A woman is forced by space aliens to smile

Veronica Milner from Newton, Massachusetts was abducted yesterday evening by space aliens and forced to smile by means of advanced alien technology.

Last Tango in Bad Sumo

Hi Camus Girl,

Just got your package. Thanks, Camus Girl. You're awesome!

"The Passenger?" What is this? I've never heard of this film. But it has Maria Schneider in it. I've seen her completely naked in "Last Tango in Paris" a long time ago. She was incredibly beautiful. I hope I do not have to endure seeing her naked again. It would torture me.

Humm, what happened to Badsumo.com? Maybe it's something else, but maybe it no longer exists because I stopped posting because Winteach didn't invite me to her fucking blog party in Lowell and everyone became so bored with the place that they lost interest. Maybe I made them pay, maybe I didn't. I like to think that I made the bastards pay! Winteach consistently made a grammatical error by not putting the apostrophe in "it's" for contractions. I cannot believe they let people like her teach.

I neglected to mention that I came across a movie only a few years old where one of the characters who was being held captive and being videotaped used eye blinks to convey Morse Code, similar to the character in my screenplay who used eye blinks to convey binary code. Maybe the writer had come across my screenplay. More likely the bastard was also familiar with videotapes of American POW's who attempted to pass on information that they were being tortured with Morse Code using eye blinks. It still sort of bothered me a little that this was my concept. Morse Code is no longer used also. No one would even know Morse Code these days, but they were taking artistic liberties, which I guess is okay.

So you see they've taken everything from me, Camus Girl. Screwing blow up dolls, eye-blinking ... all the great artistic ideas of this century, perhaps the millennium, stolen from me...

-Dickie

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 8 (Horror of Nancy Grace)

Michael Phillips (MJP) of smog.net, Professional Loser

A horrible thought came to me the other day, which was what if I was actually able to persuade Michael Phillips that he was human shit? The chances of this are remote. MJP is delusional. He writes shit like this, calls it poetry, and attempts to sell it. He thinks he is something that he’s not. There are a lot of people angry at MJP. They may even be more angry at him than I am and want to kill him. If MJP either kills himself or some madman kills him, do you know what’s going to happen? That horrible fish-face, Nancy Grace, is going to whine and moan for at least a week about me, and attempt to implicate me in MJP’s death. She will claim that I stoked the furnace. Under political pressure, The US District Attorney, AG, or whoever, might even try to implicate me as well. And I’ll spend the next ten years in Leavenworth. But It’ll probably be less than that because I’ll probably get shivved to death long before I ever get out. They’ll probably use some obscure clause in the Patriot Act and charge me with domestic terrorism or something like that. Maybe I’ll be sent to a supermax.
Michael Phillips is sort of like the big retarded kid who got held back for three years when you were a kid and took sadistic pleasure in beating you up. You fantasized about learning Kung Fu one day and beating the shit out of the kid, but when you see the retard in BJ’s as an adult with his really ugly wife and his pathetic fat son that looks like a clone of him, and they all have those stupid, far-off looks on their faces that you see in dogs … the scene is so pathetic that you don’t even sneer. You just feel sorry for the fucker.
MJP: While it is true that I would kill myself if I were you, I would also kill myself if I were a lot of people. I just have higher standards. Accordingly, please don’t kill yourself. Instead, try not to be a fucking asshole. Help a blind person get across a street. Give a poor homeless guy a dollar. Don’t self-publish your art anymore. It is very embarrassing.
MJP Haters: Please don’t kill MJP. Please don’t physically harm him. Be cool. MJP is the retarded kid who got held back for three years. He is too pathetic to harm. And if you think I’m exaggerating, take another look at his poetry. Really, folks. Let’s just be cool. I don’t want Nancy Grace complaining about how heinous I am and implicating me in MJP’s death. I don’t want to live in a supermax. I like to take two showers a day. They only allow one shower a week in a supermax. I don’t want to get shivved, and I don’t want to have to shiv people in order to prevent getting shivved or raped or whatever ghastly things my fellow cons might want to do to me … all because of Nancy Grace.
I actually hadn’t even begun to bash MJP. But I want to put the brakes on this before Nancy Grace gets involved. I will however issue this warning: Should MJP or any pro-MJP people defend MJP on this blog, I’m dropping a dime to the IRS. If MJP is actually moving copies of his self-published crap, I want to make sure the IRS is aware of this. Anyone who supports MJP should give careful attention to my warning. I am not a person who takes being fucked with lightly.

I'm forgetting you already, Nance

All I could think about today was how badly I wanted to drink. I could not drink because I am getting too fat. I never like to drink two days straight anyhow. I like to take at least two days off. It took all I had to get two or three hours of work done. I don't blame myself. Most people would have given up a long time ago.

I saw Nancy's new facebook photo yesterday. I am not her facebook friend but I periodically check up on her facebook photo, because I am looking for the type of thing I just found. In her new photo she is with a tall, dweebie looking guy with glasses, receding hair, late 30's. Dress shirt. He looks like a CPA. He has one hand on her shoulder. They are in what looks like a jewelry shop. It looks like this guy was my replacement. For all I know I was her fallback guy and this was the one she was working on the whole time.

This is going to sound defensive, but Nancy truly looks like shit. Her face looks bloated and misshapen. She is smiling. It is a smile of contentment, perhaps a little excitement, but it isn't the heart-melting, child-like Nancy smile that I remembered from our skype teleconferences. This was not the Romanian Bond Babe I remember. Maybe there was never a Bond Babe. Maybe I created the Bond Babe in my mind. I was actually every pessimistic about Nancy ever finding someone, but I always thought that whoever she found would look a lot like James Bond. What is she doing with the dweeb? I would no longer consider her beautiful but certainly she is still awesomely intelligent. Couldn't she have done better than the dweeb? Is the dweeb more fun and crazy than me? I doubt it. What kind of children is the dweeb going to give her? They will look like dweebs. They will be mocked at school. My children would never be mocked at school because I would home school them. The dweeb could pass on his poor eyesight to his offspring too, and his kids will never have an opportunity to be Major Leaguers. It sickens me to think of the dweeb putting his dweebie mouth to Nancy's. Thinking about the dweeb and Nancy fucking is like thinking about my parents fucking. It makes me cringe. I know Nancy needs to have sex five times a day. I could easily do this. It's highly questionable to me if most men in their late 30's could do this. Does the dweeb know how to touch a woman? Is the dweeb going to lick her vulva properly and voluntarily? What if Nancy needs her asshole licked? Is he going to be able to do this or is he going to dweeb-out?

I don't want Nancy. She is evil. And my feeling is, Nancy and the dweeb can have each other. I actually feel sorry for the dweeb. I just find it fucking bullshit that I live in a universe where a dweeb wins out over me. I so kick this dweeb's ass.

I just removed Nancy from my skype, along with her cell phone number. I'm forgetting her already.

Haffenreffer sucks

They didn't have any of my beloved Old English Brand "800" and I had to drink this Haffenreffer Private Stock crap. It says on the bottle "Malt Liquor ...with the imported taste." Imported from from where, "Moldova? ... Albania? ... a toxic waste dump in New Jersey?" Good crap this stuff made me unhappy. You cannot deny trailer trash like me their Malt Liquor. Fuck!

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 7 (mailbag)

Michael Phillips (MJP) of smog.net, Professional Loser

The only part of smog.net that I used to read was the mailbag section where MJP would publish mostly angry and often inappropriate e-mails, mostly coming from poetry traditionalists. But this was not always the case. MJP would sometimes publish an e-mail for no reason other than to be sadistic:

Subject: smog.net site feedback
From: Pat
Reply-To: UNDISCLOSED EMAIL

Hi,
Im a french male living in Chile, and I offer myself as a nude model for Art works.
You can contact me at UNDISCLOSED EMAIL
Thanx.

Note that unlike MJP, I have not disclosed this guy’s actual e-mail. That would be inappropriate because the poor guy hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s a nude model. It’s a job and an honest living. Selling your own so-called art like MJP is demeaning, not being a nude model.

You might argue that I too am a sadist. I am a sadist. But I only enjoy hurting assholes. I am not the terrorist that MJP is. I’ve never gone after someone who didn’t have it coming.

This mailbag entry I loved:

Subject: My work [new blood]
Reply-To: hickeystudio@hotmail.com

alot of the fine art on your site is absolute dogshit compared to my work. such an obvious abundance of forgettable mediocrity. You deny your own eyes. I clean more soul from beneath my fingernails every day than you can comprehend. I thought the day I got on your site would be the zenith of my career. Quite frankly, I'm surprised. My life is too short to be filled with so much shame. three cheers for the banal masses. Pussy. I'm picking my nose as I write this. Fecal peanuts for you. You've fucked with the wrong shitty painter. Come to NY and see me so I can step on your throat. Put this entire letter up. It would speak volumes if you would just listen. Go ahead you sorry little cunt. Let's see what happens.

Yours,
Matt

“I clean more soul from beneath my fingernails every day than you can comprehend.” That’s a great line. I think this guy Matt is a vastly better poet than MJP. Though I think Matt could use a few pointers on how to be scary. It’s best not to threaten people online because you leave behind all that evidence. If you really must invite MJP to visit you in New York in order for you to step on his throat, you should give him your home address. Or better yet, give him the address of the half-way house that you will be staying at when you have served your prison sentence.

