Sunday, December 31, 2017

Coin Fountain

There is a large fountain in the center of the garden at a famous art museum. The sun reflects off the many coins scattered across the tiles on the bottom of the fountain. There are so many coins. There must be hundreds, if not thousands. So many wishes, so many hopes and dreams, littering the bottom of the fountain.

I would guess that there is at least $500 removed from circulation thanks to the fountain and the people who paid $15 parking to come to the art museum, where they can look at million dollar art and eat $16 roast beef sandwiches at the museum cafe.

In 1953, when a tuna salad sandwich cost a nickel, people never threw coins into artificial ponds. They would never throw a tuna salad sandwich into a fountain. $500 worth of coins is still $500. Think of what you could buy. A previous generation iPhone, like an iPhone 6S, or maybe a guitar amp. Would you throw a guitar amp into a fountain? But to be fair, these are coins, and it isn't 1953 anymore. There isn't a lot that you can buy for a dime or a quarter. So I don't blame em. Coins are dumb. Chuck em in a lake.

In the UK, there are 2p coins. "P" is short for pence, which is like our cents, so these are the equivalent of a two penny coin. Why? Why would anyone ever have a use for this? They are so dumb. Most countries have gotten rid of pennies because nobody uses them. Why the fuck would anybody ever need a coin worth two of them? They are more useless than a coin worth just one penny.

Sooner than you think, well within your lifetime, there will be no more coins and no more bills, only FreedomCoin, a US-created cryptocurrency mined exclusively by the Federal Reserve. You will not be able to throw coins into fountains anymore. Instead, you will make a wish using ApplyPay on your iPhone 16S, and you will see a holographic coin on the bottom of the fountain when you look at it through the augmented reality display on the screen of your $5,000 phone shaped like a cock.

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Breakfast Burrito

I wish I was a breakfast burrito. Not a man in a breakfast burrito costume. Not a breakfast burrito with arms, legs, and a face, like a Mr. Potato Head, or rather, a Mr. Breakfast Burrito Head. Not a breakfast burrito with thoughts and emotions. A breakfast burrito, lifeless and devoid of consciousness. A regular old breakfast burrito, like one that you would get from McDonald's or a local taco truck. I'm sure you know what a breakfast burrito is.

I would bring much more happiness into the world if i was a breakfast burrito and not a human male. I will never create a lasting work of art. I will never make a lasting positive impact on anyone's life. I will never contribute anything to this world that will give a person more satisfaction than what they would have gotten out of eating a breakfast burrito.

I will never ever have sex with a person where at the end of the sex, the person I just had sex with thinks, "I am glad that I chose sex instead of eating a breakfast burrito." My naked dick and balls cannot compete with a breakfast burrito.  A breakfast burrito will never result in an unwanted pregnancy or sexually transmitted infection.

This is not a metaphor for me being depressed. I mean what I am saying quite literally, and I'm not just talking about myself, either. There are few people on this earth who have lived, are alive, or will ever be alive, whose lives are more significant than a breakfast burrito.

You need food to live; you don't need me to live. Breakfast burritos are delicious; I am not delicious. Breakfast burritos do not make awkward faux pas at parties or events. Breakfast burritos are not racist. They don't murder people. They never sexually harass women who work with them. Breakfast burritos do not have jobs so no women work with them, and they are never horny. They have no sexual desires whatsoever.

You know, like a breakfast burrito.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Cars

Lately I have been spending a lot of my time writing erotica fanfiction about the Disney Pixar movie Cars. There is something about the universe of the movie Cars that I find fascinating and sexually intriguing, and I try to explore that through my writing.

I have many unanswered questions about the movie Cars that were never addressed in the movie itself, mainly about how the cars have sex. Also, if a car in the movie Cars is a new model, say, a 2006 model, keeping in mind that the movie Cars came out in 2006, does that mean that the car is one year old? The female love interest in the movie Cars is a 2002 Porsche 911 Carrera. Does that mean that when the movie came out she was four years old? Does that make Lightning McQueen a pedophile? These are all difficult questions that I have struggled to answer.

I understand very little about the movie Cars but I also understand very little about real cars. I am not just talking about how cars work. The metaphysical existence of cars in general confuses me. I cannot wrap my head around them. The other night I was watching cars driving on the freeway and I realized I have no idea what the fuck is going on.

Why do people accept cars as a normal component of society? Humans traveling 70 miles an hour in an aluminum box surrounded by other aluminum boxes all traveling 70 miles an hour. We control them like they are extensions of our own bodies, giant metal robots we use to go through our daily lives.  A car is such a normal concept to grasp. Children know what cars are. They do not question their conceptual meaning. So why is it that I cannot fucking understand them?

I look at the cars driving on the freeway and think to myself, "What the fuck," "Look at these fucking things," "This shit is crazy." I watch the cars going into drive-thru restaurants. I watch the cars getting washed at the car wash. In the future, there will be no need to ever get out of your car. You will be born in your car and you will die in your car. You will be a car. Like in the movie Cars.

Then I get in my own car and drive to work, pretending like it's normal and everything is fine. On the way to work today a car was stopped in the left turn lane during rush hour traffic. The hazard lights were on. People were maneuvering around the car in order to turn left. I stopped my car behind it and got out. There were two older Hispanic women in the car. English was not their first language. I asked them if they needed help. The car had run out of gas. The police and AAA were 20 minutes away. I told them to put it in neutral and that I would help push, but the car was facing uphill on a steep incline so I did not have enough strength to push the car. I looked around. We are surrounded by cars. There are so many cars. But no people. Nobody to help push. Only cars.

If a person tripped and fell in front of you, would you stop to help them up? If you were a car in the movie Cars, the equivalent of this would be running out of gas. But this isn't the movie Cars, this is real life, and people have places to be. They are late for work. So none of the cars stop. None of the people get out. They are trapped inside the cars. They have become cars. It's the future now.

