How to snag a “good one”

24 06 2008

I’ve said on more than one occasion that my girlfriend kicks ass. It’s still true; she still kicks ass. I’ve had posed to me the question of acquiring such a girlfriend–not the exact one, mind–and each time I’ve drawn a blank. How exactly do you go about hooking up with someone who just all-around rocks? 

Well, after a lot of research, the core of which involved trying to remember colors of shirts, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no fail-safe way to get an awesome girlfriend. It either happens, or it doesn’t. Sometimes, it really doesn’t, and you end up with a nosebleed-crazy knife enthusiast. Maybe it’s safer to just not try a formula, you know? Wouldn’t want anyone to get stabbed.  

Then again, you could always do what I did:

The frightened cry of a trapped The Girlfriend often sounds like \

Remember, it wasn’t easy to trap this one. For one, she was already wearing a helmet, so I couldn’t just give her the ol’ caveman club-and-drag. It took skill, dexterity, and above all, a very safe-looking snare to catch her. 

In the end, though, all that really matters is that my girlfriend is awesome. Not awesome enough to avoid a snare loaded with amazingly lifelike kitten robots (live kittens), but still, pretty damned awesome. 


Also, if you’re going to be leaving your newly snared The Girlfriend alone for any amount of time, be sure to secure all lines and knots. 

Steve Austin and myself in seventh grade would be proud of this Stunner.

They’re crafty creatures, those The Girlfriends.


You see, the problem with dens of iniquity is…

14 06 2008

That the clerks always look at you with this mildly superior smirk, like “I’m so pulling a fast one on you right now. You’re totally buying this stuff that I’m selling. I win.” 

Now, I get it that maybe a guy shopping in a porn store is probably a little creepier than the guy working there–at least on the outside–but inferior? Or, god forbid, morally inferior? Oh my, whatever shall we do…

No, no. Let me back up just a little. See, I always maintain an overly cheerful manner when dealing with guys who work in places that sell bongs and rubber vaginas. It keeps them on edge, ready to fight to the death if necessary, should any errant pervert make a wrong move. It’s healthy for them, I think, to have that sort of fantasy world to slip into when all you have to do for twelve hours a day is watch wrestling and sell fake cocks to women his grandmother’s age. 

Anyway, he had that same sort of smirk I was telling you about. Except, on this guy, the smirk looked half condescending, and half hateful. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if he had a loaded shotgun next to the TV, always ready to blow a hole in someone, but that just gathers dust, having never even been fired. If I had jumped at him and made a scary face:

Yes, just like that one

He would have blown a rat hole through my thigh. You know, because of how scary I am. I mean, look at that–is that the scariest Asian man you’ve ever seen or what?

I’m sorry, I seem to be getting away from the point here. The point is that the greatest moral question of my generation is whether the guy selling the porn, or the guy buying, is of a higher moral standing. Maybe they’re equally scummy. Or maybe they should join forces to stop crime because they’re both just that fucking awesome. 

Or maybe the guy shopping at the porn store shouldn’t be complaining so much about the service. 

Craigslist is the internet’s Babylon

6 06 2008

Lo, Babylon the great has fallen. Where once there was a site dedicated to the free exchange of goods and services, there is now (and probably has been since about five seconds after Craigslist’s launch) a mire of dedicated debauchery. Not only has Craigslist made itself look bad, it’s also done a fine job of fucking up my conception of the town I live in. Go ahead, I dare you. If you’re in a city of any size, chances are your town has a Craigslist section. Look under “Casual Encounters” and tell me if your entire perception just shifted a little bit.

Okay, maybe I’m making too big a deal about this. Maybe all college campuses have glory holes. Maybe there really are legions of post- and preop trannies out there ready and willing to… do whatever it is that they do to whoever answers their posts. God only knows.

 Then again, and not to sound too paranoid, what if it’s the cops? What if all these sad people are just being set up to get fucked in a way that access to Craigslist does not provide? Ouch. The really tragic thing is that it’s fairly probable that that’s the case. What’s even worse is that it’s probably legal now to set up entrapping posts on the internet. Who knows?

