And now I bare my teeth: You got fat, didn’t you? I have my suspicions... Okay, you may not have gotten fat, per se, but I bet you put on a bunch of weight, which would certainly explain a few things, like why you would choose to stay with him (he definitely got fat[ter], no doubt about it); it would also explain why you decided to remove yourself from the grid all of a sudden. Let’s face it, your lifestyle changed when you left me, thus it would make sense that you would pack on the pounds. You started drinking—heavily, I’m sure. You got on birth control (women always put on weight when they’re on birth control; they often also get cancer later in life, but that’s neither here nor there). And I’m sure you stopped being physically active (not that you were all that physically active when we were together)—your days probably consist of sitting down for hours at a time at work and/or school. Maybe you even abandoned your eating disorder (hey, if your man is pudgy, then why bother staying thin for him?)... Or maybe you didn’t get fat at all…I just like to think you did.

Thursday, October 30, 2008
11:54 A.M.
Bonjour! J’mappelle Joseph! That’s pretty much all the French I know. You’d think I would’ve bothered to learn some key phrases before moving here, like “show me the toilet” and “she was dead when I got here.” You’d have thought that, but you would’ve thought wrong.

We were hanging out in my apartment (chilling, if you will). She was sitting on a chair and I was standing in the kitchen watching her sit on that chair (please note that she was not “sittin’ pretty,” not by a long shot). I noticed her head was at cocklevel, so I walked over to her, unzipped myself and dangled my uncooked egg roll in her face. To my delight, her maw gaped open and she took my soft childish manhood into her mouth. She gobbled on my limp noodle and I immediately got hard in her food-hole. It wasn’t long before I popped off in her chops. She gagged on my mighty load. I swelled with secret pride as I pretended to be concerned for her wellbeing.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008
12:12 P.M.
You know what the funniest thing about Europe is? It’s the little differences. A lotta the same shit we got there, they got here, but here they’re a little different. Example? Alright, when you go into a movie theater in Amsterdam, you can buy beer. And I don’t mean in a paper cup either. They give you a glass of beer. And in Paris, you can buy beer at McDonald’s. And you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris? (They got the metric system here, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.) They call it Royale with Cheese. What’d they call a Big Mac? Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it Le Big Mac. But you know what they put on French fries in Holland instead of ketchup? Mayonnaise. I seen ‘em do it, man, they fuckin’ drown ‘em in it.

(Sorry. I can never resist the urge to be an annoying asshole who makes you regret your decision to read this blog.)

Thursday, October 16, 2008
02:40 P.M.
Contrary to popular belief, French people are not rude…they’re thoughtless, inconsiderate and selfish. They’re cunts, basically—these people only think of themselves. For instance, if you’re trying to get on a train, these pushy fucks will knock you down to get on the train before you…or they’ll just shove you into the person in front of you to keep things moving along. What’s the hurry, shitbag, is there an especially buttery croissant onboard? Of course, the French have no respect for lines or queues (for you Brits out there)—they’ll cut right in front of you (and you can’t say anything to ‘em cos you don’t speak any fucking French). And they have no respect for personal space! People touch you and stand RIGHT NEXT TO YOU all goddamned day long! Step off, motherhugger, I need some room! Like I said, these people only think of themselves. Frogs will walk into oncoming traffic as if they own the fucking street and the cars won’t even slow down for ‘em (but, really, why would they?). And they ride their stupid motorbikes and bicycles on the sidewalk (or pavement for you Brits out there)! What the fuck, man? It’s a sidewalk, not a sideride! THERE’S A FUCKING BIKE LANE! Use it!

I’m mostly talking about Parisians here (even Parisians hate Parisians!), but I’m pretty sure the entire country is filled with dickbikes. Walking down the street here is a colossal ordeal, one in which you will have to dodge random yokels toddling very slowly in front of you or just standing right in the middle of the sidewalk with no intention of moving even slightly in any direction to allow you to pass. For people who pride themselves on being polite, these cats sure are ill-mannered! They certainly don’t give a fuck if they make you late for an appointment! Their rock concert etiquette sucks as well—these chimps yell out asinine shit like “yee-haw,” “Slayer” and “let’s go surfing” to heckle the American bands they paid twenty fucking euros to see. And they all do that obnoxious loud piercing whistle thing that so many Americans are fond of. So grating, so very grating… Hey, Bruno, the band can’t hear your awesome whistling, only I can hear it cos you’re doing it right into my fucking ear, you twat.

Making friends here is not an option, even if you do speak the language fluently. First, the French aren’t approachable. Second, when you do meet people here, they’re not real good about returning emails or making concrete plans to hang out again in the future, you just have to go places (like concerts) and hope they’ll be there as well. It’s common knowledge that non-French people never quite assimilate into French society—the French will never let them in. And meeting girls? Forget about it. I talked to a male Parisian about women and he confirmed that they’re all flighty; basically, you can meet a girl at a show, hit it off with her, talk to her all night and then never hear from her again. Hey, wait, I guess France isn’t all that different from the United States after all!

Before I left New Orleans, I penned a scathing blog entry about the high volume (pun intended) of noise in my old neighborhood and how I couldn’t wait to move to Paris, which I was convinced would be populated by civilized people and thus much quieter as a result. Au contraire! My flat in Paris is the nosiest fucking place I have ever lived. Though I don’t live on a main road, there is a ton of traffic on my street at all hours of the day and night—this traffic consists of shitheads on motorbikes, shitheads on foot and a fleet of garbage trucks which inexplicably prowl the area every single morning before dawn. And then there’s the Eurotrash that hangs out right outside my window. And the cats who fight in the middle of the night (their howls of anguish and rage are truly bloodcurdling). Oh, and then there’s the school across the street, the one that actually lets its teenaged students out every hour or so for noisy smoke breaks! (No shit, these kids just stand outside smoking and hollering at each other for the better part of the afternoon. Oh, how I loathe them…) Adding insult to injury, all of this noise is magnified by the echo created by all the buildings in the area being in such close proximity to each other. In short, there is no rest for the wicked.

I’m of the opinion that the people of Amsterdam are the nicest folks in all of Europe—they’re incredibly friendly and totally laid back…hmm, I wonder why… To illustrate my point, I will tell you a little a story. Sporting a hilarious t-shirt that screamed “420 AMSTERDAM PARTY CITY MARIJUANA IS TOLERATED HERE 2008” and a baseball cap with a neon green pot leaf on it, I was walking around near the train station killing time before my departure when a somewhat rough-looking woman asked me for a cigarette. I replied, “Sorry, no,” to which she rejoined, “Looking for girls?” I misheard her at first and thought she’d asked if I was looking for gyros (I’d already eaten), so I asked her to repeat herself. She did as she was asked to do: “Looking for girls?” Again, I replied, “Sorry, no.” But wasn’t that nice?! She wanted to be my friend! My girlfriend! Had she not been all tore up, I would’ve given her kind offer of friendship more consideration…

Monday, September 15, 2008
(Time not noted.)
I’ve been dreaming about my father’s death for days now. The most comforting reverie was the one in which he and I sat in a balcony and watched his funeral together. He pointed at his much-too-tiny coffin and it occurred to me that his gesture suggested he was ready to climb into death and be done with the whole thing.

Every day I await the email informing me of his demise. Living in France, I don’t get to watch my father die nor will I be attending his actual funeral when he does finally meet his maker. Callous as this may sound, I don’t think I’m missing anything—I think I’m being spared. I don’t want to watch the circus of death again. Selfish, I know. But would it comfort him to see his only son awkwardly watch his clock get punched during those fleeting final moments of life? I sincerely doubt it, but I don’t know for sure. I am told he is out of it anyway. He’s been asleep for days now. It’s only a matter of time…

I never mentioned any of this to my therapist before I left the States. I only told a handful of people that he was sick. I wish I hadn’t told anyone anything. I wish I hadn’t written this. I hope I don’t post it!

Death is such a stupid thing. The poets and goth rockers of this world want you to believe death is romantic, but I assure you it isn’t—it’s just you wallowing in regret as you wait for the rug to be yanked out from under you once and for all. To stare death in the face is humiliating at best. When you’re playing Mario Kart tonight, just remember that one day you’ll be stuffed with cancer cells and wishing you’d done something constructive with your worthless life.

My sister has informed me that my father wants some of his possessions given to me after he’s dead (notice I don’t say “passed on” or “passed away” or “smiling down from heaven”), i.e., his watch and some rings my mother gave him, “even though [he knows I don’t] wear jewelry.” That’s the saddest thing of all, really—a dying father desperately trying to leave something behind to a son he barely knows. The watch and rings will go into a box in the closet, my father will go into a box in the ground, life will go on. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, as the song says. (Life went on the day after I wrote this entry. And he was in a coma when he “passed,” so it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been there anyway. Well, old man, if there actually is an afterlife, I sincerely hope it has the loosest slots in town…)

Sunday, August 31, 2008
08:25 P.M.
I live within walking distance of Père Lachaise Cemetery (French: Cimetière du Père-Lachaise), which is a popular tourist destination (you might say people are dying to get in there!!! LOLZ!!!*), so I occasionally wander amongst the graves when I don’t have anything else on my agenda (in my defense, that place is really shady, like my ex-girlfriend). Do you think it’s disrespectful that I’ve listened to a live Anthrax bootleg whilst touring the cemetery? (Don’t worry, it was from the John Bush years!) I found Jim Morrison’s grave one afternoon despite not actually wanting to visit it. Finding that horrible man’s final resting place wasn’t all that difficult: I just stopped walking when I encountered a group of mongoloid shitheads in Led Zep t-shirts staring at something with slackened jaws. The cattle was grazing around that sacred spot in spite of the fact that there wasn’t anything to look at—The Lizard King’s grave is one of the least impressive graves in the whole cemetery, maybe in the whole world (the old bust of his big stupid head and all the graffiti that adorned it was removed ages ago). I sincerely doubt there was that much activity at Proust’s grave… Anyway, one day I will find Oscar Wilde’s grave and have my first (okay, twenty-third) gay experience there all bent over his mighty tomb—it’s the way Oscar would’ve wanted it (from behind—dude was a total bottom).

Hanging out at Père Lachaise Cemetery (French: Cimetière du Père-Lachaise) has got me thinking about what I want done with my earthly remains after I die. My death, like my life, should not be acknowledged in any way—I want to be forgotten, treated as if I’d never existed in the first place. In other words, there will be no service of any kind (and certainly not a Christian one). There should also be no marker in any cemetery or spooky old graveyard—there is no need to bury me when you can just burn me and I see no good reason to hang on to my ashes (just dump ‘em anywhere that pleases you; hell, flush ‘em down the toilet for all I give a fuck). If I leave behind any unpublished and/or unfinished manuscripts, you should probably torch those as well, unless they’re really, really good, in which case you should totally spend a bunch of your time and money getting them published! Oh, and if I somehow have a girlfriend or wife at the time of my death (highly unlikely), she should be killed while my corpse is still fresh so she can join me in the afterlife, where we will fuck on a puffy white cloud for all eternity, unless I can’t get it up, which will be mighty awkward indeed! In heaven as it is on Earth…

*ROTFLMAO!!!

Wednesday, August 27, 2008
05:01 A.M.
Currently sitting in an idling train in a railway station somewhere in Germany. I am pretty sure I just saw another passenger jerking off (sadly, it was a dude); not that I should judge him, as I jerked off myself (or, rather, I jerked myself off) mere hours ago right here in this car. (Granted, I was much more subtle when engaging in self-gratification, i.e., I actually tried to hide what I was doing from the other passengers on the train.) I believe I may have also seen a trio of Eurotrash gentlemen getting high on drugs in the toilet earlier in the evening. So much sinful activity in one little car! I am wondering how many people got laid on this train last night… Hey, no less than two different fellas independently masturbated in this car in the span of four hours, thus all bets are off…

My reserved seat is in another car occupied by two smelly* men, but I have somehow managed to scam a whole couchette to myself. In the immortal words of one Frederick “Fred” Durst, I am “livin’ it up, not givin’ a fuck, livin’ life in the fast lane.” Actually, a cursory stroll through the train has revealed that there are plenty of empty couchettes available, so I have no idea why those two dolts are choosing to share one with each other. Oh, I guess it’s cos they’re dolts. No wonder Hitler tore through this fucking nation.

