I need to fail. When good shit happens it hurts. I asked for a raise. Had to wait two months to know. The whole time thinking don’t freak out. God remove my obsession with money. God let me just show up and be of service. God remove outcome dependence. Let me be patient. But that’s not how it works. Continue reading
I’m on the train. I’m in the “quiet car.” There is an African American couple. The woman is talking on her phone. Has been for fifty minutes. She is not quiet, in other words. I can’t tell what’s she’s saying except she’s talking about her kids. Something something “those motherfuckers.” She says “sheeeit” like Clay Davis, loud as hell. And I think: black people should not be allowed in the quiet car. Goddamn blacks. Etc.
I beat a woman while fleeing from the cops a couple weeks ago. I still live mostly off unemployment and I spend that money on cheap liquor, not my bills. I probably have kids I don’t know about. If I did know I couldn’t pay for them. Every night I cook a huge fatty piece of pork, or fry some chicken, and then get hammered on hobo booze and try to fuck fat white women. I’m white, but I embody every stereotype about African Americans. Except for my smaller wang and less robust deltoids. Continue reading
My 4 fans ask:
How come you haven’t posted in so long– did you die?
No, I just took a week off.
It was just such a weird week that I didn’t even beat off. Or I did, but less than usual. I have beat off just about every day for the past 26 years, but this week– the car was dead; I would have to take the bus home. The 218 half an hour over Laurel Canyon, drop off at Sunset and Crescent Heights, wait half an hour for the 2– not the 302, which Google Maps had assured me in its public transit directions would pick me up and take me home toute fucking suite— the 2. Because the 302, which is the bus that comes by two minutes after the 218 reaches Sunset and Crescent Heights, that one will just blow right by you as you stand hanging half off the sidewalk holding your briefcase like a jerkoff in a whirlwind of leaves and wrappers stirred up by the 302 and you’ll swear that the driver had a malicious gleam in his eye. Black guy. I assume he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you, cracker!” as he deliberately ignores my stop. In reality, he’s thinking “Haha! Fuck you cracker!” As he goes about his prescribed route which does not include my stop. Go ahead and think “fuck you, cracker,” by the way, black people. None of us care. Continue reading
I am a racist. There’s no getting around it, I’m a fucking racist. Not in the cross-burning I-hate-n*ggers kind of way but in a way where misanthropy in general channels itself through racism. Like the other day I was shopping for shirts at my local discount dept. store and the place was just aswarm with wild screaming Mexican children with dirty hands and chocolatey faces, just running wild all over the store. Also there but in no way engaged with these teeming hellions were the corresponding parents– each pair a normal if somewhat squat 19-22 year old man coupled with a preposterously fat stretch-panted mamacita with high arched eyebrows drawn on in two shades of metallic paint. And I thought: at the end of the trip do these people simply take home the correct number of filthy snot-nosed children, but not necessarily the same ones they came in with? Is it part of the Mexican morning toilet to make sure that your child has an appropriately filthy and chocolatey face before leaving the house? Like does the mama stand at the door with a chocolate ice cream cone covered in jimmies and marshmallows and give it a real good twist in the kid’s face before letting them out?
We 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