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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Internet Dating in General

22 Mar

Yes, it sucks. Yes it sucks.  It sucks if you’re a guy– you are gonna send out tons of messages and get nothing back; no one ever looks at you; you are gonna be sending messages to the same three cute girls with a weight classification of “fit” or “thin” as everybody else and they have their pick and can flake on your in a heartbeat and there’s nothing you can do about it.  It makes people more picky, so, if you are under five foot ten, beause she likes to wear four inch heels regularly and needs someone who is substantially taller than her while she is wearing these indispensable four inch heels, you are fucked.  If you are bald and you hide it, you are fucked after the first date when your stupid fucking miniature fedora finally comes off.  If you are bald and you don’t hide it, you are fucked before the first date.  If you don’t have money, youre fucked; if you do have money, you can’t mention it without coming off like a douche, and being fucked.  You are fucked. And there is no hope.

Continue reading →

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Cultural Illiteracy Is No Laughing Matter

21 Mar

Image

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What to Expect When You’re Getting in Shape

21 Mar

Labor,  agony,  tedium, deprivation.  The shattering damage to your joints and tendons.  The shattering damage to your social and leisure life.  The horrible diminishing returns as you approach the goal– an unholy small percentage of body fat– getting down to like thirteen per cent is manageable but that’s a merely OK body.  To have any real muscle definition whatsoever you need to be below ten per cent body fat, which requires a hideous self-flagellatory cardio routine that makes you unbelievably hungry combined with a stark bare food regimen so that you’re constantly obsessed with food; the smell of food is like a whiff of a teenage girl’s ovulating vagina and a commercial for cookies is like porn.

And then once you get there you need to maintain it with hours upon hours of boredom and pain that you NEVER slack off on, just in case someone should happen to see you shirtless and that one extra millimeter of body fat you’ve accrued is the fulcrum of their decision whether or not to sleep with you. Because you believe that the world is this way– that you will have lifted weights religiously for years and years and years and then suddenly the ONE time you slack off for a few weeks is the time it will matter.  Suddenly a beautiful intelligent interesting woman will be nearby and you will be required to remove your shirt, perhaps for a tourniquet or something.

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But You Know,

20 Mar

every time you see a bunch of guys wearing some stupid thing, reflect on the fact that it is completely, 100% women’s fault. Because you once fucked some guy wearing flannel, one of the early adopters, and he then went and wore his lucky shirt out every weekend, and people said, hey, look, that guy who gets laid is wearing flannel, I better pick up some flannel myself. This is why we see so many Psycho-billy guys and all the other weird subgenre uniforms. Some girl who couldn’t get laid with the singer in a band fucked a guy with the same hair instead and now we all have to live with this. Dice tattoos, etc. Reverend Horton Heat is still getting dudes laid in Glendale and I haven’t heard from him since he was on Beavis & Butthead.

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