Friday, April 29, 2011

Women of OkCupid:

Why are you all so god damn fucking boring?

There are about 3 profiles of single women in the greater Los Angeles area that reveal ANYTHING about the person whatsoever. The rest, you are browsing this shit and you feel like God only made 5 people.

There’s the I was born in Wisconsin, went to school in Pennsylvania, came out to LA three years ago and haven’t looked back! The geography person. Who the fuck-- we all live in America, we all watch the same TV shows, why the fuck do you think it matters one iota what state you came from. Unless it’s some weird shit like Alaska or Wyoming, this is genuinely the most meaningless information in the world. Even if you came from one of those places. I’m not looking to get a state drunk and rawdog them; I want to do that to a person.

There’s the “contradiction” person. This might be the blandest one of all. I initially appear really shy and introverted, but once you get to know me I’m the life of the party! (This one often enjoys exclamation points). I’m a traditional girl at heart, but I think outside the box! I’m a girly girl, but I love sports! I can be really nice and really mean! I love reading books but I also enjoy trashy reality TV-- shhh, don’t tell anyone! Jesus-- these fake examples I’m coming up with are actually more illuminating than the real thing. This one is a deliberate construct that is designed to tell you nothing.

There’s the I-wont-tell-you-anything-about-me-but-I’ll-spend-thousands-of-words-telling-you-the-type-of-person-I-don’t-want-to-date person. It’s either the “I’m done with liars, cheaters, abusive guys, guys who do drugs, etc.,” which means she will only fuck you if you are a drunken lying cheater who smacks her around. These ones often have kids, by lying cheating abusers. Then there’s the You should message me if: “DON’T message me if you wear Ed Hardy!” Ha ha ha Ed Hardy! How fucking stupid those Ed Hardy people are! I look down on shit that looking down on was played out in 1998.

And then there’s the worst. The worst. Which is: My self summary: “Ask me in person!” Or the postmodern “it’s too awkward for me to write a self summary!” Look-- how are you people even fucking employed? How do you write a cover letter and resume? Do you say “it’s too awkward for me to write this cover letter! Tee hee!” These are people who say truly exactly nothing. To you, I say: I need you to admit something to yourself, that you are too much of a loser to meet someone in real life. We all are. There is something wrong with every single one of us on here. Either we are ugly, or fat, or awkward, or weird, or whatever. Or we made a lifestyle choice that precluded us from meeting mates in the natural, normal way, which is just as bad a flaw as any of those inborn traits. Because that shows that your life priorities are so fucking out of whack that you put absolutely no thought into what kind of life would actually bring you companionship and happiness. You failed at the biggest decision a person in modern society can make. This fucking shit, this internet dating-- this is the island of misfit toys. The very fact that you are even on here means there is a huge chance that you are so deeply undateable that you will die alone, your bones gnawed by starving pets. So you have to suck it up and actually put yourself out there.

The least you can fucking do is write a profile that tells me whether I’d be wasting my two hours and forty dollars going on a date with you. The least you can do is fucking GIVE ME SOMETHING, you chickenshit. You are guarded because you think you are going to get messages from weird guys; you don’t want them to know anything about you. YOU ARE GOING TO GET MESSAGES FROM WEIRD GUYS ANYWAY.

Just-- sit down at the computer, make your fingers move for fifteen minutes, blast out a couple pages of bullshit, and then go back and cut and paste it in Microsoft Word until it fucking TELLS ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOU.

There. Was that so hard?

Dick Extender

I totally get why women get ridiculously huge breast implants. Because if such a thing existed for your dick I would get one immediately and it would be huge. A cartoon. It would be the dick some girls talk about when they are transparently trying to console you about the fact that your dick is not huge, the “you know, I don’t really even like huge dicks. Sometimes it’s just not even comfortable.” I would get that dick. Because she would talk about it. She would say to her girlfriends “you know, Jesus, it’s just too big; I don’t even want to fuck him sometimes because it hurts.” And the girl she was telling- it’s not like I picture her immediately wanting to fuck me, but maybe she would just want to see it. She would just be curious.

But the best you can do is something like this. Apparently if you hang those weights off your dick, or whatever this device does- basically this study found that certain kinds of mechanical penis enlargement actually work. They will extend your flaccid penis by a tiny but non-negligible amount after using the device for six hours per day for like six months.

