Saturday, May 08, 2010

Did you ever

know someone who owned a ferret? Didn’t they always go out of their way to tell you they were the pet of kings in olden times? Always, really defensively, they would say that. Like, as if anticipating you saying “this musk-secreting weasel is going to make your house smell like taint,” they hit you with “you know historically, ferrets could only be owned by royalty.” As though somehow this makes them royalty, having this special weasel. Or like, some hot girl is going to be transported in time from 16th century Bohemia into their apartment, and see the ferret, and just start blowing them because they must be the king.


Also: have you ever known someone that had a ferret, and then you saw them again two years later, and they still had a ferret? No. Never.

Saturday, May 01, 2010

Dear Sterner: The Future Wife

Here’s what happened. As you know, Sterner, I despair of ever finding a mate and hate & resent that you have a live-in boyfriend. In fact I hate and resent anyone who can find a relationship.

Anyway, I was driving home Thursday night and despairing about this. I actually resorted to prayer. I said, please, God, let me meet my future wife. And I had this kind of premonition that said: if you go to the Short Stop tonight, she will be there.

Normally I would dismiss this sort of thing, but it felt different, and realer than my other crazy thoughts. Also, last time I actually prayed, it was “please, God, just let something good happen to me tonight,” and I went to the Short Stop, and a hot girl was actually there, alone, and I took her home and boned her. So God has come through for me at the Short Stop before, seriously.

So I went. I was tired, and had shit to do, but I went, just in case God was sending my future wife there. The idea was that if I sat down and had two drinks, I would meet her. So as soon as I walk in I start scouting out the talent. Fat Mexican chicks, ugly girls— one cute girl but clearly a Lesbian…. nothing. But as I’m ordering my second drink I see a really cute but just flawed enough that I might actually have a shot type chick, with a dude who is way better looking than me. I assume this is her boyfriend. But just as I’m getting down to the LAST SIP of my second drink this girl comes up and stands next to me, and asks me what I’m looking at on my blackberry. She needs to stay by the bar to give the dude, her roommate, space to hit on a chick.

So this is the fucking jackpot. A hot girl, alone, approaching me. And it so happened that I was looking at some really fucking funny shit on my blackberry- a picture of a monster from an old edition of Dungeons & Dragons called the “Squark.” Half squid, half shark. Bright red. So I immediately had some shit chambered that I could say funny, charming things about, this Squark. This was the power of the fucking LORD at work.

I talked to her for a while, went back and hung with her and her roommate, and at the end of the night I did something I never do. I got her number. And then two days later I called her and asked her out on a date. Traditional shit. Effort. Normally I don’t buy into these outdated gender roles, but this is my future wife we’re talking about here.

Took her out on the date that Sunday. We went to the Alcove, my match.com boning spot. I have been on at least a million internet dates there and I have the routine so well-rehearsed— she gets there, the chairs are arranged so she is perpendicular to me and a bottle of wine is on the table. This insures no conversational distance and that she gets drunk. What if all those other dates were part of God’s plan? All building up to me having my shit really together and not blowing it with my future wife. She shows up, is even hotter than I remembered. So far so good.

Now here’s where it starts getting off track. My future wife has no social skills whatsoever. She is a bland, unfunny Aspergian. She also appears not to find me terribly amusing. She’s sitting there with her arms crossed the whole time. But I soldier through it— this is my future wife.

Second cigarette break I go for the makeout. This is my routine. She’s into it. This girl cannot kiss for shit. And she is just, not sensual and not comfortable in her body, and doesn’t do the move where she cups my face when I grab her ass or any of that shit. Her arms just kind of get in the way, or hang meekly by her sides. Still, this is fine. I will train her over the many joyous decades of our marriage.

I set a second date for her. Dinner that Thursday. And when it comes around, I have to reschedule because I have to read five fucking scripts that I have neglected because I spent Monday and Wednesday going out with another chick who definitely does cup your face when you grab her ass and has huge titties and started doing coke when she was thirteen so you know she will make you blow the load of your life. So I had to blow off my future wife. I apologized to her and tried to reschedule for the weekend. She might be going out of town.

Anyway, here’s my question. I do not really like this chick, and have absolutely nothing in common with her. She does not interest or amuse me. But I mean, come on— you pray to God to meet your future wife, and He tells you: go to the Short Stop, have two drinks. At the end of the second drink a hot chick comes up and starts talking to you, something which NEVER happens except for the ONLY OTHER TIME you have ever prayed to God in your life. What do you do? I want to believe. And yet, I apparently don’t want to believe enough that I put aside my campaign to fuck a different hot, blonde 23 year old, and if all goes well keep boning both of them for a while, until eventually exclusively focusing on the future wife once I have the other chick’s huge, succulent titties out of my system.

But what the fuck? Is there such a thing as God? Is there such a thing as destiny? And if so, is it possible to fuck it up? Like, does God’s plan/ destiny get thrown off the rails now that I put off my work because of this chick with the tits, causing me to have to cancel on my future wife?

