Tag Archives: penis

Moving Diary

18 Nov

Stock photo

Maybe today will be the best day of my life but somehow I don’t fucking think so. Have to move. Have to move to a new place I now hate and I just want to fucking relax. Even typing this is a distraction from what I should be doing. The activity I like least in the entire world. Which will be my entire day. And my tomorrow. And my tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. While working. While waiting–while having to follow up on my cover art, my copy edits– OK. I accept that God wants me to be miserable. He wants me to not finish the book. Not sell it. Whatever I want, is what God does not want. God does not want my ass to not hurt. God does not want my eye not to rot. My penis to not fall off. God wants my landlady, who is evil, to have money and happiness, while I languish in obscurity. God wants me to move. Continue reading

Protected: Shit I Didn’t Post in 2015 (Part 1)

23 Dec

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Financial Leaders of the Future

16 Oct

nigerian scam

This woman is never going to come through with the money. The check with the funds was returned to her client, she says. It was money to turn my apartment into a Home Office. Insufficient address. It will be re-sent to me today by UPS or Fedex. The sufficient address was on my resume. The sufficient address was presented clearly in the body of an email. But the check was returned. How long until they ask for my bank account. I give it two days. I know you prefer to be paid by check. But in the interest of time can we send a Western Union money transfer. Can we wire it directly to your account. We will need your routing number, account number, online banking password, and Social Security number. Her English is out of Google Translate. She is in Thailand for eight weeks teaching a seminar. She is a portrait photographer. I am unaware of a market for eight week portrait photography seminars in Thailand, but– what if. She offered me the job. The unemployment claim form says: did you REFUSE any work? Continue reading

I Will Cure Your STD’s with the Power of Prayer

7 Feb

pat robertson

There is a Paypal link now, per a kind suggestion in the comments.  It’s under “Support” in the Sidebar.  It’s not a “Donate” button per se, because Paypal fucks you on “Donate” buttons now. They will freeze your shit for not being a 501(c)3 tax exempt charity.  So instead it’s a button where you “buy” “support” for this web site and name your price.  You may have to put a shipping address in there because it’s an imaginary “product” but I don’t give a shit where you live and will never share your info with anybody.  They could have a hot knife to my balls and they aren’t getting shit out of me.

I won’t love you any less if you don’t give me any money, and I’m not going to hassle you about it.  I don’t do this for the dough.  Money I receive will be spent on alcohol and women.  Meanwhile a child will die from preventable illness.


Getting Fired Diary: Freedom Day Eve

31 Jan

Image stolen from flickr user andysternberg.

Tomorrow is Freedom Day.  My last day of work.  Most people in my work orbit don’t even know.  I don’t know how to tell them.  I don’t want to have the same conversation over and over.  I’m leaving the company.  They’ll try to sound out whether I left or got fired.  In fact, there is some nuance.  I’m getting fired, but I fucking really wanted to get fired.  Like when your house burns down but you hated that fucking house anyway, it was the fucking Amityville house with demons crawling out of pools of blood and you hallucinated that every meal was full of maggots, and at least now you can collect insurance.  They want to say I’m so sorry; they want to show sympathy for what they think I must be unhappy and scared about.  I don’t know any of these people, I realize now.  They don’t know me.  Because these jobs are like getting paid to slam your dick in a car door over and over  and anyone who does them is a fucking idiot.  We have such a short life; I have wasted so much of it at this.  I am glad to be free and I am sorry you’re still here, saying your work is going great like a battered wife talks about her marriage. Continue reading

Passions: A Love Story, Part Four

29 Nov

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Interlude 1

Interlude 2

October 16, 2012

from: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

to: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)


Lexus of Alhambra called me this morning. A man told me that my monthly payment was not made on time. I was at brunch with my friends and I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a creditor regarding a late payment when your friends can clearly hear what is being said over the phone. YOU did not make the monthly payment on time and they are assessing a $100 fee and additional interest, and if there are three more late payments the car is in danger of being repossessed (!)

