Thursday, August 18, 2011

Wait a minute- am I attractive?

Somebody called me "attractive" last night. For the first time that it was actually meaningful. Because every other time it’s either been:

a) in response to my saying “Jesus Christ, my face looks like it was hit with a fucking shovel."

b) a horny gay guy trying to get laid or

c) an even less attractive friend saying “Jesus, you must have it so easy, you’re attractive." To him, I am "attractive" just like to a Somali war orphan the guy clocking fifteen grand a year at Arby’s is “rich.”

Or it was my friends, or my girlfriend, or my mom, etc. I don’t believe any of them. For my entire life it has been my absolute bedrock belief that I am a hideous unlovable mutant whom no woman could let her eyes linger on for even a second lest she gag. And this is borne up by reality, because no women ever look at me, talk to me; no woman ever makes the first move to approach me, ever. Gays do it all the time, but you know, I hit on fat chicks all the time. Gays want to fuck me the same way a drunk guy wants to fuck his couch.

And here’s the crazy part about this- it is an ego trip basically. Because the idea is, you know- I get laid all the fucking time. Sure I have to work for it, scrabble hard, fail. I endure humiliating rejection constantly; I have to go out when I’m cranky and tired if there’s the barest chance of pussy at some shitty party, constantly. I have to troll the internet for good-bone-structure-but-slightly-overweight types, constantly. I get pussy the way a farmer can wring a niggardly living out of a few acres of non-arable land by backbreakingly digging out rocks with his bleeding fingers, by trapping each miserly trickle of rain into his pathetic drought-choked crops, etc. Whereas for an attractive guy it’s like living on a hundred hectares of prime, you know. A lush, verdant paradise where the soil is made from cow shit and all you have to do is kick back and harvest the fruit that falls.

Anyway, it’s an ego trip, because I have always thought: “Jesus, I am ugly as fuck and I still get laid. Therefore, my personality must be SO GOD DAMN MAGNETIC that women (occasionally) can’t resist me despite their gut telling them to flee from this beast.” That’s what the frame has been for me my whole life.

But then this chick, she is talking about hiring me on to make youtube videos for her company that makes advertisements. And she says “I think you’ll do well because, you know, just say shit like your blogs, and you’re attractive.” And the needle fell off the record for a second. This chick is gay, so there’s no she’s interested in me and is saying I’m attractive for wanting to date me reasons. She said I’m attractive as part of a cold, mercenary calculation about whether my face might be used to accrue youtube subscribers that Axe Body Spray™ might pay three dollars per head per year for. I have never before received the information that I’m attractive in such a convincing manner.

So—wait a minute. Am I fucking attractive? Have girls actually been sleeping with me because of my fucking LOOKS? And they just never approach me or make the first move because, well, women are so fucking entitled to do absolutely nothing, ever, that even an average looking woman will only lift a finger to hit on a guy who looks like 1994 Casper Van Dien?

And what does this mean? Am I merely a good looking dude, and women are tolerating me in SPITE of my fucking grating, maddening personality? And they secretly wish I would just shut the fuck up and fuck them?

It’s like, when Buckminster Fuller was asked whether he believed in aliens. And he was like “maybe there are, and maybe there aren’t. Either way, it’s mind-blowing.”

Alpaca Farming

Yeah, just stay away from alpacas, though. Because I know they have those ads late at night, between "BUY GOLD NOW" and "they'll bring the diabeedus kits right to yer home," and they show a little blonde boy frolicking with the angelic baby alpaca, you know. But it ain't like that. They're fucking surly, they bite, and their natural defense is to spit a hardened wad of mucous at your eyes or chest at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Also, the alpaca costs like 30 grand and it produces ten pounds of wool per year, which retails for $17 per pound. You are trapped breeding more and more thirty thousand dollar alpacas to sell to the next sucker, forever.

Peanut Allergies

I had a buddy who was allergic to nuts. Before it was cool. I didn’t even know about it until a dish featuring almonds was served and he politely declined. He just tactfully, simply stated: “I can’t, I’m allergic to nuts.”

No one does that now. Anyone who is allergic to nuts, or especially people whose children are allergic to “peanuts and tree nuts,” which like “autism spectrum disorder” is now something that happens to approximately seventy per cent of all rich kids—everyone who is allergic to nuts makes it into this big movie-of-the-week where they’re going to swell up and die just from looking at a god damn peanut.

