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.

TED lectures – save your time for porn instead

WHAT IF the world’s most overrated assholes all got in one room and that room didn’t mercifully explode or launch itself into the sun?

There’d be TED, once a name for a boy, now probably some acronym for smart people who think they’re too smart for even smart people.

TED freaks, you are too smart, but only compared to yourselves. You’re only there at that auditorium in Fuckflorff, Sweden because you’re somehow rich off whatever scam you’ve been selling.

No one gives a fuck about your specialness or combined altruistic horse manure brainpower. Have you looked at the WORLD around you GENIUSES? This is the best it can do WITH YOU IN IT!

Pathetic.

I could’ve saved all this typing by linking to the video showing fat fascist and liar Al Gore in your audience, er, TEDience.

Now go show a fucking car commercial at lecture’s end to pay for your rubbish because a roomful of ingenious millionaires couldn’t all chip in to broadcast for free.

His sister is a porn star

A SFW confessional about a poor guy discovering his sister is in porn.

Why even blog about this? “Ratings.” Blogs with sex in them do better, and this particular article is about to “blow up” if it hasn’t already.

I’m also waiting, with bated breath, for some dedicated n0rp addict to find out the identity of the sister and thus confirm the article.

I have a sister who once worked on a n0rp set BEHIND THE CAMERA not in front of the tattoo-armed Cialis-dropping ex-convict of the week. She was the one who told me how bad it was, the negative energy, plus during the shoot a guy on the film crew was fired for being a crack addict (who then stomped out and vandalized some of the film crew’s cars).

I’m not totally judging these folks as I’m a mild consumer of n0rp0graphy myself, plus once upon a time I wrote n0rp scripts.

A lot of blog commentors have latched on to something the brother (a piece of shit who should be killed, when you read it you’ll know why) of the author said when breaking the news:

“It’s nasty, Bob. She’s doing everything. Girls. Black guys. Gang bangs. Taking it up the ass.”

OMG he said Black Guys like there’s a difference!

Yeah, here’s the deal on that: White women in the industry that screw Black guys “lose value” with certain large fan bases. However, they must gain back something in new fan bases.

I’ve got interracial n0rp scenes sprinkled throughout my small collection. Sometimes watching it bothers me, other times not. What’s more important to me is that the dude (or dudes) keep their obnoxious traps shut, I didn’t pay for rude/degrading commentary about the “actress” from seagull-haired frat rejects or bald Black bitches.

The unnamed sister in the article could be considered a victim, but as I read between the lines, I realized that she could also simply be one of the bell curvers, people on the wrong edge who are always going to be fuckups no matter what anyone else does to help. They are not lost in the eyes of the gods, but being lost to themselves, there’s no saving them this time around.

Then there’s this from another blog. I do not know the author and never read her before yesterday.

I’ll be the first to admit it….I don’t get why guys like porn.

Men are visually stimulated, they have “more direct” sex drives and less societal restrictions about getting the job done. How can I put this so women can better understand it? Ladies, you know how a great many of you enjoy watching romance movies and reading romance novels in order to give your tear ducts “a workout?” You get that feeling of release after which you feel better. Well, penises also like to weep tears of joy, only in spurts, onto your breasts and elsewhere.

When ever I see glimpses of it, I think how that girl must be feeling…how she got there….what her family must be feeling or thinking. It’s degrading to me. You can call me a prude or whatever…

You don’t have to be a woman to know how a woman in a n0rp0 is feeling, after awhile it’s easy to see who’s into it (very, very few) for the screw and who’s there for the paycheck.

…but I know that it hurts me inside. I think of my sweet little sister at the age she is now. Think of all your sisters you have now. What if circumstances changed them? What if they grew up to be a porn star?Think how you would feel and how you would feel for them.

Sometimes this argument is used by people (like me) that would rather prostitution be decriminalized. How is a woman lying on her back for 20 minutes per hour more ‘degraded’ than a waitress on her feet nonstop for 10 hours a day? Which woman is safer and has real legal protection, the woman in the brothel or the one on the street with a psycho pimp?

As for women in n0rp, it’s all business to them. They compartmentalize the bad shit just like everyone else with a rough job. The only thing that bothers me about n0rp these days is the youngest talent seems absolutely soulless, as if they’d planned to be in n0rp since they were 12 or younger. Awful.