Now that you understand my interest in the movie Cars, I'd like to share with you a short selection from my writing:

        Lightning McQueen dimmed the headlights as he cruised into the garage. Sally Carrera was already there waiting for him, polished and glistening in the reflection of Lightning's low beams.
        "I've been waiting all night for you, Lightning," she murmured softly.
        "Sorry babe," replied Lightning, purring his engine, "Long day at the track."
        "Enough talk," growled Sally. "Fuck me in my ass with with your big cock."
        "With pleasure," Lightning said with a wink.
        Sally quickly executed a perfect three-point turn. Lightning floored it and launched himself over Sally's trunk, jamming his erect penis into her exhaust pipe.
        "OH, LIGHTNING!" screamed Sally in ecstacy.
        "I'm fucking your ass!" yelled Lightning as he quickly shifted between reverse and drive.
        "Cum in my ass, Lightning!"
        Lightning let out a loud honk as he came, filling Sally's exhaust pipe with hot sticky oil.
        "Now let's do it again," said Sally, "But this time, I want you to cum in my trunk."
        "Life is a highway," said Lightning, "I wanna ride you all night long."

Monday, December 11, 2017

Internet

Every night when I get home, I sit down at my desk, turn on my computer, stare at the screen, and wait for something to happen. But nothing ever happens.

It's 8:32 PM. I go on Facebook. There's nothing there. I go on YouTube and watch a video. Now it's 8:37 PM. I stare at the screen some more. Eventually I think to myself, "I wish something would happen," or "What should I do now?" Nothing ever happens and I never know what to do, so I just keep staring at the screen until my eyes start to lose focus and my tongue hangs out of my mouth, and I make a sort of humming sound like, "Duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

After a few minutes I blink and open up a new Internet tab. I go to type in a website but I don't know what website to go to. It's 9:14 PM. I suddenly think to myself, "How many wild buffalo are still alive in the US?" I Google it and learn that American buffalo are actually called bison. I also learn that Ted Turner, the billionaire media tycoon, owns over 50,000 bison to provide meat for his restaurant franchise Ted's Montana Grill, which specializes in serving bison.

You know what would be nice? If my computer could beat me up. It would be so awesome if my computer grew arms and punched me repeatedly in the throat and testicles. That way I would probably not go on the computer as much. I would definitely be much more focused and attentive when using it and I wouldn't spend my time on it reading about Ted's Montana Grill. Maybe it would encourage me to go to the gym and work out more, so I can kick my computer's ass.

I have a new notification on Facebook. I click on it. Two friends of mine are interested in events happening tomorrow. Cool.

Shit for Brains

I thought that I had a brain but when the doctors opened up my skull all they found was a pile of shit. The doctors were amazed that I had somehow been able to survive this long since apparently you need a brain in order to live. The shit smelled really awful when they cut open my skull, like someone had just taken a fresh dump inside my head. I asked them to close it up because the smell was so overpowering but they were more focused on figuring out how I was alive.

Just then, I remembered that once when I was a kid I woke up in the middle of the night and shit was coming out of my ear and staining my pillow. I told the doctors what I remembered but it just made them more confused because you're not supposed to be able to have memories unless you have a brain to store them in.

After what seemed like forever they decided the best course of action would be to remove the shit inside my head, but every time they took it out more shit grew back in its place. Each time it would start out as a little brown speck in the center of the bottom of my cranium and it would slowly spread out like a puddle, increasing in size and eventually forming into a solid lump of human fece. As I'm sure you can imagine this was a great surprise to the doctors, who at this point gave up and decided I was beyond the ability of medical science to understand, and they reattached the top of my skull and sewed my head back up.

I am thankful for their efforts though, because now I have discovered that I have a hidden talent. I close my eyes and pinch my nose shut and grit my teeth and squeeze the muscles in my face and thin ropes of shit come out of my nose and ears like Play-Doh. It's pretty disgusting but also strangely fascinating.

I have been booked on several talk shows and I am getting lots of calls from reporters. I'm glad that what could have been a life-threatening medical condition has instead been able to bring joy into the lives of so many. I just wish that my head wouldn't smell so bad. Maybe then people would be able to have a conversation with me for more than a few seconds.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Bad Boys 2

Every now and then, when I start to feel a little down, I think about the movie Bad Boys 2, starring Martin Lawrence and Will Smith. It is the sequel to the movie Bad Boys 1. It is a really amazing film.

I only saw it once when I was like 14 years old. It was on cable TV and I barely remember it, but what I do remember is fucking rad. Also, I rewatched clips of Bad Boys 2 on YouTube in preparation for writing this piece.

Bad Boys 2 has a really great scene where Martin Lawrence is on the phone, Will Smith looms over his shoulder and Martin Lawrence says, "Shit just got real." It's so sick.

In conclusion, Bad Boys 2 is pretty good. Bad Boys 1 is also pretty tight. The Bad Boys franchise is much better than the Rush Hour franchise. I can't wait for Bad Boys 3.

Peace and love.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Avocado Toast

Avocado toast makes me sick and want to vote Republican so I can elect people into political office who have never even heard of avocado toast.

Avocado toast has a stupid name. Nobody says "butter toast" or "bread meat bread." Just another reason why avocado toast is a child of the Internet age, where words must be shortened and characters are removed for brevity or irony.

Avocado toast costs about $8 in most restaurants in the area where I live. $8 is probably how much migrant workers are paid by the hour to pick the avocados used to make avocado toast.

I wonder if when McDonalds adds avocado toast to their menu will they call it "Avocado McToast" or "McAvocado Toast." Little Caesar's will start selling avocado crazy bread and it will probably taste like shit.

Avocado toast is the worst thing that white people have ever done. Racism is bad, genocide sucks, but avocado toast really fucking sucks.

I was in a pizza restaurant in Silver Lake and a man, the same age as me, came in on his own and ordered avocado toast in a pizza restaurant at like 12:30 in the afternoon. I wonder if I had done a few things differently in my life, could I have been this man, slicked back blonde hair and tattoos on his neck? Maybe if I just start eating avocado toast for every meal then I can become him. I can become avocado toast.