I just looked up and caught some creepy guy staring at me from the hallway while I was typing this entry out. I suppose it’s time to sign off. Signing off…

*Pardon my potentially racist rant, but I am sick to death of smelling European men. Hey, Bruno, it’s just plain considerate to the people around you to wash yourself every once in a while. Why do these stinky cunts feel the need to inflict their pungent stenches on others?! Everyone in Europe is trapped in impossibly small quarters all the time with these filthy fucking men who apparently don’t realize they smell like a sweaty vagina that someone’s taken a dump in. (You don’t even wanna know how bad the homeless smell here…) Yeah, guy, I know you don’t think you smell bad (you’re used to your own stink by now), but I assure you that you do in fact smell like decomposing twat, so why not bathe sometime this millennium? Thanks in advance. Ironically, I see commercials for something called Axe Body Spray on TV all the time in Paris (also saw the commercials and billboards in Berlin), as if any man on this continent would ever use such a product! That company is just throwing its money away on advertising and distribution in this part of the world! Who are they trying to sell that shit to?! Americans living abroad?! The natives are not interested, I assure you, Axe Body Spray. May as well take all that money and set it on fire…

Monday, August 25, 2008
05:00 P.M.
I’m writing this entry in my hotel room in Prague. I have been here for a couple of days now and I yearn to make my exit. I do not like it here anymore. I don’t know how I lived here before. Maybe I only liked Prague last year because I hadn’t seen any other cities in Europe yet, maybe I was just glad to be out of the United States for a while, maybe I was deluding myself, I dunno. All I do know is that I want to leave this dead, dead town quick, fast and in a hurry…and I never want to return. I never noticed how crummy this place is. Prague is a really ugly town full of depressing-looking buildings covered with lousy graffiti and populated by sad-eyed citizens. I don’t know why anyone would want to come here on vacation—aren’t there any old statues in any other shitty European towns to gawk at?!

The city hasn’t changed all that much since I lived here, but it’s definitely lost its charm for me. Starbucks has moved into town and there are all kinds of shiny new shopping malls everywhere. People have gotten fatter. (More accurately, people have gotten fat.) Things are becoming more and more Americanized, I guess. Fortunately, the women still have mullets and the young boy children still wear earrings (c’mon, earrings on a fucking boy child?! What the fuck could a toddler possibly be rebelling against?! Nap time?! Seriously, why would a parent pierce the ears of a fucking baby? These women should have their children taken away from ‘em! And then the children should be thrown screaming into a river, just to make things interesting!). Fun fact: I saw more black people in Prague yesterday than I saw in the span of three months while I lived here last summer (don’t get excited, I only saw, like, five black people yesterday).

All in all, Prague is a dump. Being in this town again actually makes me yearn for the welcoming bosom of the United States! (I know!) In the immortal words* of Jim Steinem, “Life is a lemon and I want my money back.” Okay, that quote didn’t really have anything to do with Prague, but I did see a copy of Herr Steinem’s first solo album on vinyl today at a record store, so it’s not a totally arbitrary pop culture reference, not like the one I’m about to make (clearing throat): “Kiss my grits,” Prague! (Swish! Nothing but net, people!)

*“What about love? It’s defective!”

Thursday, August 21, 2008
08:07 P.M.
Saw a really cute gal three times today at the grocery store near my hotel here in Berlin. I caught her peering at me while I was looking at soft drinks; she turned away shyly when I caught her gaze. Much later, she made it a point to wait by the door and say goodbye to me (in German, of course) as I left the store for the final time. Dear God, if only I could speak her language so I could have the privilege of hearing her reject me in her native tongue! I should’ve asked her to come back to my hotel room to watch Baywatch with me… The Germans can’t say no to The Hoff! You get ‘em all high on The Hoff and then they’re ripe for the plucking! (And the fucking!) But they really do love that guy here… It’s disturbing…

Tuesday, August 19, 2008
10:14 P.M.
You are a coward living a coward’s life. And you will die a coward’s death. You squander your youth at a shitty nine-to-five pouring coffee, punching numbers into a cash register, uploading gay pornography onto the Internet or tending bar. You go to school and get a degree in philosophy or studio art or creative writing or something equally useless because you still haven’t decided to play the game (little do you know that sooner or later the game will end up playing you)—they haven’t bent you to their will yet (note I said “yet”). You have fantasies of being an artist of some kind. You talk incessantly about all the things you’re going to do, but you never actually do anything at all. You want to be a published author or draw a graphic novel or play the guitar and record a demo or write a screenplay but deep down you know you have nothing to say, so you don’t act on your pedestrian fantasies—you know you don’t have any original thoughts and you’re not very good at expressing your unoriginal thoughts in the first place, thus you remain motionless. You’re too scared to make a move—you might fail or get rejected. Why not kick back and talk shit about others who are living the dream instead? It’s easier that way! And safer! So you continue to play it safe, you keep punching the clock, you help make millions of dollars for someone else. Off the clock, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You’re always tired, too tired to work on your precious graphic novel or write some material for that stoner rock band you’re totally gonna put together this year (oh my goodness, girl, you’re gonna look so hot up there on that stage singing your sexy songs about grinding your hips into that boy who works at the American Apparel!!!). Not only are you exhausted, but you’re bored to tears as well. Every goddamned day is exactly the same. Desperate, you cock-tease a string of boys (again, you fear rejection, so you make sure not to get too close to any of ‘em) or use a couple of stupid young girls for sex (see previous statement in parentheses) or maybe you just settle down with some dumb ape who is just as lazy, lethargic and lacking in talent as you are. You don’t travel, you don’t see the world, you don’t experience anything interesting or real, you just go to work in a wide-awake slumber and get drunk or smoke drugs when you get home, also in a wide-awake slumber. Defeated, your spirit eventually gets crushed and you surrender. You let a guy knock you up or you decide to ask some daft cunt for her hand in marriage. The unfinished graphic novel/yellow notepad full of lyrics/empty sketchbook goes into a drawer, never to be seen again. You keep working your nine-to-five until you anonymously die alone. Oh, you may be surrounded by “loved ones” when you buy the farm, but I assure you that you will be dying alone. You’re reading these words and you’re thinking, “Oh, he’s not talking about me.” Yes, I am talking about you.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008
12:14 A.M.
Sometimes I’ll see someone drinking wine at ten in the morning and I’ll think, “Isn’t it a little early for that sort of thing?” Then I’ll remember that I live in France. Something similar happens whenever I observe someone eating a loaf of bread whilst walking down the street, which happens often, I assure you.

I’ve created a game to play while I’m wandering the streets of Paris: “Eurotrash or Flamboyantly Gay?” The premise is simple: I see a couple of, ahem, colorfully dressed young gentleman and I ask myself, “Are those guys gay or are they just Eurotrash idiots?” Often I will wonder if the fellas in question are gay Eurotrash idiots…and then my head explodes.

Occasionally I will make note of a person acting like a total asshole in a public place and I will think, “That jerk must be an American.” Au contraire!!! Sometimes the person I’ve singled out as a major cock-smoker will speak in a foreign tongue and I’ll realize that the entire planet is full of obnoxious dickbikes; as a result, I spend a great deal of time wondering if people on the streets here are run-of-the-mill American idiots or European shitbirds. Whatever. They’re all the same, really—they’re all swine.

Observational humor: I recently* saw a flyer for a French class. It was written in French. Now if a person could read that flyer, then why would he/she need to take a French class?!

*Yesterday!**

**This is untrue, as I wrote this entry many, many days ago but never got around to posting it until today.

Saturday, August 09, 2008
12:15 A.M.
The clerk handed my credit card back to me at the supermarché and I thanked her in broken French. She replied, “You’re welcome.” Befuddled, I blathered, “Oh, you can tell I’m American…it’s that obvious…” (To be fair, I was buying a bottle of Coca-Cola…) The clerk had inadvertently embarrassed me. I’m ashamed of being an American, for obvious reasons. It’s no mystery to me why the rest of the world hates the United States… In fact, it makes perfect sense to me—take a gander at a random American and you’ll quickly understand why so many non-Americans view the U.S. with utter contempt. Can you really blame ‘em?

The other day, as I was sitting by myself in a café trying to enjoy my très expensive omelette fromage, I overheard a hideous pair of American girls clucking loudly at a nearby table. I tried to tune them out, but they were so loud and obnoxious that it was impossible to ignore them. Maybe I’m uptight (and, yes, I am in fact rather uptight), but I think it’s sorta lame to talk American* so brazenly in a foreign country. It’s just annoying. Anyway, these gals weren’t just obnoxious, they were boring to boot (shocking, huh?). The Americoozes had two gentleman companions with them and it was clear to me that the menfolk were just barely listening to their cohorts’ idiotic chatter—the fellas clearly weren’t paying much attention to their tiresome women. Watching this scene got me thinking about all the times in my life in which I’d indulged some dull-as-dirt dame in the hopes of getting into her pants (my hopes were usually dashed to pieces sooner or later, of course—my suffering was often for naught). I’m thinking of one time in particular when I politely asked a lady I was romantically pursuing to give me a follow-up on her latest office drama (I, of course, didn’t actually give a shit about her office drama, I was just trying to create the illusion that I gave a shit about her and her meaningless problems); she replied, “Oh, I’ll tell you all about it the next time I see you!” My stars! Lucky me! I’m sure I was on pins and needles waiting to hear all about her banal work anecdote! Ladies, men are only willing to listen to you prattle on and on about nothing because you have vaginas. That’s where the fascination ends, I assure you—lose the cunt and you will lose your audience. Oh, I know you think you’re terribly interesting, but you are not, not in the slightest. Look, doll, your problems are interesting to you because they are your problems. Believe me when I say no one else gives a flying fuck or a fucking fly about your troubles at work or your issues with your mother—fellas just pretend to care because they hope you will shut up at some point and fuck them. The vagina is the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. I feel like I’m being held hostage by a vagina anytime I talk to a woman...cos if that vagina wasn’t there, I wouldn’t be talking to that woman. I realize I sound incredibly misogynistic and curiously xenophobic (towards my own country, no less!) right now, but everything I’m blogging here is the truth. Also, I am incredibly misogynistic and curiously xenophobic (towards my own country!).

*There’s a huge difference between talkin’ American and speakin’ English, you know…

Interested parties will be interested to know that there is more xenophobia (and misogyny!) to be found here. That bad boy is updated far more frequently than this blog is updated, but you have to get an account and follow me if you want to read it, assuming I’m willing to let you follow me, of course. (I think “Follow Me” is probably my favorite song by Uncle Kracker…after his cover of Dobie Gray’s 1973 hit “Drift Away,” of course!!!)

To the person who found this site by punching “Gene Simmons masturbating in washroom” into Google: I love you. I want you to have all of my babies! Not just one or two of ‘em, mind you, but all of ‘em! Let’s procreate! Your brilliance must be passed on to future generations!

Monday, August 04, 2008
03:37 A.M.
Wanna know how sad my life is? It’s after three in the morning and I’m actually sitting here correcting typos and fixing various creative blunders on my fucking blog (you know, this fucking blog)! (I can’t believe I said “perpetrated” when I meant “propagated”! I’m a fucking monster.) Best of all, I am doing this in gay Paree*—shouldn’t I be out eating a baguette or, better yet, the pussy of some Sartre-readin’ French babe right now?! Le sigh. I can’t do anything right.

*It wasn’t gay until I got here—now it’s really fuckin’ gay! (I’ve waited weeks, nay, months to make that joke. It was totally worth the wait, I assure you.)

Friday, August 01, 2008
02:26 P.M.
At the airport. Again. (Confounded weather!) There’s nothing like flight travel to make you feel like a million bucks! Let’s face it, most Americans are grossly overweight and hideously ugly to boot, thus rubbing elbows with so many of these beasts in one place is good for an ego boost. Egads, there isn’t a single person in this airport that I’d be willing to ball! And that’s saying something—if you’ve seen some of the women I’ve fucked, you know I’m not exactly picky… (Apologies to any women I’ve fucked who may be reading this right now. That’ll teach you to have sex with me!)

Wednesday, July 30, 2008
03:22 P.M.
I will be a Parisian in a matter of days. I’m restless, itchin’ to get moving, ready to roll—I’m cursed with ennui, as the French would say. I pray to God the frogs are more civilized than the Americans I’m accustomed to doing business with (I also hope their women are beautiful, loose and relatively STD-free). I can’t wait to get out of here. There are times when I’m napping or quietly masturbating right here at this very desk and I suddenly realize that someone has been outside my window screaming for five to ten minutes for no reason at all. People are so loud and stupid in this town—it’s as if they’re proud of their ignorance and want to broadcast it whenever possible. I grow weary of all this noise. I won’t miss any of this when I’m gone.