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 6 (datapimp)

Michael Phillips (MJP) of smog.net, Professional Loser

MJP created a web hosting company called datapimp™. Its slogan was “email with attitude”.

You could sign up for a free e-mail at datapimp, with these domain names:

Nigga-Please.com
Crack-Whore.net
Sorry-IFuckedYourWife.com
QueerMotherfucker.com

as well as many more obscene and offensive domain names.

With such a lofty concept, who could have foreseen the demise of such a noble enterprise?

How does human shit live with itself without killing itself? How does it live without dignity? Help me. Help me, MJP to understand?

State of Bastard Nation

Dear fellow bastards,

Bashing smog.net’s Michael Phillips has at least temporarily reinvigorated me and given me purpose to blog. I have so much to say about this asshole that I literally need to organize all my ideas and write them down in a notebook. I am not sure I will be able to make the July 1st deadline of closing down the blog, so I’m granting this blog a temporary stay of execution. I am not however optimistic about being able to maintain this blog beyond the MJP Bashathon because I have quit dating, and have divorced myself from the FastCupid asshole blog community. So there is no drama in my life that I can think of which is worth mentioning. There is just a lot of despair and loathing. This stuff is good for fiction, but I don’t see it making good blog. Unlike MJP, I quit writing a long time ago because self-publishing and publishing in ass rags like Mother Road is just plain beneath me and undignified. What does it matter if ten people read your shit in an ass-rag? It is really pathetic.

Believe it or not there are human shit vastly worse than MJP. These people are called Literary Agents. I refuse to deal with them. Unfortunately I will probably have no outlet after the MJP Bashathon and my existential crisis will only worsen. But fortunately I have discovered this great, cheap, psychopharmacological drug, that you don’t even need a prescription for called Malt Liquor.

I am formally declaring that followers of Bastard Universe are members of what I am coining as Bastard Nation. (Very original concept, eh? Well, at least I’m honest about my sexuality and my religion, unlike other people in “Nation” marketing campaigns.)

You, my four readers, are my bastards, except for Camus Girl, Beverly, and IOG (Iraq Occupation Guy). So, actually, that leaves Michael Phillips as the only actual bastard.

What I would like to do is be able to host images (some of them copyrighted) on another account that is free, and link to them from here. I used to have a lot of fun mocking people (mostly Republicans), and the war effort in the early days of this blog, but I had to remove the images because billions of assholes on the Internet were linking to them and stealing my bandwidth. Any ideas?

Your Head Bastard

Dick Richards

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 5 (Grammar)

Okay, let’s go back to the letter. This issue is not what really pissed me off about the letter (we will get to this, believe me), but let’s examine Michael Phillips’ dis of my spelling:

p.s.
that's "ceased", not "seized". you can't even complain properly...

I find it puzzling how a fucking cocksucker who calls himself a writer is disrespecting me about spelling when he can’t even use grammar correctly. For example, right on MJP’s About page, he writes:

At it's peak, the site attracted one new visitor every minute.

I suspect that this error will be fixed very soon now that I’ve pointed it out, so if you click on the page the error will probably be fixed. However this error was there at the time this blog post was time stamped. The grammatical error is that you don’t apply the apostrophe to “it” when indicating possession. I have corrected MJP’s error below:

At its peak, the site attracted one new visitor every minute.

I am a terrible speller. I also have terrible grammar, but I was deprived of oxygen at birth and probably suffered brain damage. I had to go to this asshole special school. Most of the kids at this school could barely read. I’m not asking for sympathy. My point is this: I have brain damage – what the fuck is Michael Phillips’ excuse? He is a big shot published writer. Shouldn’t he be able to use grammar properly?

Again. Michael Phillips is a living contradiction. An unbelievably pathetic loser. This will be Michael Phillips’ pathetic legacy: My pathetic blog about him. This is the most fame he will ever receive. Michael Phillips is truly an embarrassment to me, and I think a disgrace to the human race.

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 4 (Resident poet)

You can read about Michael Phillips sucking up to The Man at his job as Operations Manager for PowWeb.

In this Q&A thing, MJP is asked what his favorite hobbies are. He says he “writes,” “paints,” blah, blah, watches “girlfriend paint,” watches “(way too many) shows on Tivo,” blah, blah. MJP later goes on to say, “I read once that Steve Jobs said every company should have a resident poet, and I think he's right.”

MJP never overtly says that he is the resident poet, though it is implicitly clear that he is calling himself the poet.

I don’t write poetry. I never have. I don’t read the stuff. But let me tell you about poets. Real poets. Poets never call themselves poets. Poets don’t suck up to and work for The Man –- at least not for as long as he is saying he does (2 years). Poets can’t tolerate The Man for any length greater than 3 months. Tops! Poets don’t own Tivos. Poets don’t have girlfriends because they’re interested in cock, and even if they happen to like girls, they cannot obtain girlfriends, because they never make enough money for them. The true poet is a man who feels like his nuts are in vice and his asshole is violated. The true poet has nothing left but agony, despair, and anger. (Of course a true poet can be a woman too. I don’t mean to sound sexist. It’s just different for a man.)

Resident poet. Is MJP fucking kidding me? MJP wants to position himself as an art fag yet you can’t be an art fag and suck up to The Man at the same time. It is the pressure of living outside of the realm of The Man that gives you the pathos and creative freedom necessary to be an art fag. I can at least respect an art fag, but a weekend art fag disgusts me beyond belief. They are intolerable. Worse than The Man himself.

Michael Phillips: You are a contradiction. Remember when Captain Kirk convinced that robot who was bent on exterminating the Enterprise to blow itself up because it had contradictory programming? You are that robot. You are a living contradiction.  You are living a lie. The lie of nobody going nowhere who thinks he’s a poet. You’re an embarrassment to true art fags everywhere. You make them sick. You must carry out your prime directive, Michael Phillips, just like the robot. You know what you must do.

I still haven’t gotten to MJP’s letter yet. I intend to dissect what the motherfucker said to me, line by line. All in good time.

22 days left…

 

I would like to address this comment posted here:

Do not stop bogging. You have followers who care. Check your stats. We read but never post for fear of your ire. You are loved.
--ur #1frnd

I no longer have statistics. I’m on blogspot. I give you people something very special on this blog –- I give you my soul. Few other bloggers know how to do this. Contrary to what the Church might teach, most people don’t even have souls, they just live on auto-pilot. I’ve also expanded the form of blogging. I am the only person I know of who understands it as a unique art form, that must be treated differently from other forms of writing. 10 or 20 or 30 years from now, assholes will be publishing their blog as books. They will be teaching blogging in MFA programs. These new-wave bloggers will be considered pioneers of the form, and they will do some of the very things that I do, and people will call them innovators. And Charlie Rose will have them on his show and do his usual kiss-ass routine. They’ll probably show up on Colbert too.

Other bloggers who have vastly inferior blogs to me have Followers. I have none. This is unacceptable. I am not a loser like Michael Phillips. I am not so starved for attention that I will sell my soul to a few isolated individuals like some kind of bloggo crack whore.

The 19 year old who conned me out of six dollars at the train station was really symbolic to me of my audience. You take and take and take and give me nothing in return. This has always been the case going as far back as my radio days. What ire do you think you’re going to get from me? I don’t recall ever beating anyone’s ego into the dirt who did not hit below the belt. The Che-Lives and the Wediko assholes who continue to persistently attack me ANONYMOUSLY were both given ample opportunities to state their opposition to me in, in person, on my radio show. They were both sent official invitations which were published on this very blog. Neither of these institutions answered. Yet their minions continue to libel me. What do you expect me to do? I have no option but to pound these fuckers into the dirt.

You don’t have to agree with me. As long as you treat me with respect, I will respect your opinions and you with respect. This talk of “ire” is just plain ridiculous.

My equipment is working again, and is up to at least 90% capacity. This means that I can pretty much masturbate whenever I feel like it, with little or no pain. So I don’t need to blog anymore. I have another outlet for my existential misery. I can put all that wasted blog energy into chocking my chicken. I don’t need to blog anymore. I can take or leave you.

You’re running out of time. I still need ten Followers and you have only 22 days left…

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 3 (Better than booty)

I usually don’t need fodder but sometimes when I’m hard-up I hit Youtube in search of booty. The trouble with booty is that it becomes boring after a while. All those big asses flapping around start to look alike. The booty just wasn’t working for me that day and I was really bored and needed to get off. I remember having looked at some photos of Michael Phillips earlier and I thought about how feminine and beautiful he was. So I searched Youtube until I found this really fem guy called Michael Phillips playing guitar all sad and melancholy-like that sure as hell looked like the smog.net Michael Phillips -- but this guy said he was 26, and Michael Phillips says he was born in 1960. Maybe it was a young smog.net Michael Phillips. Maybe it was the bastard son of smog.net Michael Phillips. Who knows? Who cares? It was some great, girly masturbation fodder.

While Michael Phillips is human shit, and I intend to elaborate on this, I have to concede that Michael is more beautiful than most women.

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 2 (First blood)

Did you think I’d forget about my Designated Asshole, Michael Phillips? As you will see from the dates of the e-mails with Michael Phillips below, our  correspondence occurred about ten years ago.  I was bending over backwards to be appropriate at the time. Now I just feel very nihilistic. I don’t think this human shit has been exposed properly as the loser that he is.

