Monday, December 17, 2012

An Open Letter To My Friend Rob S. (Top 5 Ways to Cheer Up in 2013)

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.

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2. Murder! Sta
b 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.

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4. Get a dog. Name him Grampler. Feed him pennies.


5. Pick a fight with an animal at the zoo. I suggest a tortoise. Tho
se 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 do
wn. 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 w
hen you have enemies, and the best enemies are the ones kept in cages. You hold the advantage 100% of the time!

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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. 

Best,
Kid Douche

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Never Trust Passion

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....

sperry top sider ad


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.

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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.

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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

Me Bones Gwaan Crumble

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!

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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?

Enter stupidity.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

Murder Fancy

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

heat blast demons


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.

scary kkk


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

Top Mummy: Pickled Pharaoh Kingdom

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

Cousin Pernice's Ghost Voicemail

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Saturday, March 17, 2012

Mental Unravelings on Interstate 70

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.

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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.

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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.

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Eating a Tombstone Pizza with jokes printed on the cheese. I've been dead for 13 days.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Cousin Pernice Is Dead

What up in the kingdom, yo? This is your lovely fat cousin Pernice writing from beyond the grave. That's right, I'm dead. Deal with it. Pernice is a ghost. So what? I'm still your cousin, okay, so shut the shit. Just because I died this morning, that doesn't change our relationship. I like you and I know that you like me and we're cousins so we'll always be together till the end. And the end has come, because like I mentioned before, I'm not alive anymore.

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The way I died was pretty typical for a fat fuck like me. Heart attack. Crushing pain in the chest and ribs. Dropped to the kitchen floor. My heart stopped. It'll happen to you one day, so keep that in mind, but not all the time, because that's a terrible way to live... I'm getting off track here.

There's something I need to tell you, that I only learned about after my death, from beyond your current sphere of existence....

In heaven, where I am right now because I was a pretty decent guy and that's all it takes... In heaven, girls' titties are off the motherfucking hook! Perfect bouncing boobies everywhere forever! Booty booty booty! Get up here, playa! Spend eternity with me and these babes and their bazongas, Boromir! Tight shorts and glorious asses spilled all over the floor like dog food, but instead of dog food, it's A-plus butts. Heaven is a giant sex party. I fucked Eleanor Roosevelt in the mouth, man! She was dressed up like a storm trooper. Heaven is fuckin' dope!

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(Two down, one to go)


You should try to have a heart attack. And soon. Eat cheeseburgers, smoke cigarettes, and don't walk anywhere.
Love,
Dead Pernice

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Monday, January 23, 2012

Orthodox Jews in Los Angeles: A Criticism

Last month I moved into a guest house located in the center of LA. There are a lot of Orthodox Jews that live in my neighborhood. They got the kosher markets and the synagogues and the Hebrew schools to teach the Jewish children about Judaism. Welcome to the wonderful world of traditional miserablism, kiddos. Ancestors be proud!

jew mom
JEWISH MOTHER SAYS:
"Your cousin Marty bought a boat! Wouldn't you like to be able to buy a boat of your own? He took his family to Israel last spring. What a good provider. Maybe he could get you a job? The investment firm he works at is why most people despise the Jewish people, but he makes good money...What's wrong with you? Don't you make that face!! If your father were alive to see you now, he'd be so ashamed.... What's for dessert? Cheesecake? Oh, that's too rich for me. Just a coffee. Decaf. And a danish. Let's eat and be uncomfortable and let the resentment sit like a loveless force-field between us until one of us gets diarrhea. Fine, I'LL get diarrhea. I ALWAYS get diarrhea... Stop laughing. Joy is a private matter. Keep it to yourself. "


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Jews are miserable most of the time. And Charedim, a popular sect in LA, with their mandatory 1800's Polish outfits, don't stand a chance against the tidal wave of woe. Seeing a full blown Orthodox Jew walking around LA in July makes me laugh and then feel heartbroken because it's so ridiculous, and so easily remedied by a fucking tank top. When it's a blast furnace outside, why not be comfortable? Stop martyring yourself for sweat. Go ahead and live a little, Isaac.