Anyway, I may have freaked out a little when I saw that post. I was just trolling through the personals–the women’s were mostly (with a few major exceptions) boring; the men’s, on the other hand, were compelling in the way that Rotten was compelling–when lo and behold…

“An open invitation to an on-campus glory hole! Holy shit, that means that–” 

Then I realized that I actually know very little about glory holes. I get the basic penis-through-the-hole thing, but who decides who does what? It’s supposed to be anonymous, so it’s not like the dudes should talk to each other all that much, right? Then again, I’d hate to be the one guy in the whole place who just stands there for three hours with his dick poking through a roughly drilled hole in the side of a bathroom stall.

That would be embarrassing.

Not to mention that Dammit. I got away from my point here with all this talk about dicks and walls and public indecency laws and shit. The point, ladies and gentlemen, the point is that Craigslist is a dirty place to visit. Never mind the hours of schadenfreude I get from poring over all those sad lonely people’s personal ads. Never mind the possibility that many people have found actual contentment through the personal ads. The point is that some of them make me uncomfortable.

As to why they make me uncomfortable, well…



Oh Christ, here come the symbols…

3 06 2008

Now that Hillary Clinton is more or less a dead duck, we’re left with Senators Obama and McCain duking it out for the top spot. This is where the symbols come in. Now, I’m not trying to sound like some nutjob TV psychic. What I mean is that the Obama/McCain clash is symbolic of the classic Black Man’s Struggle in America. Because of this, and because he’s sort of black, look for Barack Obama’s camp to play up the underdog aspect. God knows America loves an underdog.

Sadly, I don’t see it working for Obama this go-round. He’s too polished, too professional, to be able to play off a decent woe-is-me card and not look like a total buffoon. No one will feel sorry for him, but then again, no will care either way. In a gang rape, the victim doesn’t prefer one dick to another.

I’m no politico, but I’d say wait for a big bomb to come from Obama’s people some time this Summer. Something involving McCain and his stance on religion, perhaps. It would be a boon to Obama’s Presidential hopes if he could somehow play the two-sided preacher fiasco as a natural consequence of politics. Then, he could come out in favor of a milder, more politically astute preacher, and seem like the Righteous Brother the people will surely vote for. He does this, but manages to make McCain’s same rejection of supportive religious figures look like ingratitude. After all, Reverend Wright was a lunatic anyone would be glad to get away from; Hagee and Parsley are just your average White Southr’n Preachuhs.

At any rate, there isn’t any good choice for us this year. Obama’s a professional politician, and McCain’s an old asshole. In a country full of them, the assholes will always reign supreme.  

Goddamned right I didn’t run you over!

21 05 2008

I’m drunk. Perhaps I should make that clear before we go any further: I am drunk, and don’t quite know how to contain myself at the moment. As to whatever else might be wrong with me, well, it gives me a certain kind of peace to know that–whatever else actually happens to me, personally–you readers don’t really know fact from fiction as this point. I could have swallowed seven forty-mil oxycontin after an eight-ball of some 98% Bolivian Superblow and a solid liter of Jose Cuervo, and none of you would know the difference unless I told you so.

What does that feel like, I wonder? What if I am sinking into one of the best China White jabs of my life, and not just swaying slightly in my dumpster-chair, the victim of too much tequila and something called an Irish Car Bomb. And another something–this time incredibly sweet, even cloying–called a… fuck. Water Moccasin? Whatever the facts, the point is that I’m pretty fucking drunk. 

I’m looking up at the title of this entry and freaking out, right now. I have no clue as to what the fuck it’s supposed to mean. Who did I run over recently? Did I run anyone over tonight? No, impossible. I walked to the bar–a wise choice, if you ever have the option–and managed to make it to someone’s house before the brunt of the liquor even hit me. And then… Well.

Anyway, I can’t help but relate to you the event of my emailing a fairly vicious letter to the editor of the San Marcos Daily Record. Now, I wasn’t doing anything immature–like counting off spelling/grammar errors like I did in 3rd grade–I just sent them a strangely poignant letter-essay about my job at Essay Writers and the work we perform there. It wasn’t a pleasant letter, by any means. I wrote it, so it could only conceivably involve forced sodomy and Mind of Mencia marathons.

