ever notice how much influence music has during a
conversation on the way people talk?
you could be listening to Mozart (whistles)
“Aye perchance the lady mind too much eh?”
“And protesteth as such, oh so.”
“indeed.”
then you turn on some rap music (whistles g thang
intro)
“shiiiit, muthafucka,
playin and frontin like she aint hungry for
it, man, fuck”
“yeah I know I hit shit more than I do da
bong”
“for real”
nothing scarier than the moment you realize that subconsciously
you are fucking yourself over. freud.
fucked up on monday. one
girl receptive, the other isn’t, my father, trying to get love out of those
who can’t, man that’s fucked up
oh and women will never call you, or email you if
you ask them to. or me at least, I sure as fuck hope this is true for everyone.
I asked a girl recently for her number and she just kinda laughed and said “no that’s okay,” I was so happy, I
was like thank god. because women lie like bitches,
and evidentally, when a woman says “she’s busy” it
rarely means they’re busy.
I saw spider man recently, I invite two women and end up going with my gay
friend Stephen, seem so appropriate.
want to get the eye surgery, you know that Dorothy parker witticism about girls
with glasses, well I always say get the fuck up and make a pass, but guys with
glasses don’t make passes either
I was watching rendez-vous or some shit and there
was a girl on it said “I won’t even call a guy, ever.” man,
shit, shit like that reminds me why I was a mysoginist
in highschool.
Alright, I just got back from staying at home for the holidays, probably for
the last time.
Unless, you know, I’m in a coma from a suicide attempt gone wrong—but if I
manage to stay away from home, I’ll probably have no reason to try to kill myself
in the first place... So then this is all just a fun hypothetical situation
for ivory tower intellectuals.
I’m twenty two, nearly 23. I know my romanticism is nearly run out. If I
don’t end up a neo-beatnick poet with intellectual
groupies, treating me like Rousseau, laying about my place like they’re in an
opium den, a harem, or the back of ’72 Volkswagon
bus—in ’72! If that doesn’t happen to me… I know I’m going to end up accepting
things like fate, futility, failure, and that “intellectual groupies” is an
oxymoron.
Because come on people. Isn’t that what getting older’s
all about? Accepting? Accepting car payments, commitment, alimony, retirement,
and ultimately, come on people, all together now. DEATH.
Yes, that’s right. Death.
Yes I’m going to talk about death. But not in that Richard Brenner “oh my
god the germs on this toilet seat are going to kill me or give me some socially
unacceptable disease” way.
I think the fear of death—or the preoccupation with it—is like a bell curve
over the span of your life. At the middle, you’re young, and you least fear
death. I think I’m there cause I think:
I could get shot right now. Here I am walking around my downtown apartment
neighborhood in my sweatpants at 4 o’clock
in the morning looking for my cat under hobos and hookers and other urban flotsam
and jetsam. But I could just as likely die in my next breath from an unexpected,
instantaneous nuclear holocaust that could wipe us all out in seconds.
But I’m a post-cold-war kid so I thought about it for like a few months growing
up, then got over it. I.e.:
Oh my god, I’m having impure thoughts to commit sinful acts…
Oh my god, I could die tomorrow in a nuclear holocaust…
Oh my god, I just did a sinful act…
Oh screw it.
I’m also over the whole god thing—and all you unsympathizers can go trade places with any kid raised in
any heavily culturally Catholic country. Foolish Protestants, you probably
think you can sin and still get into heaven. Hahaha.
Getting back to those “sinful acts.” I started this love affair with myself
as early as 6th grade. Because I was one of the few kids with the
internet back then—and mind you, this is like early 90s—when the internet was
just porn. (And people wonder why it caught on.)
So, I’m like 10 or 13 or something, let’s see… Okay, this requires math, and
I’ll go back home before I’ll do math. Of course, then I’d have to kill myself.
But as we’ve already established: Eh.
In the course of a year I went soft-core partial nudity, to full nudity, to
lesbians, to multiple lesbians, to multiple lesbians in exciting outfits, to
hardcore, to three-some four-some more-some, to bondage, sadomaso, sodo, beasto, nechro, scato, techno, I don’t know—as long as it was unnatural, immoral,
and/or illegal, it got me at least slightly aroused, or disgusted, then aroused.
I mean, I was desensitized to the 2-D world. But 3-D, well, a close brushing-up-against
was still enough to do the trick back then. Who am I fucking kidding.
It still does.
Well, “doing the trick” lead to a lot of issues for me. Example,
and this really happened. I went to a Catholic school so we’d all go as a
class to confession… Yeah, field trips were to the missions and camp was a
retreat to the seminary, fun! Anyway, it was my turn and I got stuck with some
priest from another catholic school that I didn’t know:
“bless me father for I have sinned, it’s been um,
as long as the last time they took us to confession since my last confession.
I was once, um, dishonest to my parents, I once called someone a horrible name,
and… uh…”
“Yes?”
“some other thing, and I stole a cupcake at the church
bake sale…”
“Son, if you don’t tell me, I can’t absolve you.”
Alright, at this point, this could turn into a really creepy story that ends
with “and that’s why I can’t be in small confined spaces with men in black uniforms
anymore.” But it doesn’t. But for all I know this guy could be internally
salivating, cursing, condemning himself and condemning that little red demon
thing in his head that sold him on this little-boy-meat-market bonanza of being
a priest at a catholic elementary school all at the same time.
But no. I think this priest was just a dick.