How could you allow this to happen? YOU need to take care of this right away. You also need to call on mom’s car and make sure her latest payments are up to date.  Please do this right now.  If mom got a call from a car dealership telling her she was a deadbeat she would be mortified.

Fuck.  The fucking car payment.

October 16, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)

to: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

Dear Angela,

Why don’t you just call it what it is, you idiot– a fucking Toyota.  A fucking Toyota Camry, except, that wasn’t expensive enough for you.   You needed a Toyota Camry that cost eighty thousand dollars.  Because you liked the color.  Metallic teal.  And probably because you thought the raghead salesman was handsome.  You fucking whore.

You bought it because you liked the fucking metallic teal, and the voice of the onboard computer.  It was easy for you to plug in your god damn earpiece that’s glued to your head like fucking Robocop and make calls where you talk about nothing to your muppet-faced USC friends.  What did you even have to talk about, before you had that fucking car?  Grey’s Anatomy?  God forbid you should pick up a fucking book.  I should have killed you when I had the chance. Continue reading

Passions: A Love Story, Part Three

13 Nov

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

October 26, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)
to: astrid666@gmail.com


Enough.  This has to stop.  You wanted to hurt me.  You did.  It’s over.  You won.  Please, have some compassion.



The phone was vibrating.  It was his mother again.  13 missed calls.   Astrid had done something.  He couldn’t call his mother back until he had figured out what it was, and could get ahead of it.  Maybe not even then.  Maybe he would just let the relationship with his mother go.

His gun was in his lap.  A Smith & Wesson 40 caliber.  Of course it was a  Smith & Wesson®.  Of course it was A BMW® M™ series, of course he was lounging in the house in Nike® swimming sandals, Calvin Klein® Men’s Boxer Briefs, medium, black.  He bought it because it was the same gun the LAPD used, and because he liked the two tone.  Guys with guns are the biggest bunch of little girls in the world.  The ammo box had a bald eagle rampant with flaming talons raised, ready to tear out the heart of your home invader.

He had spent the night fucking Astrid with the gun in her mouth.  It cost him three hundred dollars.  He made that before 10AM.  She really needed the money.  Everyone really needed the money, except him.  He told her there wasn’t a bullet in the chamber but there was.  He needed it to cum.  Twenty years ago it barely took a stiff breeze.

Why the fuck did he have to say something.  Why couldn’t he just let it go.  You love somebody, they leave you, you pay them money to fuck you while eating your god damn handgun, you have won. There is no need to rub it in with a poorly thought out text message from a stoplight.  If he  had sent that text before ejaculating he would have forgiven himself, but if your balls are empty you have no excuse for anything. Continue reading

Passions: A Love Story, Part Two

1 Nov

Part One

September 23, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)
to: Patricia Wong (twong@goldbergkimllc.com)

Some comments:
1)      When you have a case name, and you put the words “et al.” after the first plaintiff’s name or first defendant’s name, there must be a comma after the first plaintiff’s name or first defendant’s name.  I have seen this grammatical error repeated, so I do not think this mistake was inadvertent.  Now, you know the rule, so please do not repeat the same mistake.
2)      Vartan Gregorian, of Goldman, Silverman & Hastings, is not in the arbitration.  He represents Gorog Nasroobian, the co-defendant who is not part of the arbitration, and who was expressly excluded from the arbitration by his own choice and then the subsequent court order.  Thus, instead, the letter should have been addressed to only Patrick Silverberg and Herbert Pinkney, the two co-counsel for the primary defendant, Oleg Krikorian.  Krikorian is indeed part of the court-ordered arbitration.  But Patrick Silverberg was not even listed in your original letter.  Those are the two relevant co-counsel: Patrick Silverberg and Herbert Pinkney.  Get familiar with their names.
3)      There should be two spaces between a period at the end of a sentence and the first word to begin the next sentence.  In this letter, you consistently only put one space.  I have seen recent briefs where you have interchangeably used one space and two spaces.  Sometimes three spaces.  I have had to make repeated changes in this letter and those recent briefs as a result.  This is unacceptable.  Two spaces.  That’s it.
You are now a senior associate. The standards set for you are higher than before.  I hope and expect you will meet them.