And now an actual news item: I currently have a book at the printer in China, meaning you will probably be able to buy it (or not buy it, as the case may be) from this here website in November, at which point it will be time for me to get my hands dirty. I figure Also-Ran.com will be redesigned and overhauled by then, or at least that’s what I’m hoping. In the meantime, go fuck yourself. In a loving way, of course. Au revoir, suckers!

Tuesday, July 29, 2008
11:12 A.M.
Overheard the most mundane conversation the other night whilst wandering around the French Quarter by myself...and here it is now! Some off duty waiter was telling a group of friends about patrons at his place of employment leaving their tables to order drinks after unfolding their napkins, resulting in the waiter having to dump their unused napkins into the dirty laundry despite the napkins still being clean. One of the waiter’s friends was oddly sympathetic to his pointless complaint and declared, “Doesn’t sound very eco-friendly to me…” What I wouldn’t have given for a machine gun at that moment…

Monday, June 23, 2008
09:47 A.M.
George Carlin is dead. Not dead? Louis C.K. Also not dead: the last three women who broke my heart. THERE IS NO GOD.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008
04:57 P.M.
If you ever want to see how horrible you look naked and how thoroughly inept you are in the sack, videotape yourself making love to someone. It’s what I did with an ex-girlfriend and, trust me, the results of our illicit undertaking are truly horrifying. Turns out I’m a monster, one with a pasty colorless body that doesn’t have a single ounce of muscle tone on it—NOT ONE OUNCE! Truth be told, I look like an overfed Holocaust victim in many of these movies. And my partner doesn’t look that hot herself… Sometimes I watch these homemade porno tapes, usually under the light of a full moon, and I’m never not troubled by them. I guess my lady and I decided to document our lack of lovemaking prowess during the fattest period of our entire time together—it’s great to have footage of myself at my most obese and unlovable! And the sex…they haven’t made up a word yet to properly describe how awful the sex was! No passion. No love. No fun. We were merely going through the motions. Jerk, suck, repeat. Sure, we were fucking, but we may as well have been clipping our toenails instead. We’d joylessly fuck for ten or so minutes and then I’d drool clumps of spunk on her. These money shots were completely bankrupt—my love sludge barely dribbled onto her hangdog face. I should probably get rid of these videos, but I just can’t bring myself to destroy the evidence, as it were… What can I say? I’m a sentimental fool.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008
04:47 P.M.
I don’t wanna sound insensitive, but I’m about to say something really insensitive: I’m over the Holocaust. Now don’t get me wrong, I think it was a horrible tragedy and all that, but couldn’t we focus our energies on some more recent tragedies, like the Rwanda genocide or all those mass killings in Cambodia? Or maybe we could mix it up and start making movies and graphic novels about shit like the Armenian genocide, you know, the thing that inspired Hitler’s Holocaust in the first place. Just a thought. I like it when people say we need to remember the Holocaust to make sure nothing like that ever happens again. Have these people been asleep for sixty years? Newsflash, folks: It happened again. And again. And again and again. Does Bosnia ring a bell? What about Pol Pot—does that name mean anything to you? Not only has this sort of thing happened countless times since we started fetishizing the Holocaust, it’s happening right now in Darfur. Anyone give a shit? No? No.

I’d also like to point out that the Jews didn’t exactly corner the market on dying in the Holocaust. Other groups were also persecuted and killed by the Nazis, including Soviets, Poles, the disabled, gay men, heck, even Jehovah’s Witnesses! (See, Hitler wasn’t all bad, he got rid of some of those pesky Jehovah’s Witnesses!) Where’s their Schindler’s List? Right here (points at crotch).

Tuesday, June 3, 2008
02:06 P.M.
Growing up in the rural Dirty South, I always had plenty of room to roam. Our immodest family manor stood on a large wooded property. Those dozen acres of unmolested nature were my stomping grounds during my blissful childhood and troubled adolescence—I would aimlessly wander the picturesque landscape in search of truth and beauty, two things I had no trouble locating in such a lovely locale. Once, at the tender age of fourteen, I found both truth and beauty in the form of a nude lifeless girl discarded like a polystyrene food container near a babbling brook at the edge of my family’s palatial estate. Aside from the decomposition, the girl’s nubile young body was flawless, a perfect specimen of female magnificence. Gazing upon that empty vessel, I got hard. Real hard—hard as the nails they drove into Christ’s wrists and feet, in fact. I guess you could say I got stiff as I ogled that stiff. I unzipped myself and knelt down before the naked corpse. I stared into the dead girl’s dead eyes as I pleasured myself, something I would do countless other times with countless other dead-eyed women in the years to come. Being a young buck, it didn’t take long to blow a massive load of reproductive snot all over the young girl’s beauty. Satisfied, I trudged home, haunted by the deceased girl’s splendor. I went back to the corpse the next day, but she was gone, taken in the night by coyotes or her murderer(s), perhaps. Later, I found a really cool arrowhead in those woods…

Sunday, May 11, 2008
05:15 P.M.
I was sitting in a friend’s car. I saw a hideous face in the driver’s side door mirror. I said, “Look, there’s some ugly guy standing behind the car.” My friend looked back and saw nothing. It was at that moment that I realized I was looking at my own reflection in the mirror.

Saturday, May 10, 2008
10:52 P.M.
I was looking through my list of contacts in my not-so-trusty cell phone last night and it hit me that most of the numbers stored in that infernal device belong to people (mostly women) that I never want to speak to again. I guess I continue to save their numbers in order to better screen my incoming calls—God forbid I should actually answer the phone if one of these hateful fucks ever chooses to dial me up! I don’t even know why I have a phone—there’s no one I want to call anyway.

I’ve botched several opportunities to get laid in the past month…I just can’t be bothered. You’ll never get close to me, ladies. Not that you’re clamoring to get close to me or nothing…

Monday, May 5, 2008
10:20 A.M.
I saw a little black girl shriek in terror at the sight of a swan while walking around the park yesterday. I thought to myself, “Clever little girl—she’s already learned to fear white creatures.” But what did I see at the park today?! I saw a turtle. It was neat.

Incidentally, why is this website so fucking popular in the Netherlands? If you know, please get in touch. Thank you.

Thursday, May 1, 2008
11:20 P.M.
I must’ve shot my mouth off about date-rape at some point, I dunno. Anyway, I was walking out the door to buy condoms for that night’s heated coupling and she solemnly announced from her primo spot on the couch, “By the way, I was date-raped once.” Taken aback, I didn’t know how to respond; I may have said “duly noted,” not sure. She lectured me about making light of date-rape as I was leaving to buy condoms to wear whilst fucking her mere moments later—talk about bad timing! Best of all, that wasn’t the only time a woman would spoil a romantic evening by inexplicably discussing her history of date-rape with me prior to mounting… Well, I just want everyone to know that I am against date-rape! I mean, why should I have to buy you a meal before I get to rape you?! As a man in a patriarchal society, I ought to be able to rape you without having to spend a goddamned penny on you! Consarnit.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008
01:02 P.M.
Possibly racist observation: I saw a little black girl at the park yesterday toting a bottle of watermelon-flavored Gatorade. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, people… She was also eating a cup of fried chicken-flavored pudding. Okay, I made that last part up. I later saw a creepy old white woman stomp a bunch of caterpillars to death with her white tennis shoe. Ain’t that America.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008
03:33 P.M.
I had a dream this morning that troubled me deeply for reasons I don’t quite understand. I was sitting in the back of a car with two other people, one in the driver’s seat and one in the front passenger seat. Pearl Jam’s “Daughter” came on the radio. I started singing along in the backseat. I was nervous that I was singing too loudly and the other people in the car would hear me. The driver slowly turned around and gave me a look. I’d been heard! I was humiliated. I have no idea why that dream troubled me. It’s totally mundane!

I recently had a sordid sexual affair with a woman (yes, a woman—suspend your disbelief)—you could say we were “friends with benefits,” the “benefits” being “no strings attached sexual intercourse” plus “some strings attached oral sex.” Don’t get excited, this affair did not last long. After it ended, badly, might I add, the woman in question told a mutual friend that I was “a sorry excuse for a fuck buddy,” to which I retort, “With fuck buddies like that, who needs fuck enemies?”

Friday, March 14, 2008
10:48 P.M.
Consumed today:
1 bowl of Chex® cereal with fat-free milk: 140 calories
1 pear: 75 calories
1 Hubig’s apple pie: 367 calories
1 quesadilla with Thundering Tarnation mild salsa: 340 calories
2 slices of Colby-Jack (or Cojack) cheese: 180 calories
16 Wheat Thins® crackers: 150 calories

Burned today:
487 calories: brisk walk (72 minutes)

Sunday, March 9, 2008
10:35 P.M.
Consumed today:
2 bowls of Chex® cereal with no-fat milk: 280 calories
1 bowl of Cheerios® with no-fat milk: 140 calories
1 green apple: 70 calories
6 strawberries: 20 calories
2 quesadillas with Thundering Tarnation mild salsa: 670 calories
15 Baked! Lays® potato chips with Thundering Tarnation mild salsa: 130 calories

Burned today:
411 calories: brisk walk (60 minutes)
308 calories: brisk walk (45 minutes)

Friday, March 7, 2008
11:48 P.M.
Consumed today:
2 bowls of Kellogg’s® Raisin Bran Crunch® with reduced-fat milk: 460 calories
15 saltine crackers: 180 calories
1 English muffin with strawberry jam: 180 calories
1 box of Sun-Maid® raisins: 130 calories
1 can of Progresso® chicken noodle soup: 200 calories
1 English muffin: 140 calories
1 glass of Welch’s® 100% grape juice: 170 calories

Burned today:
617 calories: brisk walk (90 minutes)
322 calories: brisk walk (47 minutes)

Wednesday, March 5, 2008
11:58 P.M.
Consumed today:
48 Wheat Thins® crackers: 450 calories
4 slices of Colby-Jack (or Cojack) cheese: 360 calories
1 can of A&W® Cream Soda: 180 calories
1 bagel with honey butter: 270 calories
1 bag of Miss Vickie’s® jalapeño-flavored potato chips: 190 calories
1 Kozy Shack® flan: 150 calories
1 Keebler® Soft Batch® chocolate chip cookie: 80 calories

Burned today:
583 calories: brisk walk (85 minutes)
411 calories: brisk walk (60 minutes)

Monday, March 3, 2008
11:56 P.M.
Consumed today:
1 pickle: 2.5 calories
1 bowl of Chex® cereal with reduced-fat milk: 140 calories
1 bowl of Frosted Cheerios® with reduced-fat milk: 150 calories
1 quesadilla with Thundering Tarnation mild salsa: 340 calories
1 box of Sun-Maid® raisins: 130 calories
6 strawberries: 20 calories
1 English muffin with strawberry jam: 180 calories

Burned today:
629 calories: brisk walk (90 minutes)
417 calories: brisk walk (30 minutes)

Sunday, March 2, 2008
10:56 P.M.
Consumed today:
1 bowl of Chex® cereal with reduced-fat milk: 140 calories
2 bowls of Kellogg’s® Raisin Bran Crunch® with reduced-fat milk: 460 calories
1 can of Chef Boyardee® ABCs ‘n’ 123s with mini meatballs: 520 calories

Burned today:
368 calories: brisk walk (53 minutes)
1 Pig Destroyer CD-R: 78 minutes

Saturday, March 1, 2008
11:46 P.M.
Consumed today:
1 stuffed pizza pretzel: 280 calories
1 can of Progresso® traditional Italian-style wedding soup: 180 calories
1 bowl of Frosted Cheerios® with reduced-fat milk: 150 calories
2 Reese’s® Peanut Butter Hearts: 360 calories
1 pickle: 2.5 calories

Burned today:
166 calories: brisk walk (24 minutes)

Friday, February 29, 2008
11:16 P.M.
Consumed today:
1 bag of Miss Vickie’s® jalapeño-flavored potato chips: 190 calories
2 bagels with honey butter: 540 calories
1 bowl of Froot Loops® cereal with reduced-fat milk: 200 calories
2 slices of Colby-Jack (or Cojack) cheese: 180 calories
16 Wheat Thins® crackers: 150 calories
1/4 pint of Häagen-Dazs® sticky toffee pudding ice cream: 300 calories
some potato salad from McAlister’s Deli®: 200 calories