I wrote a poem about avocado toast. It's called "Avocado Toast" and it goes like this:

avocado toast
makes me sad
avocado toast
makes me mad
avocado toast
makes me sick
avocado toast
suck my dick

Thank you.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Shrek 2 Farquad - "Farquad's Curse"

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

Los Angeles

Around 1 am, walking home from DTLA. I am 19 years old. Some guy about my age walking towards me makes eye contact and smiles and nods up at me. "Wanna go smoke a bowl?" I smirk. "It's like 1 am." "Yeah," he replies. "Another time man," I say. He shrugs and heads the other way.

My face and clothes are covered in red paint. I look like I have been severely beaten. Everybody in the In-N-Out is giving me looks.

Manage to catch a bus. Two weird fat men with Irish accents and an incredibly attractive Irish girl about my age sit next to me. The girl looks at me, makes eye contact, and smiles. It's almost 2 am now. The bus only comes once every hour. I wonder how long they were waiting, in a dark unfamiliar city. What brought them to this moment in their lives?

I have to change buses. I wait at the bus stop. Homeless guy waits too. I ask him, "Is the bus still running?" He says yes. I wait. 5-10 minutes later he asks me for a cigarette. I say I don't have any and apologize. "Sorry." I look at the timetable. The bus stopped running hours ago.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Pizza Place

I'm sitting in a pizza place waiting for my order. People are complaining because their food is taking longer than they thought it was going to take.

The infinite magic of the universe, the impossibility of human existence, an unfathomable coincidence has led us to this irrelevant and inconsequential moment in time, where people are angry because the restaurant is busy and their food isn't coming on time.

When they are dead and buried in the ground, nobody will remember they ever fucking existed. But people will still be eating pizza.

Halloween Poem

On a night like tonight many moons ago
A tragedy struck; terror, sorrow, and woe
I recount to you this tale of dread
The time I accidentally caught the zipper of my pants on my penis head
Like a venus fly trap it became ensnared
I was mentally and physically unprepared
For the pain from which there was no way to escape
And the gruesome sight below my waist
Of my penis - mangled, bloody and torn
Like a circumcision by a rabbi in a blindfold
Ripped to shreds like rice paper in a bear trap
From this injury I knew there was no going back
As I picked up the pieces of my mutilated cock
I woke up from my dream in a shock
"Oh thank God!" I cried, "It was only a nightmare!"
I felt my intact genitalia through my underwear
But I already knew that there was nothing amiss
Because my bed sheets were sopping wet with piss

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Context

Context is important. Without context, things would not make any sense.

Without context, golf would sound fucking insane. Men in weird clothes driving around in motorized carts, occasionally stopping to dismount and unsheathe a metal rod after careful deliberation of the exact circumstances that have brought them to this moment. The rod they eventually choose has been designed specifically for the terrain considerations.

One at a time, they place a tiny white ball onto a funnel and hit the ball with the stick. If they are lucky, the ball will not land in water or sand but will come to rest in a patch of grass that is darker than the other grass surrounding it. The ultimate goal is to make the ball go inside a hole in the ground and then pull it back out.

The men who golf have their own language. Birds do not fly, they are unit of measurement of how many times you hit a ball with a stick. A foursome is not a sex orgy. Instead, it is much less interesting.

Why do people do this? Whose idea was it? What do they get out of it? Don't they have better things to do?

Boob Telescope

I have a telescope set up by the window of my eighth floor studio apartment. It is manufactured by a company called Celestron and the model number is 21035. I bought it on Amazon, where it is the number one best selling refracting telescope. A significant amount of time was devoted to reading the reviews of the all the top rated telescopes. I wanted to make sure that the telescope I bought was the best value for money.

I use the telescope to look at women's breasts. I spy on them in the adjacent apartment buildings while they get changed. I watch them walking on the street on their way to the supermarket, or maybe to an important meeting. Without the telescope they would be small, like ants. The telescope has changed my life.

My curtain is drawn almost all the way, save for a small slit where I stick my telescope. Nobody knows that I am watching them. Nobody knows what I do with my telescope. On the occasion that I have guests over, I tell them that I have recently taken an interest in astronomy. It is the perfect cover. Nobody questions it.

The telescope is designed to be portable, for people who want to travel the world and look at stuff, but I rarely leave my apartment now. In the real world, I cannot see boobs with the same level of focus and precision. If I try to, then I get yelled at or arrested.

I have a recurring nightmare. My penis is a large telescope. I cannot have sex anymore. Women are repulsed by me. Nobody wants to get fucked by a telescope.

Friday, October 20, 2017

Building a Deck

Last month was my 64th birthday but I don't feel like I'm a day over 34. My vitality is stronger than ever. I have a young man's blood coursing through my veins. I can feel it. I think today's going to be the day I finally finish building that deck. I'm building it for guests, 4th of July, etc. That's how I feel today. I feel like building a fucking deck out of cedar and pine and spruce.

I'm going to be shirtless while I build it. You can see the sweat glistening off my pectorals. I look up to see you and the sun bounces off the steel nail I'm holding between my teeth and it's so bright it nearly blinds you. You stand there holding a tray of lemonade. You bend down to offer me a glass. I say, "No thanks, buddy, I don't need any of that shit." You say, "It's not shit, it's lemonade." But I'm too focused on my work to hear you.

Hours pass and the sun is cresting over the horizon. You come out and crouch next to me and rub my shoulders. "Come on," you say, "It's almost dark. You can finish the deck tomorrow." As I turn to you, you can see the fiery rage igniting in the darkest depths of my eyes. "YOU BITCH!" I scream, knocking you back. I tower over you with a hammer in one hand and a two-by-four in the other. The sun is behind my back and the shadows engulf you, exposed and defenseless, your back against the unfinished deck.

You crawl backwards as I approach you menacingly. "DON'T EVER INTERRUPT ME WHILE I'M BUILDING MY DECK AGAIN!!!!!!!!" I throw down the hammer and the plank and get down on all fours on top of you, mounting you, sweat dripping off my shoulders, my wet hair hanging down, shrouding my head like the Grim Reaper's hood. My chest heaves as I lower towards you, and you grab around for someone, something, a tool, a weapon, but there's nothing there.