The only thing I’ve altered in this correspondence is my name. My real name is not Dickie Richards. If you dig far enough into this blog you will find my real name. I just don’t like it broadcast all over the place. You could always ask mjp what my real name is.

Subject: Regarding Atom Mind
Date: Thu, 02 Sep 1999 17:58:14 -0400
From: [Dickie Richards <Undisclosed>]
Organization: Undisclosed
To: mjp@smog.net, webmaster@smog.net

Dear Michael,

On your web site, subscription information and an order form is available for a journal called ATOM MIND. In 1996 I bought a subscription to ATOM MIND. The last issue I received was Summer/1997, and I am still owed two more issues. I wrote to the editor of ATOM MIND asking why it was that he was advertising for his journal on your web site and yet had not put out an issue for two years. He did not respond.

As a writer yourself, Michael, I’m sure you can appreciate how important it is that small literary journals do not falsely advertise their product. If people are cheated by one journal, they will hesitate before subscribing to another journal -- it hurts the entire business, and hurting the business hurts the struggling writers.

ATOM MIND has effectively seized production of its journal and therefore cannot legitimately sell subscriptions. Advertising for a non-existent product is false advertising and is illegal.

Accordingly, I respectfully request that you remove any reference in your web site to ATOM MIND being on sale.

Dickie Richards
[UNDISCLOSED E-MAIL]

Subject: Re: Regarding Atom Mind
Date: Tue, 14 Sep 1999 02:45:33 -0700
From: Michael Phillips <mjp@smog.net>
To: Dickie Richards <Undisclosed e-mail>

"cheated", "false", "illegal"? -- you're fucked in the head, brother.

if you do subscribe to AM you've received the publisher's newsletter explaining his situation. along with his promise to fill out all subscriptions...listen, *I'M NOT MOTHER ROAD/ATOM MIND*, and i do not speak for them, defend them or make excuses for them. i put the info on the site to encourage subscriptions to one of the best lit mags being published. whether it comes out quarterly or every four years.

perhaps you think publishing a literary mag is like publishing TV Guide, but it isn't. 99.9% of these guys are putting up the bulk of the MONEY for each issue out of their own pockets. to come to me with your bullshit whining and complaints is not only insulting to the spirit of the endeavor, but god damn irritating.

"as a writer" you say - don't give me that shit! don't fucking patronize me. yes, i am a writer. and yes, unlike you, i know how this shit works. maybe *you* are a ("struggling") writer. i would not be surprised, everyone else is. maybe you are uptight, anal and angry because no one will publish your shitty, struggling writing. maybe not. i don't know.

but really - what shit your letter is! what whining, mealy-mouthed, embarrassing, tightass, pussy shit. i feel sorry for you.

i don't speak for ATOM MIND, but i speak for smog.net, and smog.net says;

"fuck you, and the dainty unicorn you rode in on!"

your pal,
mjp

p.s.
that's "ceased", not "seized". you can't even complain properly...

Subject: Re: Regarding Atom Mind
Date: Tue, 14 Sep 1999 16:29:15 -0400
From: Dickie Richards <Undisclosed>
Organization: Undisclosed
To: Michael Phillips <mjp@smog.net>
References: 1

The fact remains that you are accepting advertising for a journal that bills itself as a quarterly and yet has not put out an issue for two years. I have consulted with an attorney over this, and he has explained to me that what you are doing is illegal. Later this month I plan to file a grievance regarding your organization's actions with the Attorney General of the State of California.

Dickie Richards

Subject: Re: Regarding Atom Mind
Date: Thu, 16 Sep 1999 02:48:34 -0700
From: Michael Phillips <mjp@smog.net>
To: Dickie Richards <Undisclosed>
References: 1

At 04:29 PM 9/14/99 -0400, you wrote:

dear dickie,
go fuck yourself.

pjm

Left testicle endangerment

I saw my Internist today for a physical. I like this doctor. The only thing I don’t like about her is that she calls me “Sir." I wish she wasn’t so formal. I don’t mind calling her “Doctor.” She does not need to call me “Sir." I wish she just called me “Dickie.”

In the lobby there are pamphlets that contain mini-bios of the doctors in the office. Under “Personal Interests” she lists very normal stuff like reading novels and cooking. She also says that she often stays up too late rooting for the Red Sox. This is also very normal. I do it too, but my thought is, should she be telling me this? I want my doctor to be wide awake as shit. I can’t have a tired doctor making life and death decisions about me. She should at least say that she always takes a snort of coke before seeing each patient, and for Dickie Richards she does two snorts.

While inspecting my left testicle, she hit a nerve. She asked me if that hurt because I flinched. I said it hurt a little. My testicle hurt for two hours afterwards. I hope that testicle is still good. I really need that left nut to make the babies and make me manly (except of course for my soft and subtle girly skin.)

She said I should exercise. When I asked what type of exercise, she said I should walk four miles a day.  I literally said, “Are you kidding me?”

She was overflowing with praise of how low my bad cholesterol was and how high my good cholesterol was -- and all my other good stats, which I had no idea what they meant. She told me I did good work or something like that. Obviously this woman has no fucking clue that a main staple of my diet is bacon, eggs, pumpkin pie, beer, and fried foods. She probably assumed that I was a health nut to have stats like that. (Maybe it’s the pumpkin filling that makes me so healthy. Maybe years from now they’ll learn that pumpkin pie filling adds decades to your life.)

If I can eat like shit and be so healthy, especially considering the awesome amount of stress that I deal with, it really makes me question her advice of doing cardio-vascular exercise.

No softball for me

Dear Stu and Erica,

It's become impossible for me to rehab my shoulder and play at the same time. I have decided to suspend playing until my shoulder is good enough to play. It is highly dubious that I will be able to play this Summer. I am terribly sorry to leave you short-handed.

I look forward to playing (hopefully) with or against you during the Fall or next year. I wish you the best of luck. I think Team 10 just had a bad outing the last game. I am optimistic that Team 10 will have better days.

-Dickie Richards

Michael Phillips: Portrait of a loser – Part 1 (Introduction)

There are some people in life that are like eczema. They are nasty and grotesque and irritating. When you think you’ve ridden yourself of them, they resurface. Michael Phillips is an example of human eczema. Michael Phillips runs smog.net. Smog.net, as of today, has an Alexa ranking of 2,921,898. This means that no one reads smog.net. Like many freaks that I’ve met, Michael Phillips likes to go by initials. His initials are MJP. I contacted this human garbage called Michael Phillips ten years ago. I will reveal our entire correspondence in the next MJP blog entry. It was posted on a different website called The Fruitcake Outlet, that I have taken offline.

It angered me recently that this piece of shit had come back into my life. It is likely that he posted a comment to my comment on Facebook. Although I cannot verify that the Facebook Michael Phillips is the smog.net Michael Phillips, it’s highly likely that they are one and the same due to proximity to the LA area. Our mutual Facebook friends are Fast Cupid blog community people. (This makes sense that he his somehow associated with this evil, quasi-institution.) Whether the Facebook Michael Phillips and smog.net Michael Phillips are the same or not makes no difference. This blog will be coming to an end soon, and this asshole world has not even begun to pay. I have decided to crash and burn this blog, and we’re going down hard! I am designating Michael Phillips as this world’s symbolic representative. Michael Phillips is the designated asshole.

I believe Michael Phillips to be a loser. He has lost in life. He always will be a loser. His self-published written works are probably already yellowing. I’ve never heard of anyone who listens to his music. His art, if he’s ever sold any is probably eroding at the bottom of some land fill. As much as Michael Phillips so desperately yearns for a legacy as a so-called artist, there is no legacy nor will there ever be, for he is a loser. The most attention Michael Phillips is ever going to get is from my blog, which hardly gets any attention.

Ten followers by July 1st, or no more blog for you!

I was angry today. I aborted a failed advertising campaign and pissed away a lot of money. I had my blood tested in Boston today and pissed away a whole day in the process. I was most angered that I let some plump teenage woman with a nice chubby ass con me out of six dollars with a bullshit story of needing money for a train. At first I thought she wanted directions, then I got a hardship story of being short on money. I smelt a con by the mechanized way she told her story. This woman was well-fed. There was no hunger or fear of desperation in her eyes. I suspected a con yet I forked over money like an asshole. I did not back out because I feared being mocked, as they used to do when I was a kid. At least she thanked me after she exploited her mark. The last con-artist became indignant that I had not given him enough money. There was no question that she had conned me as I saw her seeking another mark later.

Coming off the train I stared down every asshole parked on the bridge waiting to pick up people coming off the train. It was clearly marked: "NO PARKING ON BRIDGE," but assholes do it anyways because they can. I can't because you're not supposed to park on the bridge, because it violates the rules.

Attention Blog Reader:

I don’t know what I look like to you, your personal blog whore? Shit, I thought Fast Cupid was a mean back alley to blog in because of all the cocksucker, duplicitous assholes, but blogspot is simply the blog armpit of the universe. Do you know how much fucking shit I have to take on blogspot from all the anonymous drive-bye assholes who give me shit about my anti-Che Guevara and anti-Wediko blog posts that have been there for years? Don’t they look at the date of the blog posts? I finally had to block Wediko commenters. If one more Che-fan dares fucking post another one of their inane ass fucking comments on my site, I swear to God I'm going to threaten to skull fuck them to death. I am not kidding. Please don’t cause me to threaten and carry out a skull fuck, because I really don’t want to hurt anyone, and I don’t want to have to face prison time for the murder. Che Guevara sucks. Live with it, you dumb-ass, cock-face motherfuckers! And I’m not even mentioning anything about the occasional drive-bye asshole.

