Don't Throw No Coupons on My Grave

Gonna do some retroactive annotations, corrections, and updates from the future on this post that was in my draft folder from September 15, 2010. The original post will be in bold italics and my responses will look regular.

Well, I've put my move to LA on hold for a couple of months, so I can convalesce without the pressure of relocating. 

I went out to LA on December 11, 2010 to find an apartment. If I didn't find an apartment by the 22nd, I wouldn't be moving to Los Angeles. Shit was not going well for me health-wise, both mentally and physically, so I wasn't going to push my luck if things didn't line up in LA.

Stayed at a friend's house. Let's call him Rick. I was still convalescing from the aftermath of a stomach virus that rocked both of my cocks a few months before. Post-viral gastroparesis it's called. Rick was acting like a dick during my stay. Lodging small complaints about my presence, giving me the silent treatment, etc. I left his house 2 days before my plane back to Chicago. He's not my friend anymore.

Ended up making a few calls and lugged my air mattress to a sparsely furnished apartment that my friend's brother was squatting in. I asked him if he wanted to find a two bedroom apartment to rent with me. He said sure. Found a place and signed a lease the day before my flight back to Chicago. I moved to LA on January 8, 2011.

Right now, I need to mend my body and mind in order to move forward. I thought I could just muscle my way through the constant physical and mental dread, but the more I fight, the worse I feel. Pulsating channels of anxiety course through my body like furious magma, and I've yet to figure out how to vent that shit.

I've figured out how to vent that shit. It's not a perfect system by any means, and I still get caught up in anxiety cycles. I'm in one right now, darling. Heavy anxiety is likely to follow me throughout the rest of my existence. Some days I'm cool with that, and some days I feel like there are a thousand freight trains bearing down on my dickhole. Wouldn't it be great if my urethra was the nexus of my anxiety? I wonder if I prayed to god every night if he'd grant me that wish.

Exercise is crucial as a vent, as is spending time to meditate each and every morning, although sometimes it's less of a meditation and more of a quiet time for my brain to run wild like a dog in a vast field of snow. I've also discovered that fighting anxiety is a poor choice because it doesn't work. But fighting is an old habit and depending on how tired I am, I can slip back into using old methods that don't actually work, but let me feel as if I have a lid on the situation.

Planes are a great example. Since I stopped taking Xanax on planes, I feel the anxiety train gearing up for a trip on the well-oiled rails (more trains, eh?), but I don't react because what good would that do? Tire myself out by clenching and worrying never makes it easier, so I just let the anxiety train gear up and if it wants to tear down the line, I let it, without fighting back or giving it worry fuel. The end result is not relaxation per se, but an absence of debilitating nervousness. It's not exactly a pleasant experience, but it's not a nightmare either. Ah yes, the goal of not living a nightmarish existence. Getting better at this every year. When I'm 72, I'll be so relaxed that the people who take care of me will think I'm dead and bury me alive. But the joke's on them. I never truly lived!  

During the past 2 years, I've had 3 stomach viruses and a two week bout with gastritis. My brain senator cites these facts in his crusade to get my stomach thrown out of office. I don't trust most foods, and I'm afraid that straying from my go-to bland foods will lead to a palace of woe. Food is a chore at this point. Just fuel. It stopped being pleasurable years ago.

Turns out that all this time, I had a bum gall bladder. It didn't officially give out until the end of May 2017. When the surgeon took it out, my gall bladder was a black and green slime filled chunk of what looked like rotten Nigiri sushi. Had to have a procedure the day before to snip the end of the bile duct in my liver, which was clogged with thousands of poppy-seed sized stones that my gall bladder sent its way. 2 procedures involving anesthesia in 2 days left me in a daze. Throw in not being able to eat for 4 days and woooo! Almost died!

Also, my stomach still isn't great, but it's better than it was. Ashkenazi Jewish genetics means stomach problems. There's nothing I can do. Sucks, but name one thing that doesn't.

I've had so many nauseous experiences that my brain reacts to most food as potentially dangerous. The caveman portion of my brain, the amygdala, is confused and scared when food passes my lips, goes down my esophagus, and into my bitch-ass stomach. Anxiety sometimes leads to false nausea, causing me to lose my appetite, which is why I'm skinny, which is why I'm cold all the time, which is why I need to gain weight, but that's hard to do with all the anxiety and nausea.

My body couldn't digest fat because my bile duct was blocked, which is why I lost a ton of weight and couldn't maintain the 180-185lbs that works best for me. After 9 months of illness, they figured out what was wrong with me and I got surgetized. I was down to 154 lbs. I had no energy. I was freezing all the time. I wore long johns and a sweatshirt to sleep because I often woke up really cold in the middle of the night. I needed to steadily gain weight by any means necessary.