Burned today:
590 calories: brisk walk (85 minutes)
69 calories: bike ride (9 minutes)

Friday, February 29, 2008
05:56 P.M.
Consumed yesterday:
1 handful of Reese’s Pieces®: 190 calories
2 miniature Snickers® bars: 100 calories
2 bowls of Froot Loops® cereal with reduced-fat milk: 320 calories
2/3 of a pesto chicken sandwich from McAlister’s Deli®: 600 calories
1 chocolate brownie from McAlister’s Deli®: 424 calories
some potato salad from McAlister’s Deli®: 200 calories

Burned yesterday:
139 calories: brisk walk (20 minutes)
208 calories: brisk walk (30 minutes)
472 calories: brisk walk (68 minutes)
69 calories: bike ride (9 minutes)
154 calories: bike ride (20 minutes)

Wednesday, February 27, 2008
11:56 P.M.
Consumed today:
1 bowl of Chex® cereal with reduced-fat milk: 140 calories
1 bowl of Kellogg’s® Raisin Bran Crunch® with reduced-fat milk: 230 calories
1 New Yorker sandwich (corned beef and “New York-style” pastrami with Swiss cheese on rye bread) from McAlister’s Deli®: 628 calories
some potato salad from McAlister’s Deli®: 200 calories
1 pickle: 2.5 calories

Burned today:
629 calories: brisk walk (90 minutes)
370 calories: brisk walk (53 minutes)
279 calories: brisk walk (40 minutes)

Tuesday, February 26, 2008
04:52 P.M.
Bill Hicks met his maker fourteen years ago today. Emo Philips, on the other hand, is not dead; in fact, he is very much alive. Clearly, Slayer was right: God hates us all.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008
03:12 P.M.
When we kissed for the first time, your slimy* tongue slithered into my mouth and I thought to myself, “I have made a colossal mistake.”

*Speaking of colossal mistakes, I have corrected the typo that used to be here. Yay! Life is worth living again!!!

Tuesday, February 19, 2008
05:44 P.M.
This following bit, which has been on my hard drive for almost three years now, is both funny and timely! Enjoy?

Remember Punk’d, the MTV prank show hosted by Ashton Kutcher? Well, I’ve come up with a similar idea called Spunk’d (yes, I know there’s a gay porno of the same name). Basically, Spunk’d is the pornographic version of Punk’d—you know, Punk’d with fucking. And off-color language. Anyway, here are some Spunk’d pranks I’ve come up with:

A girl utilizes a fart machine while a guy goes down on her.

A girl is fucked anally despite her aversion to anal sex—some might call it anal rape, I just call it hilarious.

A girl is fucked without a condom and is given AIDS.

A girl is fucked by a man wearing a mask of some kind; afterwards, the man removes the mask to reveal he’s the very first person who raped the girl when she was but a babe in the woods! Provocative, no?

Another example of topical humor that is no longer topical: In the mid-nineties, Michael Jackson found himself at the center of a tsunami of controversy caused by the release of his single “They Don’t Really About Us,” which featured the following questionable lyrics: “Jew me, sue me, everybody do me / Kick me, kike me, don’t you black or white me.” Yeah. Jacko is the head of a vast empire of sorts and you’d think that one of his many underlings would’ve pulled him aside and said, “Hey, Mikey-baby, you may want to alter those lines before you go into the recording studio…” Well, no one spoke up in that instance, but, thankfully, someone discouraged Jacko from recording the following lyrics, which are even more questionable: “Nigger me, wigger me, don’t you dare snigger at me / Dick me, dyke me, you don’t seem to like me / Fag me, hag me, don’t you teabag me.” Aren’t you glad good taste prevailed?

Tuesday, February 19, 2008
04:14 P.M.
Not-so-fun fact: There are more illegal immigrants in the U.S. today than there were yesterday. Chilling, huh?

Saturday, February 16, 2008
11:45 A.M.
It occurred to me yesterday that seducing a woman is kinda like playing chess. And I don’t know how to play chess. In fact, the game baffles me. And, yes, sometimes it even terrifies me.

Monday, February 4, 2008
03:09 P.M.
Is this the story of Michael Baggert? It certainly is. Tragically, Michael’s father died in a car accident when Michael was just three years old, thus our little man didn’t have a father figure growing up. Making matters worse, Michael began displaying homosexual tendencies at a rather young age, which inspired his peers to call him “Michael Faggert.” (Kids can be so cruel…and uncreative…) Michael was routinely pummeled by his homophobic peer group, who would often threaten to butt-fuck the queer out of him. When Michael reached the age of twelve, he decided he’d had enough and he started looking online for material about self-defense. After a few days of looking at various websites, Michael discovered a martial arts chatroom where he met a gentleman who called himself BigBaller49. The two became fast friends. BigBaller49, who claimed to be fourteen years old, was oddly sympathetic to Michael’s plight and offered to teach his new cyber-buddy how to fight like a man. One problem: BigBaller49 lived in another state. BigBaller49’s parents agreed to let Michael stay the weekend at their home and BillBaller49 generously proposed to send Michael a bus ticket to get him to the aforementioned home. Michael’s mother was usually off on some drunken bender during the weekend, so Michael never had any trouble slipping out of the house undetected. Problem solved. BigBaller49 bought Michael a ticket and mailed it to him. Days later, Michael was in Deer Cricket, MI meeting BigBaller49 at the bus station. Turns out BigBaller49 was a middle-aged man named Bill Simonson, a divorced computer programmer who lived alone in a modest one-story house. Bill took Michael to his swinging bachelor pad and showed the boy his home gym, which even had a freezer in it that was filled with Lean Pockets, Michael’s favorite! (How did Bill know?!) Bill sat Michael down on a workout bench and showed the boy how to lift weights. Michael worked up quite a sweat as he lifted those weights! It was clear after a few minutes that Bill was getting antsy. He took the barbell out of Michael’s hand, swiftly removed his sweatpants and announced, “You didn’t really come here to learn self-defense, did you?” Bill was right: Michael hadn’t come all the way to Deer Cricket, MI to learn how to fight, he’d traveled there to learn how to fuck. And, as luck would have it, Bill was thoroughly prepared to teach the boy how to fuck like a filthy beast. Bill and Michael spent the next two bliss-filled days fucking each other’s tits off and consuming microwave-heated Lean Pockets. When Michael arrived at school on Monday morning, he was savagely beaten to death by three of his classmates. But at least the gay little faggot didn’t die a virgin…

Saturday, February 2, 2008
07:09 P.M.
This is the story of Trevor. Quite mature for his age, Trevor realized when he was just eleven years old that he was gay. With the aid of Internet pornography, Trevor also discovered that he was into “daddies.” Trevor daily traveled the cyberverse in search of dirty old men to pop his cherry. Trevor’s efforts were in vain, though, as most of the ancient pervs he encountered online were too scared to meet him in real life, preferring instead to fool around with the boy late at night via webcam while their frigid wives slept silently nearby. Trevor said, “Fuck this noise” and decided to go offline to find himself a man in the real world. Trevor set his sights on Mr. Henry, a neighbor who lived alone and was rumored to be an old queen. In reality, Mr. Henry wasn’t gay at all, he was just a lonely old man whose wife had passed on years earlier. Trevor began visiting Mr. Henry regularly, oftentimes helping the old man keep his lawn neat and tidy. Nothing sexual ever occurred and Trevor was starting to get antsy. Frustrated, Trevor decided to make his move one evening when Mr. Henry invited him inside for an ice-cold Fresca (Mr. Henry was all out of ginger ale). Once inside, Trevor pounced on his frail prey. Mr. Henry didn’t have much use for sex, homo or otherwise, but he reluctantly let Trevor suck him off. Sucking Mr. Henry’s dick didn’t just feel good to Trevor, it felt right. Being an old man, Mr. Henry couldn’t stay hard let alone “make it,” but Trevor didn’t mind. Trevor left that day with a pocketful of Werther’s Original candies and a song in his heart. Trevor sucked off Mr. Henry every day for the next eight months. Sadly, the couple’s affair ended abruptly when Mr. Henry died of heat stroke while watering his lawn on a particularly hot day. Though Trevor fucked many, many old men later in life, he never forgot his first and he would often think of Mr. Henry as he jacked off elderly men in the washroom of the Denny’s on I-95.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008
02:37 A.M.
This is Scott’s story. Scott, overweight, bald, unemployed and middle-aged, was a lonely guy who spent most of his waking hours prowling America Online’s chatrooms for virtual company. His screen name? 35male_annarbor_wanna_lick_U_69. Jeff was a shy guy in real life, but he was a ferocious hellcat in his cyber-kingdom! Online, he didn’t take shit from anybody, unlike real life, where he took shit from everybody. One day, while chatting in a room dedicated to gripes about “parental units” (Scott had been forced to move back home after he’d lost his job assistant-managing the local car wash), Scott chatted up a gal whose screen name was GrrrlScout1987. Scott, who was normally tongue-tied around the fairer sex, found that he was rather adept at making GrrrlScout1987 laugh out loud at regular intervals—he somehow always knew just the right thing to say to his new cyber-friend. In short, the pair clicked. Scott and GrrrlScout1987 eventually made plans to meet in the flesh even though GrrrlScout1987 was only fourteen years old and lived in another state. Though Scott feared his new cyber-BFF was a cop or, worse yet, a fatty, he still drove several hours to meet GrrrlScout1987 at a Taco Bell-Pizza Hut Express in a little town just outside St. Louis, MO. Scott and GrrrlScout1987 were instantaneously attracted to each other and the couple made love in the backseat of Scott’s 1994 Toyota Tercel atop a pile of blankets and old towels (it was the first time for both of them). Four years later, when GrrrlScout1987 was finally legal, Scott married her. They are still together today.

Sunday, January 27, 2008
12:35 P.M.
Some topical humor inspired by a casual reading of the latest issue of In Touch magazine:

It’s been reported that Britney Spears penned a suicide note days before her recent meltdown and subsequent hospitalization. Friends knew the note was authentic when they discovered it was addressed to Colonel Sanders.

Guests of the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Hollywood, FL are claiming the hotel is haunted by Anna Nicole Smith, who tragically (snicker) perished in the building last year. Smith’s ghost is said to spend most of its time lingering in the kitchen.

Diminutive rapper/actor Marshall Mathers is currently tipping the scales at a hefty two hundred pounds, thereby rendering his Slim Shady moniker bitterly ironic. You might say Eminem has been consuming too many M&Ms!!! Har.

Nicole Richie and Christina Aguilera welcomed bouncing babies into this cold dark world last week. Both babies were probably born addicted to crystal meth and suffering from AIDS. Not so much a joke there, just a statement of fact.

Aged rocker Gene Simmons recently appeared on an episode of Ugly Betty. Gene Simmons is a piece of shit. Again, no joke, just stating an undeniable truth.

Saturday, January 26, 2008
04:29 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Eight: I ran out of pleasant memories and stopped boring my handful of readers with ‘em.

I recently watched a documentary about the Abu Ghraib scandal (remember that?) and I was especially amused by a scene in the film in which Lynndie England, who actually looks kinda foxy in civilian garb (meow!), admits to writing “RAPEIST” on the leg of a detainee. Silly girl, that’s not how you spell that word! It’s d-a-d-d-y, dummy! Anyway, do we really want people like that serving our country?! Forget about all the torture and abuse, this dopey cooze can’t even spell the word rapist! Is it any wonder why I don’t support the troops?

Sunday, January 6, 2008
05:58 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Seven: I found a puppy while taking a walk one evening. I named the puppy Cujo because he was so fluffy and sweet—wasn’t that clever of me? Anyway, I carried Cujo home with me and he happily lapped at my face as I held him in my arms like a little baby Jesus. Cujo was not only fluffy, he was filthy as well, so I drew a bath for him (it looked decidedly realistic and I could tell he was impressed by my artistic skills), after which I filled the bathtub with lukewarm water in which to bathe him. I gently lowered Cujo into the water and drowned him. He didn’t put up a fight. I cut little Cujo up into bite-sized pieces and flushed the pieces down the toilet, thus giving Cujo a proper Viking burial.

Monday, December 24, 2007
01:57 P.M.
Happy Wanking Day, people!