“What is it, you have to tell me.”
He’s impatient, probably because he has to hear this same stammering from like
the other 8 boys waiting in line behind me. Either that,
or he’s really salivating, and can’t wait to see the next boy-meat package
get all vulnerable and guilty. “They’re so hot when they feel naughty.”
“It’s… not something I feel like I can…”
“Well, I can’t absolve you… and then god can’t absolve you, unless you tell
me. So, either tell me or accept…
The eternal internal indelible mark of shame that is burned into your soul
that is a sin, a lie against god, which is like lying to yourself, except with
someone who actually matters a damn. OH and speaking of damn, yeah, no amount
of hail mary’s and our father’s are gonna
save your ass, unless I give em to you, and you first
have to give me all the details of your sordid licentious scrumptious, boy meat
tender… *gargg smack smack*.”
Anyway, that was traumatizing, and I didn’t tell him, it was easier just to
accept God didn’t exist. But, I didn’t really get to that point until high
school, so I had plenty years of guilt… Not that I really was unprepared for
guilt. That was much earlier in my childhood development. I.e.:
Oh my god, I’m having impure thoughts to commit sinful acts…
Oh my god, I could die tomorrow…
Oh my god, I’ve just lied to my mother…
Oh wait, I’ve been doing that for like a few years
now. Scratch that, okay, continue with sex guilt…
Oh my god, I just did a sinful act…
Oh screw it.
Anyway…
Oooh, right, I’m just remembering how I started this
whole thing. I was staying home after 3 months of no restrictions, after 3
and a half years of freedom, i.e. 3 years of infrequent
and 3 months of frequent pot use… hey, come on, I go to a UC. UCSD, in fact.
But that really doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter it’s a UC, probably doesn’t
matter that it’s a university at all. My guess is you junior collegers
probably know what I’m talking about best of all. And you trade schoolers… Shit, I’m surprised you guys aren’t right now
flipping and tripping and popping and OH MY! And so I’d been at home, what,
3 weeks? 333. 3 3’s. Oh my god…
See, 6s, 6s I can deal with, that’s not necessarily religious, that’s like
culture now, it’s like 666, devil, woo, you can get a sassy tank top from hot
topic with that on it. But 3s those are like 7s and 40s. THOSE ARE GOD NUMBERS.
*Shudder.*
Anyway, I’m getting sick of being a spy. It seems so ridiculously WHITE to
pretend to be something your not to your parents.
But if I tell my mother I’m an atheistic pot smoker, she’ll have a heart contraction,
a conniption, collapse, and as soon as she gets up, I’ll be out of college and
given the option REHAB (for pot, I’d get laughed out) or worse yet, LIVING AT
HOME. And you know what would happen then.
That’s why I need to get a job. And that’s why, right now, since I don’t yet
have a job and financial independence, not only would it suck having my mother
have an aneurysm, I’d have to work for my father and go to some local community
college. And damn if I wouldn’t rather Raskolnikov’s fate at the end of Crime and Punnishment. I can take Siberia over
fucking Huntington Beach, Orange
County. Because I know I’ll go insane
there before I’d catch hypothermia in Siberia.
Sorry, I know this wasn’t much of a “comedy routine” but fucking deal with
it. And if you don’t find my situation pitiful, think of it this way. Isn’t
it even more pitiful that I’m white, middle class, in one of the most influential
states, in the most influential country, with opportunities and easy routes
to middle-class stability at my finger-tips, with both parents still married,
no siblings in jail, I’m not fat, I’m not extremely ugly, and I’m not retarded.
And here I am, feeling absolutely pitiful. And isn’t that truly, truly pitiful?
And isn’t it so affirming that you can be deserving of the title pitiful, if only you pitying yourself?
And thus others can pity you; after they see you pity yourself. And even if
you’re the only one who ends up pitying you, then you are truly pitiful, and even more deserving of the title.
And you can always have that.
Not that you think you deserve it.
Alright, let’s get back on track, let’s track back here. Ah fuck it.
you know what I’m afraid of?
I know one day, I’m just going to be walking along, and all the sudden…
my dick’s going to fall off from disuse. [drop]
And I’m not going to even notice. I probably won’t even recognize it, if I
do see it.
“Oh look, someone’s left a penis here, pretty good condition, hardly used,
pity.”
And then I’ll get home and be like [padding around body] “oh shit. now
where did I put that last… No, that was months ago…” [looking
back] “could it?” [picks
it up, dusts it off, looks at it, then crotch, attaches]. “nice.
Well, I’m never going to lose you again… Next chance I get, we’re putting you
to use.” [walks two feet, falls again]
See the problem is, I’ve got a penis. Not a bad one
either. But without testicles, it’s nothing more than a necktie for my groin.
Like high school, this was me with my similarly self-castrated friend:
T: So are you going to talk to her?
B: Of course not. You?
T: Not likely.
B: Did you remember your testicles this morning?
T: Left them at home. You?
B: In the shop.
I’m not an alcoholic
anymore
No, never, in fact, I think about my father 10 times a day now
I asked my psychiatrist if that was normal. And her thing is always:
“Your perfectly normal, many young men go through
this… Even at your age. It’ll change once you’ve finished puberty.”
No, of course she doesn’t say that. But she is into saying I’m “normal” my
problems are “normal.” And I’ll admit it, the problems not the problems themselves
but the problem solving that never solves anything and all you’re left with
is a lot of long division.
“Normal very normal.”
