In the Spirit of Bill Hicks

Sex and fucking and never again

It occurred to me as I left the gym at 10PM with Metallica’s Dyer’s Eve shredding the eye-Pod that I might never get laid again.

My only real deliverance this past decade has been annual sojourns to Tijuana brothels, and Califonia’s taint is far, far, away from Old Folks, Florida.

There was some minor excitement 2 years ago when I’d been given a call girl’s number and tax money would soon arrive to pay for her. To prepare I went out and bought “oils” and a massage table and was even doing shit around the house men never do, like cleaning the bathroom. For a week I had a spring in my step and a shine on my balls in delighted anticipation! I was a fine member in good standing of the human race, and then just like a rotten sitcom twist, as I was going on and on to the middleman friend about how excited I was, he explained our pal who gave me her number told me NOT to call her, she wasn’t accepting new clients. My heart broke like the damn in New Orleans, putting out all Cajun fires of catfish hope. I was so destroyed I’ve never cleaned the bathroom since. But for one blissful the week just the promise of pussy made me want to be a better john.

I have no plans to visit out West, and good thing. The gods of chastity ironically enjoy FUCKING with poor bastards like me. The first obstacle was created by a team-up of islamofascist turbaned dickheads and the US govt: a mandatory ‘passport card’ costing around $100 is now required for foot travel between Future Mexico and Regular Mexico. You’re also probably aware by now about the skyrocketing price of fuel which (again, ironically) has grounded a shitload of planes and made ticket prices sky-high. Rounding out the chaos and hopelessness, my last and only friend in Cali has no place for me to stay and—one more gag—narco-terrorist gun battles have made it unsafe for Americans to even visit TJ. If all of this vanished I’d still be out of luck: a quarter of each month’s pay goes to student loans paying down a worthless, rip-off education, so saving up would take well over a year anyway.

It’s a shame, really. The whores I’ve been with (always in countries where hooking is legal) have all been 9s and 10s, quality over quantity. Usually it’s a good time, if not mechanical and predictable, but sexual fucking is the only thing in life where just going through the motions still yields a quality outcome.

If you’re a woman (still) reading this, well, that’s not possible. If you’re a dude, let me say I appreciate in advance any “suggestions” you may have brainstormed about “what I should do,” but none of it’s going to work. I don’t dance, i don’t sing, I don’t buy drinks and I don’t make small talk. Fuck the cover charge and slit the throat of the bouncer that will be talking home the hot chick anyway. I’ve given up. Even though I hate clowns, the gods have made me one; I’ll never get on with this fucked-up, retarded society that will always be uglier and more rotten than me. I’m too clever, dumb, arrogant, shy, proud, angry, vicious, and goddamn it sensitive to properly cope with the many lightning bolts of pure shit striking at every corner and turn. All I have left is a sense of humor, and that’s about as much an aid to getting laid as shitting your pants.

The blonde at work has big tits but a weak chin. I hate women, I hate men, I hate myself 23-hours-a-night but I’m too lazy to die so I’ll further hate voices, pictures, faces, eyes, words, every last fart of the illusion.

Someone must die and it won’t always be me.

Heart of Dentist Too(th)

Click for the original post.

I wake up unhappy, don’t eat and go to the dentist’s office.

Lying in the chair with a fairly attractive Asian probing my
mouth, I think about how I’ve never seen a porno that takes
place in a dentist’s office, probably because no one believes
anything pleasurable happens there.

As the woman works away with hooks and drills I once
again imagine the sewer pipes under the building, draining
the sludge of blood, gum tissue and tooth (fairy) dust to
Hell for sinners to drink.

I get the vibe the pretty Asian might be Interested, but I’m
not. I’m already heartsick and have no idea why it’s
important my teeth be in good order; ideas for suicide don’t
involve anything that leaves ID only by the teeth.

The dentist is a Good Old Florida Cracker. There are fillings
to be done and the syringe has a shiny silver ring for his
thumb. Oh shit.

The needle pierces my gums, pain lighting up the nerves
racing up the length of my jawline. By the 5th time the
needle strikes, I’m used to it, the monstrous pain of the
white hot needle, a cum-squirt of hot Novocain and WHOOF,
the pain vanishes like a match being blown out. The
horrible needle delivers the cure for itself.

As Dr. Cracker finishes with the shots I tell him, “This is why
I could never be a spy.”

Ha ha ha ha.

Fairly Pretty Asian cleans some more. I’m led to another
chair for the fillings.

A White girl, age unknown, wears a cloth mask over her
mouth and a full facial visor over that. Her smock is
brown and neither her tits or ass leap out as extraordinary.
I love her anyway. She sets up the tools of the trade on
the little tray. Hyperactive squirrels outside the window
distract her. Uh oh.

Dr. Cracker joins her when all is ready. Even with the left
half of my face numb, the drill feels like one from a hardware store. My
mind is both keenly focused and racing. I wonder why
there have never been tooth-shaped birthday cakes, why
everything is a disaster to the unhappy mind. A line from
Bukowski: People’s mouths are uglier than their assholes. I
try not to laugh aloud, there are four hands in my mouth
wielding all manner of sharps and I’m drowning in my own
saliva. I wonder if the girl is a dental student. I love her
even though I haven’t seen her face. Is this how poor
Muslim men go through life? Wondering what’s under there?

No wonder they pray to Allah. No, girl, don’t look at the Muslim squirrels holding their nuts, concentrate on this.

She hold a blue light over the filling goo. Beep….beeep.

It is finished.

I sit in the raised chair like the Buddha, the stupid beaded chain with alligator clips holding a blue napkin on my chest. Horrible pain brings a powerful ability to focus. When Dr. Cracker was shooting me with Novocain, I wished he would’ve flipped out and stabbed me in the heart. It would probably be a fine way to die, the heart stopping as if batteries had been removed but instead of cold death, warmth and beautiful numbness.

The bill is $285 for 3 fillings and a partial cleaning. I’m in the wrong line of work and of questionable sanity, as is everyone who visits a dentist of their own free will.

Is Satan the Father? Find out after these messages.

I vacillate between believing God or Satan runs the Show. If Satan is the True God, then the rare comfort of religion and the kindness of a few souls is the true victory. If God is the Real, it means all of the horror has His approval. God laughs at the grand illusion while for us it is absolutely terrifying and real, with less than 50 living souls able to see the underlying green code of the Matrix.

To God, the evil that men do is simply a debt they shall pay later. He doesn’t hate the wicked nor especially love the good. It’s hard to accept this concept, maybe impossible, while alive.  Abstain from judgment! Of everything! 

I really need to get off the fucking internet, just blank it out for a week at a time (minus meatlights and email). The web is worse than alcohol and TV. Hard drugs may kill you, but all that means is you won’t live to suffer the consequences of your mistakes, unlike if you watch 2 Girls, 1 Cup (I haven’t and never will, if I can help it).

I’m afraid to imagine what life will be in 50 to 100 years when the Matrix is real and we’ll click through entire worlds like ghosts who feel everything as if living.