 8/30/11:

So, no one who is possibly reading this post has not heard about this:

The girl who went out with a guy off OKC, found out he was a world champion Magic: the Gathering® player, was ostensibly appalled and wrote a Gizmodo article about how she was stunned and it’s a huge dealbreaker and etc.

Couple things.  First, as Forbes was quick to point out, of course this is an obvious troll.  This woman, desperate to make a living in the non-lucrative world of blog writing, has just said “fuck it,” you know, I need something that gets a million hits. So I’m gonna write about how I’m a chick who was appalled to date a nerd, thus getting the two commentingist, complainingest groups on the planet to catch fire over my article.  Chicks and nerds.

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Throwing in the Jizz Towel

16 Apr

So– I no longer give a shit about getting laid.  Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny.  Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal.  We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing.  I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.

Except I don’t, because that’s the thing.  Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid.  I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid.  I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid.  Which I’m not.  Trying to get laid.

Like– twice in the past few weeks I’ve had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I’ve gotten along well with.  Perfectly solid girls.  4 stars on OKCupid for sure.  Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn’t take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her.  So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn’t happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night– sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED.  And both times, I blew it off.  I did the thing that girls do to me– I texted them that day that I couldn’t make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out.  Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass… I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates.  I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree.  Too much work.  These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when I was already drunk basically.

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Review: Willem Dafoe’s Wikipedia Entry, and by Extension, His Life

15 Apr

Imagine you are Harry Potter.  At the beginning of the first book.  You are living under the stairs in a cramped mildewy closet at the Dursleys’ and your only companion is a fat kid who bullies you and your caretakers are horrible neglectful and cruel pricks and you have no hope of life ever being something else.

UNTIL a motorcycle riding giant shows up with a snowy owl on his hand and says “’Yer a wizard, Harry.”  Your mom and dad were secretly famous wizards and you are destined to be the most famous powerful wizard of them all and let’s go on a magical shopping spree and buy robes and magic wands and gaze upon fantastical beasts, and then on such and such a date make your way to the magical train platform that only special magical people can see and you are to be whisked away to a fairy tale castle full of sumptuous feasts and doe-eyed girls in awe of your power and magical knowledge that will turn you into an ass getting killing machine. Imagine!

Then imagine that you get on the magic train and show up at the magic school and instead of the promised castle the school is just another shithouse full of fat assholes, and your room is another mildewy closet under the stairs; there is no magic taught there. The whole thing was just a scam to extract your meager savings, and Hermione was ugly. Continue reading →

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Diary: Gas Powered Leaf Blower

14 Apr

A fucking gas powered leaf blower going. Which is illegal,right? Gas powered leaf blowers are banned. But I have never seen a leaf blower operating without the sound of a fucking outboard motor blasting. The ban on gas powered leaf blowers has had absolutely zero effect. What did they do– was there some amnesty where you could turn in your gas powered leaf blower in exchange for a toy or something? For an electric powered leaf blower? I’ve never once seen anybody using an electric powered leaf blower.

Still, the fucking gas powered leaf blower. Accelerating now. Crescendoing. And then diminuendoing, murmuring almost, then roaring again as its operator discovers a new patch of leaves. What the fuck does the gas powered leaf blower do? How is this a more suitable tool for cleaning up the approximately 30 leaves that accumulate in front of an apartment building in Studio City, where the flora consists almost entirely of evergreen or tropical trees? Why, in the area I am from in New England, where there is a legitimate problem with the enormous mountains of leaves dropped annually by oaks, birches, maples, etc.– why in that place where there are genuinely a shitload of autumn leaves to deal with, do you never hear a gas powered leaf blower? People go out with a rake and rake their leaves into piles. Kids jump in them.
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To My Future Wife

13 Apr

I have been looking for you for fifteen fucking years. Different cities, different scenes. I dated a crackhead and a needle junkie, thinking they might be you. I went on dates with hundreds of girls. I went to every party, every bar, every class, every stupid fucking extracurricular activity looking for you. I was in a bunch of bands; I figured you might show up. I got a job in the movies so I would seem cool when I met you. I learned how to cook. I toiled at the gym for hundreds and hundreds of tedious hours so you would be pleasantly surprised when I took my shirt off. And still, to this day, I go out almost every goddamn night to some sadass sausage fest in the faint hope that you might be there. So how about this. How about YOU start fucking looking for ME. Whatever I’m doing is obviously not right and I’m not going to join a goddamn quilting class or something. I’m done. I’m going to be at my apartment playing Xbox and why don’t you just show up and fucking knock. I’m tired of paying all this rent.

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OKCupid

13 Apr

I Gave You 4 Stars.

You gave me 4 stars.

Let’s get hammered on cheap red wine and bone down all nice and juicy to some Vangelis.

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Protected: Old News: Arnold

12 Apr

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Internet Pussy: The Cave of Forgotten Dreams

11 Apr

I’m good at internet dating.

This means I’m good at taking a girl out, getting her a little drunk, and then fucking her.  I’m good at steering the second date to dinner at my house so I don’t have to drive to get laid.  I hear a lot of “I’m not usually like this” so I figure, you know, I must be onto something.*

Anyway.  Point being, I am good at internet dating, and that is horrible, because it’s one of those things that if you’ve had enough practice to be good at it you’ve failed in some larger sense.  Like— being good at pulling your own teeth.  Being good at showing people you’re not a pussy when you show up to a new prison.  It’s awesome that you’re a badass but the idea is that you figure your shit out and don’t have to go back. I wanted a relationship out of this, not 5,000 pieces of pussy.  I wanted some god damn companionship.  Someone I can call when the clouds are pretty or something and say, you know, go look at the pretty clouds.

Instead, I have merely gotten a ton of meaningless ass.  And then I’ve taken the confidence from getting that ass and taken it into the real world to get other, even more meaningless ass.  And it’s made me complacent.  Maybe there is viable girlfriend material out there but I can’t be bothered to look for it because I’m driving out to Sherman Oaks to bone some nineteen year old.** Continue reading →

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To My Future Son

10 Apr

Never have a job you have to explain. Just like you should never have a Halloween costume you have to explain. Your whole life just becomes the same fucking conversation over and over.

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Old News: R.I.P. Arch West, Inventor of Doritos

9 Apr

Originally posted September 27, 2011.

The last bag of Doritos I ate before the death of Arch West were the best I’ve ever tasted.  We were up in the mountains, me and my fake girlfriend.  Smoggy and hot in the city but up in the Sierras it was cool, clear day, and we stopped at the Native American Cultural Center to check out some artifacts—longbows and shit made from pelts.  It was a welcome relief from a tough week, and the two stoned Mexican guys running the federally funded shack and posing as Native Americans had a cooler of soda and basket of various chips for sale.  We chose original flavor Doritos and a Coke.  The classic American snack.

Something about the mountain air, the rigors of the wilderness; something about the long grueling week– the experience of eating those fucking Doritos was magnified.   I could taste freshly harvested corn pulled from a heartland field in the dawn.  Chilis hand dried in an adobe marketplace by a Toltec woman with hard, withered fingers.  Salt delicately culled from the nurturing bosom of the sea.  These Doritos tasted like life, seriously.

It brought to mind how about every three months for the past several years I’ve thought, apropos of nothing: who is the guy who invented Doritos?  This man will get no Nobel Prize, but what he gave the world brought more joy than virtually anybody.  In retrospect, I might have known that the universe was giving me a chance to truly taste the man’s masterpiece before he passed to the great beyond. Continue reading →

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