And it goes on to point out that you are not actually adding any inches to your erect penis. And you are not adding any actual girth, just a hairsbreadth of length. Still. Still, I would do it. Obviously it would be preferable if it were adding a huge amount of meaty pussycrushing girth to your erect cock, but I would take the extra three millimeters of flaccid length. Because why not. I mean, I am never embarrassed by the size of my boner, which is quite reasonable, but I am frequently embarrassed by the laughable dimensions of my flaccid cock whenever any kind of dick-shrinking force is applied: e.g. the air drops slightly below room temperature; I take any kind of recreational drugs, etc.

Most times in life that people actually see your dick, it will be at its smallest. How many people are going to see you walking around with a full erection in your lifetime? Maybe two hundred, if you are at the very outlying end of the bell curve of master cocksmen. How many people are going to see you getting out of a cold pool in thin trunks? Thousands. When’s the last time you were naked with a group when you had not taken cocaine or acid or ecstasy or some other turn-your-dick-into-a-grape type substance? Never. I would take the extra three millimeters of flaccid length just to guarantee that my dick would never turn into an acorn head in front of a crowd again.

And you do, as a guy, actually go through the majority of your life thinking your normal dick is tiny, because you do get your idea of average dick size from porn. Or from locker rooms, where the dudes who walk around with their dicks swinging out are the ones hung like yaks, and the guys with small, or even average sized dicks, are quietly fumbling to slip on their boxers as fast as fucking possible, almost humping the wall of lockers to shut off the line of sight to what they think is their shamefully puny dick.

And my concept of dick size is still skewed. I mean, the average fully erect dick length is like five and one quarter inches, or five and three quarter inches or something. Does this not seem small to you? Like the average IQ being one hundred- can you imagine half the people in the world being stupider than the average human being? Can you imagine half the men in the world having a dick shorter than five and one quarter inches? And I’m told that one in one hundred men has a dick seven inches or greater in length, which means the standard deviation is something like an inch. Which in turn means one in one hundred men have a dick that is three inches or smaller.

This is the thumb dick you hear about, when you have a standard-issue white person’s penis which a girl, God bless her, is trying to assure you is adequate. This one guy, it was literally the size of a pinky! It’s never something they’ve seen more than once; it’s always just this one guy. Every girl on the entire planet has dated exactly one man with clinical micropenis, who had just a child’s thumb barely poking out of a thatch of pubic hair like an earthworm emerging from the soil after a few drops of rain. Like a tiny baby opossum blindly crawling to its mother’s pouch, slimy and naked and petal-pink.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


Balls are nature’s greatest mistake.

Your heart, for instance, is obviously an important organ. So what does nature do. It’s behind a wall of muscle and bone, centrally located where much of its work can be done by gravity. Similarly, your stomach is in behind your abs where it would be a real fucking chore to eviscerate you and get it out. Plus all the movement of your midsection helps with peristalsis. This is great engineering.

Notice that neither of these things is hanging off the side of your gut in a veiny membranous sac covered with long gross hairs, and so rich with nerve endings that flicking it with your pinky feels like a shotgun full of rock salt was blasted into you at close range. Neither of these things hangs in a hideous wrinkled little pouch that anyone could lightly tap and it would incapacitate you for hours. Your brain is not dangling six inches off your body on a hot day to the point where in loose pants you could snag it on the corner of the coffee table and kind of feel nothing for a few seconds until suddenly wave after wave of nauseous burning agony washed through your gut and you could literally do nothing but lie curled up groaning on the floor for the several minutes until it went away. So why the fuck does a nut sac exist?

Because, they say, your body can only produce sperm at cool temperatures. That’s why nature designed this ingenious distending-and-retracting sac, to keep the sperm producing machine at a balmy ninety two point whateverthefuck degrees. Because that’s what it is, like 92 or something. IT’S IN THE SAME FUCKING BALLPARK as your body temperature. We’re not talking about how sperm is some unique cell that can only be produced below freezing and we all have to walk around with our balls in a thermos of liquid nitrogen all day. It’s JUST BARELY DIFFERENT.

Which seems easier to you? a) slowly design a mechanism over millions of years where the reproductive apparatus hangs in a soft defenseless pouch of skin that miraculously pulls up or drops down to keep the precious sperm in its spoiled little temperature range or b) keep the most precious part of you that encapsulates the whole purpose of your life on Earth and protect it INSIDE the fucking body. MAKE THE FUCKING SPERM SO THEY CAN LIVE AT 98.6 FUCKING DEGREES like EVERY OTHER CELL. Like trillions of microorganisms that live symbiotically within our intestines, etc.

