Tag Archives: boobs

Reader Mailbag: A Crack in the Dome

1 Jun

image stolen from hotnerdgirl.com


Various readers write:

I’m concerned about your head injury. I’m not normally the kind of person who freaks out over this shit, but you really need to see a doctor. You could die or be retarded, etc.

As always, thank you for your sweet concern. But it’s nothing. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m only cognitively impaired insofar as I’m distracted by pain. It’s just a knot on the head. It’s on the right side right on top of my occipital lobe so if there were brain damage it would be evident in my eyesight. Left side. Because of the optic chiasm– the nerves that read from your eyes cross over in an X and run to the back of your head, for some reason. Meaning your left eye transmits to the back right side of your head. See? I remember all that shit from class, that was almost 20 years ago. No brain damaged person can say shit like “optic chiasm.” I bet it’s even called that because it’s shaped like the Greek letter “chi.” See? I remember the Greek alphabet. Continue reading

You and Your Men

2 Apr

dogs on rollers

The new one is a professional swimmer. He has raced with Michael Phelps, he must have to say as soon as every single person asks about Michael Phelps. He can swim slightly faster in a straight line than virtually anyone else in the world, except Michael Phelps. Also, many creatures with no frontal cortex can beat him easily. But he is connected to something shown on television. I bet guys who worked for Bernie Madoff got pussy when he hit the news. Just be something they’ve heard of.

Before that it was a guy who worked for Brad Pitt.* She liked him. He had access to Brad Pitt’s luxury box at Dodger Stadium and she took her kids and they all met Brad Pitt. Before that it was some director. Before that, some DJ. Before that a porn star, whom I envied until I saw what he had to fuck in his porns. I hope they paid him well. Before that it was a comedian. Then an editor who had money somehow and had just moved out from the South where he was cutting cartoons; before that a guy who had his own theatre production company. A guy who had worked at the White House as the Undersecretary of Something. The old guys with white hair had money, always. That was nice. Nice dinners, a present for the boy. Continue reading

Protected: El Chuco

29 Mar

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Coffee Shop Diary: One Who Is To Be Loved

7 Feb

There is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis.  She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that.  Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse.  Not to talk about astrology.  Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up.  This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve.  The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah.  Interesting.”  Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there.  Her name is Amanda.
Continue reading

To Noelle, on the Occasion of Her Underboob Tattoo

12 Mar

I am going to build a high school guidance counselor’s office.  Every motivational poster, every prop, everything.  I’m going to put on a cardigan and tie.

Every so often I’m going to call you in. I will be looking forward to this bright spot in my week.  You are one of our most promising students— not like the rest of these pregnant, glue-sniffing fuckups.  You’re smart and pleasant and goddamn can you put a sentence together.  Maybe you’ll be a journalist, or a lawyer or something. Or a congresswoman!

You will walk in and I will not be able to hide the gleefully expectant look on my face as I ask what you’ve been up to lately.

After you leave, I will sob quietly into my travel mug for hours.

Protected: OKCupid: Fatties

29 Jan

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