Hey Buddy Bud,
Sorry to hear about this being the worst year of your life so far. I wish I could say it came as a surprise to hear it, but judging from the tone of the emails I got from you this year, it's pretty clear that you're all depressed and shit. So I decided to provide a list of things for you to do that will surely cheer you up in 2013...
1. Get your fuck on. It doesn't matter with who, or with what, or if they happen to be Cuban, just stick your dick inside them. They'll get a kick out of it, too.
2. Murder! Stab somebody, preferably a Cuban. But do it in the dark so no one's the wiser.
3. Take psychedelic drugs. Even if you have a bad trip, which is unlikely, you'll have a story to tell and something real to be scared of. But mostly, drugs help you do a figurative zoom out on Google maps, and make you realize that you're just a guy in a house, amongst other people in other houses. This will help you feel less alone, because you'll realize that everyone's alone, except for Cubans, who are filled with life and must be murdered.
4. Get a dog. Name him Grampler. Feed him pennies.
5. Pick a fight with an animal at the zoo. I suggest a tortoise. Those leafy-green vegetable eating fucks make the perfect enemy because they're slow, you always know exactly where they are, and they don't have a decent attack. They can't fight back!
Go to Mr. Tortoise's habitat and stare him down. When your gaze is met, chuck a fire cracker at him and yell, "Stay away from my wife!". Don't worry, that armored bastard can handle it. When you get kicked out of the zoo, tell the security guard about how the tortoise got what was coming. And now that you've been blacklisted from the zoo, spread the word and watch the pussy roll in! Women love a dangerous man who breaks the rules and isn't allowed at the zoo.
Life is better when you have enemies, and the best enemies are the ones kept in cages. You hold the advantage 100% of the time!
Well, I hope some of these suggestions are helpful, and I wish you a very happy new year, filled with infinite possibilities. Go forth and be the horrible beast of a human you know you can be.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Hey Buddy Bud,
Sunday, September 9, 2012
While reading Esquire today, I came across an ad for boat shoes, or shoes for people who get a kick out of pretending to own a boat. Fake boat ownership is a blast. The shoes are called Top Siders by a company called Sperry. Here's the ad, which I'll get into after you feast your hungry eyeballs on it....
Besides the dual themes of rich dicks and cute dogs with foot fetishes, peep their tagline, "A Passion For The Sea". That gives me the creeps just writing it. If anyone ever tells you that they have a "passion for the sea", you need to get as far away from that person as possible. If anybody ever says they "have a passion for ______", push that person to the ground and call the police. If they get up, repeat the pushing to the ground maneuver.
Describing something you enjoy as a passion is, at best, proof that you're pretentious as fuck, and at worst, a sign of full-blown homicidal psychosis. Never use the word passion out loud or in conversation. If you do, be aware that you are well on your way down a path to zero friends because of your creepiness and/or because you've done murder on them.
Think about it. You have passions. I have passions. But never in my life have I ever used the word passion out loud. It's gross. It's romance novel hokey bullshit that's meant to be intense, but just conveys that you desperately want to be thought of as intense. Well, I can see right through you, fuckface. You're not gonna get a chance to strangle me because I just pushed you down. What are you gonna do on the ground, strangle my legs? I can kick pretty hard. My legs are full of passion.
So the next time you're at a party or on a date, and the person you're talking to says they have a passion for cinema, a passion for Italian food, or a passion for sodomy, here's a quick tip in rhyme form to help you remember what to do.... JFK, blown away, what else do I have to say?
Friday, August 24, 2012
A month ago, I was in Chicago, burning the candle at both ends, having a really good time visiting my friends, all 8 of them. I drove from my parents' house in the suburbs to Chicago on 9 of the 12 free nights I had, all night. I then spent 2 full days doing wedding stuff for my sister's wedding. I gave a speech. I provided the obligatory video montage with photos of the bride and groom growing up through the years. It was actually pretty fun, the reception part in particular, and I got to see my entire extended family, which was mostly a good thing.
Physically and mentally drained, I decided to rest for a day and a half before my flight back to LA. I was supremely busy for 12 out of the 15 days I was in Chicago, and there was a relentless heat wave the whole time I was in town. 3 straight days of 100 degree temperatures to make me regret leaving my parents' a/c teepee. The average temperature for my 15 day stay was 93.8 degrees. Eyebrows? Melted. Neck and shoulders? Sweaty and Stiff!
The result of my trip, besides having a blast, was that I exhausted myself and lost 6 pounds from running around in the heat. When I got back to LA, I felt weak and tired and achy and stressed out. I had to gain some weight back. No big deal. Just take it easy for a week or two and get myself built up a little. Easy enough, right?
