FKIN

Old music tonight.  A tune that has been out of my rotation for at least five years.  It has been a rough week, but this song is not helping my mood.  If I’m smart, I’ll lock myself in my office tonight and eat sedatives until I wake up in a puddle of drool.

I know that won’t happen . . . Read the rest of this entry »

The Rules are simple:

1. Don’t use coke.

2. If you use coke once, you’re a cokehead.

3. Never trust a cokehead.

She was not the prettiest woman I’ve been with, a middling 6 at best.  The way she dressed made matters worse – all jeans and sweaters – so I was pleasantly surprised when she peeled them off.  Her breasts were larger, her body curvier, than I expected.

What she lacked in curb appeal, she made up for under the hood.  Her sexual appetite was voracious.  Rodeo clowns aren’t this motivated . . . Read the rest of this entry »

The following glossary contains words I use that are either uncommon, archaic, or completely made up.  I will be updating the list from time to time.  You can find it under Thought Cancer.

I do not claim any creative credit, I am simply documenting subcultural slang. Read the rest of this entry »

I stood at the gas pump tonight, staring at my boots, listening to the machine tick its way through my bank account.  I leaned forward to spit, but the sudden pressure in my jaw veto’d.

I tried not to think about what it cost me to get four deeply rooted wisdom teeth pried from my head.

I tried not to think about the $80 I spent on eggs, vitamins and vegetable juice tonight.  I refused to look at the gas pump.

Read the rest of this entry »

Sex Sells

I wanted to get some writing done this weekend.  Unfortunately, the pills I’m on are making me too nauseous to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.  I decided to scroll through the Blogosphere and found this little gem posted by John Smith.

I guess I just assumed that somewhere in Nevada there were a few legal male prostitutes.  Perhaps a high-end escort service for wealthy women?  Apparently Markus at the Shady Lady is the first legal male prostitute in the US.

Read the rest of this entry »

It recently occurred to me that there is a disparity between how men and women define Hooking Up.  The female definition seems to involve making out and heavy petting.  Everything else is Banging.

There was no mention of oral sex.  Gray area.  Everyone avoided the subject.

For me, the definitions are opposite.  Hooking up involves conjoined genitals.  Everything else is just fucking around . . .

Read the rest of this entry »

I have a new piece up over at The Spearhead.  I managed to drag Kant and Hobbes into a fist-fight over whether picking up women in a bar is sexual assault.  For my next trick . . .

Denise Romano v. The Seduction Community

Denise Romano is no friend of pick-up artists.  Ms. Romano has accused pick-up artists of being abusive to women.  She claims that Game represents a kind of Fraud, invalidating consent for women who have sex with pick-up artists.

Ms. Romano believes that Game, and pick-up artists, are morally culpable for coercing women into having sex.  She believes that Game is a kind of brainwashing, that it manipulates the will, therefore constituting sexual assault.

Denise Romano is just bitter . . .  (Excerpt from The Spearhead)

This is an interesting piece, and definitely worth the read.  If you are a fervent supporter of the Green Movement . . . bathe.

According to a recent article in The New York Times, therapists claim a rise in household “green disputes.” It turns out some couples are experiencing what therapist Linda Buzzell calls a “values gap,” when one of them “undergoes an environmental ‘waking up’ process” before the other. Leslie Kaufman reports that Christienne deTournay Birkhahn of the Marin County-based EcoMom Alliance has noticed “disputes over how green is green enough often divide along predictable lines by sex.”

Of course they do. (Excerpt from The Spearhead)

Every day is a test of my patience.  Some days I cope with boredom, hunting for tasks and purpose.  On other days I find myself repeating the same tasks ad nauseum.  Watching your work disintegrate over and over is aggravating, at best.

My supervisor informed me that something I had spent a lot of time on had been wrecked.  The city workers who destroyed it were still there.  I slammed the door against the wall on my way out.  I was a block up when my boss told me, over the phone, don’t say anything to them . . .

I stood there, looking at the mess the guys had made.  Oh well, they said.  I didn’t say anything.  The supervisor wouldn’t have heard me over his chainsaw.

I went back to the shop.  My boss was still stewing about the incident.  One of my co-workers, who was born in Guyana, started laughing when he saw me.

“Awww, sheeeat boy . . . ya talk ta them?”

“No,” I said.  ”Wasn’t worth the bother.”

“Dey naw say nothin’?”

“Nope.”

“Dey must saw you comin’, man.  Dat ‘rude boy’ walk,” he flared his elbows and swaggered a few feet.  ”Dey be thinkin’ Fuck No, Man, sheeeat . . . “

I’m the only one at work that can understand anything he says.

I got the reference.

I didn’t respond.