I like how she says too because she’s british.
Anyway, I asked her is thinking about once’s father,
or more specifically, fearing to become one’s father 10 times a day normal?
“Ah, no, that’s actually quite abnormal.”
This of course sent me on a whole spin-cycle of neurotic reflexion.
I get turned on by intelligence, no don’t applaud that.
I consider it a perversity, because I’ve asked around and so far… I’m the only
one who thinks Madeline Albright is hot.
I have a poster of her on a podium when she was giving a speech at the Bosnian
peace accords. Oh man, that has gotten me through many a lonely night.
No, but honestly, there are advantages to having a stupid wife.
She walks in on you and her sister, naked in bed.
“Honey, you won’t believe it…
two escape convicts climbed in through the window,
held us up,
stole our clothes (cause you know they were wearing
those stripey, uh, orange jumpsuit thingies),
and told us to get in the bed, stay under the covers
and count to a hundred,
the convicts just went out the window.”
She runs to the window,
“Well, how did the one guy fit into my sister’s clothes? Damn girl you need
to lose some weight.”
I had a hemmorhoid right?
no big deal, sure, it’s slightly embarrassing, but
come on, we’ve grown up people, there’s a whole aisle devoted to the gross stuff
women need to do.
anyway, I stop downloading porn long enough -- totally
unrelated, but an anomally… I’m usually continually
downloading more and more porn –
to do a surf-dango around
the internetivo. No, there’s no cool way to describe
it.
And learn I had a descended blood-clot, most likely being on the colon lining
around the sphincter, and now prodruding like the
crowning head of a really small baby. I’d say “ladies, now I understand your
pain.” But I’m not an idiot.
Anyway, the embarrassing part. I go out and buy what they say, a big ol’ tube of Preparation H and some Witch Hazel. No, I wish
they called it “witch hazel” but they instead opted for “hemorhoidal
medicated pad.” Marketing genius, that’s definitely what I want people to read
when they go in my medicine cabinet.
Maybe I’m paranoid. But I’ve done it at other people’s places when I use their
restroom. If I’ve done it, one of you’ve done it, don’t lie. And so now, for this one abnormally
painful
I like porn. And I thought I was the luckiest guy alive because I knew this
girl who also liked to watch porn. She even came to my place and watched porn
with me. Now normally, I don’t make watching porn a group activity. Some guys
like to get around and watch it, I don’t personally don’t see the point if you
can’t whip it out. And I don’t want to whip it out around any guys, and it
kinda makes me wonder why guys would want to put me
in such a situation in the first place. It’s like, Fred, hey, yeah, as much
as I’d like to go with you and get a porno and a six pack and get aroused and
drunk in a room full of aroused and drunk men without any aroused and drunk
women—ah, sorry…
Anyway, when I was with this girl, all I could think about was… Well what
do you think? What would it be like to have sex with her—she’d probably be
into all kinds of kinky shit. The prospect was so tempting, I even put up with
having to watch porn without getting to whip it out, and go hours with relief
as we both watched some filthy, filthy stuff. And let me tell ya,
porn isn’t high auteur cinema. After a while, you lose you’re ability to suspend
your disbelief that a nun could actually have really big, really fake breasts.
And then it’s hard to take the whole communal showers and sodomy with crucifixes
seriously.
Anyway, one day, we did go at it. See, all the other times, we’d just get
aroused. This time we got aroused AND drunk, again, the perfect combination,
assuming again a proper male / female ratio. No more than one male, no less
than one female, perfect. Except… Well, perhaps it was all the porn we’d watch.
Because… Well, everything was going fine at first. Clothing was a bit difficult,
as it’s not made to be taken off drunk—which is a serious design flaw—but otherwise
everything was going smoothly. Then she starts, out of nowhere:
“Oh yeah, you like fucking me in my pussy?”
I’m like, “what? is that a rhetorical question or do you want me to state the
obvious?” Instead it came out as “uuuungh.” Which she, I think, took for a yes.
“Yeah, you like it don’t you? I want you to fuck me in my tight little pussy
with your big strong dick.”
I’m like, “well, the big strong dick part, maybe… You can’t seriously think
this is arousing?” Of course, all she heard “uuuuuu-uuungh.”
“Come on baby, fuck me. I can’t wait to taste your cum.”
“What? Oh, come on…”
“mmm, yeah, daddy, fuck
me hard, then cum all over my tits, I want to lick it off.”
I was like, if I find a tattoo on the small of her back, I’m getting fucking
tested tomorrow. Does she think I watch porn because I’m a fan of the dialogue?
And then the thought that maybe she actually liked porn on some sick, twisted
aesthetic level… Well that just turned me off so much, I almost didn’t finish.
But I did.
And, on her tits.
And, yes, she did, lick it off.
And I thought, some times it is good to be plebian.
Instead of teen/mom dresses too sexy, how bought not sexy enough?
Things to put in hip coin dispensers
Chocolate money
Pills for old people (different)
Restock the audience when they suck.
Porn movie: nice guys finish last
is it normal to have weird blotches around the edges
of your vision, like a weird fractal? Not good.
I’m so sick of porn, I’m sick of being lonely. I need something real, and
female. Even these “ohm” things getting it on is depressing
me.
I’m watching Fantastic Planet.
No I’m not; all comics lie.
what was I going to say? Oh yeah.
I had white furniture. Now I have grey furniture.