Sunday, December 23, 2007
02:52 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Six: Scamton Inn. It’s a little known fact that the Hampton Inn hotel chain offers a free continental breakfast to its guests each and every day; this breakfast of champions usually includes coffee, a selection of juices and a smattering of foodstuffs, like cereal, muffins, yogurt and French toast sticks. Post-Katrina (or P-K, as the locals like to say*), my old lady and I would often travel to the Hampton Inn in the Warehouse District of New Orleans and gorge ourselves on the bounty that had been laid out for actual guests of the hotel. We dined on Hampton Inn’s dime almost every day for a couple of months before our cover was blown by an intrepid employee of the company. Sure, the employee made a big scene and threatened to call the fuzz, but we’d already scammed the establishment for free grub more times than we could count, so we managed to come out ahead anyway. I vowed to return to the Hampton Inn and feast there again one fine day, but I don’t usually rise from my fitful slumber before noon, thus the hotel’s day (morning?) of reckoning has yet to come.

*The locals do not say this.

Saturday, November 24, 2007
01:56 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Five: She brought over a bottle of wine for us to polish off together. I don’t drink and thus I tried to talk my way out of swilling her spirits, but I relented when she informed me that she had spent forty dollars on the booze. She chain-smoked as we drank her wine in my backyard, talking each other’s ears off in the process. Had I been able to keep it up while we fucked later, it would’ve been the perfect night.

Thursday, November 22, 2007
07:39 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Four: I celebrated Thanksgiving of 2004 all by myself. A coworker brought over some leftovers from her family’s meal, which I greedily gobbled up alone in front of the TV. I was thankful.

Saturday, November 17, 2007
01:00 P.M.
All hail Kurt Bloch on this fine day that didn’t exist.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007
04:57 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Three: Jesus Christ (pose), I’m already running out of these things and I’m only on number three! Anyway, on March 27, 2002, following a lengthy bout of depression, I saw Fugazi perform at Tipitina’s in New Orleans. Hands down, March 27, 2002 was probably the single greatest night of my entire life, which was exactly what I needed after months of chronic sadness. The opening band that night contained a couple of old chums that I hadn’t seen in years, thus the night was all the more special for me. Also, I was introduced to one of my closest friends after the show, which rocked bells. Best of all, Fugazi released a recording of this show a couple of years ago, so I can relive this night whenever I want to relive it (this is one of the few nights I’ve endured in the past five years that I would actually want to relive)—not bad.

By the way, I’m well aware of the fact that these pleasant memories are probably boring as shit to most of you. Bear with me while I get this out of my system. And thanks for indulging me, you big lug—I only hit you because you’re such a stupid bitch, you stupid bitch.

Sunday, November 11, 2007
01:20 A.M.
Pleasant Memory Number Two: I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed late last year, an occasion I remember with great joy. While oral surgery may not seem like the makings of a pleasant memory, I fondly recall the aftermath of my trip to the oral surgeon (or “tooth doctor,” as I like to call him), which involved drooling blood all over myself, eating mashed potatoes in bed and being doped up for one full day, which made my inaugural viewing of The Third Man on cable TV all the more enjoyable. Days like that don’t come along often enough.

Thursday, November 8, 2007
12:47 P.M.
Pleasant Memory Number One: I was alone in my crummy flat in Prague. I couldn’t sleep. I had worked myself into a frenzy of some sort over some bullshit involving some girl. It must’ve been four or five in the morning and the sun would be coming up in no time, meaning I probably wouldn’t sleep at all that night. I got out of bed, retrieved a pint of Belgian chocolate Häagen-Dazs ice cream* from the tiny fridge in the kitchenette and parked my stupid ass in front of the television, where I spent the next few minutes watching phone sex ads in ecstasy as I often did late at night while I did my time in the Czech Republic. A feeling of calm washed over me and I achieved some kind of inner peace for one all too brief moment. I finished my ice cream, went back to bed and promptly fell asleep.

*The one luxury item I would allow myself, which set me back seven dollars each time I purchased it at the nearest grocery store.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007
08:54 P.M.
Kids were runnin’ wild tonight, throwin’ glass bottles into the street and screamin’ their stupid heads off. Most weren’t even in costumes! Fuckin’ savages. I don’t remember being that stupid when I was their age... They’ll never know the subtle pleasures of watching a Criterion DVD or reading…anything…at all… Like I said: fuckin’ savages. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go review Fuck for Dollars...for dollars.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007
08:18 P.M.
Today I was awoken from my slumber on the couch by a guy loudly calling some woman a “nasty ho” outside my window. Yup, it’s good to be back in the U.S. of A.

Friday, October 12, 2007
10:54 A.M.
For reasons I still don’t quite understand, she told me her friend wrote a blog about the comic book industry. I looked at the blog in question, became instantaneously depressed and announced, “It must be a real drag to write about shitty comic books all day.” She not-at-all-subtly replied, “Well, you write about porn all day,” snidely alluding to the fact that I currently make a living as a reviewer of pornographic materials. I don’t remember how I responded to that non-quip, but here’s what I should have said: “Hey, you cunt, you’re a fucking COFFEE BARISTA, thus you’re not really in any position to mock me for making my living as a creative entity. I mean, when was the last time you made money offa your precious ‘gift’? Never, that’s when, you pretentious twat, so shut your fucking yapper and go fetch me a grande mocha latte espresso with a shot of vanilla. And don’t forget to use two-percent milk this time, vagina.”

Friday, October 12, 2007
02:28 A.M.
I hope you all realize I was joking in that last entry—I would never pay more than fifty dollars to fuck a tranny. My mother didn’t raise any fools (at least none that lived to the ripe old age of twenty-nine like this one did). And, okay, you got me: I’ve never actually paid for sex, except psychically, of course.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007
10:10 P.M.
It was two in the afternoon, thus the brothel was completely empty. There was only one lady of the night (er, afternoon) on duty, so I had two options: settle for her or come back later. I chose to settle for her. She called herself Angel and she had big fake tits, an okay face and hair that hung down to the middle of her back. I asked Angel if she would be taking me to heaven; she sneered. I paid three hundred bucks American for full service. No condom BJ. Before I stuck it in with the condom on, I noticed that the lips were unusually large and she had no clit. I parted those lips and said, “WHAT THE FUCK? THIS PUSSY HAS HAIRS INSIDE.” I had never seen anything like that in my life, so I just decided to put it in and hope for the best. I put fifty percent of my dick in and the pussy bottomed out. I asked Angel to get in the doggy position. She complied, but I still couldn’t get it in all the way. I have an average-sized dick (ask your mom), so what was the problem? A few pumps and I was done. Later, I did some research on the net and found out that THIS MOTHERFUCKER WAS A MAN at one point. Still, I’ve had worse (ask your mom).

I walked past the mall on my way home. There’s a large statue of a dinosaur outside the mall and I noticed an abandoned bong near it. Obviously, it tickled me to think of some stoner getting high whilst staring at a dinosaur statue outside the mall. Life may be a hellish ordeal, but it sure has its moments.

Friday, September 21, 2007
05:42 P.M.
I fear I may get kicked out of the bloggers union for updating this site so infrequently. And I’ve already been kicked out of the Blessed Union of Souls,* so you can clearly see why I’m so concerned. Well, here’s a new entry, you dirty buggers—CHOKE ON IT.**

When I was a freshman in high school, I had a crush on a girl named Tara, a cheerleader who was in many of my classes. I also had horrible acne, the kind that frightens children and ensures teenage virginity. Tara and I had absolutely nothing in common and thus a conversation with her was completely soul-shattering for me. I remember one conversation in particular, one in which she asked me why I looked so sad. Though I yearned to tell her that I felt sad because a girl like Tara would never fuck me in a million years, I probably just shrugged my shoulders. Though Tara and I were just barely on friendly terms, my “relationship” with her still mirrors every other relationship I’ve ever had with a woman. First, I was terrified of her.*** Second, I didn’t relate to her at all, which caused me a great deal of pain and frustration. Finally, she didn’t give a toss about me.

Anyway, I didn’t get beaten up in high school or anything like that, but I did get my fair share of abuse, particularly from a gorilla whose name I no longer remember. This cat was a real fucking thug and he tormented yours truly whenever he got the chance (he once asked me if I’d ever “gotten it up the butt” and I cleverly replied, “Not lately,” which is probably why he didn’t kick the shit out of me that afternoon). One fateful day, the gorilla dropped his pencil on the ground and ordered me to pick it up; his exact words were “pick it up, zitface.” Tara witnessed this minor act of cruelty and laughed uncontrollably. Worse yet, she regained her composure and told me not to let the gorilla bully me like that. The gorilla replied that he would pummel me if I didn’t pick up the pencil. I believed him, but I wanted to save [zit]face in front of Tara, so I sat paralyzed for an agonizing moment. Tara continued to egg me on as the gorilla continued to threaten me with physical violence; both of them shot daggers into my eyes, metaphorically, of course. I relented, obviously, and picked up the pencil for the gorilla. Tara was visibly disappointed that I hadn’t stood my ground. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die; instead, I probably went home and masturbated. Later, the gorilla was expelled for bringing a stolen police baton to school (hey, I said he was a thug, didn’t I?). Still later, I saw the gorilla in full uniform walking to his job at Taco Bell. I felt nothing. I still feel nothing. Tara grew up to be a celebrated astrophysicist. Kidding!

*This is the lamest and perhaps most obscure pop culture reference I’ve ever made. My apologies to you, the reader.

**This is exactly what I tell a girl before she performs oral sex on me. Obviously, I don’t get to use that delightful catchphrase very often.

***Actually, this only applies to women I haven’t dated but want to date.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007
02:06 P.M.
Ironically, The Portable Dorothy Parker is too large to carry around.

Saturday, September 8, 2007
12:56 P.M.
Someone found this site by typing the following query into Google: “What do you do if your ex-girlfriend sends you a cruel note?” Well, friend, if you’re Joseph Larkin, poet of note (and God help you if you are), you start redesigning your website.

Monday, September 3, 2007
01:22 A.M.
Fugazi played its first show twenty years ago today.

Friday, August 31, 2007
01:25 A.M.
So I gave someone an outdated business card tonight (I’ll be waiting oh-so-patiently by the computer for your email that will never arrive, my lovely!!!) and it occurred to me that it would be really bad-ass* to print up new business cards that said “Joseph Larkin: Misogynist” on ‘em. Hilarious and true! Other potentially amusing titles for yours truly: Gadfly, Gaywad, Man About Town, The Man Who Murdered Love, Sandy Duncan and, last but not to be the least, Failed Writer.

*I hate it when people describe things as “bad-ass,” unless they’re talking about car accidents, Mark Lanegan or certain Michael Bay movies.

Thursday, August 30, 2007
02:23 A.M.
Bear with me, folks, I need to purge myself…again… I’ve had this vicious sludge churning around in my guts for months now and I need to get it out of my system once and for all. I’m also trying to punish a certain somebody for continuing to read this site. Don’t worry, gang, I’ll be back to making fun of fat people in no time. Thank you for indulging me.

