A brief spike in traffic

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.

Whatever happened to that girl?

I should probably say a few words about this post.

No, I didn’t eat her pussy, because I never met up with her, as predicted.

On the appointed day I texted her the website of the sushi/buffet along with a time to meet. I have a pay-as-you-go cell so it took forever.

Her response was: “Huh?”

So I canceled.

Hours later she texted, inviting me to go for a walk on the beach. Usually with the ladies that’s a good thing, but she wanted to go around 5 pm; she’d already told me, “If I really liked you (romantically) I would be so shy I wouldn’t be able to talk to you.”

I didn’t answer her invite. I wouldn’t put up with this shit from friends therefore I couldn’t put up with it from her.

Besides, after her reject I got stoned.  Being stoned, I wasn’t about to go to the buffet alone.

I’ve seen her since. She’s mad at me, of course. A Japanese-Irish girl.

Imagine how bad it would be if I cared.

I’m 40, she’s 20

Don’t know how I did it but I got the cute Japanese girl with big tits from this post to go to lunch with me this Monday.

“Platonically!” she all but yelled.

Oh, that’s how.

It’s an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with a huge sushi zone, not that I’m being racist. No, really!—she doesn’t like pizza or wings.

I’ve been trying to lose the same 10 pounds so I’ll eat light all weekend and make my “cheat day” the day of buffet. I also plan on being slightly stoned. I expect her to be fully horrified by how much I put away. I don’t care.

Not caring is how I got her to agree to lunch. And I’m not caring in the best way: I truly don’t care. I told her three times before I got her number that it’s OK to cancel if something comes up.

“Like what would come up?”

“I don’t know, you win the lottery or something.”

She claims she is shy, and the only reason she’s able to talk to me is because she’s not interested in me ‘that way’.

“If anyone falls in love,” I warned, “it will be you with me.”

I’m using this non-date as a test, to see if I remember anything about table manners and listening skills.  

The girl is beautiful with perfect teeth, and such fierce, callow energy you have to witness to believe.

I would love to fuck her with ultimate tenderness or even just eat her pussy for an hour, but the price would be terribly high.

Whether she chickens (or sushis) out or not, I’m going to that motherfucking buffet and eating till the manager says, “YOU GO ‘WAY, WE CLOSED, ALL FOOD GONE, WE LAUNDRY NOW!”

It’s Too Late

I have no fans, and that’s fine with me. Much has happened since I last picked up the keyboard for more regularly blogged bullshit. As filmed, the story would be minor happy events in an overall tragedy as opposed to some bloodless low points in a comedy. Sounds about right for almost everyone.

I’m slowly dying of some rare blood disease that damages only the kidneys. Really, I wish my kidneys would fail already. I would quietly collect SSD and get dialysis 3 times a week if it meant not having to ever work again, facing the ugliness of the human race every fucking day.

There are still a few good things left in life:  Oreos, cannabis, taking a shit, internets, reading history, jacking off. There are even hookers that will come to your door!

Contrary to what salesfolk are forever claiming, there is a time when nothing you do or try or buy will save your sorry ass. That time is called “It’s Too Late” and for me, it’s already here. I never try to tally up the reasons I have to live another day, there really aren’t any. I’ve abandoned this life…the mp3 player is still counting the song from both ends but the music stopped long ago.

I told the Guru I HATE God, but I told him in an email.  No response.  That was years ago.  When he does answer it’s usually with, “Have you tried meditating?”  He’s not being a smartass.  God is.

Sadly, there is no Satan to worship. Don’t matter who you cry out to; no god—good or evil—returns messages.

I want to get black t-shirts made with IT’S TOO LATE right across the chest in bright yellow. More than any demon, those words frighten people, with truth.

So much more to hate about “More to Love”

Fox’s More to Love is a train wreck featuring a fat guy looking for a “Rubenesque” wife.

Don’t know if they filmed this prior to the economy shitting the cot, but Luke (The Fatchelor?) is a ‘successful real estate investor’ who owns his own home (no small feat in Mexifornia) and at age 26 makes six figures. That alone should be enough to have the shallow whores of Santa Barbara spreading their fake-tanned legs, I don’t know why this guy wants to lose half his shit at such an early age.