Are you telling me this couldn’t be done? Nature made whole ecosystems that live like 300 atmospheric pressures deep in undersea cracks in the Earth, where literally the sun could not exist and they would be fine. They feed off caustic magma and like ammonia or something; there are worms that thrive in 400 degree geothermally-superheated water; clams that feed off the worms, etc. etc. There are bacteria in Mono Lake that make their DNA out of arsenic. Little lichen bugs that they launched into space with NO protection, just exposed them to the vacuum and radiation of space, and when they got them back to earth they PRODUCED VIABLE OFFSPRING. You’re telling me you can’t make a sperm cell without this fucking veiny, musty lawn and leaf bag hanging 8 inches under my dick in the summer? Or you couldn’t at least give it like an armadillo carapace so that I don’t live in terror of a fucking wayward Frisbee making my future kids retarded?

I mean, look, whatever. I’m sure nature had her reasons. My real beef is that when you have a standard-issue white person’s dick and larger than average nuts, which I do-- you end up having a package in your pants that looks like when they show you the size of Jupiter next to Earth at the planetarium. Unless I’ve literally been fucking a snow bank my nut sac is never smaller than a Hefty® Tall Kitchen Bag, but my dick goes all clinical micropenis at the first sign of a stiff breeze. The colossal nut sac becomes the dominant visual in the frame and the poor girl who is already making the mistake of sleeping with me is confronted with this giant varicose brain coral with long reddish, and occasionally white, corkscrew hairs coming out of it. A thing that pulsates on its own, seems to sigh as it bloatedly expands right in front of her— a grossly infantile pink membrane-flap filled with H.R. Giger tubing and weird impossibly delicate alien-looking mechanisms, teeming with little microscopic snakes, swarming, swimming…

Just think about it. The word sac. Ugh.

The Gays

Someone stole my underwear at the gym.

It’s a West Hollywood gym, where lots of huge gay muscle studs work out. So someone stole them to sniff them and jack off, I think. That was the first place my mind went, after I fruitlessly searched through my fucking bag for them like Tel Aviv airport security going through some Palestinian college kid's backpack. Someone stole my underwear to sniff ‘em and jerk off.

I can feel no moral outrage about this, because a warehouse full of underwear would have to be stolen from me, sniffed, and jacked off into before the cosmic scales are balanced. I used to do this same shit all the fucking time. When I did coke, getting down to my last couple bumps, I knew I would be up for several more hours with no drugs left and a crazy desire to beat the meat, and I would go to my building’s laundry room and raid the lost and found shelf. Nine times out of ten there would be a pair of panties there. If I was lucky, it would have been one that tumbled out of the laundry basket before even going in the washer and they would still have a good head of cuntmusk on ‘em. This was when I was living on a floor full of aspiring actresses so the odds were good that I would be sniffing the vagina residue of someone hot.

Or if I was at a girl’s house after a date and I was drunk enough to do something truly sleazy I would reach into the hamper while she was taking a piss and sneak a crusty thong into the inside chest pocket of my first date blazer. Whether or not I actually scored, I knew I would be having a satisfying jack later with her taint-infused chonies draped over my face. And with luck, I’d have chosen a pair from when she was ovulating and her cunt juice was at its peak of sweetness. But either way. It just adds an element of realism. You jack off after a long drunken hookup with a chick, you have every detail of her body fresh in your mind. The taste of her skin. Add a whiff of her cunt flavor and it’s like you own a fucking holodeck.

So I get why they did it. And I must say, they chose the perfect pair to steal. Baby blue American Apparel briefs. Doesn’t get any gayer. And I had laundered them in fragrance-free detergent, and washed my genitalia that morning with some not-too-heavily scented Lever 2000, and then walked around in the 90 degree heat for a couple hours. So there was none of this Tide Mountain Breeze shit interfering with the strong healthy spice of my nuts, cock, taint and virgin butthole.

I hope they knew whose underwear they were stealing. I hope it wasn't just some random act of well, these are cute and appear to belong to someone of reasonable waist size; let’s jack off in ‘em. I hope it’s someone who has taken time to appreciate that I labor my fucking ass off in that gym; that my naked body is not unlike that of Ryan fucking Reynolds, although unfortunately with the head of Harry Dean Stanton circa 1978 grafted onto it.

I bet they knew, because the fucking gays are the only people who have ever made any kind of move on me whatsoever. The only people who have ever approached me to say I’m cute, to ask me out, to buy me a fucking drink. If I had to rely on women for this I would be convinced that I was a hideous crippled sewer mutant whose approach made mothers cover their children's eyes on the street. I’ve seen women make moves on people; I know it happens, but it has NEVER happened to me. Not once. But the gays-- the gays are always good for a slightly scary pat on the ass; for a look like a trapped wolf might give a pork chop.