Actually, it just looks grey because of all the black soot, my uh… habits leave
around. And the really sick thing is… I like it. I think it’s
own aesthetic, I think it’s like Van Gogh who had an appreciation for earthenware…
Damn it I need to get my art book back from that stripper.
How often do you hear that in a day?
Fuckin, everything reminds me to do something.
Let’s go back. I need to get my art book back from that stripper. This is
true. The story quickly, since…
fuck I’m already bored with me. I need new stimulus.
New stimulus I demand it as an American!
Y’all are media junkies. Desperate for new stuff, they can’t make it fast
enough, so there’s a lot of fake shit. And what do you want?
The real shit. That’s right neeeeggggggrrrooooo.
You know it’s an empowerment word now.
What makes a good rapper?
Keepin it real.
Backtrack: reality, rappers, empowerment, neeeeeeggggggrrrrrrooooo, media junkies, new stimulus, stripper,
art book, Van Gogh, black soot, grey, white, fantastic planet, female, real,
lonely, sick, porn, sick, not good, fractal!, blotches! normal!!!
Thank you, and uh, say no to drugs excempting pot
and prozac, since those are both legal, aren’t they?
Ah fuck it.
good pot movies: goof troop, jumanji in spanish
now I’m feeling like myself puffin on a blunt
3 parts shwag, 2 parts toback, 1 part chron.
watching dead presidents
Negro what you smokin on?
oh no, run muthafucka run
man I knew that muthafucka
was going to die
oh wait
shit
yeah he dead.
dude, he should have shot Cleon right there fuck.
But I guess that’s the way it is.
The only people smart enough to carry that off
are too smart to need to do it.
Shiiit. It’s 11, now what?
John Stewart and a redbull and we’ll see.
THIS WHOLE POEM, BY THE WAY, IS GENIUS,
WHETHER YOU RECOGNIZE IT OR NOT.
Men - pot
Women – alcohol and chocolate
Something wrong with their sex-drive.
lard tooth
Man, in high school, I was a misogynist. Which is, of course,
just a fancy word for “virgin.”
So, I go to college, I get a girl-friend, I’m no longer a misogynist. In fact,
I became the most clean-shaven, good-smelling, well-dressed feminist you’d ever
likely meet.
2 1/2 years go by. We break up, and still, no longer a misogynist. If anything,
going through the break-up gives me even more respect
for women. Kind of like the respect you get after seeing a crocodile snap an
oar in its mouth. But still
A year goes by, present and I basically become a misogynist
again. Insomach, in so much as I’ve basically become a virgin again.
I don’t hate women, though, I just hate, how much they lie. I mean, maybe
it’s just “everybody lies,” but since I’m a guy, why would another guy need
to lie to me, except to sell me something. Men only lie to women, and women
only lie to men.
“Here’s my number, call me.”
“Okay.”
“Check out the website, send me an email.”
“Sure.”
Now, of course, what else can you say to “here’s my number, call me,” I mean
it’s not even a question. It’s a small white a lie, a necessary nicety one
might argue, its certainly not enough to sit by the phone for. But it’s
like sometimes it’s
“Here’s my number, call me.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s my number, call me.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll do that. yeah definitely.”
“Here’s my number, call me.”
“Okay, let me put it in my cell phone. I’ll call you tomorrow,
we’ll work it out. How do you spell your name again?”
“Alfred?”
“Here’s my number, call me.”
“Oh my god, you complete my life, but I have to go, the train is
leaving… nonetheless, and I know we’ve only spent 2 hours and a ding dong together,
I will call you as soon as I can so I can feel whole again!”
But they never call, however! this last week. An
exception! I asked a girl for her number or to give her mine, and you know what
happened. She said “no, uh, that’s okay.” Gave a sarcastic smile and got in
her car and really made my fucking day. Honestly.
That’s how rejection should be done, right there, right then, like ripping
off a bandaid, or getting a shot in the face. If
all the women who’ve rejected me, would have just rejected
me immediately… Well then I could’ve at least sworn off women completely, joined
the clergy, and gotten some altar boy tail by now.
I often think about my genitalia falling off.
I know one day, I’m just going to be walking along, and all the sudden…
my dick’s going to fall off from disuse. [drop]
And I’m not going to even notice. And if I come by it again, I probably won’t
even recognize it.
“Oh look, someone’s left a penis here, pretty good condition, hardly used,
pity.”
[looks down closer, reaches to it, realizes has no penis, turns
around, grabs/picks it up, dusts it off, and attaches]. “nice.
Well, I’m never going to lose you again… Next chance we get, I’m putting you
to use.” [walks two feet, falls again]
And my friend, Otto, and I we would see some girls and would be like:
Those girls are cute.
yeah.
You should go talk to them
Can’t, forgot my testicles at home, you?
In the shop.
You’re wondering how one forgets one’s testicles, simple.
“okay, I got my cell phone, I got my keys, I don’t have my keys,
where are my keys, oh well, wallet, cellphone, testicles,
oh, woops, oh hey, there are my keys, now what was I looking for?”
For indeed, I think of my penis as needing me in only a limited, logistical
sense. I think of my penis as Napoleon and I am but Napoleon’s horse.
Think about it, a revolution, a world of chaos and confusion. That’s as good
a definition for puberty as I’ve ever heard.
Up rises a member of ingenuity, decisiveness, ruthlessness, and charisma.