Even if I turned commenting off, I don't see what the point is in doing this blog. I am not some art fag shithead who writes because I need to write. I have nothing against gays. I really don’t. Give me a nice clean cock and I’ll suck the poison out of it. I really will. But I despise art-fags. And Bukowski was the greatest art-fag of them all. Nobody writes because they need to write. They write because they need an audience. This notion of writing because of some deep-seated yearning of the soul is pure, unadulterated art-faggotry.

Here is my ultimatum: I need ten followers by July 1st. Scroll down the right column of the page. Click the "Follow" button. If there is not ten followers by July 1st, you can kiss this blog goodbye, and I will no longer maintain a regular blog beyond this date, but will probably occasionally write a blog post when I need to burn an asshole. Why should I waste my time on you? There will be no more charity for you or anyone. You want my money? You want my soul? You better show respect. I better see some hunger in your eye before I fork over anything more to anyone for free. Ten Followers by July 1st, or this blog is done.

Final thoughts on Nancy

Who has shaped my personality the most in the fourth decade of my life? It is not Werner Herzog or Ho Chi Minh or Zhou Enlai. It is Nancy, the crazy Romanian woman living in Dubai who stated she is from New York City in her dating profile and stalks men on the American Singles dating website.

Nancy is the smartest person I’ve ever talked to. I’ve never talked to anyone who was both as articulate and funny as Nancy. Nancy was a believer in all kinds of magical bullshit, was partial to new age mystical nonsense, and could not argue for shit, but I believe it is because she was never trained to use her brain to reason. This was a woman who was guided by the world of magic and, if I am going to believe her very convincing story, a burning desire to have children.

Nancy was Captain Ahab come to life. She was not chasing White Whales but white men – white American men to have babies with. She didn’t care who she hurt in the process, including herself. When I’d teleconference with her she chain smoked and drank and drank and she was not a nice drunk. She would get mean and nasty and domineering.

Perhaps I give Nancy too much credit for intelligence. She had no strategic sense. Instead of busting my balls, she should have coaxed me into trying to get a job in the real world. Gently persuaded me. That would probably have worked. I would have at least tried had she not been a Nazi, domineering bitch. I am very dubious about my working in the real world succeeding. It never has before because of my learning disability. She kept saying to me, “There’s nothing wrong with you.” It was more of that magical thought. She thought you could just wish problems away through the power of not being lazy.

Let’s face facts. Let’s stop glorifying Nancy. Yes, she was beautiful and had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. She would have made a spectacular fuck and made me laugh, but that is all. She would have given me enough anxiety and pain-in-the-ass to kill me. If I managed to impregnate her, I’d never make it through the gestation period. It would be death through beration. Nancy reminded me most of my mother, a Borderline. Nancy would have made a shitty mother. Her children would either be insane or evil. I really don’t think I’m rationalizing when I say that Nancy was not a good baby making prospect, because she was too fucked up in the head to raise children to be human beings.

Nancy had a hard life. So did I, though she didn’t acknowledge the hardness of my life, nor I suspect of anyone else’s. Having a hard life doesn’t excuse you from being an asshole. I would even argue that having a hard life gives you an even greater moral burden.

I haven’t deleted Nancy from my Skype yet. I really have no desire for her any longer. I have decided to keep her in my Skype because I know that people like her sometimes come back when they can’t find what they’re looking for. I want the opportunity to reject her, and it would be done very subtly. Maybe it’s best to delete her and get rid of her completely. I will consider this.

As much as I hate Nancy I have tremendous respect for her. She is somewhat of a God to me, like Herzog. Nancy and Herzog are the same animals. Herzog said that he was ready to shoot Klaus Kinski and then himself if Kinski followed through with his threat of walking off the set of his movie, shot in the middle of the Amazon. I believed Herzog. Herzog was so devoted to his mission that nothing else mattered. When I asked Nancy why she smoked if she wanted to have a child she said that she would quit if she became pregnant. I pointed out to her that she could still die of lung cancer after she had a child. She didn’t seem to give a shit. She couldn’t see beyond the mission, which was making babies and having a “lasting legacy” as she called it. As warped as Nancy was, she grasped life by the fucking balls like no one else I have ever talked to. She was the most alive person I’ve ever known. She passed some of this on to me, and I was indelibly changed by her.

The penis is okay, sort of

Technically it is not the penis that was the problem. The anatomical part is called the perineum. I’ve blogged about this before, though I most likely referred to it as my prostate problem, though it turns out that it was probably not a prostate problem.

Nancy would always ask me how my “penis” was. She was very concerned about my problem, as she liked to have sex five times a day, a feat I used to be able to do easily, as I am a freak of nature and can even have multiple orgasm with hardly even losing an erection, but five times a day last year would have caused me unbearable pain. It made any type of sex life nearly impossible. I have known men who would have killed themselves if they had what I had, but I kept saying to myself, “Stay, cool, it’s not like you’re getting any sex anyways.” It did drive me to the brink of madness, but all-in-all I think I handled it quite well. I remember having to masturbate, not for pleasure but to relieve awesome amounts of pressure. I think the pressure was caused by semen build-up. Masturbating would give me initial release, yet would cause my perineum to swell again. So I would wait two or three or four days until the pressure would build up again until I couldn’t take it anymore and then masturbate again to restart the vicious cycle. I would also get very angry at myself when I masturbated, but the discomfort of the pressure was unbearable. Anyone would masturbate under this condition. The Pope would masturbate.

I am leaving out a lot of details. Basically I was fortunate enough not to be able to afford Flomax anymore. Flomax didn’t cause the problem, but it almost surely was making it far worse. The problem is much better now. Occasionally there is perineum swelling but nothing near like what it used to be. I can easily ejaculate five times a day and often do when I’m bored.

I had found another urologist. His name was Michael O'Leary at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. This was the third urologist I saw about this. He was the only doctor who was familiar with my symptoms. He said they don’t know what causes it, that it is thought to be something in the nervous system, and that there’s nothing that could be done to help me, though it might get better by itself – and he was right about this! I decided to abort trying to get the problem fixed, because I felt like he knew what the fuck he was talking about.

Woman going downhill

I prefer the "Before" woman because she has big strong arms and can protect me. The "Getting there!!" woman looks the cutest and she looks happy. The "After 1 Month!!" woman looks unhappy and has lost her cute little tummy. She's also lost the plumpness in her cheekbones. She looks haggard.

Wediko

Below is a reprint of an old essay I wrote about the Wediko camp, run by Wediko Children's Services. It was originally published on The Fruitcake Outlet which I've decided to take offline.

With the possible exception of ritualistic cannibalism, I have never seen, heard, or read about cultural phenomena as bizarre as what I witnessed at Camp Wediko.

I was a camper at Wediko about 20 years ago. I was approximately 15 years old. Wediko is a summer camp for maladjusted children and teenagers. You can learn a little about it on their web page here.

There is sort of a main road in the camp where most of the campers live. This is also where the nurse's station and cafeteria/recreation hall is. Most of the action went on here. Sort of a main drag. I don't know what Wediko is like now, but 20 years ago if you walked down this main drag at any given time during the day, you were likely to see at least one incident of a camper being physically restrained by counselors. The amount of counselors needed to a restrain a camper generally depended upon the size of the camper and the amount of resistance he/she was offering. It generally ranged from 1 to 8 counselors restraining a child at a time. Usually it was 2 or 3 counselors. They restrained the camper by crisscrossing their arms around their chest. One of the fascinating aspects of this phenomenon is that there was none of this on visiting day. During visiting day my parents were roaming around Europe. When they finally came to visit me at the camp, they were rather amazed by all these kids lying on the ground being restrained by counselors. I was embarrassed for my parents. "It's nothing," I told them. Writing this now, I ask myself, if it was so weird for my parents, why the hell didn't they take me out of there?

Including myself, there were 8 fellow campers in my bunk. Unlike myself, most of the kids were underprivileged, coming from the poorer parts of Boston. One of them I believe went back home the first night. I don't know why. One was kicked out half way through the program. After the kid was kicked out I realized that a nice watch that I owned had vanished.

As I remember, the day consisted of 2 works sessions, consisting of manual labor such as washing dishes in the cafeteria. The work sessions were about 2 or 3 hours long. There were several group therapy sessions. They were long, perhaps an hour and a half. There was a little recreation, such as swimming in the lake—dubbed by my friend Chris, "Leach Loch" because of its blood-sucking inhabitants. "The leaches won't get you if you keep moving," a counselor used to tell me. There was always a bottle of salt around in case someone came out of the water with a leach attached. I never saw anyone come out with a leach but I've heard stories and I did see dead leaches that had washed ashore. It wasn't fun swimming. There was individual counseling sessions with a specific counselor that was assigned to you as a mentor. This happened maybe a few times a week. My mentor counselor was a real asshole. I will get to him later. On Saturday or Sunday—I don't remember which, they would pay us $10.00 and take us out on a field trip. I lost a lot of that money gambling.