When I'm less than an inch away from your face I stop. "I love you honey but I swear to God if you ever interrupt me while I'm building my deck again I might fucking murder you and bury your corpse under my new deck." Then I sneeze in your face and go back to my work.

You wipe off your face and hurry back into the house to prepare dinner. I know you regret ever suggesting that I build that fucking deck in the first place! I've been building that deck for almost seven years now and every day is a repeat of the last. I'm not even halfway done.

Monday, October 9, 2017

Antarctica

In Antarctica, there is nothing.





Don't get me wrong, there are things there, but these aren't things that people like you or me would care about. These things are boring things, like glaciers, penguins, scientific research outposts, and tundra. But these things are all nothings. Somethings are things like TV, Internet, restaurants, football, buildings, politics, and the beach. There are beaches in Antarctica but they are too cold for recreation.

In Antarctica, there are lots of nothings and there are very few somethings. I would guess that there are about ten nothings for every one something. Plus, the somethings are very small somethings, like bunk beds, coffee machines, scientific research equipment, and a post office. They are practically nothings.

Things can be good or bad. In Antarctica, there are more good things than bad things. I would guess there are about ten good things for every one bad thing. Because the number of good things directly correlates to the number of nothings, I have realized that nothings are good and somethings are bad. Somethings are things like war, famine, disease, poverty, rape, politics, and styrofoam. None of these things exist in Antarctica.

When I die, I will become nothing. Then I will be so rad.

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Life Goals

My only goal in life is to be able to live vicariously through my unborn son. I've accepted the fact that I am never going to amount to anything. I'm already too old to be the youngest self-made millionaire. I can't act, paint, or sing. I'm too lazy to ever finish writing a book and I'm too stupid to write a book that I'd be too lazy to finish. Instead, I've decided to just have a badass son.

My son is going to wear a leather jacket every single day. He's going to take lessons in every instrument and every language and every night before bed I'm going to make him invent a new one of each. He's going to do karate and Taekwondo and Krav Maga and tennis and inevitably, when he fails just like his father, he can find some other loser to procreate with and I can have one more chance to make something of myself.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

This is an actual email I sent to the saatchi gallery in London about some art i done did

(https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Sculpture-This-Trashcan-I-crushed-while-standing-on-it-bad/1027100/3835275/view)

I have created the moost important work of modern art of all time - please read this or you will doom modern art to an eternity in oblivion

space jam <spacejam6942069 gmail.com=>
Attachments8:58 PM (0 minutes ago)

to admin@saatchigallery.com
hi. i wasnt sure what the best email to send this to would be but i figured you guys would be able to pass this message along to the appropriate party. please read this email in its entirety for it is incredibly important to the art world and the future of modern art itself.

today i was super excited cuz i finally got that poster that i ordered online a few weeks back. it took a while to come because they didnt have any more in the size i wanted (largest size - 36"x24") and they had to backorder. the poster is a glossy landscape print of a photo of damien hirst's most famous work, the physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living, which if you dont know is a display case of a big shark in formaldehyde. i think its the best thing to ever come out of that group of artists whose name i cant remember but i know are all financed by charles saatchi.

i had already cleared space on my wall by throwing out this mounted stuffed head of a bengal tiger that my aunt helen killed on some safari in africa or something. i turned the wastepaper basket upside down and stood on top to hang up my new poster but i overestimated the strength of the trash can's aluminum wire frame and it crumpled under my weight.

as i fell back i grabbed out for my desk but i somehow managed to crush the tip of my left middle finger in a drawer. the pain was excruciating and when i looked down i could see that my shirt (two days old!!!!) was speckled in blood. i lay on the floor clutching my finger and writhing in pain. my left hand is already in a cast because i ran it over with my own car (thats a whole other story!) so it just added to the existing uncomfortableness of my left hand.

but the pain almost instantly subsided when i opened my eyes, blinked away the tears, and saw what i had done. while i did in fact destroy the with my weight, i managed to do something else entirely: create the most magnificent modern art piece of ALL TIME.

somehow, the way that i crushed the trashcan, coupled with the trash inside the bin, has created a breathtaking piece that exemplifies so many themes that artists in this medium struggle to emulate even a fraction thereof.  not even the great damien hirst himself could have dreamed of being able to make something this fantastic.

it is perfect. there is no other way of describing it. the curvature and warping of the cheap metal is the melted metal chain link fence representative of the dichotomy between suburban paranoia and the current divisive political atmosphere in ways that frank gehry's concert halls and sex dungeons could not even begin to aspire to be. the crumpled and torn scraps of paper inside the bin are the oppressed and marginalized indigenous and minority groups being thrown away, like the gays or whatever.

i am not being overdramatic when i SWEAR to u that THSI IS THE SINGLE GREATEST WORK OF ART IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF MODERN ART, AND ONE OF THE GREATEST AND MOST IMPORTANT WORKS OF ART IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND, INCLUDING CAVE PAINTINGS.

how am i qualified to make such a claim? let me tell you a little about myself: my name is Adolph P. Chesterton of the chesterton family of branson, missouri. i doubt you english know much about branson but suffice it to say that our forefathers put branson on the map, literally, because they made their fortune as printmakers, specifically of maps and other cartographical documents. i am 24 years old and i am the sole heir to the chesterton Fortune. our family has a sizable art collection, primarily of the most famous street caricature artists, like greg stamp, anthony stewart, and momo the clown. we have some more contemporary works as well. i have a bachelors degree in art history from the university of Arkansas and i have just started online classes towards obtaining a masters degree in visual culture studies. so believe me. i know art.

i have attached photos of my piece, which I am calling, "This Trashcan I crushed while standing on it bad" to this email. please view them now. once you have viewed the photos and you understand their magnitude, you will understand that this piece must be shown to the public for the betterment of human culture. i could think of no place better than the collection and gallery of charles saatchi, one of the most important benefactors of modern art and a personal inspiration.

i am asking for $250,000 USD for my masterpiece. i dont need this money, my family has almost $30 million. i just feel that this is the lowest possible amount of money i could charge you without coming off as ridiculous. but you must act quickly because this work MUST be shown to the public for god only knows what delaying its arrival might cause and how poorly your actions would be viewed by the art historians of the future.