Soon he becomes too powerful, a dictator, who’s power only subsides as time
passes from that period of chaos and confusion. Thankfully, the tyranny ends,
perhaps after a public defeat like waterloo, perhaps after years of ignominy
in some dank cell. And yet after its over, you will
be less relieved and more forlorn for that cavalier gentleman that once gave
you confidence, purpose, and direction. And proved, yet again, that size does
not matter.
But, uh, I just want the ladies to know, though, that uh, Napoleon’s stature
does not reflect my penis’s own attributes. And it is, in fact, currently available
for any openings, no reservations, inquire immediately and directly, thank you.
Most guys with porn it’s like.
“uk porn vile, it’s like, why do I even have these
files, I should have gotten rid of these long ago, oh, I just meant to click
on this one once so I can delete it, I seemed to have double-clicked. I don’t
remember this one, now if there’s a snowballing cumshot,
then I’ve seen it. Well, now I just got to know.”
While it is with me:
“my god this is activating my aesthetic gag-reflex,
the acting, so bad, the direction, so inept, the script… oh my god… the script!
Oh come on, people, continuity, how he could be in t-shirt and flip-flops, now
in socks, and now his penis has magically changed ethnicity in this close-up!”
But nonetheless, I try “suspending my disbelief,” for the sake of an ejaculation.
I like the word ejaculate.
I like all the clinical, Latin, proper, and/or euphamistic sex terms. Ejaculation, culmination, busting
a nut. From: climax, orgasm, achievement of satisfaction. Wrought
by: masturbation, onanism, “self-love.” An
unfortunate substitution for: copulation, intercourse, making love. Yes,
to bug, to diddle, to screw, to commit licentious acts of heathen lust. Such
is never far from my mind.
You guys out there who’ve ever gotten embarrassed shaking a bottle of ketchup
in a restaurant know what I’m talking about. You know, you’re like. (shaking
ketch-up) And you realize you’re a little too good at this. And then
you try to like hide it, by shaking it under the table. (fakes) Which can actually look worse when you think about it.
Seriously I’ll go John Henry with one of those things at Home Depot that shake
cans of paint. Yeah… Proof:
You’re gonna miss me baby.
With my father it was:
“Oh hey dad…”
“I’ll wait.” An hour passes.
One of those robot mice will come by and say (which means “you need help?”)
And I’d be like, “nope just waitin to talk to dad.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, now shush, he’s going through his junk mail.”
“Jesus! now I need to start again.”
ever notice how rap music
death sticks, im surprised
lucas didn’t darth vadar’s
voice
poison drink and my
I have 43 Gigs of porn. I’m a connoisseur of porn. A pornnoisseur if you will. But porn is necessary!
Alright, no it’s not necessary, masturbation is necessary, and thus
as corollary, porn is necessary. But, no, not even that is right, as masturbation
isn’t necessary, ejaculation is necessary. But sex—the two person kind—is rarely
forth coming. And, with me, unless it’s coming forth on its own, it ain’t
coming at all.
Ejaculation is necessary to survival! I mean, so is food. Food is necessary
too, but not as necessary as ejaculation. True, I must eat more than I must
ejaculate. But I can interrupt my eating schedule much easier than my ejaculating
schedule.
I started this love affair with myself as early as 6th grade. Because
I was one of the few kids with the internet back then—and mind you, this is
like early 90s—when the internet was just porn. (And people wonder why it caught
on.)
In the course of a year I went from drawings of soft-core partial nudity, to
soft-core partial nudity, to full nudity, to lesbians, to multiple lesbians,
to multiple lesbians in exciting outfits, to hardcore, to three-some four-some
more-some, to bondage, sadomaso, sodo,
beasto, nechro, scato, techno, I don’t know—as
long as it was unnatural, immoral, and/or illegal, it got me at least slightly
aroused, or disgusted, then aroused.
Pretty soon I got to be a pretty damn good left hand typist. Hence I’ve always
had the consolation that if I ever lost the right, my head might explode from
frustration, but at least I could easily find gainful employment. Of course,
pretty soon I also got good at pitch-hitting. You know, taking out a right-hander
for a lefty when it gets late in the innings. But pretty soon my right arm
muscles were so developed I never needed to.
You guys out there who’ve ever gotten embarrassed shaking a bottle of ketchup
or something in a restaurant know what I’m talking about. You know, you’re
like. (shaking ketch-up) And you realize you’re a little too good
at this. And then you try to like hide it, by shaking it under the table.
(fakes) Which can actually look
worse when you think about it.
But you ladies out there, trust me, this skill has more applications beyond
shaking bottles of ketchup. My ex said I had magic fingers. And no, not just
because I gave good messages. What I’m saying is I could a pull a John Henry
with any vibrator any day. But women, they’re not impressed with my claims,
and have yet to accept my challenge to a contest. I’d probably do better if
I just looked like John Henry. A big, sweaty, muscley, black man with a sledge hammer.
I like the word ejaculate.
I like all the clinical, Latin, proper, and/or euphamistic
sex terms. Ejaculation, culmination, busting a nut. From: climax, orgasm,
achievement of satisfaction. Wrought by: masturbation, onanism, “self-love.” An unfortunate
substitution for: copulation, intercourse, making love. Yes, to bug, to diddle,
to screw, to commit licentious acts of heathen lust. Such is never far from
my mind.
First of all, I’d like to thank everybody for coming out, especially you white
folks. Out to support a young black entertainer. You don’t know how much this
means to me.
Cause my momma told me if you see a whole bunch of
white people, you better start running, don’t even bother looking for a rope.
