My Life In Slices of Video

"One can live only so long as one is intoxicated, drunk with life. But when one grows sober, one cannot fail to see that it is all a stupid cheat." --- El-T (aka Leo Tolstoy)





If I ever grow up, it won't be because I tried to.

Secret Lover

It has always been a secret dream of mine to mine dreams, secretly. OOOOHHHH SHHIITT!!!

What Happens When You Take Acid

I don't care how high this girl is. I want to have sex with her and have her keep talking afterwards. After the sex.



And then when she's all talked out, I take a nap and dream about a beach with no one around but me and maybe a sea bird, looking out to sea on a sunny day.

And then I wake up and the high girl is gone, and the money in my pocket is gone, too. Ugh. I can't believe I fell for that calculating cunt.

The Larry Chronicles: Part III

A brief biography of Larry Landon:

1975. In the back of a Birmingham church, Larry Landon bursts forth from the shell of a tortoise and into the arms of an 11 year-old orphan named Jippy Jappy. The church burns to the ground a week later, claiming Jippy Jappy's life. Larry is unscathed. Some say he set the fire. Some say hot dogs taste good. The tortoise also survives, with a slightly charred body and a bloodshot left eye that bulges whenever he breathes.

Larry and the tortoise travel through the south for a time, soaking up wisdom, sunshine, and adventure. Just a newborn and his tortoise creator, living life to the max.





Christmas Day, 1979. The tortoise refuses to wake up. He's had enough of the constant traveling and stays in his shell until he lives no longer. This makes Larry very sad, but he marches on with life, and in time, stops thinking about the tortoise altogether.

1989: Larry develops a creamy rash and fucks your sister. These events spark "The Asshole Years", a ten year period in which Larry behaves like a dick and loses all his friends.




On the next Larry Chronicles... "The Asshole Years"....

I Love My Wife. She Hates Her Feet.

She had the body of a dancer, and feet like trashcan lids. Boy, what stompers! People crossed the street whenever she wore flip flops. Big, big fucking feet. Size 34 quadruple wide. But she was my wife, and like I said before, she had the body of a dancer, which turned my peeny into throbbing salami.




We had serious talks now and again, about having her feet cut off and replaced with regulation sized prostheses. Attaining the fake feet would be easy. My cousin Randy is a master whittler, and had already carved and painted a batch of sample feet.

The difficult part would be finding someone willing to chop her goddamn feet off. Every doctor and surgeon we consulted wanted nothing to do with us. They were understanding of our grief, but weren't willing to risk their careers for a cosmetic, non life-threatening condition. Even Dr. Patel, whom I've known for 12 years, was deeply insulted when I asked him for a referral. He shooed me away.




So we ended our search and I told my wife that I loved her no matter what her feet looked like, and she did a backflip because she was overjoyed to have such a supportive husband. Did I mention that she does awesome backflips? Very stable landing gear.

Anyway, we made love twice a day for the next week or so, which was a strange but welcome change, as she hardly ever feels attractive, even though she's got a gorgeous face and her ass is the bomb. I'm always down to fuck, but she'll only indulge me about once a week.




Then came the incident at Walmart. Two teenagers followed her around the store, hitting her feet with hammers, laughing their asses off. After that, we launched another search for a foot butcher. This time, we sought out alternative practitioners, and other underground healers. I found a guy on the Internet who seemed legit, until I got him on the phone. Total creep. He got breathy when I described how big her feet were. Then he asked if he could keep the feet for research after the amputation. I prodded him about what kind of research he was doing, and he whispered, "I wanna hollow them out and wear 'em. In the woods...I'm an asshole." I hung up, and curled into a ball of furious submission.




The fruitless searches and overwhelming despair began to affect our marriage. She started going to pet stores late at night, bringing home tarantulas, and flushing them down the toilet. It was the only thing that made her happy. At one point, she was spending $200 a day on spiders. We were losing money, and I was losing respect for her. Instead of graceful perseverance in the face of failure, she resorted to impulsive behavior. Not to mention the awkward conversation I had with our plumber, explaining why our pipes were clogged with hundreds of tarantula corpses.

Then one night, she didn't come home. I felt relieved. A couple more days passed without communication. My relief turned to concern, which quickly turned to panic. I didn't eat or sleep for 3 days. My body shut down sometime on the 4th day. I woke up on the kitchen floor with a note stuffed in my shirt-pocket. It was from my wife. She was leaving me, leaving the life she knew to follow a higher calling. She was going to protect apes in Uganda and kill rare spiders on the side. I called bullshit on that, and found her a few hours later in a park 3 towns over, eating hot dogs on a picnic table. I retained a lawyer, and we got divorced a month later.




She never did get her feet fixed. On occasion, I'd get an e-mail from her letting me know what she'd been up to. Sandcastle competitions, shaman stabbings, relaxin' in a rowboat. She was living her life without me, and I had to accept it. I kept telling myself that she wasn't the same woman I had married, that our life had become a fiesta of affliction. But no matter how I rationalized it, it still stung. I still loved her.

I got a phone-call from the sheriff the other day, telling me that my ex-wife had died. Apparently, she ate poo and died on a freeway off-ramp. She had eaten too much poo. Don't eat poo. It'll kill you.

Go Home, Jew-Face!

"...It's something horrible. They ram cop cars in broad daylight. Front-end collisions. To explode the air bags. Doughnuting. Heard of doughnuting? Doing doughnuts? You haven't heard about this? This is what they steal the cars for. Top speed, they slam on the brakes, yank the emergency brake, twist the steering wheel, and the car starts spinning. Wheeling the car in circles at tremendous speeds. Killing pedestrians means nothing to them. Killing motorists means nothing to them. Killing themselves means nothing to them. The skid marks are enough to frighten you. They killed a woman right out in front of our place, same week my car was stolen. Doing a doughnut. I witnessed this. I was leaving for the day. Tremendous speed. The car groaning. Ungodly screeching. It was terrifying. It made my blood run cold. Just driving her car out of 2nd Street, and this woman, young black woman, gets it. Mother of three kids. Two days later it's one of my own employees. A black guy. But they don't care, black, white doesn't matter to them. They'll kill anyone. Fellow named Clark Tyler, my shipping guy - all he's doing is pulling out of our lot to go home. Twelve hours of surgery, four months in a hospital. Permanent disability. Head injuries, internal injuries, broken pelvis, broken shoulder, fractured spine. A high speed chase, crazy kid in a stolen car and the cops are chasing him, and the kid plows right into him, crushes the driver's-side door, and that's it for Clark. Eighty miles an hour down Central Avenue. The car thief is twelve years old. To see over the wheel he has to roll up the floor mats to sit on. Six months in Jamesburg and he's back behind the wheel of another stolen car. No, that was it for me, too. My car's robbed at gunpoint, they cripple Clark, the woman gets killed - that week did it. That was enough."

- Philip Roth, American Pastoral

Hell of a book. Great Jewish writer. I saw A Serious Man again the other day. Love it, and kinda want to watch it a turd time. Lotta Jews as central characters among Jewish communities. American Pastoral in New Jersey, and A Serious Man in Minnesota. East Coast and Midwest Jews. Metropolitan Jews and Prairie Jews... Dr. Zoidberg is a Jew.




Jews aren't good fighters - except for Israelis, those motherfuckers are tough. Although you kinda have to be tough if your first name is Fishel.