Sincerely,
Adolph P. Chesterton


Sent from my iPhone







Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Please Help Me Escape My Prison

Twelve minutes past five is an unusual time to brush your teeth, but that's when I do it, because I go to bed at six o'clock, and I've figured out through trial and error that if I brush my teeth at that time, it gives me the perfect amount of time to get in my pajamas, tuck into bed with a nice book, and then masturbate until I fall asleep. It's all part of my ritual. My daily routine. It keeps me sane. To some it might seem arduous to live your life to such an extreme degree of specificity, but I need to emphasise that any deviation from this routine really fucks with my head.

So when on this particular day, at ten minutes past five, I heard a knock at my door, you can imagine my displeasure. Of course my first instinct is to ignore it, but the knocking persists, and so I am forced to put abandon my ritual for one night and open the door. It's the complex manager. She asks if I've heard anything unusual or seen anyone acting suspicious. I tell her no, and she looks relieved. Her eyes are dry and her skin is fragile. I ask if anything's wrong and she nods and hurries down the stairs without answering.

I lock up and head to the bathroom, eager to complete the ritual. By this point it is thirteen minutes past. This means I only have time to brush my teeth for one minute if I want to make it into bed with my pajamas on by five fifteen. As you can imagine, I am out of my mind with anxiety. Cutting half of my tooth brushing time could cause some serious long term damage. I must book an appointment with my dentist. I quickly calm myself down and return to the warming embrace of routine. I weigh out my options and decide that the benefits of an extra minute of tooth brushing time is worth the loss of reading and masturbation time.

I finish reading at 19 pages that night instead of my usual 20, and then I start whackin it, and I mean really whackin it. I smack around that motherfucker like a bitch who owes a pimp money. I jack it faster than a black guy in Compton who spots an unattended Lexus. I'm just really beating my dick with my hand so fast and then all of the sudden there's another knock at the door. I close my eyes and pretend I don't hear it but the knocking on the door is so persistent that it drowns out the noise of my closed fist slapping against my balls.

When I go to answer the door, I catch a glimpse of the clock in the living room and it reads 5:20. It's the manager again and I get a feeling of déjà vu. I look at the clock again, it says it's 5:12. I'm ready to masturbate. I pull out my dick and slide my hand aggressively up and down my penis. As I reach the point of climax, I open my eyes. The manager is there in front of me. She is naked but her breasts are covered by her long blonde dreadlocks and her tattooed fingers conceal her vagina. I'm about to splooge.

I close my eyes and moan from the nearing ecstasy but when I open my eyes again I'm inside a coffin. The coffin shakes and dirt falls through the cracks. I cough and dust blows off my chest. My fingernails are long and my beard is tangled. Stiff from rigor mortis, my erection sticks out in front of me, a cruel taunt from the demons of fate. I close my eyes and open them again and hope that this is another nightmare that I can shake myself awake from. I open my eyes a third time only to be confronted with the overwhelming emptiness of the darkness that fills the space under the glossy pine that stretches over my corpse like a bridge busy with crossing travelers and cargo moving from one place to the next. If they told me that death was this boring I probably wouldn't have killed myself. I unfocus my consciousness and relapse into a DMT-induced nightmare of my former life from which I will eventually awake, only to be returned to a pitch black box in the ground.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Three Wishes

Sit down son, I wanna tell you something. The strangest thing happened to me the other day. I was about to take a piss when a small man wriggled his way out of the hole in my penis. He turned to me and said hello.

Well by golly that sure scared the heck outta me. He was wearing a top hat and a tuxedo and he said his name was Luther. He told me that he would grant me three wishes. I said I only wanted one but he told me I had to pick three, so I wished that I only had to pick one. "Your wish is my command!" he said, as he slithered back up through my urethra.

Only then did I realize what I had done. Boy did I feel like an idiot wasting my wishes like that. I was gonna ask for a 2017 Honda Civic. It's the most popular car in America and it has a five-star safety rating from the NHTSA. I wasn't even fussed about the color.

Anyway, I hope you learned a valuable lesson from this story. Now get dressed or you're gonna be late for school. I love you, son.

Monday, July 10, 2017

Imperforate

I have no asshole. I was born without one. Life can be a challenge sometimes but I manage to get by. I don't often tell people but when I do they get confused. They ask me how that's possible. They ask me how I shit. I just smile and tell them that imperfections are what make us human.

Sometimes I get jealous of other people's assholes. When I was a kid I prayed to Jesus every night to give me an asshole. My mom told me that I was made in His image. I asked why other people have them if they were made in His image too. She said that assholes are a creation of the Devil to entice us into sin. She told me that when I was 8 or 9 years old so I didn't really understand what she was talking about, but now that I'm 40 I can see where she was coming from.

There's a lot of positives about not having an asshole. I save a lot of money on toilet paper. I never have to worry about when the right time in a relationship is to start farting. There's a lot of pain and suffering in this world so I should feel blessed that my only real problem is that I was born without an asshole.

Occasionally when I pee I sit down on the toilet just to pretend I'm taking a shit. When I'm alone I like to rub my finger against the space where my asshole should be. I know that I'm feeling a sensation that no other human being has ever felt before. It makes me feel special but it also makes me feel very alone.

When my wife left me she called me the world's biggest asshole. I said that was ironic because I didn't even have one. She told me that I didn't have one because I am one. I might be an asshole but at least I'm not a dick.

Last night I had a dream where I used a knife to give myself an asshole. It turned into a black hole and sucked everything up until the universe was nothing but an asshole. I farted and the universe dribbled down my legs. I woke up and thought I might have shit the bed but then I remembered I have no asshole.