I am a mosquito magnet. The mosquitoes sucked me dry. There were no doors to the bunk where we slept. Eventually they put a mosquitoes net up, which helped. I would bury myself deep inside my sleeping bag to evade the mosquitoes. I'll never forget the shrill whine of the masses of mosquitoes trying work their way into my sleeping bag. There seemed to be animosity in their whine. I knew that they were just dumb animals, that they couldn't have emotion, but they really seemed pissed that they weren't sinking their fangs into me. When I awoke, I would find that they always managed, somehow, to get me.

For half the summer I had a cold I couldn't shake. Between that and the mosquito bites it made life physically miserable. In all fairness, when I actually complained about my physical discomfort, they did give me antibiotics to cure my cold and made provisions to significantly reduce the amount of mosquito bites I was getting, which included giving me mosquito repellent and putting up the mosquito net. The staff at Wediko weren't inhuman; more like protohuman.

My mentor counselor had a scruffy beard. He looked like the kind of guy that lived year-round in the woods. Once he went off to take a shit in the woods. When he came back, I looked at him with adolescent awe and asked, "How do you wipe your ass if you're shitting in the woods?" And He replied, "Oh, I just used a leaf." It didn't seem like enough I thought, but I didn't press the issue. I used to poke fun of him in front of my peers, and call him Willamiah Jones because of his woodsiness. "Jeremiah," he told me, "not Willamiah. Willamiah's a women's name." I would give him shit but I never got physical with him or any of the counselors. Once when nobody was around, he physically restrained me in the standard way of crisscrossing my arms around my chest. I don't remember whether it was because I was giving him shit or because I was complaining (he hated my complaining as do most people), but I was not doing anything which was physically threatening to him. He restrained me merely to assert his power and dominance over me. He was looking for resistance and I didn't allow him any form of justification for his violence. I just did a Gandhi number and let my body go limp as melting butter. Not giving him the satisfaction he was looking for was one of the few victories I have ever had in my life. That was the only instance when I was restrained. He embarrassed me a little because some of my peers came by and looked at him restraining me, but it wasn't a big deal as all except for one had been restrained themselves, on at least one occasion. As the summer progressed, one peer after another would flip out, be restrained, and carried off. We were 15 years old, the big kids, and when we lost it, we usually required a lot of manpower to restrain us. The bizarre thing was that in most cases my peers would flip out over completely ridiculous things. One kid had to be dragged out of a group therapy session when he flipped out because the counselors were given two days off a week, and the campers only one day off. Someone who was not there might argue that the campers were flipping out because they were mentally unbalanced. This however was not the case. It was as though campers felt obligated to flip out, and counselors felt obligated to create an environment where flipping out was not only acceptable, but expected.

Once my mentor literally dragged me out of the cafeteria, in full view of everyone because I was complaining about the shitty cereal they gave us. After he dragged me out, with a stern warning, "You stay until I come back," I escaped into the woods. Camp would be over in only a few days, and I planned on hiding out in the woods for the rest of my stay, eating blueberries for sustenance. Once it got dark though, the steady racket of wild animals compelled me to go back.

I spent the better part of the last few weeks of the summer in voluntary isolation, refusing to be a part of my bunk or engage in any camp activities. I would lie on the grass all day in front of the schoolhouse. People would come around to bring me meals. I'd sleep on the floor of the schoolhouse at night. Some, but not all of the reason why I did this was because I had gotten into a physical fight with one of my peers. He was literally twice my size and the only reason I engaged him in the fight at the time was because it was in the cafeteria where I knew there would be an ample supply of counselors to break up the fight. Still, it was crazy, and I could easily have gotten pretty messed up like the other kids who were crazy enough to tangle with him.

Was Wediko a good place? Of course not. Was it entirely evil? No. Even my mentor was not completely bad. The guy taught me how to throw a frisbee backhanded and gave me very good, obscure mosquito repellent that only a woodsy bastard like himself would know of. One of the directors of the camp was named Harry. I only remember his name because my friend Joey used to call him "Dirty Harry" and it used to piss him off. Harry was one of the nicest guys I ever met. He never talked down to me like the counselors. Never treated me like a delinquent kid, but as a person. One of the counselors was Irish. Although he played it by the book, he was a pretty sweet guy. He used to have the band U2 living upstairs from him when he lived in Ireland back when nobody knew about U2. He told us a story once about when he camping and he had one of those little one-man tents, and he stuck his head out and some big goddamn bird tried to lift his head up and carry him off. My friend Chris used to draw erotic pictures of women. The Irish counselor confiscated them. Chris explained to me that he confiscated them for fear that it might excite us. My friend Joey was from South Boston, or as it's called in Boston, "Southie." He was a year or two younger then the other kids in the bunk and didn't understand a lot about sex. He once was talking about how horses fuck each other up the ass. I don't remember what the context was. My mentor explained to him that horses didn't fuck each other up the ass, and articulated to him what they were really up to. Once Joey and I were taking a last piss before bedtime. It was dark and the bastard accidentally peed on me. He thought it was a riot. Joey was a handsome kid. There was a girl camper that obviously liked him. She approached him and tried to start up a conversation. Joey was speechless. The girl was magnificently beautiful. I have never felt lust for a girl like I have for her. I would've been as scared shitless as Joey, as I didn't know how to talk to girls either. Still don't. Joey was always talking about us being buddies and seeing each other after camp, but I never heard from him. Saw him on the trolley a few years later. The poor bastard came down with a terrible case of acne, the kind that scars your face for life. He didn't want to talk to me much me. I don't know if he was embarrassed by his physical condition or weirded out by my business suit, as I had taken a job in the mail room of a mutual funds company. A few weeks later I saw the big guy I had had the fight with. Saw him on the trolley and had on my business suit as well. I looked away, hoping he didn't recognize me. He recognized me. I'm sure. Didn't do nothing though.

I could easily write a 100 pages about the weirdness that went on at Wediko. But I'd rather not. Wediko was a very sad and agonizing chapter in my life. Before I started this web site I made the decision not to name names when bashing people or institutions unless, in some way, it served to steer others away from the same people who mistreated me. When I was a camper at Wediko, I believe it was a bad place for children. That was, however, 20 years ago, and I am no longer in a position to judge the current state of Wediko. Dr. Hugh Leichtman is currently listed on Wediko's web site as a clinical director. He was at least one of the people who headed up the organization 20 years ago, and I knew him personally, as he did an evaluation of me. I encourage you to read Dr. Leichtman's essay, "Yellow Tulips". If you are a parent considering sending your child to Wediko, I want you to seriously consider whether you want to entrust your child to someone who talks about "yellow tulip brains."

11/18/2001

The hot 43 year old

I chatted on the chatter with Angel last night at three a.m. She was freaking out. Angel is a beautiful woman. 43 years old, five kids, living on a farm in the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin. There is one photo of just her wide womanly hips and legs which drives me mad. Another where she is squeezed into these working clothes that are way too small for her. She is a little overweight. I really don't think she realizes that these clothes are too small for her. That's what makes the photo so sexy. The clothes are just barely containing her. She seems horrifically naive about life and men. Can't spell or use grammar but can blog better than me. She blogs about the horror of her dates. She numbers each man she's dated. She titles her blogs by the number of the date. She's currently in the high 80's. My worst dating experience is a typical date for her. It's great pathos. It is hard for me to believe how shitty men treat her. One man who really didn't treat her too well to begin with invites her to his house after only seeing her once. He fucks her than doesn't call her back for a week. It's unreal. I think that it is only because she lives in such a desolate area that a woman who looks this good can be treated like such shit.

She was freaking out about the upcoming meeting with what she calls her E-boyfriend, some 58 year old from California she met online. I can tell the age difference really bothers her. She tells me her father is only two years older. I doubt if this relationship will work. He will probably want to fuck her very badly and she will probably be slightly revolted by him. I give it 10 to 1 odds it doesn't work, but it might. Maybe she is so lonely that she will make it work.

Angel originally contacted me a few months ago. I think she was very put off by the fact that I needed a younger woman so that I can reproduce.

Angel is desperate. I could have been her E-boyfriend instead of the 58 year old. I could have had sex with the hottest 43 year old Mom in the Midwest. I could have been her man-whore, trophy husband -- whatever you want to call it. I cannot tell you how much I would like to have sex with this woman, yet I'm not really sure what we have much in common beyond that we are both horny, like to drink beer, blog, and are trailer-trashy. She is not a good reproduction candidate, and has all those kids already. Christ. They will probably hate me. Everyone will probably hate me for being a freeloader, which I would be. I am vastly more sophisticated than her. I think that would be a big problem.

When I'm old and alone and dying I will probably say to myself, WHY DIDN'T YOU FUCK THE HOT 43 YEAR OLD, YOU ASSHOLE?