I’ll be an old-ass man when virtual fucking and fuckbots are finally viable. Anything is better than this.

Porn and Ham Versus the Siren Song of Suicide

If you’re the ‘Emperor Of The Universe’ (per another post) why can’t you exact CHANGE on this motherfuckin’ planet, nigga? And by CHANGE I mean you, me, M. Todd, S. Gary, Hip, WBM III, Capt. Morgan, etc., would be celebrated as this moment’s best authors and we would be welcomed with open arms by the hottest bitches we can imagine (and we have imaginations, by god) and millions upon millions would buy our novels, poetry volumes, t-shirts, key rings, bumper stickers, etc., and we’d be nigga rich and living like we should be living instead of working shithole jobs for shithole pay.

— Digital aka Dirty Howie

Hadn’t yet had a chance to add I’ve been downgraded to “Emperor of Only This Room I’m In”.

The practical answer to your question is that I have nothing worth selling, no novel or stories and poems don’t sell anyway. Now you could take the best from AHA and make a book out of that, with all of us pitching in on both costs and content, maybe a third of it new. The technology is now in place to self-publish high-quality books, as few as 25 or even five. A Delaware friend of mine published his own book of poetry that way. It (isn’t very good, but) looks like anything you might find in a bookstore.

The second practical answer is, if you want to publish something to get rich, your best shot is to write a romance novel (second best shot: cook book). I don’t know that most people hate their lives, but even the happy ones want to get away from themselves via the fantasies and escapism of linear storytelling. Even Donald Trump must occasionally watch movies or TV to take a break from himself–tho why would he bother when he’s a living cartoon who can blink anything he wants into existence–but he does.

I’m too disgusted to write seriously (or for long) because, “It’s all been said before, and better”, also not an original thought. There’s a better way to bliss: doing nothing at all while suffering. You have your alk and drugs, Todd has music, alk, drugs. Gary has food, alk, a pension and insanity. I have porn and ham. It would be so easy to just give up. It’s damned tempting. The way we live makes suicide the sanest choice.

Portrait of a Penis as a Deadly Cobra

I hadn’t jacked-off in 12 days, some kind of World Record. Mostly it didn’t bother me, but other times–especially when good ass was in sight–my scrotum burned like glass in a blue flame. It could’ve been my imagination, but it also began to feel leaden, less willing to yo-yo in response to stimuli.

Finally the time came to come again. I summoned Kaylan Nicole like a genie from her hard drive bottle, cuing the scene. CC Fafafini, yet another hairless porn-dolphin, was ramming that vagina like his penis was a plunger working to unclog a toilet in a BAD Mexican restaurant. Such a beautiful vagina she had, the close-ups excellent.

With my penis heavy like a shotgun I figured it’d be over fast. Not so!

I got through Kaylan’s plowing twice before sighing with boredom. I debated switching to something else; my left hand clumsily clicked the mouse. Now it was Mack Wallass, he of the hooked nose and horn, working away on one Renee Emerald, one of those women who do only one or two films, then nothing. Sean Elephantay, the Black Stud, was also involved.

The scene, low-key as it was, did the trick, but there was no blast. In the 12 days of inactivity, my poor cobra had forgotten how to spit, leaving only a few weak coins and gurgles of man-yogurt.

I tried again, but the show was over. The Cosmoslick lubricant had actually turned to foam, making it look as if I’d tried to screw a Starbucks latte.

The next night I had no idea of the outcome, but my cock had the block on lock. This time the scene was Wallass with Maya Puissant, which never fails. In short order I was feeling much better despite earlier losing my wallet. A brilliant, steaming Rorshach of white wet music glorified a soon-to-be-trashed sock, testament to the power of happy testicles, counterbalancing an unhappy mind.

Such is the power.

Marc and Me: a love/hate rant

Way back in the early 90s, the four major Cocks of the Compass were Peter North, Marc Wallice, Tom Byron and TT Boy. Of course even then there were many other fellows (and hundreds more now thanks to the web and Cialis) but back in my Time of Pre-jaculatory Innocence it was possible to be familiar with every major starlet’s work and know the names of all the main cocksmen without being Rain Man.