What you didn’t know I was black? Shiiit, us light-skin
brothers always getting that shit.
Now before y’all get a rope, let me explain. I am predominantly Irish. And
if you didn’t know, all Irish people are half black and half jewish.
I imagine the first Irish kid was conceived after some big black guy and some
little jewish woman got really
drunk one night. The first Irish kid never met his father,
he only knew what his mother told him:
“Why that 40-drinkin, blunt-smokin, lazy, no count,
claimed he had a bad back. Getting in fights, running from the law.
Ain’t never had a job, ain’t
never going to. Claimed to be a musician. Hmmph.
Whatever money he made off tips he’d spend on ‘inspiration.’ Still, it’s probably
the closest thing he’ll ever get to a job until they start building offices
in bars. your papa was a rolling stone. We ever
he dropped his hat was his home.”
Papa was a rolling stone.
So anyway, the first irish
kid grows up, walks into a bar one day, and wouldn’t you know it? runs into his father. So they have a few drinks and he finally
asks his dad why he left his mother. “Why that tight-fisted, back-handed, short-tempered,
complaining, controlling, manipulating, stubborn, shrewish, ill-tempered, irrational—unwilling
to listen to reason, no less—hypocritical, self-absorbed...” He went on, but
the rest was unintelligible.
The young man couldn’t really argue, all he could
say was: “Well my momma loves me. Oh, she loves me like a rock. And, you know,
I am a rock. I just haven’t yet learned to roll. She does everything out of
love, no matter how irrational, insane, and/or emotionally damaging it is to
me, it’s all in the name of love. No matter how many neuroses, no matter how
many paranoid, compulsive, or obsessive tendencies she cultivated in me, I know
that she, in all her stupidifyingly stubborn blindness
and deafness, did it out of love. Despite that I still don’t ‘see’ how she
was ever right in not letting me doing any of the things I was asking her to
do, since they were all far more benign then what I was really doing anyways,
despite this…” The rest was unintelligible.
Turalu.
I spent so much of my highschool years hating my
mother, blaiming her for not letting me go out without
first getting: “Who are you going out with, have I met them, have I met their
parents, what’s their telephone number, where do they live, who else will be
there, do I have their numbers, where are you going, not outside the area I
hope, when are you coming home, call me by this time, if its going to be later,
tell me then and we’ll talk about it, and if you want to go anywhere outside
the area you can call me and we’ll talk about it, and if you decide you might
want to breathe other than during the regulated intervals we talked about, call
me and we’ll talk about it, no promises, of course…” jesus. The truth is more that I’m probably such a fuck-up
with chicks because my father joked I was a such a
fuck-up I actually started to believe it. Haha, isn’t that hilarious.
I have proof by the way of this post-pubescent insanity I blamed on her. Now
that I’m out of that house, her complete obliviousness is actually working in
my favor. She’d call: “I see a lot of withdrawls from your ATM.” (Yeah, they open my bank statements.
No rights until you get a job and start paying us back, basically, it’s indentured servitude.) “Oh yeah, mom, you know, because
I go up to La Jolla a lot for school and, uh, eat out there, you know, since
I live in downtown…” Nevermind that I rarely even
go to class and never eat out cause I need that money to pay for precious, precious
weed. I get monthly living expenses. And trust me, this is an expense to live.
I figured, I always knew I’d become something. I’d make something of myself.
A drunk, a junkie, or a pothead, but something. Because I could already tell
I had addictive tendancies. When I wasn’t watching
tv, I was watching porn, I would always be in search
of escape. Frankly, I didn’t find myself to be very entertaining company.
I already knew everything I had to say, and anybody gets irritating in large
doses. And having to be around me all the time, who
is already irritating in single servings? Well, I didn’t want to be an asshole,
and my dad was an asshole when he was drunk. Well, I’m assuming, since he was
always an asshole, and he was always drunk, but who knows. And I watch enough
Behind the Music to know not to become a junkie, how you’ll lose all your money,
if not overdose. So I won’t even try it, because if I like weed this much,
shiiiiiit. But, I’m also not blind, so I know thc is safer than nicotine, probably
even caffeine, and god knows I get enough of both of those.
Gateway drug, my ass. You smoke enough pot and you’ll be too damn lazy to
even try to find anything else. I know eventually I’ll hit my limit, I’ll grow
out of it, most people do. But shit, might as well
enjoy myself rather than hate myself for something that frankly a better alternative
to what most of you out there are doing. Shit, one of my friends, doesn’t drink,
doesn’t smoke, doesn’t smoke tobacco, straight as an
arrow. But video games have fucked up his life waaaay
more than weed has ever interfered with mine. I mean, he flunked out a quarter
because of Quake II. He says he’s got it under control now, but man I can see
his eye twitch, he starts to salivate and salivate as soon I even mention War
Craft III. Yeah, that’s the new crack they got on the streets now. Better
watch yourself.
But, oh right, my mother. I have something I wrote 4 years ago when I still
lived at home, and, thus still hated my mother and blamed her for everything.
The only difference is now she has to share the blame with my father. I mention
drugs, but ironically I hadn’t gotten intimate with the sweat leaf until college,
I just knew it was inevitable:
My mother. Now there’s a topic. I’m not even Jewish and I have a
mother that’s given me more than my share of neoroses.
I wish I could
fully divulge the entire underpinnings of our relationship,
for my own
sake, definitely not for the sake of your entertainment.