Tired ramblings

What was it when I went to sleep? 6:30, 7:30 a.m. I wasn't even drinking or working. There seems to be a never-ending amount of shit I must do. I must speak to family and friends -- some of whom go on interminably, watch boring Netflix DVDs, do physical therapy exercises for shoulders twice a day -- are they for real? -- (isn't it in my muscle's interest to give them a 24 hour rest?), brush the crap out of my teeth to avoid further gum recession and gum graft surgeries, do boring masturbation (it's work -- it's like manual labor -- I'm working a pump to extract jizz for no adaptive purpose whatsoever), take a shower to wash off the lubrication, jizz and any other detritus away, take medications, apply creams, and moisturize face with hand lotion to keep the skin womanly soft (again for no adaptive purpose as there is no woman to let me use my abundant supply of jizz to fertilize her eggs), read boring books on existential philosophy (good Christ these guys are boring -- the only one of these guys who has the slightest concept of how to write is Nietzsche -- I decided to skip Jaspers and move on to the Nazi [Heidegger]. I'll give the Nazi 5 more pages to capture my attention -- otherwise I'm moving on to the womanizer [Sartre]. I have no patience for people who cannot write in plain fucking English -- and yes, I know Nietzsche wrote in German but he wrote in a very modern, simple and compelling way for mere mortals.)

It seems like everything is such a fucking drag and the littlest things take so much time and energy. I'm too tired to work today. I'll try to get some cleaning done. That's all I can do. I thought maybe blogging would wake me up but is hasn't.

I looked at some personal ads, just for the fuck of it. I have no desire to write anyone today, and hopefully never so long as I live in this absurd country of money hungry assholes.

Came across this joker, an average looking 40 year with nothing compelling about her profile:

I would like to meet a man who will be great company, is intelligent, resourceful, loyal, sensual, with a sense of humor and manageable baggage.. who may be looking to stick around beyond the 5-night stand scenario. You don't have to be a millionaire, a MENSA member, or an underwear model, but please be 35-45, gainfully employed, attractive, and single (as in not married, separated, seeing someone or "polyamorous", LOL).

She wants "attractive" and "intelligent" and "sense of humor" and "sensual" and "loyal". This stuff doesn't grow on trees -- it is hard enough finding one of these things let alone two of them, yet she also wants "gainfully employed." Who the fuck is this loser kidding? Middle-class, middle-aged women have such unrealistic expectations. She has been on okaycupid before I got there. She was initially looking for younger men for a sex romp. She'll be on okaycupid long after me. These women think I'm pathetic, but you should see me see them. Here's a little secret folks: It's the not being "gainfully employed" that gives you humor, loyalty, and yes, believe or not -- sensuality. Not being "gainfully employed" doesn't make you intelligent, but it teaches you to think more critically about the world, which, in many ways is more valuable than raw intelligence.

Plan B beginning to look like a shit plan

So I'm sort of entering a new chapter of my life now. Or really returning to an old chapter of economic hopelessness and romantic hopelessness and a complete world of shit. Things are a little different now. Instead of pipe dreams of publishing novels to create lasting legacies I have pipe-dreams of creating families in economically disadvantaged countries to create lasting legacies: Plan B.

Due to the economy, Plan B isn't even feasible right now. It's still in the research stage and the research isn't promising. Chisinau, the capital of Moldova, one of the most miserable countries on earth, has skyrocketing real-estate rates due to housing shortages. I have heard that real-estate in Bukurest is more expensive than Boston. The most miserable places on earth are probably going to be the hardest to get a foot-hold in. I'll probably manage to get myself killed in one of these places. And if I do it, it would be poetic justice. I'm there in attempt to cheat nature. And how in the fuck am I going to learn Romanian? Rosetta Stone doesn't even offer Romanian. I can't possibly learn a language through a course. My brain just doesn't work that way. I need to do things at my own pace which is SLOW. But Rosetta Stone does make a Vietnamese. But what the fuck am I going to do with Vietnamese when the asshole Western investors are in their hogging up all the real-estate, driving up the prices? Ain't gonna be able to afford Ho Chi Minh City don't think. I could probably afford a backwater in any poor country, but where I am I going to meet women? That's the whole point, right? To find a wife. But even more important, where am I going to get Internet access in the backwater so I could support the wife and child. Maybe a hugely expensive wireless service. Who the fuck knows? There are far worse problems. There are the dangers of the conditions of poverty and social unrest to my hypothetical family. It's madness. The more I look into Plan B, the more mad the plan looks. I keep looking for schemes to cheat the universe out of shit it rightfully took from me like a good job and respect, and sex and children and all that good stuff, but the universe blocks me from all angles. The problem is really a problem of intelligence. I need to know how the system works in these places -- I need the inside scoop. Without knowing this, I end up taking tremendous risks. I cannot afford a world tour of the third world, nor do I have the time as I am already 43 and a half. I don't know the languages. Physically, travelling is very hard for me due to medical problems. Plan B is looking increasingly insane. Rosetta Stone supports Hindi. Maybe India. I'll look into that...

Back in the wilderness

About the time that I was almost sure that I should quit dating and move to Plan B, I received this message:

Hello, nowomannolove,

You were in my "quiver."

You can take a look at my profile and write back if interested in chatting a little.

Take care,
Megan

I was amazed that Megan, a beautiful 36 year old had actually solicited me. Even ugly 36 don't usually solicit me. But as you can see there is this talk of "chatting" and I knew she was a long shot. I'm not sure if women want online chats when they say this or phone chats, but I've had enough fucking anxiety for one lifetime for women and their fucking job interviews. Fuck them. I don't care how young and how beautiful they are -- they want to chat with me, they could do it in the flesh -- lazy assholes. This woman probably lives nor more than a few miles away from me, which is why I suggested Watch City Brewery.

Hi Megan,

I'm terribly flattered that you contacted me as you're beautiful. I would be interested in chatting. I am not a fast talker. I talk slowly, so you will need to go easy on me. I took a course with Jack Levin. Having studied a sociology you've probably heard of him. Would you like to have coffee or a beer with me? Maybe Watch City Brewing Company in Waltham or whatever place you like.

-Ed

By the way, she mentioned being a fast talker in her profile. that is what that was all about. It's been two days. She won't get back to me. I knew it was a waste of time the moment she mentioned this "chat" bullshit. Fuck women with their lazy ass chatting. Don't they know that you must be gay to be a good phone-chatter? Heterosexuals are visual animals. We need to see the mouth and the breasts and the smile and the facial expressions and the whole nine yards. We can't relate to this auditory shit. It's like random noise to us. It's treading water in the middle of the ocean. We're completely overwhelmed. I have nothing against the penis, but you must really like the penis in order to be good over the phone.

So I will at some time, when I can muster up the guts, remove my profiles. It will be very lonely. I will be back in the wilderness again. I've never actually had a profile up for such a long run. It was a good six month run. I always end up removing it, because I always come to the realization that trying to find a woman without a real job is a fucking useless waste of time.

I had thought about turning my personal ad into a sex personal, by only checking off that I'm looking for intimate encounters. This idea revolts me in a myriad of different ways. I don't like to lower myself in this way for sex. I don't want to touch these disgusting sex pervs who fuck multiple sex partners or are emotional screw-ups that can't handle relationships. Half of these women are probably bipolar. Is it ethical to screw a woman who wants to screw you only because she's mad? This is very gray area. Maybe by going sex personal I am not lowering myself so long I do not respond. Maybe it's payback. Maybe it's a way of saying to the universe -- I'm only here to fuck you. I will need to consider this.

As for Cheryl, my new thinking is, fuck her! Why should I build her up in my mind like this? Yes, I should have been cooler. I am very imperfect, but I am not a bad person. I tried to patch things up. I think she could have cut me a little slack. She wanted me to cut her a lot of slack and go about a very non-traditional dating route. I don't think she is going to do better than me at her age. If she can't handle me, then fuck her. I'm forgetting her already. I should have taken my own advise in The Loser's Guide to Survival sooner:

a.) Don't look back.

b.) Never get too upset over a woman.

My final finger to the Fast Cupid blog community

My Dear Friend Camus Girl,

It tortures me that you cannot be my mate. That is all that I will say on this subject. I am drunk and very depressed and it's in my best interests to shut the fuck about my longing for you.

I am seriously considering stopping dating. A beautiful 36 year old wrote me yesterday. I don't think I will write her back. What would be the point? I'm just an unemployed fuck-up on [UNDISCLOSED]. How do I skirt around this issue? I think I had a panic attack before a date last week. I don't want to have another. Physically it takes too much out of me.

I had my first softball game today in at least five years. I hate playing softball. It makes me horribly anxious. I worry now that it will give me a panic attack. I severely wigged trying to find the field, was an hour late, missed batting practice and didn't play too well. I play the game to symbolically demonstrate to the world how inferior it is to me. I am a better athlete than these people. It is a form of payback. It is me saying fuck you to the universe, you're not better than me. The world has succeeded in giving me inferior social status but I cannot resist any opportunity to show the world that I can kick its fucking ass if the playing field is leveled. All of this payback comes at a tremendous cost of anxiety and stress. But I feel compelled to torture myself in order to pay this fucking bastard universe back for beating me down.

I didn't go to sleep until five a.m. because I looked at some of the blog party photos and got angry and thought about my life and became frustrated:

Look at this photo:

[UNDISCLOSED PHOTO OF BLOG PARTY WOMEN]

[UNDISCLOSED] is the second woman on the right. This is the larger-than-life [UNDISCLOSED] who looks like a movie star with her professionally shot photos in her FC profile. In real life she's just an ordinary middle-aged woman with a sagging right breast hanging out of her dress. Don't get me wrong about [UNDISCLOSED] -- I can see in her writing that she possess enormous wit, writing talent, and I'm quite sure that she is brilliant. This is the only person in the entire blog community that I really had any desire to meet, because of her rare intelligence and beauty -- though now it would only be for her intelligence. She is not ugly. She is a perfectly good-looking middle-aged woman, yet not larger than life in terms of physical beauty. Physically she is an ordinary mortal, just like me. Intellectually I suspect she is larger than life. There is something very special about her that I can see in her writing. It reeks of intelligence. She is the exception. Nobody else in the blog community possesses anything special that I can gather from the way they write.