I started taking digestive enzymes in order to gain weight faster, hoping that with the help of these magical pills, I could eat more food at once and absorb more precious nutrients so my old bones would bulk up and I'd finally turn into the robust lumberjack I was born to be. Instead, the digestive enzymes fucked my stomach and digestive system up. I was shitting at a Babe Ruthian level. I felt nauseous and dizzy when I walked. I stopped taking the digestive enzymes with my meals after 3 days but I didn't feel right for a week.
The truth hit me hard. I have the physical dynamics of a toddler dying of old age. I'm extremely sensitive to any pill that has a remote possibility for side effects. Memo to future wife: Poisoning me is a piece of cake. Did I forget you at the gas station again? Put a Tylenol in my yogurt and enjoy the funeral, baby.
I'd be a terrible Viking. I'd die on the boat within 3 days, never knowing the joys of looting a church and kicking a nun in the chest, which is the whole point of joining the Vikings.
I'd be the worst soldier ever. If I was sent to fight in Afghanistan, I'd take excessive naps, get sand rash, and complain about how the rations hurt my stomach.
I'd be great at dying young in the 1800's, though. That's right in my wheelhouse. I'd start feeling weird and send for a doctor. The doctor would diagnose me with milk leg fever and proclaim that nothing could be done. Then he'd chloroform my wife and steal all our butter and kerosene.
All yucks aside, I'll probably live until I die. I find comfort in that, yet I'm uncomfortable all the time.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
I hate my neighbors. They're cartoons of rich garbage people, bubbling in the California sun. Their lifestyle is about money, and they consider only themselves. Their point of view, from the driver's seat of a black Lexus, is that other people exist to serve them, and friends are those who can help financially.
You've met these kind of people. They don't care about anybody else, yet they insist they're good people. They park their expensive cars carelessly, far from the curb, and leave no room for others. They let their dogs shit everywhere and don't pick it up. And if you have the nerve to call them out on it, they play the role of the ignorant victim. They are the epitome of malignant obliviousness, and they are the #1 cause of cancer in America. I truly hate my neighbors.
Yet I've always hated all my neighbors. Every single one of them I've found to be actively or passively ruining my day simply by existing. Even if I lived by myself in the woods, I'd find some creature to be angry at. I'd hate the goddamn owls, flapping their majestic wings all night long. "LEAVE THOSE MICE ALONE YOU CRUEL-EYED SWOOPING FUCKS!!!" I'd yell in the rain, overalls soaked, shaking a fistful of cornbread.
But my neighbors actually suck. I'm not imagining it. They went on vacation once and left their dog in the yard to whimper and take shits. Somebody must've come by to feed and water him, because he's still alive, but they needed to enjoy their time in Hawaii, so fuck the dog and fuck you, too.
I assume the worst in people, and this worldview is confirmed more times than not. Maybe I'm looking for it, but when piggish behavior is on display right in front of me, day after day, I have a hard time manufacturing sympathy for my fellow man.
That's why I like the nighttime. Most of the assholes are asleep or in bars schmoozing with other assholes. The world seems contained. And when I say 'the world', I mean other people. It's just more peaceful without shitty people shittin' around. That's the appeal of zombie movies and zombie comics. I already feel like part of a gang of people struggling to survive against a wave of hungry murderous morons. I identify with the fictional survivors of a fictional zombie apocalypse.
Here's where things get murky and I feel the need to self censor so I don't come off like a homicidal psycho, but since I prefaced it and am aware that most of my writing is ridiculous, here goes, mildly self censored....
In a zombie scenario, I have the green light to kill the fuckheads that are stinking up the place. And it brings me a little bit of satisfaction to play out these scenes in my head. That's what's unsettling. To feel comfortable with the thought of murdering as a solution. But you'd be a goddamn liar or a really great person if you've never had a revenge fantasy. Thinking about it too much will stress you out, but a healthy murder scenario daydream involving your boss is a perfectly acceptable way to spend an afternoon. Preferably on a swing-set. Murder fantasies get a bad reputation because real murderers fuck it all up. Also, murder is bad, especially for those who get murdered. Murder.
How did I get so far down the kill hole in this post? Fuck. I don't feel any better by writing this, and maybe that's the lesson, if there is any lesson at all in this rambling critique of my neighbors and people in general. You can't get rid of hatred by expressing it. And harboring hate isn't good for you, either. I think the lesson to be learned is that hate is bad and love is good. Spread the word.
I've gotta stop writing. I need to go sharpen my gun and think about how cool it would be to live in jail.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Short Story Time!
A guy named Keith stole a mummy from a museum. It was an Egyptian mummy. Kept in a climate controlled glass case.
Keith got hold of it somehow (long story, magick involved), wrapped it up in a stained comforter, loaded it into his Camry, and lugged the shriveled souvenir into his shitty apartment. Keith flung the mummy onto his bed, and propped its dessicated head upon a pillow, making the mummy look like it was halfway through a fun little nap, or a fnap. Keith thought the mummy looked adorable, and he wasn't wrong. He snuggled up to it, closed his bloodshot eyes, gave out a sigh, and felt contentment for the first time in years.