Watching ‘humble’ Luke walk down the beach shirtless, I thought, ‘This fucker’s not really that fat: 330lbs on a 6’3 frame? Love handles, sure, but that’s it.’ He used to be some football behemoth, playing the position of Brick Wall, and the conspicuous absence of body hair meant we’re dealing with yet another fucking shaved dolphin. No, modest Luke’s not worried about extra flab, but body hair on a man in the 21st century? Not unless you’re Wolverine.

Poor Puke. I’ve never heard a reality show “actor” sound more scripted and wooden. “Real beauty is on the inside.” Fuck you.

The other half of this train wreck is the women and their not inconsiderable cabooses. They’re introduced to the traditional reality show colorfully lit mansion (likely owned by some porn king) via limo, but the editing makes it look like all 20 big-boned women are emerging from the same long black clown car.

If you’re a Simpsons fan you may recall the ep where Moe gets plastic surgery and becomes a soap star. Before his transformation he overhears a producer say she wants, “Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island ugly, not Cornelius on Planet of the Apes ugly. TV-ugly, not…ugly-ugly”. Nineteen out of the 20 women weren’t fat-fat, they were “TV-fat” and gorgeous knockouts, to me and probably a lot of other dudes watching. I would be overjoyed to fuck the shit out of any one of them or all of them at the same time (I’m a hopeless romantic as well as insane).

When the broads meet Puke they are all in some kind of evening wear and gorgeous. About half of them have “sexy confidence” which may or may not be a lie. All of them, via embarassing confessionals, explain how they’ve never had boyfriends or been on dates. I wanted to feel sorry for them but I know too much. The reality is when The Gang is together or out at the club and the cunty thin bitches are being their usual impossible selves, the feral shithead men turn to (or on) the fatties to get suction. Sadly I’m sure every one of the 20 has sucked lots of crooked cock and done a whole lot more in a desperate scramble to get whatever the hell it is they want–“love” being the usual trope –but their pain seemed to run a lot deeper than that meaningless word.

During the hour (40 min. if you have the miracle of TIVO) Puke the Fatchelor is taking the “girls” off to the side one or two at a time and getting mouth kisses, which I found offensive. Kissing is an intimate act, handjobs would’ve been more apropos. The banter and confessionals of the women really hurt. Not a few of them kept crying and saying shit like, “This is my last chance!” Bitch, you’re fucking TWENTY-ONE and you met Puke not more than 20 minutes ago. Last chance? Enough.

Here’s the one Puke will probably pick. “Malissa” may or may not have the best tits in the bunch but she was the best at showing them off.

Marmalick

JERKING OFF IS LIKE A BREAKFAST BAR

Dropped a small amount of shrooms–stems only–no caps. I chanted over the dried bits and pieces which look like twigs and I chanted while beginning the trip which turned out to be a dud. My pupils did not dilate, I had no hallucinations. I jerked it, then took a shower (always a brilliant idea, dropping mind-altering substances and then standing on a wet, slippery surface).

I’m sorry this post will go nowhere, but NOTHING happened except I got a small burst of energy and the title for this post: JERKING OFF IS LIKE A BREAKFAST BAR. Because it doesn’t have to be breakfast time to enjoy one. Oh no, you can jerk off evenings, Tuesdays, one minute past high noon and in the fountain at the mall, as long as you can outrace Security with your pants around your anks.

The shrooms did not enhance the onanistic experience. Perhaps my dreams will rock…

Before all of this shroom business I surfed the internet for the phrase, “Accept there is no justice”. The reason no one accepts this obvious truth is their ego is in the way. No one likes to be shat upon and revenge is very close in the hearts of humans, like a rifle hidden just inside the jamb of the front door.

Earlier today I explained to a Buddhist woman that I believe there is a God, as in an intelligent, conscious energy with thoughts of its own. She disagreed, using the sentiment that, “We are God,” not in a blasphemous way but in the sense We are the Perceivers. I have no beef with that, I was more annoyed she doesn’t smoke dope anymore. Ironically or not, historically-speaking, the best-functioning religion that’s caused the least harm appears to be Buddhism, an atheistic religion.