I thought I would be hurt by looking at these photos of all the bloggers having fun, while I remained uninvited. But I could quite honestly tell you that I am not hurt, only angered that they think they are too good for me. Looking at these photos I see a bunch of middle-aged losers, who have lives so small that they must fill the void by traveling the country to petty, exclusive blog parties. These people will have no significant impact on the world. They will live and die and be forgotten. In the grand scheme of things they have won in life no more and no less than I have, it is only self-deception and group-think that they are the winners and I am the loser. The blog community is comprised of the same cool kids in school that didn't invite me into their little clique. But now I see that the cool kids really aren't nearly as cool as I thought they were. In fact they are rather pathetic. They are not 1/10 as cool as I am. I am not being defensive. I really believe this.

I think I will stop posting on Bad Sumo. That place will shrivel up and die without me, and if not it will certainly become the most boring place in the universe. I may even publish this letter to you on my blog. I don't see how I owe anyone in the blog community any allegiance. You're either with me or you're against me. I tried to be nice. I bent over backward to make peace, but what I got in return is more exclusion. I have disdain for their petty collective. Let them fuck themselves with that knowledge. I will not de-friend them, but, with very few exceptions, I want nothing more to do with them.

I am so sorry that you must endure seeing those poor young women with their self-mutilated bodies. This would really disturb me. I don't believe I would be able to look at this on a daily basis and maintain my sanity.

I may have lost my $300 Ray Bans today. I'm too drunk and it's too dark to find them. Fuck me!

-Ed

Plan B to Albania

Rebecca was a 36 year old. I was pushing the envelope. I had come out of dating semi-retirement for about a week, and had suffered a string of bailouts and humiliating rejections in order to get this date. Even a 47 year old had flaked out on me -- thank God!

Rebecca had suggested a coffee shop in Central Square, Cambridge at seven o'clock p.m., a nightmarish parking scenario. I would need to leave at 5:30, get there at 6:00, and hope that I find a parking space within an hour without having a complete nervous breakdown. I kept looking at my cell-phone for text messages expecting her to bail like most women who are at least 7 years younger usually do. I'm always grateful when they do bail because I don't really want to date them, but I always get angry at them for jerking me around, yet never say anything. I took 2.5 mg of Valium before the drive. This was just to take the edge off. It's not the date that really freaked me out but the rush-hour drive and the nightmare parking. I normally don't need to take Valium.

I looked myself in the mirror before I left. I was about 15 pounds heavier than last year, had a little of the beer belly back, but had lost that sickly, gaunt look in my face. My skin was a little more leathery, I had a little less hair, but my face had filled out and the skin was taut. This was the old Ed I was seeing. The old Ed was back and he looked good for 43. Fuck all this dieting bullshit. I'd rather have the beer belly than look gaunt.

I had not allotted myself enough time to avoid taking the Mass Pike. I saw it looked trafficy before getting on it. It was a mistake to get on it. Had I avoided it, I only would have lost 10 minutes at best. There was a tremendous traffic jam on the Pike. It was crawling. I felt trapped and claustrophobic. My heart started racing. I had so much trouble trying to retrieve 5 mg. of Valium from my pillbox (attached to my key chain) while negotiating traffic. By the time I got the Valium in my mouth I was horribly panicked. My heart was racing.

At 6:15 I reached Mt. Auburn Hospital. This would leave me only about 35 minutes to find parking. This time I decided to make a smart move and act conservatively. I parked the car and set out on foot. Hopefully I used enough Right Guard to mask any sweat I produced on the long journey, but if I didn't, fuck it. People shouldn't expect people to park in some of the worst places in the Boston area at seven o'clock and expect them not to work up a sweat.

I got there ten minutes early. It was a good move to walk. There was not one empty parking space. As a walked in to the coffee shop to use the bathroom a woman in her 20's gave me the look. I have not seen the look for a long time, but that was definitely the look. And she was hot too. I know the fucking look when I see it. That was the look. Those fucking assholes on the PlentyOfFish dating site give my photo a 2.5 out of 10 rating in the 20-30 year old age range. If I'm so fucking homely to 20-something year olds, why is a hot-looking 20-something year old giving me the look. The fucking assholes! Even the 40+ year olds on PlentyOfFish give me only a 4 out of 10 looks rating. Cocksuckers! Apparently I'm not nearly as unfucking hot as they think I am.

Still no text message from Rebecca calling off the date. I didn't want to date Rebecca or anyone. I wanted to date Cheryl. What the fuck was I doing with 36 year old's? My heart was still racing. It was like I had taken a shot of epinephrine I was jacked out of my mind. It ocurred to me that I should take another Valium. The Valium I had taken thus far had been like taking vitamins. But I couldn't take the Valium. If she didn't bail, Rebecca would be there soon, and I didn't want her to see me popping pills. I don't think the Valium would have mattered anyhow. What I needed was Heroin not Valium.

Rebecca arrived on time. What could I tell you about Rebecca? She was a class act. She had bought her tea so fast while I was deciding what I wanted, that I had not realized it until it was too late. She didn't need to not thank me, because I never had the opportunity to buy her anything. She had vastly underrepresented herself in her photos as many women do. She was spectacularly cute. I couldn't stop smiling at her because it was so wonderful to be with someone that was both young, attractive, and polite. And she had the cutest little nose. Good Christ! Yet, it was clear from very early on that we had trouble finding topics to talk about. Once we started a thread we were fine, but once we lost the thread we had trouble. She tried very hard and thought up a lot more shit to talk about than me. I was a little too jacked up to think of things to talk about but could carry a conversation.

She was very polite. She said she had to go. We left together. We seemed to be walking in the same direction. We continued to have trouble with uncomfortable silence. I asked her where she was headed. She was walking towards Harvard Square as I was. There was no way I was going to have an awkward walk with this woman for the next 10 or 15 minutes. I hugged her goodbye, tied my shoes and waited for her to get well ahead of me. I was grateful to be able to have had an opportunity to date such a beautiful and vibrant and pleasant young woman, even if it didn't work out. There would not be many more Rebeccas.

On my way tot he car I stopped by an exceptionally nice looking and peaceful coffee shop that I've never seen before. I had a double espresso. Good thing to drink when you're heart is pounding away. I thought about Rebecca and how classy she was, but mostly about Cheryl.

I bought a 40 oz. bottle of Miller and drank it along with my usual beer drinking companions -- potato chips and pumpkin pie. I had hoped that the beer would sedate me, but I have never drank so much beer and felt so sober. My heart was still racing. It hadn't made a dent at all. I thought about Cheryl. I really missed Cheryl. I was obsessed with her. How could I be so obsessed with a woman I had only had one date with? Maybe I built her up in my mind. Maybe I loved her. It didn't matter. I'd botched it. And I still couldn't accept reality. Every day I wake up hoping that she will e-mail me. I'm in denial. I had fucked my life up so badly. How could I have done that? How could my heart still be racing? I knew that if I continued to date it was going to physically make me ill. It's too anxiety-provoking to date and not have a real job. I was probably having a mild panic attack. I should switch to Plan B: Stop dating. Try to make enough money to make a living in one the poorest, most backward countries in the former Soviet-block such as Moldova or Albania. Find the hotest, youngest, and most educated woman I can find, try to make her my wife and make a baby. I still looked good for 43. Albania is a hard-up country. It is not out of the question I could find a 30 year old in Albania, even if I'm 50. It is an outside shot. Plan B is crazy, but probably less crazy than Plan A, which is trying to find a domestic woman. Plan C, which is giving up trying to breed is probably the most sensible solution, but I don't like Plan C. If I had to live under Plan C, I'd start to get existential and suicidal. I can't let that happen.

I was too jacked up to sleep. I took 10 more mg. of Valium. That took the edge off and I could finally sleep. The next day I wrote this woman who had been stalking my okaycupid account who was looking for sex in her profile. Doing something like this would be unthinkable under Plan A. Sex was the last thing on my mind under Plan A. It was a waste of time. Under Plan B, it makes sense because it would keep me straight while trying to make enough money to make it in Albania.

Unhappy Mother's Day to you

It's not International Workers' Day. It's not a real holiday. It's Mother's Day, a bullshit holiday, probably invented by Hallmark. I had to get my mother a card. Once I didn't buy Mommie a card and she went ballistic. Maybe that was a good time to tell her that I didn't buy her a card because she failed me as a mother. I've never actually told her that, but she's told me I've failed her as a son.

Some of my earliest memories was the fucking bitch stepping on me. It hurts to be stepped on when you're three or four years old. It knocks the wind out of you. And it's terrifying because some fucking maniac who you depend on is giving you pain and horror.

Mommie can't watch violence in movies. "Oy" she says, and turns her head. How horrible it is for her to see fictitious characters in movies committing violence. Mommie's only comfortable with violence when she's the one committing it.

