Saturday, February 18, 2006

the plain brown belt

so, as you know I’ve been searching for a long time for a plain brown belt, size 34, with a plain square brass buckle. I went to the American Way thrift store at lunch today specifically to search for this item. as I had many times before, I pored over this impossibly tangled nonsystematic wall of belts for several minutes before finally giving up. just before leaving I heard this weird squat woman in a blue utility vest muttering “hmm... it has a ticket but no price tag...” whatever that meant. she had a heavy Mexican accent. as I was walking away, I turned back and she was holding a plain brown belt with a plain square brass buckle. and it had some weird tag on it that I could have sworn said “34!”

so I asked her—“are you going to buy that belt?” and she says “yes” so I was pissed. but something seemed amiss— she was wearing that utility vest, so she really looked like an employee of the store. and the way she said “yes” really sounded like how some of our country’s newest arrivals will say “yes” to whatever question they don’t understand. and then I saw her walking around with a *different* belt in her hand, and talking to a bunch of other squat Mexican women, who were pushing around big carts full of random shit, and I couldn’t figure out if they were *buying* these items or *restocking* them, and I wanted to ask her— where is the belt? she hadn’t put it back on the wall, it didn’t appear to be behind the counter, and I kind of followed this woman around for a while stealthily looking at the carts she was— was she pushing them? walking by them? I couldn’t figure it out. there was no dividing line between employee and customer, just a horde of squat, square chicanas jabbering in that nasal Aztec Spanish, and I just wanted to find that belt, but I couldn’t ask the woman again because she had sounded all surly and pissed off for some reason the first time I asked her, but maybe that was just because she misunderstood me... but she had muttered to herself about the price tag *in English*- so what the fuck was going on? and why had I somehow come into the store at the exact instant when the one belt that I’ve needed for six months, the one belt out of *hundreds,* I come in at the *exact instant* that some weird woman had grabbed it off the wall, and then it fucking disappears… and this whole confusing situation, you know... the sheer wall of mexicanness created by this horde of chattering brown women prevented me from getting close to her and just asking her again... I was afraid of looking crazy, or like a dick.

and then I thought—what does this mean? that this holy grail had been dangled so close to me and then cruelly ripped away— or more precisely, dangled in front of me just to *show* me that it was there, without my ever having had the opportunity to actually get it... I started thinking that I had been destined to have this belt, and that if I had got it I would have been newly confident with this perfect accessory and it would have led to all kinds of success, some fulfillment of a long-buried destiny as a fruitful artist with riches and fame... but if I *didn’t* get the belt, then I would just recede into low-paid obscurity like I am now, lonely and poor and miserable, forever. and I kept freaking out like that for a while, even as I was walking back out to my car, and eventually this woman’s ethnicity became a big part of it an I started thinking that I hate all Mexicans, etc. etc. and I had this whole train of thought about destiny, like convinced that somehow my destiny could guide me to this belt but apparently wasn’t strong enough to keep this weird Mexican woman from grabbing the belt at the exact wrong moment... and I thought about how i'm learning Spanish in the car, and why didn’t I have the balls to ask the woman about the fucking belt *in Spanish*... and fucking— fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

yeah, destiny— like— somehow I had just missed out on an incredible destiny. some people are comforted by the idea that there’s no such thing as coincidence but I find it really horrible. the pressures it creates... horrific...

anyway, as I kind of wound down I realized that I was of course being completely fucking batshit— I mean— none of the other belts had tags with their size on them, so the thing couldn’t even have said “34"... creepy. I had like a little mini psychotic episode.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

valentine's day

maybe i need to make a female pinnochio. i like the idea of this sad little marionette being overjoyed at coming to life and then the joy instantly turns to disgust as my veiny, unwashed penis comes at her.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

a failed entomological metaphor whose tenor i have forgotten

i was also about to say that it would be like being assraped by a giant preying mantis, except a preying mantis doesn’t have a penis. but if a preying mantis did have a penis, it would feel like being raped by the sort of penis one would imagine a preying mantis would have—very spiny and long, and green, and sort of elaborately *horned,* and resembling a twig for camouflage. but then if a preying mantis did rape me i suppose i could turn around and bite off its head, which would be pretty gratifying. i would be like “so there!”

Sunday, February 12, 2006

chad

one of the things—chad is allergic to nuts, you know, but he’s not one of those people who freaks out if he finds out that he’s even in the same building where some peanuts were once processed in 1975, or any of that shit. he’s not going to swell up and die just from *looking* at nuts… i feel like a lot of the people who are allergic to nuts really go out of there way to make it this huge movie-of-the-week deal, but chad fucking doesn’t get all dramatic about it; he just doesn’t eat nuts.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

jimmy smits is a douchebag

i don't give a fuck anymore, man. i'll post anything.

nesty mcnesterson part 2

"have a seat, nesty.

"it’s been brought to my attention that, uh… how to put this? the boys over in accounts payable have brought to my attention that one of their cubicle walls appears to have been... uh, covered with *mud* bound together with what appears to be strands of... regurgitated mucous, and the whole… the whole thing is some sort of multi-chambered structure. and that in fact several small *birds* have emerged from this structure and, um... they’ve been perching on the accounting staff’s shoulders and necks and so forth, and appear to be attempting to pick insects from the hair of the employees in question. now, I know HR has issued one written reprimand to you already for, uh, building a large sort of twig-hive in the breakroom and, um… *roosting*, or perhaps *brooding* over a small flock of wrens there after hours. and so naturally, and this is not to in any way communicate a sense of distrust, but we naturally had to just ask you very directly: have you established a colony of african oxpeckers on the accounts payable floor, nesty?"

“RAAAAAKKKK!!!!! ... I mean... no.”

fred flintstone is an asshole

it's like-- you can't give a bowl of cereal that's worth about two cents to your *best friend,* but you *will* give it to some random rapper? what a dick.

Friday, February 10, 2006

diary 1/23: the chick in my office has a cold sore

Wow— the cold sore. This poor girl can’t win. She has a fucking— I’ve already used “hideous” once, I really need to find a new word— this cold sore that is big and *white*, and just sort of screams at you, on her lower lip— and you can practically see the viruses and spirochetes leaping off it and onto one’s own face. After she accidentally brushed my hand I had to go wash it. You can give someone cold sore herpes by eating their pussy... she has face herpes. Bleccch... she’s fucking herpes-laden.

Oh yeah—don’t eat the pretzels. What if she’s been sticking her hand in the pretzel jar after dragging it across her saliva-laden mouth? What if those pretzels are fucking crawling with big white ready-to-pop herpes that I would then communicate to somebody’s pussy?

fuck fuck and fuck as well, with an additional, like, set of appendices in the back, and you flip back to them and they also say "fuck"

thirty years old, car’s gonna break, never get laid, losing my job

raising my rent, gaining the weight, drinking the booze, sniffin the coke

losin’ my job, losin’ my job, fuckin’ depressed

la la la la

and you know

and you know, he would be working in a regular office wearing a suit, but once in a while if he saw a brightly colored piece of yarn or something on somebody’s desk* he would crane over and nip it in his mouth and run away with it, flailing his arms. and then he would duck into his office which would be a giant nest made out of straw, and shredded paper, and his own mucous, with several baby birds inside.

* or perhaps more plausibly hanging off their sweater