Women of OKCupid:

29 Mar

Why are you all so god damn fucking boring?

There are about 3 profiles of single women in the greater Los Angeles area that reveal ANYTHING about the person whatsoever.  The rest, you are browsing this shit and you feel like God only made 5 people.

There’s the I was born in Wisconsin, went to school in Pennsylvania, came out to LA three years ago and haven’t looked back! The geography person. Who the fuck– we all live in America, we all watch the same TV shows, why the fuck do you think it matters one iota what state you came from. Unless it’s some weird shit like Alaska or Wyoming, this is genuinely the most meaningless information in the world. Even if you came from one of those places.  I’m not looking to get a state drunk and rawdog them; I want to do that to a person.

There’s the “contradiction” person.  This might be the blandest one of all.  I initially appear really shy and introverted, but once you get to know me I’m the life of the party! (This one often enjoys exclamation points).  I’m a traditional girl at heart, but I think outside the box! I’m a girly girl, but I love sports! I can be really nice and really mean!  I love reading books but I also enjoy trashy reality TV– shhh, don’t tell anyone!  Jesus– these fake examples I’m coming up with are actually more illuminating than the real thing.  This one is a deliberate construct that is designed to tell you nothing. Continue reading →

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OKCupid: Hey Fuckstick, How About YOU Make ME Laugh

29 Mar

Because we all know you like to be made to laugh; you’ve told us, over and over and over again.  Collectively you have said “live laugh love” or “make me laugh” a thousand million billion times.  Or you’ve put up the whorish-sounding “make me laugh and you can make me do anything.” Make me laugh and you can sneak it in my ass, is that what this means?  Make me laugh and you can jerk off in my mouth while watching porn?  Make me laugh and I will fuck guys off craigslist and bring you back the money?  I mean, I shouldn’t complain about this– I am not a professional comedian, but I consider myself funny.  And girls do in fact “do anything,” although the “anything” that I’m asking for is just to fuck me in the most vanilla manner imaginable.  I don’t require that they cook me a meal or take me on a date or engage me intellectually or anything, and they certainly haven’t offered.  Make me laugh and you can make me do anything.  That pretty much spells it out– you bring the personality, I’ll bring the pussy.

Continue reading →

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As a Miserable Human Being,

28 Mar

the concept of “hope” is still possible, but it’s hope in the negative. Hope that something doesn’t happen, such as a car accident or sickness or someone you love having a car accident or sickness. Hope that the toilet doesn’t break.  Hope that you don’t lose your job, even though you hate it.  Hope that that thing on your dick doesn’t turn out to be what you fear it might be.  Or if you’re a chick, hope that the guy you slept with after six glasses of inexpensive pinot noir didn’t fire that first drop inside you and that instead the reason your period is four days late because of some vitamin deficiency.  Like, it would have happened on time if you had eaten more spinach or chicken is what it is, not that you are now carrying the seed of a guy with visible pores in his nose and why does he keep such long stubble even though his beard is grossly sparse and patchy, and his hideous long nipple hairs… Hope that you didn’t leave the stove on, as you suddenly and vividly suspect you might have at 9:15AM in the office and you are going to be at work until 7 and that greasy pot holder was laying close enough to the burner you boil your coffee on that the air will be so hot that the potholder will certainly catch flame; you picture your cat trapped screaming in the smoking house roasting alive and the upstairs neighbors horribly disfigured, skin grafts from their thighs giving their faces that weird newtlike appearance for the rest of their lives because you left the fucking stove on… hope that that doesn’t happen.  That’s what hope is.

Continue reading →

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I Don’t Want

27 Mar

to go out with you.  I want to just fuck you.  But I don’t want to fuck the kind of girl who just fucks you.  And I don’t want to go out with the kind of girl who just goes out with you.  I want to fuck the kind of girl who goes out with you, and go out with the kind of girl who just fucks you.

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Hepatitis C

26 Mar

Once you get desensitized to constant STD hysteria, there’s a new one.  This time a girl wouldn’t fuck me because she was scared of Hepatitis C.    Another silent killer that you don’t know you have, except Steven Tyler has it and look at him now.  Pamela Anderson has it and look at her now.  Well shit dude—I don’t want to look like Steven Tyler, but if I spent two decades smoking freebase rocks the size of basketballs and my dick hadn’t spent more than ten minutes outside of some MTV watching slag since the 70’s, I would count myself LUCKY to look like Steven Tyler, i.e. ambulatory and breathing.  But this Hep C is the new one; the new silent killer. Can’t scare ’em with AIDS anymore so we better tell the kids they’ll look like Steven Tyler.  Or worse, they’ll write songs like Steven Tyler.