That’s my worst fear. That a) there is such a thing as destiny but b) it doesn’t just take care of itself, you can easily fuck it up.

Also, I totally appreciate that He sent me a hot piece of ass but why is she such a retard.

Dear Roxanne, part whatever

God damn do I want a Pop Tart. Frosted Raspberry. They never have those anymore— the Pop Tart shelf is cluttered with cinnamon and fudge abominations, and glittery drag queen children’s trifles whored up with lurid florescent goo. Oftentimes the only fruit flavor is the Robitussin-tasting Cherry.

What happened to our society, Roxanne? Frosted Raspberry was the BEST ONE! But our fat, hideous children prefer the WORST flavors and have destroyed the dignity of this pastry.

You don't get

a lot of birth-of-my-first-child moments in life, but in fairness, you do get a lot of “man, woodpeckers are cool looking.” Or “that blackhead went away about two days before I thought it was going to.”

Diary 2/17/10: One Drop

I am afraid that I have impregnated this prostitute. (NAME REDACTED). I’m afraid that in my attempt to get off after her pussy was all loose from coming I shot the first drop in her. I don’t have a specific memory that I pulled out in time. It doesn’t help when you have a chick saying “fill me full of cum” and “make me pregnant,” when that is all you ever want to do. When it’s the only thing you ever jerk off to. God damn, I mean, at least I didn’t fully cum in her. When did I start spelling it “cum” by the way? It seems so much more erotic this way. I might have. I might have taken her word for it and just fully shot my cum in her. Then I would be living in real dread, instead of just a very minor nagging fear. I should have told her to get emergency contraception.

What happens if she gets pregnant? Do I have to have a paternity test? She fucked two guys before me that day and went on to fuck another one at midnight.

Fuck, dude. What would I do? A normal chick I could almost stand impregnating. Not a prostitute with three kids and a fucking c-section scar. But what am I freaking out about- one drop. I think it went in her dress. I’m scared because when I blew my load on my stomach I didn’t get the one drop that makes it all the way to my neck. But I think I felt that first drop go into her dress. I’m afraid because I have impregnated a chick from one drop before. That first drop, which I recently read has the most sperm in it.

She said she might get an abortion this time, if she were pregnant. So, good. There’s a toehold there.

Fuck man.

I like this chick though.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Right? I would be a good father if it were some nice normal girl with a nice normal job. I would totally step into that shit— that role, whatever. But yeah, a chick with three kids already. Like, my plan was, if I ever impregnated some woman I didn’t want to be with I could at least mostly foist the baby off on her. But I don’t want my child living with a weird hooker.

Ugh.

Anyway. Not the end of the world. What am I so worried about? What would I be losing? A life I only complain about. I would just move to a zip code with better public schools and try to make some fucking money. Plus I hear single dads get laid like crazy. You have to go to shit where you’re around women all the time. I would always be out in the park; we’d go hiking and camping. Fishing. All the shit my friends are too lazy to do. I would teach my son how to play guitar. I would make my daughter get a fucking nosejob.

Here is exactly what’s going to happen: on the day she calls me to tells me she’s pregnant I will meet what would have been my future wife. Like, instantly, a beautiful, smart, interesting woman will be put in a situation where she has to talk to me and I can slowly grow on her over time.

Diary 2/15/10: I am dating a prostitute

Or at least, I have a second date with a prostitute. I’m making her a chicken. Then she has to leave to see a client at midnight. One of her guys likes to pee in a diaper and then have her laugh at him. I hope it’s him.

She is thirty years old and has three kids. Plus one she gave birth to as a teenager and then gave away. She grew up in foster homes getting molested and has been married twice. Her two ex husbands live together with her three kids that she knows the names of. She just finalized her second divorce last week but was also coming off a year long relationship with a British musician. Everyone is coming off a year long relationship with a British musician.

I like her a lot, actually. I met on her on OKCupid. I didn’t know. She’s a really good writer, which, this makes me realize I will forgive absolutely anything for that. Four kids, one of which appears to have been cut out of her with civil-war-era technology since her entire belly is hideous scar tissue, lives in Sherman Oaks and has no car, fucks dudes for money off Craigslist. I don’t care about any of that. She can put a sentence together. Actually, I don’t care about the kids and the hooking but the fucking scar is gross and will probably end up being the dealbreaker.

More OKCupid

I hate people who rag on fat chicks, but fuck it. What is this “average” shit— you are clearly using the national average, when a reasonable viewer would conclude that “average” means the average for single women in their 20’s in Los Angeles. The body image capital of the fucking planet. My income is 10,000 times the national average of Haiti but I’m still broke.

Will you fucking girls

quit complaining about heartbreak? I don’t even have heartbreak. Quit telling the starving Haitian kid how shitty your turkey sandwich was.