As anyone who’s seen more than one porn movie knows, only the female faces change, a fact “mostly true” even today.

Though I look and “act” nothing like him, over time I “came” to identify with Marc Wallice the most. Wallice’s sexual adventures served as surrogate for my absent, nonexistent ones. I never liked him and still don’t, but as a familiar face in an ever-changing world of cunt, Wallice became sort of a “comfort cock”, exposed to as wide a variety of vaginas as a master chef’s menu.

Chalk it up to inevitability that Wallice as well as the other three aforementioned cocksmen fucked my personal favorite porn starlet several times over the years, leaving me with a permanent welt of blasphemy and loss.

(Aside: When a girl I knew described her feelings about the dudes in porn as “watching someone’s Jewish Dad”, I knew she meant either Wallice or Randy West).

It was already the 21st century when an acquaintance I’d met mentioned he once read an interview where Wallice described being in early morning LA traffic, smirking and gleeful that all the poor slobs around him had to go to some shit job while he was going to get laid and paid.

Whether or not that anecdote is true, I was the last to know that six years earlier, karma visited Wallice with extreme prejudice: he was discovered to be HIV+ and suspected of taking 6 or 7 pornettes down with him, making him a permanent porn pariah (though as late as 2003, it’s rumored he’s been directing/editing with his name off the credits).

My favorite line of the Wallice bio:

Sexually, Wallice cast himself out, and spent much of his time masturbating to magazines and past porn dalliances.

To this day I cannot say, “Past porn dalliances” without blasting the room with hard laughter. (Googling the above emboldened quote you can access Wallice’s personal story on Google Groups).

Over the years my pathetic life has been witness to Wallice’s many conquests, sadly lived vicariously through him; that the pornettes eternally spread their legs only for money is irrelevant. I was amazed and saddened to learn of the end of Wallice’s active career…without him I am alone, adrift on the treacherous sickening seas of present porn without his (Peter?) North Star to sail by.

I was also, of course, filled with only the finest schadenfreude that Wallice, lanky, hook-nosed, pony-tailed bi-sexual fuck machine was cast out of the pornosphere at last, as if now I somehow have a chance of catching up to the 1000s of vaginas and rectums his hooked horn has dipped inside.

What a truly pathetic and non-gay love/hate letter to a man I’ll never meet or want to meet.

I wrote porn scripts in which people happen to have sex

You could write porn scripts dude!  —Motel Todd, referring to this.

In the late 90s I did get paid a partial sum for helping to rewrite a porn script.  Once.  And for a time I foolishly did think writing “art film” scripts was my way In.  But c’mon…the closed-circle porn community has their own 3 or 4 hacks they always use:  why hire new for a job anyone can do?  Use the doofs you have. 

And they did.

I visited Jawn-Luke, a minor porn director, to discuss writing an original script based on a Highlander-type character (he LOVED the title:  EXXXcelsior).

The meeting took place in those halcyon months before “Phantom Menace” premiered, when no one yet knew how badly it would suck.  Jawn-Luke was stoked about seeing the new Star Wars and so was I, but of the two of us in his living room, only one thought X-rated gigs were stepping stones to becoming the next Spielberg; all porn directors seemed to share this delusion, maybe because Francis Coppola made the jump to legit-speed from porn. 

My favorite all-time quote from these directorial dweebs, one they must have passed around more than the latest Asian butt-slut off the boat:  We don’t make ‘fuck films’, we tell stories in which people HAPPEN to have sex.”  Oh yes.  They truly believe this.

As for our business, Jawn-Luke seemed earnest but clueless about what he wanted.  He was reading too much into these things; it was because of him I finally saw the excellent Casablanca as well as a turd called The Last Tycoon, based on an unfinished F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

I left Jawn-Luke’s house–no opulent mansion but a paid-for house nonetheless in LA, quite an achievement–more jealous than anything.   I finally decided he was a callow fool who didn’t deserve his meager credit, though I never intended to keep his lent personal copy of Highlander 2. 

No, Todd, there’s no money in writing scripts for pornographers.  The explosion of “gonzo” porn is further evidence linear porn storytelling is no longer the dominant form.

My deep-seated resentment of pornographers remains, though I use their product and will continue to do so.