She needed money.  She had a kid, a 14 year old, the son of some guy from when she was 17.  The guy had owned a car.  That was what had qualified him for fatherhood. He could drive up a block away from the group home and take her to movies and parties.  She squatted on top of him in the back seat; he hadn’t even moved the combination snow brush and ice scraper with the Peak™ antifreeze logo on it, a nice picture of mountains.  Afterwards there was a mirror imprint of the mountains on her shin.  Men with absolutely nothing happening in their lives and no futures just cum in girls.  I mean, why not. Continue reading

Passions: A Love Story

30 Oct

Part One

This is a story about a girl named Astrid, and a boy named Filbert Kim.

Astrid was a foster child who grew up getting gang raped like most kids play tag.  She lost her virginity at age four to her foster brother, who was chopping wood, and when she asked to help, called her a stupid baby.  Then he raped her and dumped her in a kiddie pool.  It didn’t get any better for twenty years until she booked a couple commercials  and a TV pilot and came out to LA.  The pilot didn’t work out– they never do, but she stayed. She ended up being a hooker for a while for some Russian guys off craigslist, sucking old Indian perverts’ musky rotten spice-smelling dicks. And that’s how she became the type of person who was of interest to Filbert Kim.

Filbert Kim was a lawyer.  He had gotten into Harvard but blew his admission by writing a snarky letter to the student council or something, so he went to the University of California instead.  He was Korean, as you can tell by his last name. Which means go ahead and google Filbert Kim; you’ll never find him.  There are fifteen Filbert Kims in his Berkeley graduating class alone. He got good grades as an undergraduate.  He did well in law school.  He got a job as an associate at one of those firms that are in a skyscraper in LA and made an awful lot of money.  He got married, to another Korean, which is how you know he couldn’t have been happy. They had a dog.  It was a small white dog suitable for elderly women and gays, so it had a grandiose name to the tune of “Brutus” or “El Conquistador.” The wife’s mother moved in with them and he paid for both their cars, their gas, their insurance, the whole mortgage.  This is how you know he was not happy.  He did everything his parents told him to do in life and look where it got him.  The mother in law was a shrew.  She followed them everywhere.  Thank God they didn’t have kids. Continue reading

Diary 9-17-12

19 Sep

Man, but what the fuck am I gonna do?  What’s out there?  It’s the worst economy of all time and hobos with Humphrey Bogart stubble are getting shooed away from picking up yard apples by an angry apron-wearing fat man with a shotgun and heading back hungry to hobo camp with their belongings in a bandana on a stick.  They’re combing their hair with a fish skeleton before using a tissue to turn it into a harmonica on which they blow mournful tunes about being hopeless and broke.  College graduates are having lethal shiv fights in a firelit railyard over a lone kidney bean in the bottom of a can being cooked over a burning tire.  The bean came to life; it had a face; it said “kill for me.”  Families are slaughtering their pets for shish kebabs, probably their kids too. Abortion clincis have become Hardee’s Buffets.  The elderly are being burned for heat.  Our cars are broken down and being pulled by donkeys, but we had to eat the donkeys; our daughters are sucking cock for nickels and our sons are wrestling pumas in a chickenwire cage in front of a warehouse of leering Mexicans for sport.  You see the gleam of a glass bottle on the side of the road, and you see another guy seeing it too, looking at you askance; there’s a tense second of mutual eyefucking before it’s like two Tasmanian Devils wrestling over a bitch in heat. The bottle is crushed beneath you; you reach for a shard to slash the other guy’s throat and then weep and fumblingly try to mash the bottle back together, that precious five cents…
Continue reading