I didn’t mention today was the 4th of July right away because I’m not feeling it. With a respectful nod to American soldiers who gave their sanity, limbs and lives, I have no independence of my own, all my so-called personal freedom is mixed with severe punishment. After all, one is free to quit one’s hated job and starve on the street. One is free to choose drugs and then be warehoused in nigger college, aka prison. One is free to write the words “nigger college” and then have the hyenas and jackals scream for one’s politically-incorrect head. One is free to jump off a tall building, only to discover one’s freedom to fly ends as gravity begins.

I just ran to the bathroom to check my pupils. If they were ever abnormally large they’re back to normal now. It’s one hour into July 5th, everything is back to normal, we can forget freedom and sacrifice for another year.

How ’bout a recipe?

Reading the news today it’s as if someone was trying to deliberately encourage me to hate people.

Not that they need any.

Now I don’t hate everyone. Some people have done some very nice things for me over the years, from Tijuana hookers to 3rd party pot providers to the good people at Kevorkian Limited who offered to send the missing piece to the Suicide Home Kit I ordered years ago.

Instead of ranting, how about a recipe? I tried it and found it very agreeable, except I substituted “spinach” with a pound of “ground beef”.

I bought bags of individual “ravioli squares” which I had to arrange. Next time I’ll get the boxed ravs.

“LAZE-ONYA”

2 pkgs frozen cheese ravioli
1 jar spaghetti sauce (e.g. Classico Tomato and Basil)
1 pkg shredded pizza cheese (Sargento)
1 pkg frozen spinach, defrosted and drained

Place ¼ cup sauce in bottom of large casserole dish. Place ravioli in single layer atop sauce, followed by spinach and topped with cheese.

(Each successive layer begins with more sauce).

One layer from bottom up =

cheese

spinach (or meat)

ravioli

sauce

Number of layers depends on size of dish.

Place in 350° oven for 35-40 minutes.

Cheese should be bubbly and ravioli hot throughout.

Egg McMuffin sex romp

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.

Jesus Christ versus a pococurante

When I first saw him he reminded me of a failed auditioner for a boy band, mostly because of the his white t-shirt underlying a thin print-pattern shirt with open sides billowing as if underwater as he paced, seemingly lost.

When I saw him again he was loudly singing songs referencing Jesus. Those around him seemed disturbed by this, but he was in his own world. He was there because he had a problem with something, and because I was at work, it was now my problem and job to help. As I helped him he asked, “Have you been Saved?” I wasn’t looking at him when I answered, “Well, I’m working here…” Meaning “Fuck No”.

Up close, Boy Band’s face was smooth and fresh but his eyes were puffy and tired. He explained how he was now 25 and had done every drug possible and hit bottom before trying God. And lo, Jesus had Saved him!

While not technically a Christian myself, I believed that Christ Jesus had indeed helped Boy Band, along with the peer pressure of the church, but I didn’t think the experience made Boy Band any smarter or more lucid; whatever potential he had before frying his circuits with drugs would remain lost. Well shit, he was only 25. Why judge?

I was mildly insulted that a “ki-dult” (25 is the real beginning of adulthood) would preach to someone older (me) but Boy Band’s torpid joy seemed real enough, and those Saved early on have a much harder road ahead of them than those who convert later (after fucking and drugging, sins denied me due to hating people).

Being at work, I only offered grunts of acknowledgment. As a customer, Boy Band could say whatever he wanted, while I was a slave. No employee enjoys this imbalance but then, I really didn’t have anything to add to his sluggish exuberance. If I wanted to risk losing the job I would’ve told Boy Band my minority opinion, which as a fundamentalist/former-druggie-now-Saved he would’ve found unacceptable: Jesus Christ is the answer, but not the only answer, there are infinite paths to God.

Boy Band said he’d say a prayer for me that night.

That was yesterday and I feel no different. I hope the positive effects of his prayer are delayed because tonight is another lottery drawing and the pot is 37 mil.

** ** ** ** ** **

Christ alone will never do it for me. I’m personally offended that He would deign to heal broken hearts when He Himself never tasted the pain of a variety of human failures, including rejection from a woman loved.

Now older than Christ at the time of his exit, I await death with the curse of a healthy body. Suicide would just leave God with a way to change the subject for calling Him out on the many, many fucked-up and stupid ways things are run around here.

So I wait, while somewhere out there Boy Band plans to be a counselor helping drug addicts. I am confident God has a few surprises left for both of us. It’s why I own a gun.