Posts Tagged ‘california’

A brief spike in traffic

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

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Egg McMuffin sex romp

Sunday, 2 November 2008

Early November, why wait? I’ve already written off 2008 as another year of not getting laid.

As a social autistic that hates people and can’t bear listening to women talk about nothing while not undressing, I have no chance. Call girls around here are $200 and no pussy is worth more than 50 dollars except in the mind of the victim. Unlike Mexico, isolated parts of Nevada and indoors in Rhode Island, hooking is illegal here.

I can’t even aspire to Tijuana, it’s been way too expensive for over a year. It’s the world’s fault for the high cost of plane tickets and oil, it’s mine for having no disposable income or friends in Mexifornia with their own place; my one Spanish-speaking friend who would venture across the border would have to drive his beater a hundred miles at outrageous gas prices just meet me in Sandy Eggo.

Ignoring the cost and horror of actually going to TJ, the #1 obstacle is the new passport card required for foot travel between Mexico and Mexifornia or anywhere else in the USA: costing around 100 bucks, it’s another layer of useless government turdocracy that will stop no infiltrators and another reason I endorse hanging every moon-worshipping savage by his filthy turban (Sikhs excluded).

Without sex with a woman as an option, I turned to Egg Mcmuffins. They were 2 for $2; didn’t even have to leave the car to buy them.

I eat food from Big Yellow M maybe 5 times a year, if that. One of the reasons is cost: the days of 10-cent hamburgers are frozen in black-and-white history; a large cup of orange juice was $2.39.

I drove to a secluded parking lot.

Egg McMuffin! Sex in a paper wrapper. Masterpiece of design and engineering. It belongs in space, floating between the earth and moon. Flip it over, there’s no top or bottom, no beginning or end.

Of all Mcfoods, the McMuffin seems to retain the heat of birth the longest. As I unwrapped the noisy paper I glanced a number on the wrapper. 300 calories? Where? How?

I peeled open the warm “bun”. The glowing orange cheese looked like it had been hugged at the last second by a suicide bomber, a gooey mess filling the cratered moonscape of muffin. The steaming warm “egg patty” was a near-perfect circle, glistening, white, pure. Unlike Yellow M’s survivalist scrambled eggs with a congealed half-life of 3 minutes, the McMuffin egg remained, in its impossible shape, a symbol of life.

The Canadian bacon was a perfect circle (perhaps Canadians made their pigs run around a circular pen).

I poured McDonald’s “Hotcakes” syrup on the egg and bun. McSyrup is the way sex should taste, the blood of the god Diabetes. In Heaven there’s a harlot named Hotcakes and her pussy tastes like this.

I reassembled the Egg McMuffin and bit into it slowly, carefully. Try eating one too quickly and the squishy-firm egg will break off and try to lodge in your windpipe.

I ate the Egg McMuffin. Unlike the Big Mac or fries, the McMuffin tastes as good Now as it did Then.

Four or five bites and it was over. The first McMuffin, seductive, nostalgic, awakened the palate for the second, which is just good rhythmic fucking with a happy finish.

I looked down at my shirt. I’d been careful, but one glistening zipper of syrup with a tiny bead for a pull, scarred my shirt. I looked in the rearview mirror; rivulets of syrup glistened on my chin, the vampire drinks from maple trees.

I washed up with hand cleaner, balled the wrappers. My head was clear while my gut lodged a boulder of egg, cheese, bacon. I wouldn’t have to eat anything else for the rest of the day, or year.

A slave enjoys the sunshine

Monday, 20 October 2008

It took from the beginning of the year till now, but yesterday, finally, the weather got cool enough for windows.

Right now Florida weather is exactly like California weather, cool with no humidity. If you could bottle it you’d have something more narcotic and valuable than cocaine.

Normally, nature is something to drive a car through to get to a building, but one day a year to honor ideal weather is fair. The gym was closed for removation so, having chugged a phial of “6-hour energy” on this, my day off, I went to the park. I hadn’t been to the park in 20 years, I figured it was about time to see it again.

The park was loaded with humans, though not as many as there could’ve been.

The nature trail had been made ‘one-way’ (stupid rollerblades). Many years ago the winding trail was thin, easily-bullied asphalt made hilly by giant tree roots. Decades later it’s finally taken enough asphalt-steroids and the tree roots are tamed.

I walked the 2-mile trail in 40 minutes and, despite the coolness, left the park in a sweat.

If the weather was like this year-round, the influx of humans to the state would be double what it is. No good, no good.

So here’s your tribute, perfect Florida weather. Don’t let it go to your head.

Joe don’t care as long as he’s told the extra $$$ will go towards “helping the children”

Friday, 11 April 2008

….old farts and nincompoops who vote Rethuglican against their own self-interests.

–Dancing Howie, old Indian Chief

Assuming Joe Sixpack is a Democratic blue collar worker who loves his beer, then he’ll love this, done in his own best interest, of course.

HIGHER TAXES ON BEER?

Has anyone ever held an intervention for the fucking Jackass Party’s tax addiction?

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