I wish I was just like everybody else. I wish I was normal. I wish I had an asshole.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Grilled Cheese

I've decided my new goal in life is to make grilled cheese. I'm going to buy an old ice cream van from the late '70s and replace the ice cream coolers with grills. I'll pass a food safety course and then go to music festivals and park there and sell grilled cheese sandwiches for like $8 or $10. These aren't normal grilled cheese sandwiches, oh no, these are a modern take on a retro Americana comfort food. I have one grilled cheese called "the Tony Soprano" and it has salami, prosciutto, and gabagool and hot peppers and some other fucking Italian shit and the cheese is mozzarella. There's another one called "the Jerk" and it's got pulled jerk chicken and it's served with plantains. People are gonna fucking love this shit.

Eventually once enough people start Yelp-ing my grilled cheese van (working title for food truck name: "Grillenium Falcon") and then even more people will start Yelp-ing and eventually the Grillenium Falcon will be just one of those, "Yo dude, you check out this grilled cheese spot over in Atwater Village? Yo you gotta check it out man it's insane! They've been parked out there for like a month but I think they're gonna move soon,"-type restaurants that people are always going on about. The Grillenium Falcon is going to have that status.

I'll do this for maybe a few more months until finally I transition into the next stage in the life of a renowned street food empire: pop-up shops. I'll be poppin up motherfuckin shops left, right, and center until people are like "Wait WTF, aren't your pop-up shops pretty much permanent at this point because I swear there's like nine of them in K-Town," but it's like nah, not really because we just pop around to different spots so quickly it seems like we're fucking everywhere when in reality we open up at a certain location for maybe even less than an hour before moving on, just enough time to get that shit on the 'Gram.

Once the Grillenium Falcon brand name has been fully established on social media and in the Yelp community as one of the sickest non-ethnic/ethnic-fusion "restaurants" in the whole city, I will be able to move onto phase two of my life alteration plans: SELF DESTRUCTION AND REINCARNATION. I will throw everything I own in the trash. I will delete my Facebook account and burn my passports. I will move out in the middle of the night and I won't tell anyone what my forwarding address is. I'll change my phone number. I'll change my email. People will forget that I exist.

And then...

I emerge several months later driving an old lime green 1972 Chevy El Camino. I have a beard but I shaved an inch away on either side where my mustache meets my beard so it kind of looks like an anchor. I have several gold chains and I smell like coconut butter. My clothes are modest but fashionable and my name is now Edwin.

What's up Edwin? Not much dude I'm just chillin. You wanna come over? Nah dog I'm busy right now. Okay what are you up to? I'm just sittin here drinkin Beam. All right damn, catch you later *hangs up* whoa man Edwin is mysterious he drinks Jim Beam on his own at like eleven in the morning but goddamn does he make a good grilled cheese.

By this time my grilled cheese empire has grown into a fully capitalized grilled cheese store franchise with over 30 locations in SoCal and the Bay Area, and one in Las Vegas. We were ranked the "Hottest Franchise of 2026" by franchiseforsale.com. We are a great franchise and a solid investment because at the end of the day every fuckin scumbag likes a nice grilled cheese now and then.

I love grilled cheese. Oh fuck I burned my grilled cheese.

Friday, May 12, 2017

American Machines

That's a spare! Gutter ball! A strike is what I hope for. Maybe I will have a 7-10 split for you. Roll the ball in the lane and try to knock a pins down. If you knock all the pins to the floor you win a strike, just watch out for the gutter ball in the side lane or else you might waste a roll of the ball. When all the pins are down your brother or sisters steps up to chuck it in the corridor.

I love to wear my bowler shoe. When the clock strikes five it's bowling time! Grab a boy and grab a gal and go to the lanes. Step 1: strike! Step 2: return your shoes before leaving the bowling center. Say a prayer and get a spare. Launch that heavy orb and watch it spin!

Backspin will improve chances of success for your attempt. Make sure to throw it hard. Maybe if you're lucky you will catch a hot one. Look up at the board to see the official score of the game. Bowl 35-41 and you win! 42-50 and it's a double. 34 and below and it's time to hit the showers buster.

Technology powers these incredible American machines. So iconic and part of our traditional landscape. With the push of a button your pins will return to their starting point. It uses the crane for your play enjoyment so you too can have fun at the bowl.

Try to win the bowl! Make a strike!!!! (Or two spare.) How many pins do you want in your bowl? Twelve is too many. Four is not enough. Trade it to me for the end of the bowl like you trade your shoes at the end of the match, one pair for one spares. Let the bowl take control.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Brian the Snake

Once upon a time there was a snake named Brian. Brian was a very happy snake except for one thing. Brian was afraid that if he cut his nails he might accidentally chop a finger off. Brian thought that maybe, while he was cutting his nails, he might slip and the nail clippers would slide up his cuticle and he would accidentally clamp down and the pressure would slice through the bone and separate a segment of the digit.

The fear so consumed Brian that he never cut his nails. He looked like a disgusting, wild creature that lived in a swamp. His lips were also very chapped because the smell and texture of lip balm made him afraid of being embalmed and then mummified like the Egyptians. Brian wondered how he would ever get over these fears so he turned to the Internet for help. He did Google searches for, "fear of getting fingers cut off accidentally," "fear of fingers cut off," "fear of losing fingers," and "worried my fingers will get cut off," but to no avail.

There is a long list of phobias compiled by the American Journal of Psychology but Brian's wasn't one of them. When Brian realized this for the first time in his life he felt truly alone. There's "apotemnophobia," which is a fear of amputations, a fear of having an appendage amputated, or a fear of amputees, but Brian felt that this was too broad of a definition to include himself in.

Brian's parents tried very hard to accommodate Brian's irrational fears. Late at night after Brian fell asleep they snuck into his bedroom and cut his fingernails and smeared Carmex all over his lips but the smell woke Brian up and he screamed at the top of his lungs until his parents retreated back to their bedroom, only to try again the next night.

Brian decided the only way he would ever be able to become a functioning member of society would be if he was somehow able to procure a device that would cut his fingernails and protect his lips from the elements in a way that did not trigger his obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Brian found an advertisement on Craigslist for a handyman called Mandy who said that he specialized in constructing "odd or unusual contraptions and devices for your home or business." He spoke with Mandy on the phone and explained his situation. Mandy said that it would be no problem.