You might think that since I was fixed, I could have a food party and throw down beef fists and ham slurry.  Chug a few Denver Omelette Blizzards from Dairy Queen. But I couldn't do it. After the surgery, my digestive system was like a brand new puppy, learning the ropes and having accidents. They told me not to eat any fatty foods for a month or two, and that my digestion might not go back to normal for a year or at all. I figured it out for the most part and hit 180lbs after 5 months of slow and steady eating. Lots of carbs. Lots of apple juice. Lots of turkey, hot dog buns, raspberry preserves, cookies, and protein shakes. By protein shakes I don't mean cum. And I'm not disparaging the cum slurpers of the world. Indulge, my sweets.

Now, with the help of a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist, I hope to train my brain not to associate food with nausea. This is my goal. I intend to work hard at my goal, because I can't progress until I learn how to manage panic, stress, and the effect both of them have on my body.

Here's a little secret, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) doesn't work if you're smart. It's not completely ineffective, but it's certainly not effective for people with above average intelligence. It might help a person be a little more aware of their behavior and thought patterns, but I feel the majority of people with anxiety are already acutely self-aware. We're aware of everything, which makes it hard to relax. CBT can suck my balls and asshole simultaneously.

I've been fucked with by my own brain and body, but I refuse to believe that I'm ruined. I've been exposed to the cruel indifference of reality, and it overwhelms me sometimes. So although it'll take some dedicated work to train my brain not to react so violently to the whims of my imagined doom, I'm up to the task because my future depends on it. And "protecting" myself from anxiety by not facing my fears is actually harmful.

Word.

In conclusion, I got troubles.

In perpetuity, baby!

Harvey Keitel's Sex Story Sanctuary

(This is an excerpt taken from my interview with Harvey Keitel on June 28th, 2020)

"Yeah, I like fucking chicks. So what? I dig the way my dick feels when I cum. I really like it when the broad is on her period and lets me bust inside. I don't need a fucking baby at my age. How old am I anyway? 

(checks his phone) 

81 years old?! Good lord, fuck my ass... 

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, there's nothing like cumming inside a chick.

One time, I think it was the summer of '72, I'm balling this chick, and I'm very excited because she's foxy as hell. We're fucking in the basement of her dad's building in Queens, I remember it being near the zoo. We were fucking in the basement near the boilers and everything.  Heavy duty bangin' for 20 minutes straight, and I'm getting tired, so I decide to hurry up and cum. I'm doing her doggy style, and I speed up. Just start pounding her really hard and fast and she gets to moaning and I'm jackhammering away at her pussy. I feel my whole body go stiff, and my dick gets real stiff, too. I can't move. My balls feel like somebody is squeezing them, and I get that feeling spreading around my unit like I'm on the verge of unleashing a whole mess of jizz. As I blow my load, time slows down. All I can feel is my prick and my balls. Everything else is black and empty. I get this high pitched ringing in my ears. Then I get hit with all this...footage. Visions flashing before my eyes. They feel real, but sorta fuzzy. 

I see my father thrusting a samurai sword into the belly of a horse. He walks alongside the horse, gripping the sword strongly, shredding the animal's insides as he goes. He pulls it out, winks at me, and turns into a walrus. 

I see the same walrus every now and again in my dreams. When I was a teenager, whenever I got angry, I would bring a bag of potatoes to the zoo and whip them at the walrus they got there. I feel bad about it now, but I have to admit I had a good time lobbing Irish Grenades at that fat fuck. 

As I'm looking into his eyes, I feel 8 tons of guilt. The walrus transforms into my first girlfriend, Sandy. Beautiful Brooklyn girl, but big. Built like a Buick. We would listen to Fats Domino records and make out. Then we would ride bikes down to Chinatown and giggle at those slant-eyed bastards. I don't like Chinese people very much, but they sure are fun to laugh at.

Then I'm taken back to reality. I'm still behind the girl in the boiler room. I'm still deep in her gash. I spurt 6 times. Every blast feels like a 4 day weekend. Time passes in inches. The cosmos is centered in my shvantz.

My goo? It's all over the place. I filled her up too fast and it didn't have any other place to go. My head starts feeling throbby, and my eyes go out of focus. The last thing I remember is this broad saying, 'Damnit Harvey, it's everywhere!' 

I black out. Wake up on the concrete floor of the boiler room with a headache. It's nighttime now. Touch my head where the pain is coming from. I'm bleeding, but not too bad. I get up slowly and my back is wet. It's cum. I came so hard that I passed out in a pool of my own nut. The chick is long gone. Left me there. 

It was the greatest day of my life."

Letter Home From Camp

Dear Mom and Dad,

Things are weird here. The camp director has surrounded himself with squirrels. I believe they are his personal army. I tried to shake his hand and a big brown one flew at my hand and bit me. How does he command their loyalty? Sometimes he balances grapes on his nipple tips and the squirrels launch themselves in the air and snatch the grapes. I want to come home but I know the squirrels won't let me.