It was Valentine’s Day, one of my favorite holidays because it has nothing to do with the glorification of Christ, one of the biggest phonies in the history of mankind (yeah, dude, I can walk on water too, I just wait until winter to do it). She told me she’d suck my dick if I got her a beer from the fridge, you know, one of the beers I’d selflessly purchased for her as a Valentine’s Day gift (ain’t I a sweetheart?). I mumbled, “Yeah, right” under my breath. She replied, “You’re right, I won’t be giving you a blowjob” and then she launched into a half-baked tirade about how she didn’t like to give head and refused to do it on the grounds that she was a selfish cunt (okay, you got me, I added that last part). She claimed she didn’t need to give head cos she had learned how to fuck well (um, no, not quite). I didn’t take her mindless rant seriously cos I’d already made it a point to never take anything she said seriously. Also, she had already thrilled me with many, many stories involving her blowing many, many guys, including a gay chap that she blew daily in high school, so I just figured she was messing with me, though I did entertain the possibility of never speaking to her again if it turned out she was being serious. Well, she was being serious, a fact I learned the hard way a few days later. We had just fucked for the second time. I had performed like a pro and she had seen stars as a result (not really). She told me she’d gotten off and that I was only the second guy to get her off during the act of lovemaking (she later claimed to have gotten herself off and that I was actually the worst lover she’d ever taken to bed, which seems far more plausible, honestly; and, hey, let’s face it, she definitely made the list of top five worst lovers I’ve ever fucked senseless*). We lay there side by side for a moment while she shuddered with pleasure. I hadn’t gotten off and I waited patiently to see what she had in store for me. She did nothing. Finally, she asked what I wanted to do. I asked, “If I go wash off my cock, will you suck it?” She said no. Ouch. She said no to getting me off with her mouth right after I’d just gotten her off—with my mind (and measly phallus). I didn’t know what to say or do. It occurred to me that she hadn’t been joking when she’d said she would never go down on me. Horrified, I decided to pretend to be a nice guy. I asked her why she didn’t like to give head—had some bad man misused her in the past? She went apeshit, by which I mean to say she shit the bed and proceeded to throw her feces all over the room. Kidding! In reality, she read me the riot act. (I didn’t care for it.) She repeated her tirade from the Valentine’s Day Massacre but presented it in a much more forceful/much less forgiving manner. Then she announced, “I am going to sleep now” and turned her back to me. I was naked but still wearing a rubber for some reason and I didn’t know what to say or do. I lay there for an unbearable moment, unsure of how to proceed. I was humiliated. My dick was somehow still hard. I stared at the ceiling and mulled over the night’s devastating turn of events. Finally, I sighed, put on my underwear and left the room. I went into my office and got on the computer. I couldn’t sleep in the same bed with her after what had happened and I wasn’t sure how to get rid of her. I thought, “Oh, Christ, how do I remove myself from this situation as painlessly as humanly possible?” Thankfully, she did all the work for me, which was certainly not how things had occurred in bed earlier (ha). She sheepishly entered the office after a few minutes. She asked me if I would be coming to bed. I said I would come to bed after I’d finished some work on the computer. The tension was thicker than my impossibly thick skull. She asked me if I wanted her to leave. I answered, “If you don’t feel comfortable spending the night, then you should probably leave.” That’s important for later, so I shall repeat it: “If you don’t feel comfortable spending the night, then you should probably leave.” At no point did I actually ask her to leave, though I clearly wanted to ask her to leave. As luck would have it, she decided to leave. She got her things together. I pretended to be busy on the computer. She left. I was relieved and vowed never to speak to her again. Minutes later, she called and I spoke to her again (so wishy-washy, so very wishy-washy…). She was in a tizzy because she claimed I’d kicked her out of my house after fucking her (yeah, I was just using you for all that awesome sex you provided…cough). And then she claimed I was an animal for forcing a drunk girl to drive home alone in the middle of the night. See how she did that? It took me months to realize what she’d done there… Basically, she’d felt guilty for what she’d said and done that night and her guilt had prompted her to immediately make up some phony crime to hang on me, thus alleviating her own guilt. Pretty sharp, I must admit. Here’s the most fucked-up part of this entire story: I asked her to come back to my house that night and she slept over. And then we dated for another month. And then we tried to have “no strings attached” sex a few times after we broke up for good (incidentally, there are always strings attached). For what it’s worth, she did give me a single blowjob during our “no strings attached” phase. It was the worst blowjob I have ever received and I have been on the receiving end of some pretty lousy blowjobs in my day. People, she didn’t use her hands! At all! She just kept bobbing her head up and down! Gee, it’s no wonder she hated to give head! I said, “You know, it would be easier and more efficient if you used your hands while you did that…” She replied, “No, that would be cheating.” I prayed to get off quickly so we could end the farcical ordeal and do something else, but her erratic head-bobbing made it nearly impossible for me to reach orgasm. Long story somewhat shorter, she yanked my dick out of her mouth the second I started to ejaculate and left the room. No shit. Incidentally, she later claimed that she had been drunk when she had single-handedly ruined our sex life with her anti-blowjob screed. Well, as long as you were drunk, then I guess it’s okay that you behaved like a total bitch, though not one in heat, sadly. (A Black Flag lyric comes to mind: “Is it in the chemical or is it just a part of you?”) She also complained later that I had never gone down on her while we were together, not even once. Of course I didn’t go down on her! Why would I go down on her when she refused to go down on me? That doesn’t even make sense! And, let me tell you, I was especially relieved that I had never gone down on her when she informed me while we were still dating that she had come down with a nasty case of gonorrhea and wasn’t quite sure where she’d picked it up from (hey, babe, maybe you were drunk when you caught it? You seem to do a lot of stupid shit when you’re drunk…just saying…). Call me a bad boyfriend, call me selfish, but I’m just not that keen on the idea of putting my mouth on someone’s disease-ridden cunt, okay? So I guess what I’m saying is this: I hate women. You probably figured that out by now, though. Unless you’re a woman, in which case you were probably just thinking about a pair of shoes you want to buy. Kidding!

*Full disclosure: I’ve only been with five girls. Also, I fucked none of them senseless, though I often fantasized about beating them senseless whilst fucking them—how else is a guy supposed to keep it up for seven whole minutes?! Back me up here, fellas!

Wednesday, August 29, 2007
05:00 P.M.
This entry will hurt feelings. Hurting feelings is not my intention,* mind you, but feelings will be hurt nonetheless. Ah, well.

Being a fool and a bit of a masochist, I had been looking forward to seeing her all day. She stopped by my house after work and we went to get something to eat together. She immediately got on my nerves. In those days, being in her company for more than thirty seconds would leave me thinking the following: “Gosh, I wish she’d go home already.” She was and continues to be a very annoying person. An example: We were sitting in a coffee shop late one night. The people around us were talking quietly and studying. Suddenly, she announced her intentions to break out her harmonica (yes, harmonica) and start blowing into it. I know she craved attention at all times, which is only one reason why I am reluctant to write and post these words, but blowing into a harmonica in a public place where people were trying to read and chat quietly amongst themselves was more than I could handle. I pleaded with her to put the harmonica away. She conceded but only after she’d blown into it for a moment and made a spectacle of herself. You have no idea how ashamed I was to be seen in public with her at that particular moment in time (and, let’s face it, I was always ashamed to be seen with her in public anyway). But I digress. We were driving around town trying to find somewhere to eat and she was being indecisive as usual. We stopped at a few places, but they were closed or too expensive for her tastes. I was getting frustrated. My frustration should have been readily apparent to anyone in the car at the time, but she was oblivious (she was always oblivious…) and kept quacking into my ear. I soberly announced, “Let’s have a moment of quiet reflection or prayer.” She didn’t get the hint. She kept flapping her gums. I decided on a place to eat and drove us there. She talked the entire time. I parked the car and said, “Please be quiet for a moment. I am trying to think.” We walked to the restaurant in relative silence. As soon as we sat down, she looked at the menu and said, “Oh, this place looks expensive.” I nearly lost my shit. I said, “We’ve been driving around aimlessly for thirty minutes now and we are not getting back into the car. I haven’t eaten all day in preparation for this meal and I’m not going to eat it anywhere else. You’re not paying for the food anyway, so shut up.” She finally shut up. In fact, she didn’t say another word for the rest of the meal. I was in heaven. I ate my food in peace and made plans to dump her later when we were no longer in a public place. I couldn’t wait until we got home; I tried to gently break up with her in the car on our way back to my house. I explained to her that we had nothing in common and did not get along, like, at all. I thought I made a rather convincing argument. I silently congratulated myself for being such a mature and respectful fellow (IRONIC FORESHADOWING!!!). We arrived at my house and she said something that set me off; I have no idea what she said that made me lose my cool, probably something about how great Harry Potter is or how much she enjoyed Pan’s Labyrinth. I yelled something at her as she headed to my front door, something about her using me for my washing machine (long story). I opened the door to my house and let her in. I told her to gather up her shit and get the fuck out. She refused. I walked into my office to get away from her and she followed me in there. I told her I’d call the police if she didn’t leave. She got in my face and refused to get out of it. I told her I’d smash her face in (or something equally stupid) if she didn’t get the fuck out of my house. Again, she refused. It was clear to me that she was antagonizing me, trying to ruffle my feathers so I’d do something brainless. I complied. There was a chair in-between us. I impotently pushed it over. I didn’t even push it in her direction, I merely pushed it over with a limp flick of the wrist (she would later claim that I’d thrown the chair at her). I looked at the chair on its side and laughed. I said something asinine, like, “Be glad you’re not a chair right now or that would be you on the floor there.” This little outburst broke the tension and we both had a laugh at my expense. She later told me that I’d looked “hot” when I’d lost my cool like that. She also told me never to tell anyone that she had said that. Oops. I walked to the bathroom to blow my nose. She followed me. I asked her if she had refused to leave because she loved me and didn’t want our relationship to end. She answered affirmatively. I burst into tears, mostly because I felt nothing for her save contempt and a little pity. Now I feel nothing for her save contempt, which is probably what she feels for me after reading this pointless confession. And the circle of life continues.

*Cough.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007
09:53 P.M.
I was taking a walk tonight and it occurred to me that no one owns me. No one owns me, no one has ever owned me and no one will ever own me. I own me. I’m the only person I know who has complete control over his own destiny. While others do the dance of death each day at their shitty nine-to-fives, I do what I want and there’s no one around to whip me into shape. If I want to masturbate five times in a single day, I masturbate five times in a single day. If I want to sleep my days away, watch movies until the sun comes up or write pretentious drivel (like this) all afternoon, that is exactly what I do. I have created a life for myself that is actually rather pleasant. While the slaves scamper under heated magnifying glasses held up to the sun by credit card companies, petty bosses and student loans, I hold my own leash and do as I please. I am very fortunate. I am truly free. Don’t let me forget this.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007
12:53 A.M.
Spent the weekend in merry old England, London, to be precise. I got off the plane and a guy immediately asked me if I wanted to smoke a fag; long story short, I think I am gay now. Later, a gent asked me if I wanted to see Big Ben. I said yes and he whipped out his massive dick, which he had nicknamed Ben, I guess; I can assure you that it was in fact quite large. Anyway, London was surprisingly dreary. I know, I was shocked too. It was cold and gray and rainy and I loved every bit of it. London is the kind of city that turns your snot black—that’s a good thing, if you ask me. I could easily see myself living in England one day. I could also see myself perishing in a murder-suicide pact involving helicopters and the Pacific Ocean, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyhow, I would move to London in a heartbeat if I actually had a heart. And the city had a less convoluted subway system. And the streets weren’t always so glutted with people moving en masse at a snail’s pace. And the cost of living happened to be more reasonable. And the women were willing to give me the time of day. Blimey!

Monday, August 20, 2007
09:49 P.M.
Mostly unfunny name humor: Have you ever noticed that almost all fat girls are named Jen? Name your baby girl Jen and, nine times out of ten, she’ll grow up to be fat—the other time she’ll just grow up to be a cunt. Many times she’ll grow up to be both. Also, I’ve noticed that there are a lot of black male children named Curtis running around but precious few black grownups with that name. This sad fact suggests to me that most black-on-black crime is probably perpetrated by kids named Curtis. 50 Cent’s real name? Curtis Jackson.* I rest my case.

*This particular pop culture reference will probably cease to be relevant in less than six months. Savor it while you still can, people!

Oh, you threw yourself into it but now you’ve been thrown from it. It’s beautiful until the sun burns out and the band dies—funny how they’re both consumed by fire.

Sunday, August 19, 2007
02:28 A.M.
August is a month chock full of milestones here at Also-Ran HQ. First off, it was in August of 2002 that the first and only printing of The Slippery Slope was unleashed upon an unsuspecting and uncaring public. You didn’t buy that crummy book five years ago and you’re not buying it now, so I’ll shut up about it. Second, it was in August of 2004 that I started compiling material for my book of drawings, cartoons and shellfish recipes, you know, the book that has yet to be completed and will probably never see print when it finally is completed. No matter—you wouldn’t buy it anyway. So raise a glass to Also-Ran this month. Actually, it may be a more fitting tribute to pour out a bottle of malt liquor onto the sidewalk in Also-Ran’s honor, so go do that instead.

Friday, August 17, 2007
02:42 P.M.
I forgot to blog about this the other day when it happened, so I’ll blog about it now: I recently saw a woman sitting on a park bench reading a book—topless. She was wearing a bra, but she was still sitting outside reading a book topless. God, how I love this city.

Also, I saw a woman breastfeeding her baby today. At McDonald’s. In a heavily populated shopping mall. Surrounded by women and children, our most delicate members of society. God, how I loathe this city. Well, at least she wasn’t morbidly obese…yet.

