Posts Tagged ‘misery’

Quoticle – Living Suicide

Thursday, 1 November 2012

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So much more to hate about “More to Love”

Thursday, 30 July 2009

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.

There’s nothing cute about acute gastroenteritis

Tuesday, 21 April 2009

I’m guessing it was the lone strawberry I ate after dinner. On one side he was fuzzy and ugly with a small puke green patch on him…the other side was still a deep and succulent red. I nibbled the red side and it was sweet. Soon after my body temp plummeted and hours later I was pissing shit out my ass in a laserlike brown stream, funny because at work I enjoyed telling others: “If you can’t be happy for any other reason, thank God you don’t have violent diarrhea (and if you do have it, thank God you’re not constipated”).

Violent puking joined the dia-chorus an hour later and would continue at two hour intervals all night long. I’d be reading in bed when first the squirts, then the puking, then using an entire roll of toilet paper, then back to bed quaking with chills, repeat as needed. I was wearing three shirts, two pairs of socks, two pairs of sweatpants and lying wrapped beneath two giant blankets, the larger one made of super-insulating goose down, and I was still shivering.

During one of the liquid breaks I managed to get online (WebMD sucks, BTW, nothing like than struggling with an unintuitive POS website when you’re dying). I was terrified I had signs of appendicitis or a kidney stone, and though my insides felt like Mike Tyson’s heavy bag I still didn’t have the sharp pains that accompany each of the really bad conditions.

I must have squirted enough brown to fill an oil drum, and by the time early morn arrived, there wasn’t a single grain of rice or bit of fish (or strawberry) or drop of liquid in my system. The last round of puking, without any water left in my body to move it, brought up pure Alien grade acid from the pit of my stomach, burning the hell out of my throat. I was too weak to drink water, but eventually managed to get some down.

I was only too happy to miss work today, the downside being I still haven’t the energy to slink over to the grocery for Gatorade. Life’s been reduced to a quest for electrolytes. I prefer it to the existential pain of living every day as a healthy but gormless fugazi.

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