Product Review: I Rub My Duckie® Waterproof Vibrating Rubber Duck Adult Toy (Black)
18 Jul
Holy mother of fuck, how I have not been jacking off with a vibrator for my whole life? Nikol gave me this thing– as an “alternative sex educator,” she is constantly speaking at sex positive conferences and feminist porn seminars and other types of events where fat people talk about using dental dams, and she got this duck fuck product as swag. I’ve tried girls’ vibes on my dick before, but only when they were in the room, and I was always on coke and couldn’t get a boner and etc. This is the one time I’ve been able to try one in the privacy of my own home.
You know when you nut so fast that your dick doesn’t even have time to fully get hard? And in its rush to become an erection it turns into this misshapen chub where the barrel is fairly thick except for some reason there’s a thin figure 8 waist in the middle, like your dick was wearing a Victorian corset, and the blood doesn’t quite reach your helmet so in general your dick looks like a floppy retarded pinhead, but the stimulation is so great that this retarded mutant half flaccid cock is spurting jizz all over the place with unprecedented speed and quantity, so that every drop is like that heavy, oozy first drop that you shoot so hard it hits the wall and makes a sound? And you know how when this happens as you are holding this unwieldy flagging sausage on top of a vibrating plastic waterfowl that is not ergonomically designed to hold your penis in place and is in fact roughly jostling it around and it’s still pretty floppy so this firehose like bonanza of jizz sprays willy-nilly in hot thick spurts at crazy angles all over your room and possibly on your cat who is crouched mesmerized by the sound of the vibrating motor and a big hot oily drop manages to soak into every single dress shirt you had neatly pressed and hanging in your open closet, and what a god damn mess, but nutting that fast feels so weirdly great that you just don’t care? No? Then this product is for you.
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Thoughts on Nikol
13 JulNikol. Why do you have three kids and two ex husbands. Why do you have these things. I kind of love you. You are really smart and funny and an excellent writer. And you’re good looking! You clean up really well. You are the only person I’ve met in the last two years whom I could conceivably fall in love with. Why do you have to have this weird fucking baggage—I don’t care that you were born into foster homes, getting beaten and molested, having—seriously—getting locked into a room full of bees. Is that real, or did you fall asleep watching CANDYMAN and just absorb the movie as your own memories? But yeah, why. Why can’t you be 24 and with no kid, although– I do like her kids. I do like Trast, like- we could play fucking Dungeons and Dragons together. Continue reading
Reader Mail Sac: What Happened with Nikol’s Operation and How Is She Doing
26 JunShe started hemorrhaging. They had to stop the surgery. They only got three of the five cancerous lymph nodes out. The other two were too close to blood vessels, and she had been given blood thinner, and she had already bled all over the damn place apparently, and lost so much blood that she was in danger of dying.
So she’s out; she is alive; she is talking and mentally composed. She is at her house laying around in bed all day eating soup and popsicles* and watching HBO Go. The three cancerous lymph nodes being gone is good; it isn’t some bullshit where the surgery was all for nothing. Three fifths of the cancerous mass being gone, like some slave voting compromise. The remaining two they will continue to try to shrink with radiation. Which you should read in the tone of Marvin Gaye singing in “What’s Goin’ On.”
I fucking told her going in: don’t hemorrhage. You’re gonna get on that operating table and you’re gonna want to hemorrhage all over the place, but don’t do it. They need to keep your blood in your veins to finish the operation. And of course, what’s the first fucking thing she does. Stubborn. Continue reading
Nikol Is Having Surgery Today
21 JunSo, pray to whatever god you pray to. Cast your wishes into the deaf and uncaring wind. I almost did. I almost prayed: “Lord, please don’t let Nikol die,” but then I thought God would hear me and think “oh, this jerkoff” and hit that red button and a game show buzzer would play– BAAAHHHHH– and she’d be dead. Or maybe the losing horn from “The Price is Right.”
Nikol is having surgery today. Eight hours to remove seven lymph nodes. Or something. Maybe five, I don’t know. Some number of lymph nodes where it makes the math extremely difficult to divide by eight hours. The surgery is so long and complicated that there is an intermission.
Lord, please don’t let Nikol die. Please please please, don’t let Nikol die.
There is a chance, a twenty per cent chance, that when removing the lymph nodes, one or more will break open and cancerous cells will leak into her bloodstream. This would result in a much quicker death from the disease. The cancer would be everywhere. Twenty per cent chance. Please don’t let this twenty per cent happen.
When she recovers, if she recovers, her immune system will be permanently compromised. She will have to take prednisone for the rest of her life. I don’t know what predisone is. I didn’t know what lymph nodes were; that they were part of your immune system. I didn’t know what the spleen did until Nikol had to have hers removed. Having a terminally ill friend is like having an old car– you learn how things work by watching them break all the time.
A lot of people are helping her. Someone is with her at the hospital; someone’s on her facebook keeping her friends up to date; Xeni Jardin, who is internet famous, is tweeting about her. Other people cleaned her house so when she returns home with her decimated immune system she won’t immediately fall prey to plague. My job is to take care of her son tonight. Spend the night over there, make him dinner, make him breakfast in the morning. Make sure he gets on the school bus. I guess– I don’t know. I should have paid more attention when Nikol was telling me these things on the phone. Maybe her anesthetized soul is floating over me watching me type these words, thinking I told you exactly what to do, you fucking retard. I gave you specific instructions; it’s not building a god damn particle collider– well, I’m sorry, discorporeal spirit of Nikol. My best friend is having fucking cancer surgery, it’s kind of fucking distracting. Jerk.
