The stupid fucking barking dogs. Incessantly, always barking. They begin at about seven every morning. Must be when they’re let out of the house. They walk out the door and down the steps to the front gate and just stand there and bark without ever stopping even for one second. Bark bark bark. Bark bark bark. And of course, there are fifteen other houses on the street with multiple loud, unruly dogs, who all join in a chorus of bark bark bark, bark bark bark. But these two, this neurotic border collie mix and his little white terrier buddy– the smaller dog, as is often the case, seeming like the boss– these two are the instigators. These are the guys who will bark at anything, must bark at everything. If you are in doubt about whether you should bark at something, you better bark at it. Continue reading
Back from the Pussy War
31 JanI’m back from the pussy war. This is the war that men fight for 20 years, starting at around age 15. Maybe sooner. You spend 20 years thinking about nothing but pussy, how to get pussy, I need new pussy, where is there going to be pussy. You get out there in the trenches and you battle for pussy, you learn about the enemy, you try to take them down.
Now I’m thirty-five and a half and some hormonal switch has been thrown. Maybe it’s just age, maybe it’s my job crushing it out of me—who knows. But I no longer give a shit about pussy. I’m back from the pussy war. Continue reading
Did you ever
31 Janknow someone who owned a ferret? Didn’t they always go out of their way to tell you they were the pet of kings in olden times? Always, really defensively, they would say that. Like, as if anticipating you saying “this musk-secreting weasel is going to make your house smell like taint,” they hit you with “you know historically, ferrets could only be owned by royalty.” As though somehow this makes them royalty, having this special weasel. Or like, some hot girl is going to be transported in time from 16th century Bohemia into their apartment, and see the ferret, and just start blowing them because they must be the king.
Also: have you ever known someone that had a ferret, and then you saw them again two years later, and they still had a ferret? No. Never.
Balls
28 JanBalls are nature’s greatest mistake.
Your heart, for instance, is obviously an important organ. So what does nature do. It’s behind a wall of muscle and bone, centrally located where much of its work can be done by gravity. Similarly, your stomach is in behind your abs where it would be a real fucking chore to eviscerate you and get it out. Plus all the movement of your midsection helps with peristalsis. This is great engineering.
Notice that neither of these things is hanging off the side of your gut in a veiny membranous sac covered with long gross hairs, and so rich with nerve endings that flicking it with your pinky feels like a shotgun full of rock salt was blasted into you at close range. Neither of these things hangs in a hideous wrinkled little pouch that anyone could lightly tap and it would incapacitate you for hours. Your brain is not dangling six inches off your body on a hot day to the point where in loose pants you could snag it on the corner of the coffee table and kind of feel nothing for a few seconds until suddenly wave after wave of nauseous burning agony washed through your gut and you could literally do nothing but lie curled up groaning on the floor for the several minutes until it went away. So why the fuck does a nut sac exist? Continue reading
Premature Ejaculation
27 JanMichel Houellebecq once said “there are two stages in a mans’ life: the first when he comes too fast, and the second when he can’t get hard anymore.”
This is close to the truth, but the reality is more like you are constantly in one or the other stage at all phases in your life. I am thirty five and a half years old and I STILL feel like I’m going to blow the second I get in the pussy. Or I’m too drunk and I can’t get wood at all; you have to come out and tell the chick she has to suck you off to get you hard and this is not a proposition that your average first date off OKCupid smiles on, you know. Sucking off some drunk’s musty whiskey dick. Really the only way you’re going to get laid on the first date, unless you really have a live one on your hands, is to masterfully eat her pussy for a good five minutes and then just vault up on top of her and put your dick in smoothly. Any break in the action is going to kill it. Continue reading
As a miserable person,
26 Janthe 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
Miranda Catches the Gay
25 JanCynthia Nixon recently said in the NY Times that she “chose” to be gay, which caused controversy and people freaking out and etc. To all of which Andrew Sullivan responds:
“My own view is that female sexuality is inherently more fluid than male sexuality, and that lesbians and bisexual women, because they are less fixated on crude physical signals for arousal, have more of a choice than men, gay or straight, in their choice of loved ones. I think this is about the difference between lesbian identity and gay male identity. For all the attempt to corral us into one vowel-free liberal conglomerate, I know few communities less alike than lesbians and gay men.”
That is a beautiful and succinct way of putting it. Let me put it another way: my sexuality is tectonic plates miles thick and thousands of miles wide grinding away beneath the earth’s crust on incomprehensibly powerful tides of magma, grinding and crushing and destroying and building up vast pressures sapped only momentarily by hellfire explosions and earth-shattering quakes that ruin civilizations and crush lives. Your sexuality, womankind, is a toy house made of toothpicks and gumdrops that you can disassemble and restructure on a whim. Your sexuality is as the mustard seed, small and unassuming but capable of flowering into something beautiful, delicate and complex under exactly the right circumstances. My sexuality is the fucking SUN. Continue reading
OKCupid: Girls with no pictures part 2: the trollening
25 Jan
I am being successfully trolled by a fake OKCupid account purporting to be a 21 year old local woman. I am aware that I am being trolled; that somewhere on my beloved Reddit or 4chan or some other message board a neckbeard in Saskatchewan is eagerly awaiting my showing up at some place with a security camera that he’s hacked into, ready to photoshop my face into foreveralone.jpg. Or it’s Chris Hansen. The girl is going to casually drop at some point in the conversation—a 15 email thread by now, which I would never tolerate except this troll is just so god damn motherfucking masterful—she is going to casually drop that she is actually 17 years old but her parents are gone for a long weekend now that Tahoe finally has snow and would I like to come over and bring a nice bottle of wine; her tastes are surprisingly sophisticated for such a young girl… I’m going to go and be told “have a seat” and after tearfully insisting that I was just there to warn her I’ll be told that I’m free to go only to be unceremoniously tackled to the sprinkler-muddy turf by a Whittier police sergeant built like Butterbean. They won’t have to ask me “if you’re here to warn her, why did you bring condoms?” Because of course I won’t be bringing fucking condoms. Fucking a 17 year old with a condom would be like looking at the Sistine Chapel through glass security block. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 