Actually, it involves the probability that a good portion of the students here in San Marcos have actually bought their essays from sites like mine. It’s kind of addressed to the parents of such individuals, but not in a joking or ragging way. It actually does a decent job of paint the world of professional essay writing as a grim, grimy place inhabited by drug-runners and pimps. Which, for better of worse, is total bullshit. I’m pretty proud of it, actually, which sets it apart from pretty much everything I’ve ever written (except for a couple of poems), and really sets a high bar for something that is actually not that spectacular. Fuck it–I like it. Piss on you whores. 

Okay. So, hopefully that letter doesn’t actually get published (yes, I was actually sober when I wrote the fucking thing), and if it does… God save us all. 

For the sake of decency!

19 05 2008

If there’s one thing we should all agree on, it’s that all porn performers have their expiration dates. John Holmes got AIDS, Jenna Jameson got her face seared off and sewed on wrong. Some just decide it’s time to hang up the jizz towel. Those are the ones whose old scenes are still worth watching. Some pornstars meet their expiration dates with a strange kind of dignity and grace, then fade out to become late-night shills for male enhancement products.

Then again, some porn stars die, and yet new footage of them continues to be released to the jerking viewing public. This is not okay. No. Scratch that. That is very not fucking okay. Do any of you have any clue how uncomfortable it is to watch a porn scene of someone who’s actually pretty impressive, only to find out that not only are they dead, but they were fucking murdered?

Jesus God! I understand that the porn industry is a little lacking as far as common decency is concerned, but there has to be a limit. This girl:

is dead. Only moments ago, I saw a scrolling advert blazing across the screen with her as the cover model. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this? It’s not like Heath Ledger, who was an actor for “entertainment value only”. You can still watch his movies, and while you might think “Hey, he’s recently deceased.” it won’t exactly fuck you up. Porn–come on, we all know it’s true–is a two-way avenue of entertainment. Hardly anyone watches porn for the storylines. It’s interactive, up to a certain point. 

Okay, fine. Here’s the problem, in plain words: jerking off to dead girls is almost like necrophilia. 

That, along with the theft of infants for personal gain, is not okay with me. 

Just remember: if you’re watching porn, this girl:

is dead. I’m sorry.

And the eighth rule…

18 05 2008


I just finished reading Fight Club about twenty minutes ago.

Contrary to what I’ve been told, it’s noticeably different from the movie, in that it contains more of that Palahniuk philosophy that rings so fresh and yet so flat on the ear. That notion seems to be that we can never truly be a part of the great landslide of human existence unless we give up and allow ourselves to be reabsorbed into that which has already shat us out…that murderers want to be caught, because the detectives on the case are their saviors, and so on.

Okay, well… Bullshit. I’m not buying it. By definition, a landslide is an event which drags whatever is in the way along with it. In much the same manner, humankind is an unavoidable catastrophe bearing down on every single one of us from points above. The only way to avoid a total landslide is to be above it, on higher ground. The problem is, each generation is born further down the hill, deeper into the flood plain. Each generation is more fucked than the last. All told, there is no discernible difference between the dead on the bottom of the pile and those nearer the top, except that crows and coyotes can’t dig very far.

From the movie, one might assume that Chuck Palahniuk is out to destroy society, which has been marked irredeemable by those at the head of the landslide.

Ayn Rand was probably closer than Palahniuk on that end.

He seems to believe that we can only truly excel once the old ways have been torn down, and the new guard is allowed a truly fresh start. A sort of slash-and-burn sociological experiment. That’s all well and good on paper, but my question is: how can we ever expect to start fresh? You can tear down an old barn, but there’s still a big pile of shit left over, not to mention the foundation. Do we dig that up and destroy it, too? Do we waste our formative, fast-burning years on cleaning up after people long-dead and utterly blameless?

Fuck that noise. The only valid philosophy for this day and age is the Jackrabbit Principle: stay as far ahead of the brush fire as possible, and when it’s too late to run, lay low and eat the young.