I always used to joke with her that I would take Trast to a whorehouse to lose his virginity. I almost posted that on her facebook– Trast and I are finally gonna take that field trip to Fontana. But she hated that joke. And plus if she dies it’s an asshole last thing to have posted on her wall. But then, she would have been even more pissed that I didn’t post a joke about taking her son to a whore on her wall. And if I had said “I love you and miss you and I am terrified that you are going to die and I am praying that you are going to be safe” she would have been infuriated.
Well, I love you. I miss you. I am terrified that you are going to die. I am praying that you are going to be safe.
Take that, fuckface.
Bio from Me & Nikol’s Aborted Internet Dating Advice Column
17 JunCornelius J. Tacos is an underemployed drunkard living in squalor in an undesirable area of Los Angeles. He has no money, no ambition, and his face looks like it got hit with a shovel. His car is the color of primer, and the A/C is busted and the windows don’t roll down. And YET he still gets tons of dates, sex, and relationships, often with not bad looking nineteen year olds, off the internet.
Nikol Hasler is a twice-married single mother of three who lives in a decaying stucco house in Van Nuys with a cadre of rude drunks. She is an alumna of the Wisconsin state foster care system—the Harvard of child sexual abuse—with all the self–esteem issues, broken sexuality, and lifelong substance abuse that that entails. AND YET she still meets and dates tons of handsome, funny, and rich men off the internet. Often they are of above average height with penis girths up to one and one half standard deviations above the norm. Continue reading
The Title Sequence from Me & Nikol’s Aborted Youtube Puppet Show
2 JunWe open on:
Blackness.
Blackness blacker than black. The blackness of the darkest soul. The blackest night. A really really black guy, standing in a very dark room, not smiling. Or if he is, he is wearing a mouthgaurd that is black as Hitler’s dick.
Then a single mote of light slowly fades into view. A tiny spec. Light. Hope. This dot, containing multitudes, seems to be struggling within itself. Suddenly, in the briefest of moments, the mote EXPLODES with unholy force. The sound of a thousand school buses being dropped on a canyon full of tympanis and aluminum foil. The light EXPANDS, pushing out into STARS, GALAXIES. NEBULAE. OTHER COSMIC TERMS. Camera FINDS within this infinite maelstrom of twisting spirals and hot colorful gases a TINY BLUE DOT. This is EARTH. VOLCANOES are exploding. ROCK FORMATIONS, jagged and cruel, are pushed up out of hot magma only to recede, crushed. Continue reading
Kenny Rogers, the Dog
29 MayWe found a dog in the park. Me and Nikol, and this other girl. Walking in the middle of Elysian Park on this long dirt road, we saw in the distance what looked like a gigantic coyote or a small bear stumbling drunkenly around, digging up shit, and eating sticks. Getting closer it was just a huge German shepherd. Little beat up but a handsome beast, and with a collar on, so we figured some jerkoff would come jogging up the road behind his Gestapo enforcement dog that he’d let roam free in a public space frequented by small children.
But no. No one came. And getting a closer look at the dog he’d been fucked up by something. Patches of fur falling off, walking funny, and the top half of both ears were missing. Like he’d tangled with something that had bitten them off; they were just lumpy black skin scabbed over. Continue reading
Diary 3/13/12: Nikol Has MRSA
19 MaySo, Nikol now has MRSA. This means “(Something) Resistant Staphylococcus (Something).” Which is the “superbug.” The strain of ordinary bacteria that a TV news piece comes out on once every few months, that you can get in the gym, that eats away your flesh until you die and normal antibiotics can’t do anything about it. This is the sort of thing that organic farming types are warning us will happen with all sorts of bacteria because we pump our livestock full of antibiotics constantly. The germs, for whom a generation is about three minutes long, are going to out-evolve drugs so fast that we will have created virulent megagerms that we can’t kill. Now we will again be vulnerable to bacterial infection, as we were through most of history and as we still are to viral infection. If you have a virus, they can’t do shit for you.
Well, this feels like a wash to me. 1,000,000 BC-1920whateverthefuck, whenever penicillin was invented: no cure for germs. 1920’s-2012: cure for some germs. 2012- on: no cure for germs. I mean, it was nice having that little vacation I guess but really, humanity survived eons without any protection from bacteria except our immune system; if it goes back to being that way it doesn’t seem like such a big deal.
Diary 2/24/12: Nikol’s Living Will
14 MayNothing funny about this motherfucking shit: I am going to be the executor of Nikol’s living will. Because she is going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of her life.
She has no hair now and no eyebrows, and pukes so much that her stomach and/or esophagus is ulcerated and she vomits fountains of blood. I saw some on the toilet seat. We both remarked that it was good that it wasn’t black blood. Because… why is it again? Because black blood means that it’s internal bleeding. That the blood has somehow seeped between organs and sat there and blackened. If you are puking black blood, you are really in trouble. Where the fuck did we learn that, HOUSE MD?
Whatever– my view is regardless of the color blood you are shitting or puking, you are well and truly fucked and thinking the red blood is so great is merely hair-splitting.
She is going to die and when that is real close to happening she wants me to pull the plug if necessary. She has no relatives she trusts to pull this off without chickening out, and since she’s a product of the foster care system there is no one who takes legal precedent. So when her brain has liquified, I’m to give the order: cease all resuscitation efforts or whatever the fuck. Then I’m gonna sit there and hold her hand until the machine goes BEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP.
New Book
delicioustacos 