Tag Archives: chicken

Unemployment Diary: Money

6 Feb


Fuck– I gotta get gas.  Money down the drain.  Gas is too fucking expensive.  I hear there’s an oil boom in North Dakota; domestic production is gonna outstrip imports and we’re closer to energy independence.  Great, I’m sure we can all expect gas prices to drop real soon.

But, fuck it.  Who cares. I have no money, and I don’t give a shit.  I have no wife; I have no kids; I have no ailments.  Whatever education I need I’ll get off Wikipedia.  I have cheap internet so I can beat off and a bigass package of Von’s brand assorted chicken parts for 87 cents a pound.  What more do you need.  My car cost twelve hundred bucks and if it breaks I’ll buy another one for even less.  You can buy an old car for how much fixing a scratched bumper costs on a new car.  The Cubans are onto something; you can keep these old beasts running forever. High priced liquor is bullshit; all alcohol is caustic poison and it all tastes like ass.  So Von’s store brand brandy at 6 dollars a quart is just fucking fine.  They give it some fancy Dutch name, Van Der Hobo or some shit.  Getting drunk on it feels just as good. Continue reading


25 Aug

is going to be the name of my child, if I happen to conceive one today.

Penisworkmoneychickenxbox Jones. Because those are the things I’m thinking about.

Also, it’s an ancient Hebrew name.

Sunday Call with Mom

5 Aug

Have to call my mother. Haven’t spoken to her in three weeks.  This puts a lot of pressure on the conversation. No doubt she has done things in the past three weeks, and I will hear about those things.  It will now take three times as long to hear about all the things.  Meals she has prepared; Amnesty International meetings she went to.  Things pertaining to yoga, her yoga instructor.  Her yoga instructor’s husband.  He is a musician. He plays in a band; perhaps my mother will have gone to see the band perform, typically at an Italian restaurant.  I will hear about the quality of the show.

Then I will be expected to say things.  My things should also, logically, take three times as long as normal to say because of the lacuna in our communication.  But I don’t talk about work.  I hate talking about work; I am ashamed of how menial and unrewarding my job is, plus, bringing it up in any detail makes the humiliation and trauma fresh to me, and I don’t want her to hear this in my voice.  I don’t want my mother to know that my life is mostly horrible.  I also can’t talk to her about the thing that makes me the most happy, which is having unprotected sex with women much younger than me, right after I meet them.  I can’t tell her how I’m extremely good at this and I’m pleased that I have become so practiced at it.  That I had feared that as my age advanced and  my hair turned gray and yet I still didn’t have any success or money, that the type of woman I am attracted to, which is ones that are over fifteen years younger than me– I had feared that I would lose my access to these women, that they would see me as a gross boring old pervert. But in fact it is easier when you are thirty six years old to have unprotected sex very fast with nineteen year olds than it has been at any other time.  It is unbelievably easy, like a joke, and I can see this going on for ten more years, and their bodies are so beautiful, their pussies  just lightly musky and fresh-tasting; I love when I’m fucking them to pretend that I’m going to ejaculate inside them and my copious seed will find purchase in their fertile and healthy young wombs and they will be pregnant and their lives will be ruined; this gives me so much happiness and pleasure.  I cannot tell my mother about this.  She likes to hear about the cat though. Continue reading