And I appreciate this. Maybe women have their own way of giving cues that they find you attractive, but it’s all so subtle and esoteric and they-look-at-you-and-then-look-away-quickly-and-is-she-uncrossing-her-arms-and-biting-her-lip, etc. etc. And dude, she told me afterwards she wished you would have asked her out— yes, because God forbid SHE should do anything. There’s about one half of one per cent of all the men in the world who are the dude who is comfortable approaching women in public, and if you’re not them, you’re fucked. Women will approach a guy who looks like James Dean, maybe, but that’s it. Otherwise, they aren’t doing the work. Seventy seven cents on the dollar is way too fucking much.

But anyway: huge, steroid-laden middle aged dude who stole my underwear to sniff it and then blow a load in the taint cradle: thank you. For once in my god damn life it is just nice to feel sexy. I don’t want guys to fuck me in the ass, but god damn do I want them to want to fuck me in the ass.

You know?

Saturday, April 16, 2011

You ever feel like

Your whole life is just that moment when you're trying to leave a voicemail, and you hear I'll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up, or press "pound" for further options. To send a fax, press-- and you're like, OK, fuck this. You press "1" to get straight to the beep.

But the voicemail woman cuts you off, and suddenly her tone is somehow much smarmier. I'm sorry: "1" is not a valid option. I'll record your message at the tone. When you are finished, you may hang up... and it goes again, from the beginning, through this whole long litany of options you have, such as somehow implausibly sending a fax to someone's mobile phone. Because unbeknownst to you this is one of the approximately 40% of phones where pressing "1" will not get you straight to the beep. Instead it will trigger a stern-sounding non-apology from this woman, where the voice actress completely nails the tone of someone ostensibly apologizing to you for some inconvenience, but who in her heart is only sorry that you are too retarded to know that pressing "1" will avail you of nothing. It will only force her to patiently repeat the many options she has already taken the trouble to lay out for you very clearly and now has to waste her precious time explaining again.

So she goes through the whole list of things you can do, the only one of which anyone would ever have any interest in doing is simply leaving a message and hanging up, and finally you are ready to recite your carefully prepared words. Perhaps it is for a young lady you have only emailed with off of OKCupid and you are understandably a little nervous. And you're ready for the beep. But when she finishes talking-- no fucking beep. There's just this infinite-feeling cavern of silent nothingness while the phone company ticks over four seconds worth of peak use minutes. Just the bare scratching of static, barely audible, like a faraway wind blowing somewhere over the future site of your forgotten, unvisited grave. And THEN there's the fucking beep.

My whole life, sometimes, feels like those four seconds. Chastised by some corporate shrew and then left to contemplate the nothingness of death before vainly trying to sound cool to some girl who it's going to go nowhere with anyway.

Friend in the hospital

Made her this card:

Dear Roxanne: seeking a second job

OK seriously- why are you doing this? Is there any universe in which you do not land one of the worst jobs in America? Is there any way this gets you enough money to help with your debt in any meaningful way instead of merely making you so miserable that you are useless at your actual job, which you attended this expensive grad school to get? You are going to be "expressing" dogs' anal glands at the pet groomer. You are going to be chastised by the most vigilant janitorial supervisor in the world for leaving a chunk of excrement in the executive washroom toilet which said supervisor discovered checking under the bowl rim with a dentist's mirror. You are going to be hauling the giant bag of the day's fetuses out to the biohazard dumpster behind the late term abortion clinic, to the jeers and taunts of protesters, and the abortion clinic will have been too cheap to even spring for an opaque bag. It will be a clear plastic bag which will on some days have a particularly horrible mutilated fetus part that will put you off your lunch, or, occasionally, a relatively intact fetus head that seems to make pleading eye contact with you from behind the plastic, and its forlorn mommy-why-did-you-kill-me look will haunt you forever. Something like this will happen. There is no one who knows you at all who doubts for one second that the second job you get will be something horrible, debasing, and destructive to all positive aspects of your life, because that is just the kind of shit that happens to you.

Don't do it.

Diary 3/27/11: Going to a Party

This party. Now I’m too tired to go to this fucking party. Jesus. Too fucking tired to do anything. Woke up too early. And spent the whole day alone and now I’m tired and weird. And Leah isn’t going, and Stevie is going to flake. And no one I know is going to be there. And I can’t get drunk. Because I’m going to have to drive. And it’s going to be lame. And google maps doesn’t work on my fucking computer.