Maybe they're ashamed of their bodies, so they cover up. Jews aren't known for possessing attractive physiques, but Mexicans are just as bloated and hairy, and they're cool with a t-shirt and shorts like sane people and don't feel guilty about it. It's hot and you're not that special, so stop walking around town like a sad viking with a good tailor.

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Sunday, January 15, 2012

Bursting Out The Cocoon

I've decided to write for public consumption once more. It's part of my commitment to do at least one creative thing and one physical thing every day. I've been slacking for the past year. That's a no good. Must remedy. I'm gonna be writing on this blog more frequently, for better or for worse. At least I'll be busy doing something more expansive than what I do on Twitter, where my ideas often get boiled down to an inedible paste. Don't get me wrong, I like Twitter. But this blog has always been my weird baby, and I'm gonna swaddle it in a web of pulsating veins and ligaments until it grows strong again.

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I've also been digging through my archives and posting photos I've taken over the last 5-6 years to my new FLICKR page. It's alternately interesting and onanistic.

The original reason for the Flickr initiative was the LA arsonist that struck over 50 times during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. One attack occurred less than 2 miles from where I live. Me.

This made me really paranoid. Not for my life, but for the things I've created and captured. I've got all that shit backed up, but that's just in case my computers crash. A fire would destroy everything, including the back up drives. So, safely depositing my photos (and forthcoming videos) online has become an important task (a little less important since they caught that arson cocksucker). Yes, I'm being motivated by fire annihilation fantasies.

As a delightful side effect from looking through all my media, I've rekindled a latent passion that's been missing from my life for a while. Looking at old photos of myself makes me feel guilty for all the time I've wasted. I can't let young me down. Or Yung Midown, for that matter. He Chinese.

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In other news, I miss my friends terribly. Especially now that I've been sifting through hundreds of photos of them. I'm not good at communicating how much you all mean to me, but know that I think about y'all all the time.

I'm not even that great at letting my parents know how much I love them. Probably because they'd never shut up about it. They're hungry for all the details about my life, and I've learned to give them limited access because they have no boundaries and ask a million follow up questions. Sure, parents are the envy of every orphan, but orphans don't understand the constant nagging involved with parentals. All they know is the nagging hunger in the pit of their malnourished stomachs. Lucky bastards.

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Monday, January 9, 2012

Copernicus: All About Ol' Cus

Copernicus, astronomer circa 1512, was the youngest of 4 children, and lived in the Kingdom of Poland. Poland was a swamp back then. Crocodiles were plentiful, and much smaller than they are today, growing only as big as your arm. Copernicus spent his days catching and cooking crocs for sustenance and fun. Other animals didn't exist yet. A lot were created by this one guy in 1635. I think his name was Jason. Jason sucked dick, boy. Jason sucked all the dicks.

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Copernicus admired the night sky and especially the stars, which he called "God sprinkles". He enrolled at the University of Krakow to study astrological medicine, which was considered to be a hot career field at the time. He was an inquisitive and dedicated student, often staying up all night reading books on how to manufacture cocaine. He had a dog that accompanied him. He called him Rolaids.

BACK STORY: Copernicus found Rolaids all fucked up under a willow tree one afternoon. The dog had gotten into a local farmer's apple silo and stuffed himself stupid. Rolaids was puking up apples. Dozens of apples, covered in translucent gooey gross. His dumb dog stomach rejected the sweet fruit-rocks. Rolaids could barely move, so Copernicus had no choice but to carry him home, where he was tended to by little nurse demons that shat blood in the chimney. Charming creatures.

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Anyway, Copernicus lives in a casket now, and he's probably not getting up anytime soon. Once you die, you don't come back. It doesn't work that way. There's consciousness and then there is nothingness. Just oblivion. No more dreams forever.