Or they trot out syphilis, like it’s 1532 and we’ve been fucking cave bears.  Or they point out that Chlamydia sneaks up on you and goes untreated and ravages your ovaries and you’ll die alone a childless spinster.  These things have been around, you know—these are things that a 1942 sailor would laugh off after a quick shot of penicillin.  These are things they made funny posters about in World War 2—she may LOOK clean, private, but Rosie’s got a surprise.  And dudes fucked Rosie anyway and then their dick hurt and they got a shot and it was over.  And they laughed about it.  Which is what you SHOULD do about STD’s. Continue reading →

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Diff’rent Strokin’ Some Underage Cock

25 Mar

I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF’RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike.  Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth.  It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was– he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups.  But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass.  And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick.  Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired “tops” of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood.  Probably.

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When I Die

24 Mar

For God’s sake, don’t mourn.

Use my death to get laid. Go to a party, talk to a girl, kind of be brooding a little bit, and when she asks you what’s wrong, say “my friend died today.”  Open up to her about your feelings; tell a couple anecdotes about how close we were, things you will remember about me that will change the way you live the rest of your life.  Like I tell women that I wear mismatching socks because my friend who died always wore mismatching socks and my group of boarding school friends all decided upon his death we would never wear matching socks for the rest of our lives.  Girls love this. In reality, my friend who wore mismatching socks is still alive and I just stole his idea, but still.  If I die, you have this for real.  Start never wearing matching socks. Chicks eat this shit up. Continue reading →

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Book Review: Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James

23 Mar

(If you like this shit, check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)

Right now, your mom is masturbating to a dirty book about a guy who duct tapes a young girl to a chair, blindfolds her, gags her, beats the shit out of her, then pulls a tampon out of her cooch and fucks her period pussy before spraying hot, salty jizz all over her face.  With his huge cock.  His huge, huge cock.  So huge that she is scared of it, your mom in character as this 21 year old girl. The girl whom she is pretending to be while she is flicking her middle-aged bean is younger than you.  She is younger than your younger sister.  She is a mere four years older than you were when your mom would have been horrified to find a pack of purloined Virginia Slims crumpled up in your Levis when she was doing your laundry.

Right now your mom is pretending to be a girl who literally just turned old enough to drink, who meets a notorious but reclusive billionaire “industrialist” who made huge sums of money in the way that women think “industrialists” make money, which is: they don’t know, so he just owns a bunch of factories where things are made by hand right here in the good old U S of A and a bunch of farms where man and beast alike are treated ethically and humanely.  When asked about his massive hoard of non-inherited money bootstrapped from nothing with the sweat of his brow the man, who is under thirty, speaks of how he “knows people” and the key is his forty thousand employees, all of whom he has hand-selected and pays what they’re worth and listens to their ideas and etc., even though his army of hot young blonde secretaries are terrified of him.  The girl had to interview him for the school paper when her cub journalist roommate got sick, and then he tracked her down and made the girl his fuckslave. Continue reading →

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Diary: Butternut Squash

23 Mar

Trying to cut a butternut squash. They should make the president’s limo out of this fucking shit.

What animal that has ever existed could possibly eat a butternut squash?  Isn’t the point of a fruit that wildlife eats it and disperses the seeds?  A fucking triceratops couldn’t get through this thing.

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What Do You Do

22 Mar

You can’t get out of the “what do you do” question. It is always, ALWAYS the first thing people ask after learning your name. I was told that Europeans consider it rude but apparently not since every single fucking European ever also does it in every conversation. What do you do? What is the only activity on the entire planet, in all of history, that you just spent 60 miserable, thankless and non-remunerative hours doing, and now are trying to spend one of your scant free moments escaping from– WHAT IS THAT THING, I demand that you tell me immediately and spend several minutes discussing it by rote, either for some venal “industry” reason or because I am so completely unimaginative that I’m incapable of discussing any other fucking topic. And you try to steer them away from it, and they fucking INSIST. “No, but really– what do you do?” I’m the Senior Vice President of Go Fuck Yourself. Jesus.

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