Not that I
don’t aim to please, in fact my intense desire to
please probably comes
from my mother, but because I don’t think it would
be all that pleasing.
All this is a façade. I know, you wouldn’t tell it by looking at me, well,
maybe you would, I don’t know… I’ve never really a made a point of telling
people, I think some suspect, but how would they know? I haven’t even acted
on these impulses, except in rare cases, usually when drunk, but I have them,
nonetheless.
I think if I did come clean, a lot of people would be shocked. My parents
know, but it took them a while to believe it. I know it’s a private thing,
so I understand other people not coming forward. But as a public figure, I
think it’s the only decent thing, so others like me can finally admit it too,
and not keep it a secret any longer.
If only people knew. Like I’ll meet one of my friends, when they’re on a
date. The date will introduce themselves, and I’ll
be all like “hey,” looking right at them, as if I actually find them even remotely
appealing. But I’m in reality thinking how I wish my friend would ditch the
date, and hang out with me. I’d want more than that, of course, but I’d never
say anything as I doubt they secretly felt the same way about me. If anything,
they’d probably never even suspect it—the very thought of it would no doubt
seem repellant and unnatural to them.
Enough, it’s time to come out of the proverbial closet. The truth is, in reality,
I’m, believe it or not, I’m—I can’t believe I’m about to say this—I’m heterosexual.
It’s true. I find, women attractive. That’s it. You know, people see me around
guys all the time, they see how I dress, they see how I act, how I talk, how
I watch gay porn… Well, all except that, but how many of you honestly believed
me for a second?
I know, I am an effeminate man. I like cats, I like
things with cats on them, I’d wear things with cats
on them, if I could. A big pink sweatshirt with “meow” across the top and a
kitten with it’s paw in the air. Yeah. I watch no
sports except ice skating, gymnastics, and ballroom dancing. And if you think
those aren’t sports, then you haven’t really been watching, okay? I have 10
other pairs of shoes. I don’t wear any of them, but they’re so unfashionable,
I can’t be seen outside in them, I really need knew ones.
I think there should be homosexual marriage though. I do. I think it will
actually bring back some of the sanctity of marriage. Because you know the
first legal gay marriage is going to be such a big deal, that YOU KNOW they’re
staying together. Whether they want to or not. You can just see some big butch
lesbian gay rights activist, thumbing her big lumberjack axe, being like “you’re
married for life, and you better stay married, see, or I know a couple of buddies
of mine, who are going to make sure you regret making us look bad, see.”
I’m cool with gay people, you know. One of my best friends is gay, so I better
be cool with it. Or he wouldn’t think twice before scratching my eyes out.
And he’s got the nails to do it too. At least one friend, who even knows though,
nowadays. Having a gay friend really changes the way you look at the world,
it makes you realize they don’t just exist on showtime
and Will and Grace. You start seeing gay people every where. I watch the state
of the union addresses nowadays and go, 1 out of 10 of these senators are probably
gay. And the democrat senators probably actually know they are. The republicans
think its just the devil putting evil thoughts in their
heads again for taking campaign money from tobacco lobbyists or something.
She was everything I wanted, everything I needed. I saw her and my heart lifted
and stopped. My breath became shallow. So beautiful.
“Hi.”
That’s what I should say. Simple, but effective, at least, so I’ve been told.
Fuck. She’s going to leave, god damn it, what the fuck is my problem.
“Hey, wait a minute.”
Yeah, that’ll work:
“Hold on, I want to tell you something…”
“Yeah, what?”
“Um…”
“Hi.”
Then what?
“Hi,” she’ll say, curiously. Her eyes will say, “What do you want?”
And what can I say?
My eyes will say, “you.” And she’ll freak.
“I see you’re looking at guitars… You know I play guitar…”
Too bad she’s not looking at guitars. She’s not doing anything,
just standing there. All I could say is that I like her sweater and the way
her hair flips. She looks intelligent though, a little artsy—just enough.
Quirky beautiful, the kind I like. The kind that’s not too daunting, not too
prosaic, approachable, yet special, and hopefully she doesn’t know it.
“You’re beautiful.”
My eyes are saying it, but her eyes aren’t hearing it. Fuck, I
can’t stare her down, but I got to get her attention.
“Woops, sorry about knocking over your display there.”
Then make some smart-ass remark. But I hate smart-asses, and she
hates them too, which is why she’s perfect. No, the buffoon approach never
works—this one I’m sure of. Look at how she’s eyeing everything, she’s summing
it up. But not sizing it up. Just absorbing. She’s intelligent, I can tell.
“You like Dylan?”
Of course she does, they all do—well, the type I like. What I
wouldn’t give to play her Dylan, and kiss her. But who can open a conversation
with that?
“Can I kiss you?”
“Sure!”
“Really?”
“You kidding me? I’ve been waiting here this entire time for
you to ask me that.”
“Wow…”
We’d kiss. (Yes, subjunctive, I am fantasizing here.)
“That was great, let’s stop beating around the bush, stud, let’s
fuck.”
In all my fantasies, the more forward, the more vulgar. But I
don’t want to fuck… I mean, I do, but I just want to talk to her. I’m willing
to woo, I’m willing to give time, effort, commitment. LOVE ME DAMN IT.
“Love me, damn it!”
I actually said that. Why? Because I knew it wouldn’t come of
anything. But I managed to get her attention; the buffoon approach always gets
you that far. But of course, as soon as she starts to look at me, I don’t look
at her. I was just saying it to the air.