In the future, there will be two Americas. The only difference between them will be whether they have peanuts. Two exactly parallel mirror societies, except one freely eats peanuts and the other does not permit even the thought of the dust of a peanut; in the latter it will be punishable by death to have dreamed about being in a room where a peanut was once present in 1976. Two Americas, one where children with peanut allergies are taken seriously and spoken of in hushed tones as though peanuts were the holocaust, where people without a little boy like mine could not possibly understand the hell of going through life knowing that at any moment he might be exposed to a peanut and die, and another society where everyone just laughs at these people while freely eating peanuts.

Imagine being the ghost of George Washington Carver at this moment. From humble beginnings, you grew up in poverty, bootstrapped your way into an education, and got a gig in the South where the cash crop was peanuts. And you took it upon yourself to invent ways that nearly every fucking thing on Earth could be manufactured from peanuts. Record player needles. Plastic-like materials decades ahead of their time. Medicines. Cars made from peanuts, probably. Not only did you elevate the fucking peanut to a life- and labor-saving panacea, you became the pre-eminent African-American scientist in the history of the fucking WORLD by doing so. You became the only black scientist anyone can name who is not that Neil Eric Dyson guy on TV. During black history month, people have to talk about you constantly because in the mind of the nation, you are the only black scientist ever. Fuck the guy who invented open heart surgery. He should have been named George Washington something; something easy to remember. Abraham Lincoln Jones. John F. Kennedy Openheartsurgeryinventor.

Anyway, imagine being the ghost of George Washington Carver—for half a century you are in heaven hearing about how you are the greatest black scientist of all time and every device conceivable can be made cheaper and better out of peanuts and then suddenly BOOM-- peanuts become the fucking DEVIL. Peanuts kill babies; we cannot permit even one atom of peanut to be within five thousand miles of any child. Peanuts and THINGS THAT HAVE TOUCHED PEANUTS are now not allowed in schools.

What is the fucking deal with this? And why is it suddenly “peanut and tree nut allergies.” Every time peanuts were even MENTIONED in my youth some authority figure always took great pains to clarify that despite being named “nut” they were in fact a legume. More closely related to peas and beans; a peanut is not a nut. Peanuts have nothing to do with nuts. And yet every single person who is deathly allergic to peanuts is also allergic to regular nuts.

This is how you know it’s bullshit. People are allergic to both things because they are both named “nut.” Just like people are allergic to “both fish and shellfish” when one of them is an H.P. Lovecraft-y primitive alien invertebrate whose biology is so foreign to regular fish that it might as well have come from another fucking planet. Clams might as well be from fucking Jupiter. They’re called “shellfish” because people used to call everything in the water a fish. Whales were called fish.

You can go to an “allergist” and get your allergy to “both fish and shellfish” cured by having light beamed on to you through a series of colored filters, seriously. It’s all in your fucking head. On some level, you are just subconsciously creeped out by sea creatures. Me too, I get it. Slimy things with slimy legs. Creepy, squirmy, cold-blooded blank-eyed fiends of the deep. Weird worms growing on vaults of magma at three hundred atmospheric pressures, ten reverse-Everests under the black, crushing soul-void of the sea. Hideous parasites on Neptune’s ball sac. I don’t like the fucking things either. But sushi is delicious.

Diff'rent Strokin' some underage cock

I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF'RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike. Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth. It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was-- he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups. But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass. And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick. Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired "tops" of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood. Probably.

Mitch has micropenis

Mitch has micropenis. There are a lot of other things about him worthy of note, but for now, let me just state this again: Mitch has micropenis. The person with micropenis is to a man, like, if you lived in a small town in 1984 during the height of child molestation and satanic ritual abuse hysteria, and there was a kid who actually got kidnapped in a van and sexually abused—if you knew this kid, or knew someone who knew this kid, he became a whispered legend who touched off some deep horror that felt like fingers tickling around your spine. To hear about an actual person with micropenis. To see a woman actually crook her thumb to give you a visual aid about the size of this man’s penis, bending it at a 90 degree angle to make very clear that it was not the length and girth of her entire thumb in its fully erect state, just the second digit. Mitch has micropenis. He is a complex character in many ways but in my mind no nuance of his being will be attributed to anything but his micropenis.