But fuck it, I’m going to go. Maybe I’ll get some ass. This chick (REDACTED). Even though she used to date Chris, I think she wants to fuck me. Or, I think she wants to fuck people. And I am a person.

But who knows. Maybe she’ll just fuck Chris. I bet she’s the only chick there, and the rest of it is a bunch of loser UCLA dudes. I’ll make a long drive, spent and exhausted, and I’ll get a DUI. I’ll get raped in jail, and I’ll get AIDS. I’ll spread AIDS to my cat (through a scratch or something; I don't fuck my cat. Much.), and my cat will die. And my dick will get cut off somehow. Somehow my going to this party will result in nuclear annihilation for the rest of the planet. That’s how bad this party is going to suck. At this party, some cold I’m carrying will combine with some other virus someone else is carrying—but not an STD, because I am definitely not getting laid at this party-- some virus I’m carrying will combine with tetanus I get when someone at this party drives a nail through my dick and it will create a supervirus that will kill the whole planet. But especially the people I love; they will die first, in front of me. And my car will get stolen.

This party will have those weird scoop shaped tortilla chips, but half of them-- no, not even half. All of them will be fucking broken. The whole purpose of buying the special scoop shaped chips will be thwarted because some fuckface will have set a ten pound bag of ice on top of the chip bag and shattered all the chips. And then what’s the fucking point. You may have noticed, aside from their special shape, those scoop shaped chips actually fucking suck as just regular tortilla chips. The corn is just flavorless and grainy. Mealy. I will be left with a bag of flavorless grainy shards that barely hold even a meek little piss-trickle of salsa water. The chip shards will not even be big enough to support a single decent sized tomato chunk, and even if they did, you wouldn’t want them to, because the salsa at this party is gong to be the bland kind endorsed in the 90’s by Chris Elliott, not some awesome Trader Joe’s smoked habañero yuppie snob salsa like you would want. Or just some fucking clam dip. Why do people put clams in anything. Why are clams ever even considered as a food to be eaten when not pulled from the seaside mere moments before. Their hideous, H.P. Lovecraft-y primitive alienness— ugh.

And the pointy, grainy chip shards will cut my mouth.

Anyway, this party. What are the fucking odds it'll be good. I’m not going to be in a good mood, because I have two states of being: in a bad mood or drunk, and I can’t get drunk because I have to fucking drive.

Maybe someone will have some coke.

Reader mailbag: Do you actually like women?

"Jess" asks:

Also - do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can't tell if you actually like women.

I mean, sometimes.

Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don't like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can't stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can't stand all the "drama," etc., etc.

So I like women. But then I don't get laid for a good like six weeks and I start to hate women. If I see a woman talking to another man in a bar, and she seems interested in what he's saying, I will hate that woman. I will hate that woman for falling for the same bullshit that that dude is pulling that he pulls on every other girl, that every other dude who is successful with women pulls, and I cannot pull, and I will resent her for not abandoning that successful charming dude and somehow recognizing, like, pheromonally, the true inner beauty of the marginally attractive drunk man at the other end of the bar scowling at her. And then later she will probably fucking complain to some guy like me about how that guy cheated on her or didn't call her and I will sullenly think what the fuck did you expect? I will feel like I am the guy who has to soak up some girl's tears while some other guy is soaking up that ass. I will begin to identify myself as the "nice guy" who doesn't get laid because of some deeper inherent virtue than all those sleazy guys who are actually out there getting laid. I become exactly what surly Jezebel commenters call a (capitalized) NiceGuy™-- a whiny self-pitying douche who morphs into a quasi-date rapist at the first glimpse of pussy.

But that doesn't mean I don't like women. I like women a lot, the ones I get to know. I just don't like girls I want to fuck who don't want to fuck me. There's this line between "women" and "pussy." I don't go out looking to get to know women, I go out looking for pussy. I acknowledge this is horrible, and I would like to change it, but I'm fucking thirty five years old, you know?

The only time I ever go out and meet women and deal with them as honest-to-goodness human beings is when I'm already swimming in pussy and don't care. And to get to that state takes many long slogging months of dealing with women in the most venal and disgusting way imaginable. Like a second job, selling some product you don't really believe in. My dick is Florida swampland and these girls are the gullible elderly who mailed in some clip 'n' save real estate ad from Reader's Digest.