Diff’rent Strokin’ some underage cock

July 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF’RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike.  Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth.  It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was– he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups.  But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass.  And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick.  Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired “tops” of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood.  Probably.


Mitch Has Micropenis

July 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

Mitch has micropenis.  There are a lot of other things about him worthy of note, but for now, let me just state this again: Mitch has micropenis.  The person with micropenis is to a man, like, if you lived in a small town in 1984 during the height of child molestation and satanic ritual abuse hysteria, and there was a kid who actually got kidnapped in a van and sexually abused—if you knew this kid, or knew someone who knew this kid, he became a whispered legend who touched off some deep horror that felt like fingers tickling around your spine. To hear about an actual person with micropenis.  To see a woman actually crook her thumb to give you a visual aid about the size of this man’s penis, bending it at a 90 degree angle to make very clear that it was not the length and girth of her entire thumb in its fully erect state, just the second digit.  Mitch has micropenis.  He is a complex character in many ways but in my mind no nuance of his being will be attributed to anything but his micropenis.

Diary 7/20/11: You should message me if

July 21, 2011 § Leave a comment

I canceled my drinks with (REDACTED). Even though I like (REDACTED) and would totally enjoy hanging out with her.  She is–  she took me to a museum once.  She is really smart.  She knows a lot about art and literature and stuff.  And I think she kind of had the hots for me.  See, why couldn’t I date someone like that?  A chick who went to Harvard and has her shit together and knows who fucking Albrecht Dürer is and can distinguish between different phases of his career.  Who knows who Lucas Cranach the Elder is.  Someone who has a finely tuned taste for the works of various Northern Renaissance engravers, is what I need.  Someone who can tell apart multiple different interpretations of works by Claude Debussy.  Who can hear the orchestral version of some Claude Debussy shit and know that it was orchestrated by Maurice Ravel, or whoeverthefuck. Who legitimately enjoys these things. Someone who knows about plants and animals. Hummingbirds. Insects.

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This, by the way:

July 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

is the only sad picture of Kenny Rogers in existence. Every other photograph of him he is smiling his ass off, like he just stacked Dolly Parton and Linda Ronstadt on top of each other and grew a second dick.

Which he did, in 1978.

OKCupid: Fatties

July 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

You know how it is.  Lotta fatties on the OKC.  Your first harbinger of this— I mean, besides everybody knowing that the internet is full of fat chicks, this fact having suffused our popular culture, etc.—your first harbinger of this is the weight class list it makes you pick from, which has like two words for skinny and fifteen different kinds of fat.

Because of course we all know “average” means fat. These eighteen to thirty-five year old L.A. girls are generously assorting  themselves according to the national average across all age groups. Not the average for eighteen to thirty-five year olds in Los Angeles, California, as a reasonable layman would expect “average” to mean when looking for that age group in this city.  These girls are following the letter of the law and not the spirit, like Hasids who string yarn along the telephone wires on their block so they’re technically in an enclosed space and can walk around on the Sabbath. So “average” means fat.

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More OKCupid: Eighteen to thirty-five

July 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

I had to change my “looking for” ages from 18-35 to 24-35.  I had to change it because 19 year old girls stopped messaging me once I admitted I was looking for them.  Back when it was originally like 27-33 I used to get a ton of messages from women way under this age range, and I went out with them.  And I had a fucking great time.  So I changed my age range to honestly reflect this.  All correspondence with these girls immediately dried up.

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Everybody thinks

July 16, 2011 § Leave a comment

it’s so easy for everybody else.

I was at a party.  A party full of gays. Me and a gay guy were talking about dating, and he said something to the effect of: “well it must be great for you, because you’re a straight guy in LA.  You can get whatever you want whenever you want.”

WHAT THE FUCK????!!!!  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  Does this guy not know?  Has he not seen every single party and bar and restaurant and grocery store line, ever, in Los Angeles?   There is never an attractive enough to fuck girl ever, and if there is she has a boyfriend, or there are three of them and 10,000 guys, or there is one by herself but she is creeped out at the prospect of even looking at you. And of course he’s never been on one of these online dates  where it seemed like it was going pretty good until you went for the makeout halfway in and she turned her fucking cheek toward you, because it turns out she is new to online dating and hasn’t yet gotten the memo about how the plan is we show up, we drink, we fuck.  She thinks it’s going to be some old-timey courtship from the antebellum South where maybe you get a kiss on the third date if her chaperone nods off after a mint julep on the porch, and then I high five the slaves on my way out.
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