I was walking through the park today when I spotted a big dog running in circles around a smaller dog that was sitting quietly in the grass. The big dog spotted me and took off running in my direction. It bit me. Not hard, mind you, but it bit me just the same. Luckily, I was wearing a sweater and thus its teeth didn’t pierce my goosepimpled* flesh. The dog’s crocodile-like head completely dwarfed my arm, which it tenderly held in place with its yellow canine teeth. The dog emitted a gurgling growl, as if to taunt me for being foolish enough to take a walk in the park in the middle of the afternoon. I was terrified to shake my arm loose, fearing the dog would clamp down harder. Its owner yelled something at the dog in Czech and it ran back to the other dog on the grass, where it proceeded to mindlessly run laps again. Another woman laughed at what had happened. Oh, it’s funny when your shitty dog who isn’t on a leash bites strangers in the park? I hope your stupid dog gets dog cancer. Of the asshole. I’m reminded of all the times that shitbirds’ dogs have run up to me in public places sans leashes while their moronic owners halfheartedly assured me that their curs were “very friendly” and wouldn’t bite. How do you know your dog won’t bite, tuff guy? It’s a fucking animal with a prehistoric brain, for Christ’s sake! Of course it’ll bite! Dogs live to bite people, especially random strangers who aren’t their owners. Dog-owners are fucking idiots; you’d have to be a fucking idiot to own and love a dog, one of the dumbest and most useless creatures on God’s slightly browning but still somewhat green Earth. Dogs are stupid assholes—it’s no wonder they always hang around with humans.

*May not actually be a word.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007
11:40 P.M.
I awoke this afternoon to discover the water in my apartment had been turned off. My solution to this problem? I went back to sleep. The water was back on when I woke up.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007
07:52 P.M.
Today I saw a group of teenagers breakdancing outside a grocery store. Yes, breakdancing. In the year 2007. This is yet another example of why the Czech Republic is the greatest nation on Earth.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007
01:17 P.M.
Just so you know, I have not seen my crush at the arthouse theater since I last blogged about her weeks ago despite the fact that I continue to go there regularly (at least twice a week, in fact). This sad fact proves without a shadow of a doubt that this website is cursed, cursed, I tells ya!!!

Some nicknames for Prague: The Mullet Zone, Fanny Pack Central, Graffiti Town, U.S.A. 1991 and The Body Odor Capital of the Known Universe.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007
03:38 P.M.
I saw a Confederate flag sticker on the back of a car here today. Swear to Christ. The South will rise again, just not in the U.S. And probably not here either.*

I decided I wanted a little culture last week, so I visited three museums in a single day: the Franz Kafka Museum, a modern art museum and a museum of medieval torture devices. Do I really need to say which museum ruled the hardest? Anyway, I scammed a few free rides on the subway to get to the museums. See, the public transport system here in Prague is a little screwy. Basically, you buy a ticket for a certain amount of time, punch in the ticket when you get on the train and then buy a new ticket when your old ticket runs out of time. Plainclothes transit cops police the subways, endlessly searching for freeloaders who are riding the trains without tickets, or at least that’s what they want you to believe. I hadn’t seen anyone checking for tickets during the first two weeks that I lived here, so I thought, “Fuck it” and started riding the subway for free. And it almost bit me on the ass last week. I jumped on the train and, sure enough, two transit pigs got on the train at the next stop. I was sitting near three other people and the pigs approached us. One pig flashed his badge at me and I thought, “Oh, shit, this is it.” I pulled out an old ticket that I’d cleverly punched in three times, making it virtually unreadable, and gave it to the pig. He briefly looked at it and gave it back to me. I’m guessing he must’ve thought I was a moron who punched my ticket in each time I got on the train and thus wasn’t worth his time. The fake cops got off at the next stop without looking at any other tickets. And I escaped to ride another day.

I’ve been meaning to blog about the fact that food portions are much smaller in the Czech Republic than they are in the U.S. Maybe that’s why there aren’t as many obese people waddling around this country as there are back in the good old U. S. of A. Anyway, an example of what I mean: you only get three Kit Kat bars here as opposed to the four that you get in a package over there. Isn’t that wild? No? Fuck you. I think it’s pretty wild…

*I later saw a Confederate flag draped over the back window of a truck. No shit. I don’t get it either.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007
02:46 P.M.
I bet my last dollar on a losing horse.

Sunday, July 22, 2007
01:40 P.M.
The alarm clock screamed, “Good morning.” She silenced it and got up to get ready for work. I had nowhere to go that day, so I stayed in bed and pretended to sleep. I listened to her shower, get dressed and leave the house in a hurry. Seconds later, I heard her unlock the door and reenter the house. She crept back into my bedroom, kissed me and left for work again. It was the highlight of our entire relationship, perhaps because I didn’t actually have to talk to her.

Friday, July 20, 2007
02:54 P.M.
Last night I dreamt that a neighbor accused my ex-girlfriend of stealing a watermelon from her yard. I declared, “If any of your fried chicken is missing, then I think I know who the real culprits are!” I thought that was a fairly witty rejoinder. Even in dreams I’m hilarious!

I recently read a revealing (pun intended) interview with Betti Page in a 1998 issue of Playboy. I learned that Page was molested by her dad when she was a kid (shocker!) and that she’s a born-again Christian (tré sexy!). She also claimed to have never had sex during the seven years she posed naked for photographers. Oh, and did I mention that she once pulled a knife on one of her husbands and his children and forced ‘em to pray to a painting of Jesus? Hot stuff, huh? And how about that Paris Hilton! What a pistol! You’d give up your milk money to taste her pussy just once, wouldn’t you? But have you actually seen her star turn in 1 Night in Paris? She looks like a lousy lay. She doesn’t move around. She doesn’t appear to be having a good time. She complains of being in pain (okay, that part’s kinda hot). In short, these two notorious sex kittens have no claws.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007
10:12 P.M.
Most citizens of the Czech Republic are bilingual—they speak Czech and Eurospeak (not an actual language). For those who aren’t globetrotters like I am, I shall define Eurospeak: it is the garbled nonsense that most Europeans try to pass off as English. Eurospeak is grammatically unsound and generally makes little to no sense at all. I have been exposed to numerous amusing examples of Eurospeak since I moved here two weeks ago and I’d like to share a couple of these examples with you now. And away we go…! Today I passed a group of wankstas as I left the grocery store. One of ‘em put on a ball cap and started posing like a thug, hangin’ tough, as it were. He said something that sounded like “nobody push me, mother…father.” It’s entirely possible that he wasn’t even trying to say anything in English and that I just heard what I wanted to hear. On to the next example. A girl loitering outside the post office approached me while I was taking a walk one afternoon. She got right in my face and started gibbering away in her native tongue. I replied, “I don’t understand. Do you speak English?” With a furrowed brow she doggedly pointed at her left hand and slowly drawled, “Ten, ten, ten…money.” I answered, “No.” And then I walked away. Eurospeak…! Am I right, ladies? Of course I am.

Incidentally, I heard the Ugly Kid Joe version of “Cat’s in the Cradle” again last night! What is with these people?!

Sunday, July 15, 2007
06:54 P.M.
It’s amazing how easy it was to adapt to life in the Czech Republic. I have a good routine here, one that involves writing and reading every day, sleeping all through the night (maybe I’m still jet-lagging, but I haven’t slept this well in years), walking for hours at a time and going to the movies a few nights a week. There’s an arthouse cinema on my block that shows lots of random American movies in their original English versions (no subtitles or dubbing) and the price of admission is just four American dollars and change, so that’s where I spend most of my evenings. I sorta have a crush on the girl who sells the tickets there and I’ve been trying to dazzle her with my Czech. I started off slow with ahoj, but, after another visit, I managed to croak out, “Ahoj, one for The Last Picture Show, prosím.” Impressed (not really), she responded, “Very well.” I didn’t have the heart to correct her grammar, though it may have been nice to have bonded with her over the fact that neither of us can properly speak each other’s respective languages. I told her I would master her language in a matter of days, which is a lie, of course—I will never master her language and I have no intentions of doing so. The next time I see her, though, I will have learned a couple of complete sentences. First, I will say, “Mám rád čokoládové mléko.” If she responds favorably to that, I will announce, “Líbiš se mi.” And then I will murder her and bathe in her blood! Or go home and cry into my chocolate milk when she informs me that she has a boyfriend (cute girls always have boyfriends).

Since most people here speak in a foreign tongue (Czech, to be specific), I have developed a talent for tuning them all out, something I was never able to do in the States; in fact, it was nearly impossible to ignore the hateful conversations I’d hear on the streets of New Orleans each day. I am jarred whenever I hear English being spoken—it hurts my ears and brings me out of my lovely daze. The worst is overhearing conversations between Brits—those people are scum.

It should be noted that the absolute worst aspects of American culture are on display over here. For example, I was walking down the street the other day and heard “Arthur’s Theme” blasting from a restaurant. “Arthur’s Theme”? In the Czech Republic? Nowhere is safe! Oh, and this evening I encountered a group of people in the park listening to Ugly Kid Joe’s cover of “Cat’s in the Cradle.” Swear to God. It should also be noted that the Czech Republic is about ten years behind us with regards to TV, so most of the American TV here consists of shitty sitcoms that weren’t even popular in the U.S. ten years ago, like Unhappily Ever After, Girlfriends (how in the world would anyone in the Czech Republic relate to this show?! I’ve seen no more than four black people in this country since I got here two weeks ago!), Veronica’s Closet and Dharma & Greg. I expected to see Baywatch (or, more accurately, Babewatch, heh, heh) here, but Veronica’s Closet?! If this is all they know of the U.S., then it’s no wonder the whole world hates us. Seriously, I’d fly a plane into a building if Dharma & Greg were aired multiple times a day in my country… On a positive note, The Joy of Painting is the only U.S. show here that hasn’t been dubbed into Czech, thus I can watch it while I eat my Cookie Crisp (yes, they have Cookie Crisp here, so they’re not totally uncivilized), which tastes a little funny in these parts (can Cookie Crisp be too sweet?). (I tried to work as many pop culture references into that last paragraph as humanly possible...)

I was sitting outside the mall reading a book the other night when a nearby teenager sparked up a doobie. That’s right, he started smoking a marijuana cigarette right there at the mall! I was shocked! I looked around for a cop, but I couldn’t find one. It was then that I realized how puritanical the U.S. truly is. I mean, drugs and brothels aren’t exactly legal here, but they are tolerated. Heck, they even show nudity on the TV here! (That’s why I did nothing but watch TV for the first two days I was here!) Even cocks! Will wonders never cease? The Europeans, with their public displays of doobies and boobies, are so advanced, man… Us filthy Americans could sure learn a lot from these progressive people…cough.

This is not to say that I think Europeans are totally awesome or anything; in fact, I’ve found that most of them are as stupid, loud and obnoxious as their American counterparts. If you thought Europe would be a hotbed of intellectualism, think again (if these people are so cultured, then why are they airing Unhappily Ever After six times a day here?!). First, Europeans walk slow. Really slow. Agonizingly slow. It’s unbearable to get caught behind some of these slowpokes. I’m glad I don’t know any Czech cos I’d be yelling at them to get the fuck out of my way all day. And, yeah, they’ll stand right in front of you on the sidewalk. Second, they have no respect for personal space. Listen, I am a man (of sorts) who values his personal space, who is constantly buttressing his personal bubble. The Czechs just don’t respect that sort of thing. If you’re looking at CDs or books in a store, they’ll stand right next to you. If you’re waiting for a train, they’ll stand right next to you, even if there’s no one else around and there’s plenty of room to roam. Oh, and these fuckers are rude. I got on the subway last night and observed a fat piece of shit taking up three seats—he sat in one, put his bag on another and draped his arm across the third. He took up three seats as people stood all around him. Granted, I would’ve stood in lieu of sitting next to that smelly fat fuck, but I would’ve liked to have been given the opportunity to sit down. Oh, and did I mention that most of the men here don’t wear deodorant?! Nope, that’s not just a vicious rumor propagated by our government to foster xenophobia, kids, it’s the God’s honest truth. I guess what I’m trying to say is that people are the same all over the world: shitty.

Saturday, July 07, 2007
08:12 P.M.
You’ll never guess where I’m blogging from!!! If you guessed the Czech Republic, then I stand corrected. Well, I sit corrected. I am sitting. In Prague. Which is in the Czech Republic.* Anyway, I’ve been jet-lagging for the past few days, so I’ve been too busy shitting my guts out and losing consciousness at all hours of the day and night to blog. I wanted to blog about living in a foreign country on Independence Day, but I was too tired to put cyber-pen to digital paper. It’s the world’s loss, I suppose.