I never put much effort into selecting Mommie's card. Just give the card display a cursory look and buy which ever card has the least amount of sentiment. But whatever is written on the card never applies to my Mommie.

This year's card had a very cute cat on it. On the cover it said, "Know what's nice about a Mother like you?" On the inside it said, "Everything! Happy Mother's Day." I always write on the card, "Love Dickie."

I wish Hallmark came out with a card for shit, abusive mothers, unworthy of the title Mother. And I could sign them, "Hate Dickie."

Goodbye Talkwarrior

People following this blog will see that this blog is no longer hosted on TalkWarrior. That website was designed to promote my defunct radio show and it will be removed. It's not that I no longer want to do radio, I just don't have the time and energy for it. All the time and energy that I have must go into either attempting to breed or dealing with the ensuing insanity that this breeds. Theoretically this blog is supposed to mitigate my madness, but sometimes rash actions are committed after blog posts, so I'm not sure...

Now that I'm no longer hosting on my own server I now have more freedom to really go after people in a way that I didn't have before, because I no longer have to worry about people trying to subvert my web server. So if anyone wants to fuck with me, now would be the time to bring it on. (Well, actually, wait until I clear off my old server.)

Low art

I realize now that not only do I hate dating but despise the women I ask out on dates. I don't want them. I often don't even desire them sexually. They disgust and bore me. I am often confounded by how I even go about writing these boring bourgeois assholes. They all sound and by-and-large look fairly unimpressive. And the self-proclaimed artists will never ever have anything to do with me. Are they really artists? If they were wouldn't they be moved by or at least show some curiosity in the contradictions of my personality and existence? They must be high-artists, for I am low-art.

How do I write people who seem so uninteresting and/or unbeatiful? I resent the bullshit they put me through. I resent how I am supposed to feign interest in their boring little profiles and their boring little lives that sound like everyone else's. I resent how I am supposed to know them through an e-mail dialog. The e-mail dialog as well as the profile tells me nothing about them other than they are shitty writers. Occasionally they'll show enthusiasm after the first e-mail I send them. But in the second e-mail I always pounce -- I ask if they would like to have coffee. I think it freaks women out because they often never write back after this. What do they expect me to do, engage a person I have never met and only know through a profile? Are they fucking kidding me? Why should I get excited over someone I've never met before? Why do they expect me to? Many of these women I have little to no desire to fuck. Are they thinking in their tiny little fucking brains that my unwillingness to engage them in an interminable dialog of e-mail bullshit is some sort of sign that I'm out to exploit them sexually? They have no idea how little desire I have to recreationally fuck women. If I'm going to be fucking a women, there better be a pretty damn good reason behind it. Otherwise it is a waste of my valuable time.

I'm not cut out for this dating business. I'm getting too old and I have lost too much patience.

Thoughts on death, sex, and baseball

I've been feeling so angry lately. Some of these things I cannot talk about here, some I will be but not now. I think being called constantly on two separate phone lines by motherfucker asshole scam artists who just will not quit is not enough to cause someone to murder someone alone, but that, in combination with other shit is probably why people murder people. It is the small, constant, never ending annoyances from random motherfucker cocksuckers that lead to murder. I said the "C" word. Big deal. I think last week I used the "B" word. Get used to it. I don't have to be politically correct anymore. If you don't like the "C" word, I suggest you either familiarize yourself with Lenny Bruce or go to a nice blog where people are too enlightened to call people cocksuckers. I don't have to be nice anymore. I'm not permitted to go to blog parties. I have nothing to gain by censoring my own speech.

• Shouldn't we be calling Big Pappi, No Poppy?
• I don't mind being alone, I just don't like the idea of dying alone.
• The thought of dying doesn't horrify me. The thought of dying without ever licking a woman again does. The last time I had coitus was 2001. I only know this because the woman said she had seen that shitty "Planet of the Apes" remake which IMDB says was released that year. I don't remember the last time my mouth touched a woman's vulva. I have no clue. I just want one last lick for Christsakes! Is that too fucking much to ask of the universe? I hate this fucking bastard universe and I'm going to fight the fucker till the end.
  

My best personal ad response ever

It is bullshit that they don't give Nobel Prizes for personal ad responses, for this personal ad response I gave this woman is pure, unadulterated genius. It is genius because she gave me absolutely nothing to go on. She was a medical doctor. I almost always write doctors. It is a matter of principal. They never write back. It doesn't deter me. It is a symbolic statement to the world: I am just as smart as you are. Doctors don't intimidate me. Bring it on!

Doctors usually have profiles reflecting the fact that they lack culture and have no life. I don't hold it against them because of how demanding their lives are. I think I would be perfect for a doctor because I am fun, can expand their horizons, give them lots of love, and challenge them intellectually, though not as a contest. Doctors tend to be fucking health nuts and this doctor was no exception as she talked about doing this Pan-Mass Challenge race This is a stupid yuppie bike race/charity event. I went out with an English prof who did this and the prof was boring as shit. I bet my pulse and blood pressure and cholesterol level is vastly lower than anyone in this race, and I don't exercise and eat like shit. And despite all this I look good for my age. I hate people who waste their lives trying to live forever. Your destiny is largely already written in your DNA.

This doctor's profile, like many doctors was downright inane. Beyond the Pan-Mass Challenge, she listed all the specific types of pork products she didn't like and all the specific vegetables she liked and didn't like. (You really get the sense that this woman has no clue about what it feels like to get laid.) Unless you're a fellow exercise maniac, how do you respond to an excruciatingly boring person like this? How do you win? This is where my genius comes in. The genius of my response is not so much the response but in how little I had to work with to come up with the response. This was the most boring woman on the planet. She only seemed adept at listing foods she didn't like. It was simply pathetic.

Hi,

I represent the Pork Product Industry of America. It has come to my attention that you have expressed your dislike of pork products. I ask that you cease and desist from defaming these fine foods immediately. Failure to comply will result in my informing my friends at the Brussel Sprout Commission. And I assure you, they are very proud of their very cutely named vegetable and they don't take too kindly to libel.

On a more serious note, I think you're cute.

-Dickie.

Personal ad response to Salem

I didn't drink last night but perhaps I should have been sober when I wrote this last night. She had these three crazy requirements. One was that I have a knowledge and understanding of both important Schumanns. O knew one, the German composer. The other I had to ask someone with a PhD for help. Apparently Schumanns' wife was a pianist.

By the way, this woman really was the cutest woman on Okay Cupid, though will not be showing her photo unless she agrees to a date and then stands me up. And if she's having a blog party (which she isn't), I will only crash it if she doesn't invite me.

Hi,

I needed to outsource finding who the "other" important Schumann was to a company in India. I didn't trust the answer they gave me, so outsourced the research to a little company in Moldova, and I think, if I have translated the Romanian to English correctly, that I now know both important Schumanns. It was expensive, took a long time, but worth it for the cutest woman on Okay Cupid.

What kind of comedy writing do you do?

-Ed

The face of evil

FastCupid user name: kzimerman
Real name: Johana



Where is it written that I can't expose scum-sucking evil FastCupid women? The only possible law that I could think of that I might be breaking is violating FastCupid's copyright. If FastCupid wants to sue me for linking to their public image I'll expose FastCupid for the fucking slimy pornographers that they are. Bring it on FastCupid! The only thing I'm really guilty of is bad etiquette. I spoke about Johana in my The woman who sucked the life out of me: Part 2 and The woman who sucked the life out of me: Part 3 blog posts. I'm tired of looking at this scumbag every time I log into a FastCupid affiliate website. She is on 24/7. Why is she on 24/7? She ain't blogging. Hum, maybe she's date stacking... Stay the fuck away from this woman. Believe me folks, I could have been out with a real woman [Cheryl] that day she canceled, but I'm not an asshole. I don't stand people up. Fuck her! This is what you get for fucking with The Ed. You get your face paraded around on this ugly website. And fuck anyone in this world who crosses me. Every single asshole out there is lucky I'm not doing my radio show anymore. I would make you pay. She's lucky I don't publish her e-mail correspondence. Fucking bitch. Fuck her. I'm angry. I am really angry. I will be going after some more people in the near future. I will be showing faces, naming names, and chewing bubble gum.

On the blog party front, I sent feelers and nobody solicited even a date and time of the blog party. Pissy motherfuckers. Fuck these bloggers and their pissant little club. I don't care if people are not going to like reading this. Fuck them. Fuck everyone. I'm angry. I considered spreading a rumor that I heard a rumor that someone attending the blog party had Swine Flu. This would have scared people vastly more than my threatening to crash their party. I decided not to because I felt that I had wronged Shakti (the party organizer) in a way that was below the belt by defriending her on Facebook. There will be another blog party in Lowell in the Summer. I will definitely crash this one, as it is close, and since I'm starting to cough and feel nausea I think I'm coming down with a bad case of Swine Flu, I will make sure to give everyone at this blog party a big wet kiss. Did I tell you I once contracted ebola?

There will be a very good chance that I will be moving this blog off of TalkWarrior onto blogpot. Why? The original purpose of this blog was to promote my radio show which I no longer do. I am no longer Moshe Moscovitiz, the talk warrior, or even Dickie Richards, just Ed, the crazy, angry blog guy. I will probably be removing the contents of this blog site and redirect from TalkWarrior to my blogspot blog.