The cabins we live in are primitive. My bed is hay. My pillow is dead birds. Spiders crawl in and out of my mouth. To them, I'm just a piece of terrain to cross. I am human! I deserve respect!

The trees here make noises like old people make. Remember the moaning man at grandma's nursing home? They sound like that. Something fell from a branch one day. It was a VHS tape filled with human teeth.



We came across a baby in the woods. He was swaddled in a Judas Priest t-shirt. This dickhead kid named Gerald put it in his backpack. He fed it Doritos and licorice, but I don't think babies like that stuff because it wouldn't stop crying. The camp director heard about the baby and took it away from Gerald. That night, one of the squirrels pissed on Gerald's face while he was sleeping.

My bowels are white and they move in the toilet. I'm listening to a lot of Prince.

They made this one kid dig his own grave and sleep in it for 3 nights because he said the camp director smells like horse cum. He does, though.

One of our counselors drilled a hole in a globe and lubed it up. We fuck it. The hole is near Brazil.

This letter might not find you in time. If I die here, don't look through my stuff. Just don't. I miss you guys so much and can't wait to leave this place. I love you both.





   

Losing My Mind: A Tale of Exhaustion

Note: This post was written in January of 2015. Rough times. I'm over it now. Living with my girlfriend in a nice little guesthouse with no shared walls or floors. I'm past the bull noise. Enjoy my retroactive suffering!

===================================================================


I'm exhausted and tapering off my antidepressants. I'm not doing well. I can't get proper sleep at my apartment because I made the mistake of believing that I had in fact rented a structurally sound top floor apartment. I did not. I can hear everything my neighbor does and she can probably hear me. She says she has gotten used to it. I will never get used to feeling her stomp through my floor. I can feel her door slams through my bed. I'm forced to wake up when she wakes up, which is too early for me. I'm seriously considering staying in a hotel for a few days just to get some sleep because I'm losing it.




I'm going to break my lease here, which is something I've never done. I thought briefly about buying a house and paying a mortgage, but LA is so fucking expensive that the only houses I could afford were next to the freeway and/or shacks in questionable neighborhoods. Any house listed below $600,000 in LA is a piece of shit.

I am growing sick of the city. Fuck, I am done with any city right now. I need quiet. I need space. I need no neighbors and total privacy. I had a guesthouse in LA for 3 years. Should have kept it. It wasn't perfect but I should've stayed there. I was happy there. Actually, the last two months, I was not happy there, what with the combination of the next door neighbor building AN ENTIRE 2 STORY HOUSE ONTO THE BACK OF HIS HOUSE, and a leak in the roof. The construction guys hammering at 7 in the morning is what started driving me crazy. I don't think I've ever gotten back on track. That was 6 months ago. I've had a short fuse and been physically and emotionally exhausted for 6 months and I'm finally spent. It's good to know that my personal limit for bullshit is around 6 months. Yep, good to know.

Downstairs neighbor lady runs a juice company out of her apartment and runs the blender all day. She also has a roommate now, unbeknownst to my landlord. This new roommate is just as inconsiderate about making noise as she is, but then again, this apartment is built like a cardboard tree-fort. It looks nice, but Ted Bundy also looked nice and he murdered people.




Oof, I sound angry and bitter.

Girlfriend was supposed to move in to this apartment. This was gonna be the place where we lived together. I took on the high cost of this shithole alone, knowing that she'd eventually move in and ease the financial burden. Not anymore. She won't move in here and I don't blame her. Fuck this place, I wish it burned down while I was walking my dog. That would be perfect, actually. No loss of life, just one less shitty structure in LA.

I don't even want to live in LA. Can't stop thinking about my escape really. Actually thinking about suicide on a very casual, surface level. Ooooooooooooooo. Uh oh! No, mustn't say that. Mustn't think about the sweet release of the end. The pull of oblivion. Can't talk about it or they'll lock you up. Don't even mention it or a switch gets flipped and people want to help you. By help you, I mean institutionalize you. And once you've been in a mental facility, the stink will never wash off you. That little nugget of information can be used to assassinate your character for as long as you live. Can't adopt a kid. If you ever get sued or have to go to court, the lawyers will dredge up that shit like an old lobster trap. "Well look what we got here! A suicidal lobster! Explain yourself, suicidal lobster. Go on, tell us non-suiciders what the hell you were thinking. Why would you even consider opting out of this grand world of ours? Speak up, boy!"




I'm desperate. My 1st priority is sleep. 2nd priority is finding a new place. 3rd priority is building a giant walk-in microwave. Things might be better if I could get some sleep and a new place to live.

I'm very tired. Going to sleep now. Can't wait until I get woken up. Life is great. I wish I was dead. Cemetery folk have it made.