So I’ve been here for a few days and I have come to the conclusion that I am the quintessential ugly American. First off, I’m ugly. Second, I was born in the United States of America, making me an American. Seriously, what more do you want? Also, I ate at KFC the other day. I can’t even remember the last time I ate at KFC in the U.S.! (That is lie. I last ate at KFC on May 24, 2007. I had one of those KFC Famous Bowls. Dude! They don’t even have those in the Czech Republic.** And they don’t put ice in the soda here!!! Fuckin’ savages…)

I’ve only managed to pick up two Czech words in the past week: plasty, which I believe is plastic in English, and mléko, which is milk. I learned mléko the hard way by mistakenly purchasing a bottle of coffee creamer while trying to buy a bottle of milk. Hey, there was a fucking cat on the bottle! Cats love milk! You know what else cats apparently love? Cream…

The women here are beautiful—all of them. It’s almost unnerving! Even the girls who work at KFC*** are hotter than any girl I’ve touched with my own hands (not a major feat, come to think of it…)! No shit, all young Czech women look like models—they make the average American woman look like the inhuman monster that she is. On the flipside, the men here are fucking hideous—all of them. For the most part, European men look like lecherous hoodlums who yearn to steal your money and fuck your sister, if they’re not too busy fucking their own sisters, mind you. The word Eurotrash comes to mind when I look at a random European male. (Did I mention that I’m the quintessential ugly American?) Of course, this bodes well for yours truly—there isn’t much competition in these parts (I’ve been told that European women are used to settling for ugly dudes). And if I can’t win over any females with my wholesome all-American looks, I’ll just have to remind them that my people saved their asses in WWII.

In summation, I’m never going home.

*I hate it when people use incomplete sentences for effect. How hokey can you get?

**Actually, they do have Famous Bowls in the Czech Republic, but they call them Fullers here.

***KFC is inexplicably popular in the Czech Republic. Go figure. Other things that are bafflingly popular in the Czech Republic: rap music, skateboarding, public urination, the song “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” by Belinda Carlisle, graffiti and pizza.

Saturday, June 16, 2007
12:36 A.M.
The cat caught a bug last night. She was sitting in my lap when she heard the bug crash into a wall—in a second she was all over the little pest, crunching it in her mouth and batting it mercilessly with her paws. She got it on its back somehow, causing the doomed bug’s legs to wriggle pitifully as it struggled to right itself. She flipped the bug onto its legs with her paw so it could run away and be chased by her. The cat was clearly enjoying herself as she forced the bug to fight for its survival. Eventually, the bug perished and the cat went back to the area of the room where the bug first appeared, presumably waiting for more bugs to arrive. In short, nature is unnatural. The universe is a godless place filled with horror and despair. But sometimes you can find a good blintz if you know where to look, so I guess it’s not all bad.

Friday, June 08, 2007
07:40 P.M.
TGIF, y’all! I think I’m gonna get high offa some of my sister’s hydrocodone and listen to Randy Newman’s first album tonight. If you can think of a sadder way to spend a Friday night, I’d sure like to hear it. I think bagging a fat chick would be the only proper way to end a night as pathetic as this one is shaping up to be…

Thursday, June 07, 2007
02:55 P.M.
Finally, after many, many years of chronic habitual masturbation, I have been forced to get glasses. I put on my new spectacles for the first time this afternoon and I was instantly overcome with the urge to watch reruns of Star Trek: Voyager and play Magic: The Gathering. And then I was thrown into a garbage can by a group of thugs.

“Bet you didn’t see that coming, four-eyes,” my tormentors taunted. They were right, of course.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007
05:30 P.M.
I had some time to kill yesterday evening, so I took a walk around an ex’s old neighborhood. I stood in front of her former residence and it occurred to me that not only had she moved away ages ago, but her roommates had probably also moved on, thus the house no longer held any significance for me—it was just another shitty house in an anonymous neighborhood. I felt nothing as I thought about all of this. I took a piss on the fence and sidewalk surrounding that house the last time I was in the area almost two years ago, but this time I just walked by. I guess that’s progress! I’ve gone from an angry malcontent with an explosive temper to an emotionless robot who feels absolutely nothing—I’m like a furious caterpillar that has grown into a detached and beautiful butterfly. My therapist is gonna be so happy for me when I tell her about this latest breakthrough!

Tuesday, May 29, 2007
11:49 P.M.
My lady was on the rag. We were never in TCB* mode when she was riding the crimson wave, as it were, so I excused myself to the bathroom to toss off a load. I could hear her outside the door—she was listening to me jerk off. I stroked myself very slowly and tried to make as little noise as humanly possible. She eventually wandered off, but it was too late: my buzz had been fully harshed. I finished myself off and exited the bathroom. My lady confronted me in the bedroom. She had a meltdown. She was hurt that I had jerked off to a magazine in lieu of fucking her. I tried to convince her that I had been taking a shit, but she claimed she could smell my sperm in the sink, thus the jig was up.

I became paranoid about masturbating in the house after that, though it didn’t stop me from jerking off whenever I thought I could get away with it. Oh, sure, I could have had intercourse with a willing partner (i.e., my lady) anytime I wanted to fuck, but I found that I preferred masturbation to having sex with my oh-so-willing lover. In fact, I made it a point to masturbate whenever my significant other left the house (and, of course, she masturbated whenever I wasn’t around). I vividly remember many occasions where I watched out the window whilst wanking in anticipation of her arrival home from work or school—I can even recall nearly getting busted tryin’ to bust a nut numerous times. Mostly, though, I would jerk off in my car during breaks from work cos it was the only time I could get to myself. Tragic, huh?

In short, I was a prisoner in my own home. But things change, as they are wont to do, and I have been paroled—my old lady is now some other chump’s old lady and I can jerk off whenever I want to jerk off. And I do. Hell, nowadays I’ll hump my couch just because I can (and to show the couch who’s boss). I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Don’t sit on my couch if you ever come to my house.

*TCB stands for takin’ care of business, dontcha know!

Tuesday, May 29, 2007
01:51 P.M.
I love to sleep. I sleep eight to ten hours a night and another two to three hours during the day. Sure, sleeping all day may be an indication that I am deeply depressed and, yes, I am deeply depressed, but I’m genuinely content this way—I like sleeping most of the day and seeing as little sunshine as humanly possible. I am happy when I sleep most of my life away. In fact, I’m sleeping as I type this. I’ve been asleep for years.

Thursday, May 24, 2007
01:39 A.M.
Not that the world was clamoring for it or nothing, but there is now a second issue of Van Halen’s Cancer, my shitty PDF eZine, in existence. Go download it from my webpage! Or don’t. See if I give a fuck.

Thursday, May 17, 2007
10:28 P.M.
I truly believe that anyone who laughs at television commercials should be exterminated—this will be my platform should I ever run for president of these United States.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007
11:06 P.M.
I threatened to blog about this and blog about it I shall: I recently blew a load of jism all over a girl that was so big and messy that she actually had to take a shower afterwards to wash all of my reproductive goo offa her tight little body (that stuff even got into her right armpit!). Seriously, this money shot was worth a million bucks! Heck, it would have put Peter North to shame! That gigantic wad I blew really made me feel like a big man.

Tuesday, May 1, 2007
12:34 A.M.
A couple months ago, after I bedded my latest sexual conquest, I got tested for a smattering of STDs. I went to the hospital and they drew blood. I was fine as the needle drained me. I looked at the vials of blood as the lab technician wrote my name on ‘em and said, “Oh, wow, it’s kinda disturbing to see my own blood. I have no problem seeing other people’s blood, mind you…” And then I nearly passed out. Actually, I nearly passed out, threw up and shit myself, all at the same time. My body instantly became drenched in cold flop sweat. I excused myself to the restroom and, once safely inside, collapsed on the floor. I got up after a moment and somehow managed to remove my shirt and pants, climb onto the toilet and evacuate my bowels. There was no lock on the door and I was terrified that one of the lab technicians would bust in while I was on the toilet. Long story short, I eventually recovered my bearings and got the fuck out of there. Best of all, my tests came back negative. Who says God doesn’t hear the prayers of the innocent?!

Sunday, April 15, 2007
09:58 P.M.
White people are so lame.

Sunday, April 08, 2007
01:59 P.M.
Though I’d probably call her the love of my life, I never actually loved her—how bittersweet is that?!

Monday, April 02, 2007
08:55 P.M.
We drove to Hotlanta the day after we fucked for the second and final time. We were in bed in a seedy motel watching a crummy movie on cable TV. She asked me to massage her feet. I politely declined. She protested. I informed her that I did not like to touch people’s feet and had never massaged anyone’s feet as a result. She asked me how I’d ever had a girlfriend when I refused to massage feet and I earnestly informed her that the issue had never come up before. Long story short, I gave in. I massaged her feet for a few minutes. It was agony—my private little trip to hell...on foot. Looking at her crotch as I manhandled her clodhoppers gave me an erection. I let go of her foot and started kissing her. She said, “I don’t want to fuck tonight.” I said, “Okay, let’s just make out, then.” She replied, “I don’t want to make out tonight.” Denied! After a fucking foot massage! That was easily the most humbling experience of my entire life, a life that’s been fraught with humbling experiences.

Monday, March 26, 2007
08:34 P.M.
We were arguing on the neighbors’ stairs. A jeep piloted by two drunken crackers pulled up to the curb in front of us.

“Are there any other white people in this neighborhood?” the driver asked.

“No,” I lied.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007
07:30 P.M.
Computer-friends: I will be performing my standup routine at The Brew-Ha-Ha, the world’s only coffee shop/comedy club, this weekend. My set will be recorded for inclusion on my first standup comedy LP, which will be entitled That Nigger? Crazy! What follows is a small taste of what I will be performing.

Yo, wasssup! Lotsa fine-lookin’ females up in this bitch tonight… Yes… Very tasty indeed, not like my baby’s mama—that bitch is fat and I don’t mean p-h-a-t! My baby’s mama has got a serious weight problem—bitch can’t wait to eat! In all earnestness, though, the girl has an eating disorder—if she don’t get somethin’ to eat, she gets disorderly! And the bitch is ugly too—like Frankenstein’s monster or some shit. She’s the only black person you’ll ever see in a horror movie. You know why you never see any black folks in scary movies? Cos black folks would never go into no haunted mansions—you’d never catch no nigger in no cemetery after dark! When white people have car trouble in these movies, they be like, “Let’s go into this spooky house with all the blood and shit on the walls and get some help.” You put a nigger in one of these movies, however, and it would be over in less than five minutes! Niggers’ car breaks down and the niggers be like, “Yo, we’ll just wait by the car until help arrives!” MAMMY!!!

Tuesday, March 20, 2007
11:41 A.M.
Her name was Chanel (don’t blame me, I didn’t name her). I attended art school with her ten years ago. She majored in French and Studio Art, thus she is undoubtedly a housewife by now. In spite of the fact that she was clearly a worthless pile of shit who thought my name was Joe, I kinda wanted to fuck her. And by “I kinda wanted to fuck her” I mean “I really wanted to fuck her.” When I first met her, she was a total nerd who did time in the school’s Tai Kwan Do Club, but she eventually evolved into a drunken slut, the kinda skeeze you’d fuck without a rubber in the hopes of giving her HPV. A guy I was friendly with told a mutual friend that he’d gotten drunk at a party and woken up with Chanel next to him in her bed the next morning. He was ashamed. I was jealous.

Chanel and I were in drawing class one day when the professor announced that each classmate had to pair up with another classmate so the two students could draw each other. Naturally, I paired up with Chanel. Completely deluded, I was somewhat excited about the possibility of having some time alone with my hateful crush. I tried to chat with her as she drew me and she admonished me for smirking. I tried to draw her next, but I had no success—I was too intimidated to draw her. She showed me her drawing of me and I was horrified by it—she made me look like a monster! I stared at the revolting rendering and thought to myself, “Good God, is this how people see me?!” There’s really nothing quite like being drawn by an attractive person to let you know just how ugly you truly are! The professor looked at my pencil doppelganger and declared, “This looks just like Joe!” The drawing was posted to the classroom bulletin board, where it taunted me for the remainder of the semester.

Many months later, Chanel passed out invitations to a party she was throwing—she gave an invitation to every person in the class except me. Finally, she approached me, sheepishly looked down at the invit