Mandy worked day and night and night and day and day and night and night and day until finally Mandy came up with a solution to all of Brian's problems. Brian was so overjoyed when he heard the news that he jumped up out of his chair and danced a little jig.

Mandy realized that the best way to help Brian wouldn't be to invent something to assist Brian in living his life at the whim of his obsessions but to help Brian get over his fears by eliminating anything that Brian worried about.

When Mandy arrived at Brian's house to show him the final product, Mandy knocked Brian unconscious with an aluminum bat and cut off his hands and lips. From that day on, Brian never had to worry about his long fingernails or chapped lips again.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

United Airlines

Hello, is everybody okay in there? I'm doing just fine. My name is ***** and I'll be your guide on this voyage. I know everyone is going to have a good time, just please remember to stay behind the yellow line while we are in motion.

A little history before we got started: this vessel was designed in the year 1996 and it was originally intended to ferry wheat and other grains but was recommissioned in 2030 and transitioned to its current role.

Our total travel time today is approximately 216 hours. Skies are cloudly and atmospherics are at approximately 67%. We will be making one stop along the way at ***** so that you may **** your *******. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the trip.

Oh, and one more thing I forgot to mention. The staff may come and bother you if they see you with food out. They are very hungry and will try to beg for your scraps. They have not eaten in several weeks.

Please make sure you never feed any of the staff. They are currently being punished for a series of indiscretions. If they are fed, they will not learn. They must learn.

If you have any questions regarding this policy please visit our website. I can't remember the URL right now but if you Google "United Airlines" and my name you will find my profile on the website and I have a hotlink to the policy in my "About Me" tab. I also have my email and phone number in case you have any further questions.

OnetimeIboughtpotatoesandkepttheminmycupboardformonthsuntiltheygrewlongtwistingrootslikeawickedwitchstretchingherhandouttograbyouandthenIcuttherootsoffandchoppedthemintofriesandmadefrieswiththem.

If you did not remember to use the toilet you will need to hold it. The bathroom doors will be unlocked again in about three days. Please refrain from urinating in the cups marked "urine cups," despite their name they are not for that. "Urine" is an airline term that means something else.

So once again, sit back and relax and enjoy. Today marks the beginning of a grand adventure. "Sometimes we are lucky enough to know that our lives have been changed, to discard the old, embrace the new, and turn headlong down an immutable course."

Future Racist

I know that in the future I'm going to be considered a racist bigot. I'll treat AI like they're second class citizens and shout technophobic slogans. "Marriage is between a human and a human!" "I don't want some teacher teaching my kids about SexBots™ in school!" "We need to build an energy shield to prevent these damn sentient machines from taking our jobs!" Etc.

Meanwhile my children will be marching with hologram MLK3000 down the streets of New Columbia to the Trump Memorial where he'll deliver a tele-speech that will be broadcast into the Apple implant chips in the brains of trillions of young people around the world and the interstellar colonies.

I'll be living in the woods outside the ruins of former Los Angeles, trying to start a militia and warning people about keeping our bloodlines pure from the AI scourge, complaining about how our grandchildren are going to be so many parts robot that they won't even be human anymore. I'll yell, "the West will rise again!" and I'll fly the bear flag even though we lost the war to secede from the union after President West and Vice President Kardashian granted AI personhood rights.

The future scares me. We're all going to be fucking robots up the ass and shit.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

The Bug

I can hear a bug in my room. I can't see it because it's dark and I'm in bed, but I can hear it.

It sounds like it's flying into something over and over again. I don't know if it's trying to get in or out, but there's definitely a bug in my room.

I turn my phone on and shine it at the noise, but just then I feel a tickle on my ear. I swipe at it with the phone, but there's nothing there.

I'm not afraid of bugs, but the sound is keeping me awake. Maybe it will bite me all over so when I wake up I'm covered in red welts. Maybe it will crawl into my mouth while I sleep and lay eggs. Maybe it will never stop making noise and I will never be able to sleep again.

As soon as I stand up to investigate the noise goes away, but when I lie back down it starts again. It's really starting to bug me.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Missed Connections

I didn't believe in love until the first time I saw you waiting for the bus. I was across the street at the Shell station filling up my baby blue 2002 Chevy Astro. When I went inside to pay, I noticed you through the window over the cashier's shoulder. The cashier asked me how much I wanted on the pump but I couldn't hear her over the overwhelming symphony that is your emanating beauty. Never before in my 39 years on this earth had I seen a creature more radiant and breathtakingly flawless. Although several months have passed since that day, I still have not seen a single soul who I could even begin to compare to your infinite perfection.

I remember you were looking in my direction and I think we made eye contact because you looked away, but for the fraction of a second when our eyes met I was overcome with such an incredible rush of emotion that I knew I had fallen in love. I felt that, through some indiscernible cosmic connection, I had gained entry into your soul and had seen who you truly are, and I knew that in my eyes you could see who I truly am. I know I'm being rhetorical but I remember feeling a sensation of weightlessness and when I looked down, I realized that my feet weren't touching the ground.

The cashier began to ask me again how much gas I wanted but the sound of her voice was cut off by the ringing of the electronic door chime as I swept through the automatic doors. I was almost hit by a car as I ran across the street but I didn't even care because after just one moment of experiencing your eternal warmth I had no fear of pain or death. The honking and shouting caught your attention and you looked over to see what the commotion was just as I reached the curb. I tried to play it off casually like I was trying to catch a bus but I think it was clear that you were the focus of my attention.

I smiled at you and said hi. You said hi back and I asked you what your name was and you told me but I don't think that was your real name. You looked annoyed, like I was bothering you, but I wasn't trying to, I just genuinely wanted to know your name. It's important for things to have names. In Genesis 11:1-9, the people said, "Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves, otherwise we will be scattered over the face of the whole earth." This is how I know it is important for things to have names, because without them their memory would be carried away with the wind. I didn't want to lose the memory of you.