Keith slept beside the mummy that night, but he didn't sleep well. Dilemma. Keith needs his rest. He needs to be awake and alert at his job. Keith is unemployed and exists deep inside a roaring shadow-funk dreamworld of his own creation.
Keith downed 3 cups of coffee and stared at the mummy sleeping in his bed. His mind raced for solutions. Then he raced to the bathroom to take a shit. On the toilet, king-sized BM. Afterwards, during the wipe, he received the answer to his mummy riddle.
He leaped up on the bed, and hovered over the mummy like Prince does to every girl he's ever humped. Prince is a creep.
The mummy looked so peaceful and wrinkled and yellow. Keith grabbed a condom from his nightstand, unsheathed a nearby katana, cut the mummy's head off, crammed the head into the condom, and whipped the head around his bedroom like a medieval mace because he finally lost his fucking mind.
After a few minutes of whip-whip chuckle time, he took the latex-shrouded head outside, and flung it over a hedge, onto his neighbor's property. Then he went back inside and lay next to the headless mummy. He slept like a baby.
As Keith slumbered, a 9 year old boy went outside to play soccer in his backyard and discovered a mummy's head stuffed inside a condom. With tears in his eyes, he ran back inside, poured himself a glass of milk, drank it down, and climbed into the attic. He fell asleep in an old armoire.
He didn't speak again until his 13th birthday, and he refuses to wear a condom to this day.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Here's the transcript of a voicemail left by my dead cousin Pernice:
Hey motherfucker, it's Cousin Pernice! Still dead, by the way, but that won't stop ol' Pern-Pern from talking at your phone-phone. Us ghosts can still communicate via email and cell phone, but apparently you're too busy being a bitch to pick up! You been dodging my calls for 3 days now. I'm not mad, though. I'm pissed off and in hell, but I'm not mad. Not at you. I love you, bro-cuz. Hey, remember that time I torched that Pizza Hut with a bunch of people screaming inside and you gave me a hug and told me it wasn't my fault? That really meant something to me and I'll never forget it. You touched my heart.
Listen, I need to tell you something, and you better sit down cause it's a doozy of a humdinger!
Get this, man - A gang of lab rats are downloading my brains. They're killing me even though I'm dead. My life force and all my memories are getting chopped up and fed into a computer processor that these asshole scientists gave to super smart laboratory rats. They got the internet and everything, these rats. And also special powers which I haven't told you about. I can't forget to tell you about the special powers! They shit glitter and are practically un-stompable. These fuckers run really fast, leaving sparkle nuggets everywhere....I'm not sure if they have special powers, actually. I think somebody is feeding them glitter.
But back to my point - These fuckin' rats have discovered how to download my phantomous thoughts and store them on a hard drive. But you know what happens to dudes when their memories are extracted? They die. I'm dying. My soul is already 65% shredded as I speak. It's all over for your dear cousin Pernice. Pern-Pern gonna be dead-dead pretty soon! Within the week, according to my estimations. I just wanted to say good bye again, as my cell phone privileges will be nil and I won't exist.
I love you forever, no matter what, because we're cousins and that's important. We're important, and don't you forget that.
Alright, I gotta go chop some guy's head off at a bus-stop. Satan's orders. I'll talk to ya later if you pick up the phone, ya tub of greasy shit. I'll tell you all about the Devil and his magical underworld if you want. Did you know that I've been promoted to a level 3 demon? What do you think about your cousin Pernice now? Ahh, go fuck yourself and be well, buddy.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
It's late. The front left tire is losing air. I can make it to the gas station, but I'm afraid that if I stop, the ghosts on my trail will catch up, and I don't plan on being alive when they do. The kids I took as souvenirs from my raid of the morgue are in the trunk, bundled tightly in sleeping bags. Cold sweat. Jaw clenched.
Underneath the seat is a power drill. Pillows are duct taped to the roof. Tupperware containers scattered on the floor. Stuffing, mash potatoes with gravy and carrots, and a ball of lard wrapped in tin foil. Reggae on the radio.
It's daytime now. Sun gleaming off the hood. Sunglasses. Visions of dancing frogs in little monk's robes. Bobble-head nun gives a wink. Catholicism. Very pious. Let the incense waft and let us chant in unison and hope for an afterlife. Kids in the trunk sleep soundly. I've been awake for 3 days and my pants reek of dick cheese and old ham.
Nighttime. The moon is made of static. Wolves and elk line both sides of the road. They stare me down. A never-ending gauntlet of black eyes and nostril steam. 'Hunan' Dave, the bus dodger, scrambles across four lanes of highway, poo nuggets dropping from his pant leg. I am emperor of greasy teepees. Come on in for a free rubdown.
Eating a Tombstone Pizza with jokes printed on the cheese. I've been dead for 13 days.