Flash Your High Beams

We here at the gabbin' cabin like to talk about the dogs we've murdered on our way to the championship of roof jumping. From roof to roof we frolic with the truth that our days are numbered but the number of the beast will never be branded upon our necks. Trek through the apartment complex and satisfy the lonely housewife that wears a turban filled with rubies and Judge Dredd stickers pasted to her titties. Get real close, but never get burned.

How to Buy a Used Fridge

HATE FILLED BULLET POINTS......




- The wife of one of my acquaintances thinks she is a radiant goddess of class and erotic features that devastate the eyes and boners of all that look upon her. But in truth, and we're speaking strictly about facts here, she is a gross sack of shit. Her pale, fleshy folds of fat are being used as incubators for nests of bacteria and her breath smells like a chemo fart. Even though she is obese, she gets drunk on 2 drinks, at which point she demands to leave whatever party she's at. Oh, and she sucked a stripper's dick the night before her own wedding. Nearly forgot that detail.

- I don't trust anybody else's idea of clean. You all missed a spot.

- I don't think I'd buy a used car from an obese man. The suspension is probably all fucked up. Who knows what that guy's been eating in the car on the way home from work, hiding his food intake from his very patient wife.

He's going to Wendy's and he's getting a fucking Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger from the drive thru and he's shoving that shit into his fucking mouth in the parking lot. He feels that short rush and then the cannonball of self hatred right afterwards. But then he rationalizes his behavior, telling himself he deserves a treat because he works hard and life is hard. It's true, life is hard, but I'm not buying a car from that pig.

I used to be fat, and now I hate fat people. Actually, I've always hated fat people, including myself. But now I'm thin, baby! So suck a toaster strudel, ya porcine shit slurpers!  

Obama and His Secret Cat Food Addiction

Barack Obama eats cat food. It's all he eats, in fact. Sure, he'll pretend to eat a hot dog at the state fair for a photo-op, but as soon as the photos are taken, he spits that wiener out with violent force.

One of his aides brings him a spoonful of Meow Mix and he lets out a low moan of pleasure as the fishy slop hits his tongue. "That's what I'm talking about!" he screams at the sky and then rips his shirt off, revealing a large tattoo on his chest of Garfield getting butt-fucked by Tigger.




His tongue extends to a superhuman length and he starts to lick where Tigger's cock meets Garfield's asshole. "Oh yeah, you like that, dontcha boys? That gets you all riled up, huh? Well, I'm riled up, too!" Brown liquid streams down his pant legs and into his socks. Diarrhea.

"I'm the luckiest motherfucker on this earth!" Obama declares, as he rips his pants off and sprays frothy diarrhea from his ass while spinning, creating a mighty fecal sprinkler.    

And then a old skeletal Japanese man in a shopping cart rolls up, using a hockey stick to propel himself. He points the stick accusingly at Obama, "Mr. President, why you squirt shit, sir?"

Obama shits out a shotgun and blows the old Japanese man's head off. The shitting stops to a trickle. "Bring me more cat food." he bellows.

Searching For Sugar Man: Criminally Boring

I actually got angry after watching "Searching for Sugar Man" last night. Not that the documentary contained offensive ideas or anything. I just didn't see what the big deal was. I've heard a lot about the movie and how it was shocking, epic, and one of a kind. It centers around a musician known as Rodriguez, whose music was so great and why hadn't anybody heard of him before? Well, probably because his music isn't very good and his lyrics are written in the vein of an eighth-grader who just started listening to Bob Dylan and plans on being an influential poet because that's the only way to wake people up. If that means rubbing your dick all over a Chinese food menu and shitting on the floor of a mausoleum, then we all need to wake up. (huh?)




What bridge troll finds this fascinating? Other people and their tastes are wrong. I'm a miserable man with psychological problems and if it's not about me and what I like, then it must be shot out of the sky with an RPG, like a helicopter filled with puppies of a breed I do not care for. 

The mystery surrounding him is boring. He supposedly killed himself on stage, and big surprise, didn't. Turns out he's just this soft spoken Navajo looking dude living in Detroit, sitting at his kitchen table with a cigarette and coffee, looking a lot like a criminal. I get the feeling that Sugar Man has stabbed up a few folks in his day.




All the interview subjects, including a hilariously hyperbolic record producer with an obvious toupee, go on and on about how much Rodriguez changed their life and they can't understand why he isnt a huge star.
Well, here's a couple reasons.

1. His voice is a shitty imitation of Bob Dylan, who has the most legendary shittiest voice ever.
2. Fuck this movie.

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.



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. 

Best,
Kid Douche

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!




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.




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.

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.




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.

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.




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.

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.




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.

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.




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.

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.




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!


(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

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!


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. "





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.

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.




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.




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.