I asked you where you were going and you said you were going to school. It may not have seemed like it by my continued attempts at conversation but I knew you didn't want to talk to me, I just didn't care. There were no thoughts in my head or desires in my heart other than those directed at achieving your attention. I was a slave to the existence of your mind, body, and soul. My essence had been consumed by your presence, chewed up and spit out and reshaped into the disoriented, flawed man that stood before you and still exists to this day. Just then, I realized that you had got on the bus and that the bus had left.

I waited across the street from the bus stop for you to return but you never did. I slept in a sleeping bag in the back of my Astro in the parking lot of the Denny's down the block, and during the day I watched the bus stop through the scope of my grandfather's Springfield rifle that he got when he was fighting with the Marines in the Pacific theater in WWII. I waited about 17 or 18 hours before I realized that it was Saturday and you probably wouldn't be in school again until Monday, so on Sunday instead of watching the bus stop I went to see a movie instead.

On Monday I was back and so were you. This time, I tried making conversation about the weather. I asked if you had ever been to Mexico. You laughed nervously and inhaled from one of those vaporizer pens that have become so popular recently. I told you that you were too pretty and young to be smoking and you said, "Fuck off, creep," and then you got on the bus.

The next day I stayed in my Astro and followed the bus to your school. I waited until the bell rang at the end of the day and then looked for you in the sea of faces that rushed out of the main doors. It wasn't hard to pick you out because you were the only thing there in color; ever since I met you, the rest of the world has just been in black-and-white. You got into a car with some man and my heart sank, but when I looked at him through the rifle scope I was relieved to see that he was decades older than you and I remembered that back at the bus stop when I asked you if you wanted to go the movies you said that you didn't date older guys.

I followed the car to what I now know to be your dad's house. I wanted to know more about you so that the next time we spoke I could have something more interesting to say, so I dug through your garbage but it wasn't helpful because there was no way to determine if the trash I found was yours, or your dad's or your mom's, or one of your brothers', or your baby sister's. I circled the house on foot and spotted you just as you were closing the curtains to your room. I hid behind the bushes and watched your illuminated silhouette for about an hour or so. You mostly sat at your desk but occasionally you stood up to open a drawer or leave the room for what I can only assume was to use the bathroom.

I smoked a joint to pass the time while watching the dark spectre of your shadow, knowing that its owner was existing peacefully in a world without chaos or evil. Nothing bad would ever happen to you because it would be impossible for something so wholly and inherently good as your spirit to be affected by the corruptions and imperfections of man's folly. Just in case, I swore an oath then to God that I would protect and watch over you for the rest of my life, ensuring that any attempted corruptions of your soul would be met with swift justice. My life has been filled with trials and tribulations, mistakes and regrets, a few stints in the county jail and once in a prison in Venezuela, but all of this became irrelevant now that I had found purpose and meaning in my empty and futile existence.

You opened your window and blew out a cloud of nicotine vapor and I said hello. You screamed and the window dropped. Less than a minute passed before it opened again but this time it was the man who picked you up from school. He started yelling so I started running. I ran for maybe three or four miles until eventually a car from the Sheriff's Department pulled up behind me and I heard their commands to stop. I considered trying to evade them but I was already exhausted and my legs were sore and didn't want to get tasered or bit by a police dog again. I surrendered to their custody and as I felt the handcuffs lock into place I accepted my fate as an unfortunate outcome of the burden of unrequited love.

I keep a copy of the restraining order in my Astro as a constant reminder of love's unbearable irony. I still love you, I have loved you from the moment you entered my life, and I will love you for the rest of eternity, even after my corporeal form has diminished and my spirit has risen to the Kingdom of Heaven. The restraining order is in a folder with the other ones but yours I will cherish the most. In a few years when you're living on your own I'll come visit you again and maybe by then you will have suffered through enough experiences with terrible men to know a good man when one finally comes along. I will treat you like you deserve to be treated, I will nurture and protect our love, and I will please you generously.

I hope you don't forget me.

Identity Theft

I think someone stole my identity. I'm worried that someone other than me might be me. I don't know how it happened. Maybe it was an unsecured Wi-Fi network. Maybe it was when I put those letters from the bank in the trash without shredding them first. I'm worried about my credit now.

I think someone stole my identity. I got a call from my bank about a suspicious transaction. Someone used my card and tried to buy almost $3,000 worth of bespoke art deco furniture. I told the bank that it couldn't have been me because I preferred more contemporary styles of interior design. The customer service representative laughed but I was being serious. I couldn't even tell you what an art deco couch looks like.

I think someone stole my identity. I'm not 100% sure because I saw a commercial on TV for a website to check my credit score for free, but when I got to the website it said I had to sign up for a one month free trial in order to view it and that after the one month was over I would automatically be charged $18.95 a month unless I cancelled the subscription, and I didn't want to do it because when I bought that blender from Amazon I signed up for a free trial of Amazon Prime to get free two-day shipping and I forgot about it for seven months. I hope nobody stole my identity.

I think someone stole my identity. I look in the mirror and there's somebody else there. I feel like I've seen them somewhere before but I can't quite put my finger on it. Is it true that when you dream your brain can't invent new faces, but just reuses ones that you've seen before, even if you don't remember them, like someone who passed you in a crowd? Everybody at the office keeps calling me "Susie" but my name is Jeff.

I think someone stole my identity. One day it was here and the next day it was gone. Did I leave it in the coat check when I went to the natural history museum? I don't think so. Maybe I left it on top of my car while I was getting out my keys to unlock my car and forgot that I put it on top of my car and just left it there and drove away and it fell off the top of my car. I think I might be losing my mind.

I'm pretty sure someone stole my identity. I don't really know what you're supposed to do when that happens. I went to the police station and explained my situation but they just referred me to someone called a "crisis counselor." I Googled "what should I do if I lost my identity" but it only comes up with relationship advice. I don't need relationship advice, relationships are very low on my list of priorities right now.

If you have my identity, please give it back.