“LOVE ME!”
She heard that, now I mock whistle. She’s weirded out. Good, she’s normal. Oh wait, I’m not, fuck.
She left. She should have. I should go after her. Naw…
I’ve already done enough.
“Oh hey, I’m sorry, I was… Nevermind,
I’m… jesus… No, I mean,
I’m not jesus. Haha, I mean not that… I’m not religious. Whatever. Jesus.
It’s just… Okay, deep breath. It’s just, I didn’t know what to say, I mean,
I still don’t. I thought of everything back there. And you know, this is nothing new. I think a lot, but I never
do. But this time… I had to, I HAD to see you. I had to come out here and
see you. I had to see… I don’t know, anything, I have to actually start living
for real. I can’t keep doing these stupid fantasies. Fuck, why am I writing
this when I should be out there trying to find you—the person I want, the person
to make my heart lift and stop, I mean… Jesus.”
And then I shot myself. Blood gushed everywhere, on her nice sweater.
And, you know what’s the biggest irony? She really did want to fuck, and
she wasn’t vulgar, and she was everything I wanted, and I just let her walk
out. I always let them walk out. And I just keep writing,
listening to my Dylan CDs, hoping someday a woman will read this, and think:
“that’s me. That’s what I do. And I want someone too. I’m dying for someone;
enough that I want to shoot myself. I got to find
this guy…”
Oh right, the irony part: She’ll really shoot me. Crazy stalker.
That’s right, she’s a stalker, and not too far from me. I’m a stalker. That’s
what I am, right? That’s why you won’t approach me?? I fit the fucking profile
don’t I? Then lock me up; I don’t really want to be taunted with society.
I’m such a sad, sad, sad creature.
LOVE ME DAMN IT.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she flips a flip of hair with her finger out of her too beautiful
face.
“You know…”
“…yeah, I do. I know.”
“Man, that is so nice to hear.” She just takes my arm, and
we walk out, together.
Then she shoots me.
Stoners are like pregnant women.
Think about it, both of them get cravings for the craziest shit.
“Dude, i need something chocolatey, with like mango and coconut.”
You really shouldn’t move either of them.
ee
Now, I’m not saying this is what happened, but wouldn’t it be funny if the
immaculate conception was really just an elaborate
practical joke?
Hear me out, so its like, 1 BC and three months—do
the math—anyway... Joseph’s in his workshop, cutting some wood to make a kite
for his future son… He never did finish it, but ironically the same design
was later used later to make a kite out of his son…
Anyway, he’s you know, sawin’. [pantomimes
sawing] And his buddy Steve’s there, you know [pantomimes holding a drink],
drinking a Heineken, saying: “Ain’t it great how
our wives have to have sex with us or, you know, suffer in hell for eternity.”
And Joseph, he just kinda chuckles half-heartedly.
[chuckles]
And so Steve’s like, “woah, you mean you and Mary
aren’t… I mean, she’s already thirteen, and not getting any younger.”
“I know, I know” [saws harder]
“You know, you could have her stoned, we have laws to protect us from that
kind of thing.”
“yeah well, I married a good jewish girl just like mom wanted, but I mean she’s too good.
[stops sawing] She’s always prayin’
and when she’s not prayin’ she’s chantin’,
and when she’s not prayin’ or chantin’
she’s laying prostrate for God…”
“And not for you… I hear ya.”
[continues sawing] “so yeah, the only one she’s got the hots
for is the Almighty. But it’s not like God could come down and fuck my wife--even
if she wanted him too--or anything.”
[rubs his chin] “yeah, um,
I’ll catch you later Joe, I need to get going, I was going to pick up a doll
for the misses on my way back from work, so, hope everything works out buddy.”
Later that night. Mary’s about to go to bed and is of course praying.
[kneeling] “…and thank you for blessing Joseph with
lot’s of work, after all he’s not very good. I mean, look at that crappy wooden
heart he made for my birthday. Amen.” [blows out
candle, lays down]
[covering mic] “Be still
my child.”
[sits up, looks around] “who’s there?”
[assume Steve’s position, puts shirt over face] “It
is I, the, uh, archangel… Gabriel. I am here because God wants me to have sex
with you. I mean, HE wants to have sex with you… through me, that is.”
[mary falls to the ground,
bowing and praying]
[moves head like watching her] “Uh, yeah, God’s a
busy man… so…”
[she stands] “But why does God want to have sex?”
“Um… He’d like to know what makes it so good that you fallible creatures are
willing to sin so much to get it.”
“But I’m a virgin…”
[advances] “So is he…”
[retreats] “But why me? I don’t know if I will be
“good enough” for the greatness of God… And besides, isn’t god all-seeing,
all-knowing—wouldn’t he already know what sex was like?
“Well, uh, it’s more than just God wants to know what it would be like inside
a [leering] young supple 13-year-old like yourself. [coughs]
It also happens that he wants to, um… plant his holy seed in you.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s it, Mary. God has sent me because he wants you to become the
mother of his son. The son [raises hands, quickly covers face again, one hand]
of God!”
[Mary falls to ground again, going up and down, weaping and praying.]
“Yeah, yeah, they’ll be plenty of time for that later. The archangel’s buzz
is wearing off, and I got to get to the heavenly choir before Everybody Loves
Raymond, it’s His favorite show.” [start’s advancing]
You’ve been a great audience, and don’t send me death threats, good night.