Conjugate the verb, motherfucker

I heard Donald Trump blabbing away today on Morning Joe. During Trump’s tirade of inane reeking bullshit, he conjugated the verb sing wrong. He used the past participle form sung without preceding it with the auxiliary verb be or have. And this shithead, who went to Penn, has considered running for president. Why don’t rich, right-wing fuckwads learn to speak fucking English before they buy their own elections?

The wake-up caller

It was a few weeks ago. The existential horror of my existence keeps me up until daylight, so the call I received at about 11 a.m. was like a call at 5:00 a.m. for a normal person. The call was coming from my cell phone, which I had forgotten to turn off.

The caller was a woman with a funny accent; I thought the call was probably emanating from somewhere in the Indian subcontinent, and that she was someone from my credit card company trying to verify a suspicious charge. It could also be some scumbag asshole headhunter asking me if I was interested in a job in which I was completely inappropriate for because they didn’t bother to read my resume.

The woman kept asking me to verify who I was. She had mixed up my last and first name. (Many people do, because if you axe the finally consonant off of my last name, it could be a first name.) “Who is this?” I kept saying. I couldn’t hear her because I was so tired and disoriented from being woken up at what, for you, would be 5 a.m.

“It’s Nancy,” she said.

It was the last person on earth I thought would call me. My Romanian Internet girlfriend from Dubai who was interested in breeding with me but decided against it because “I was not safe.” (What this meant was, I didn’t have enough money to support her brood.)

It had been two years since I had last spoken to her. I was pissed at her for not even getting my fucking name right. I thought about saying, “Oh, I remember you, you’re that Romanian woman from Dubai, right?” But then I thought against it because it would have sounded stupid. And then I thought about saying, “Oh, hi, how’re you doing?” But I had too much venom in my heart to say this with much enthusiasm, so opted not to say this as well. All that thought took up a lot of time. Finally she said, “I didn’t wake you up did you?” I had to take a piss really badly and was in no mood to embarrass myself by having to come up with an explanation for why I was asleep at 11:00 a.m. I was obviously fucking unemployed – and she obviously had no use for scum like me, as do all women, unless they are obese. She wanted something. She was not calling me because she missed me. I know this because she had made it very clear to me that she would not even waste her time to be friends with me if I didn’t serve her practical needs of fathering and supporting children and fulfilling her lofty dream of owning a home on Long Island.

“Can I call you back? -- Can I call you back?” I said with some desperation. All I wanted to do at that point was take a fucking piss; I did not want to deal with this shit. There was a long pause on her part. She told me she’d call me back in a half an hour.

I waited for a week for her to call me back. Part of me did want her to call me back, part of me didn’t. What was so odd about her call was that she had called me on my cell phone. Nobody knows this number. Nobody should know this number but my inner circle. I had thrown away her number, but I considered contacting her through Skype or facebook, as I still remembered her last name; although it was Romanian, it was a beautiful name and I will probably always remember it. How did she even get that number? The curiosity was killing me. (Actually, not even the credit card companies have this number – at least they should not.)

I first did a google search on her, found she was married last year and probably working in the hotel industry in Washington D.C., which is what she did before went to Dubai. Last year I had looked at her facebook profile pic, and it was her in a jewelry store with a guy. She looked happy as shit as she looked down at a necklace which was presumably bought for her. At the time, I asked Heather (a former friend of mine) whether this guy in the pic with Nancy was more handsome than I was, for I was struck by how a woman who was as beautiful and intelligent and worldly as Nancy would go for a man who was so dull looking. I always assumed that Nancy would hook up with someone James-Bondy. Heather said that I was more handsome. “Don’t you think he looks kinda ugly?” I asked. “No,” she said. “He looks fine. He looks like my brother.” (I had sort of stuck my foot in my mouth.) Heather, on the other hand, reacted with amusement at the sight of Nancy, for I had written volumes in my blog about how beautiful she was. Heather said she looked terrible – and she was right – she looked bloated and like shit. Heather claimed that she might have been pregnant, that women tend to look sickly when they are pregnant.

After learning about Nancy’s marriage to a superior man, it made me shudder. She had perhaps created offspring with this man, divorced him, and wanted me to care for her brood. Maybe this guy had all the money in the universe but shot blanks. Maybe she was after my sperm as well as the prospect of my money. Maybe she needed citizenship help. Whatever it was, it gave me the heebie-jeebies and I lost all interest in contacting her. I probably would have not contacted her anyway, even if I hadn’t learned this information. How she got my cell number will remain one of the eternal mysteries of the universe. (The credit card companies shouldn’t have this number either; I was just too disoriented to realize that when I got the call.)

What I’m not sure about is why she called me at 11:00 a.m. It could be because I had been forgetting to turn my cell phone on; it could also have been because she wanted to test my employment status or that she was unemployed. I hope she is unemployed. I hope she feels unemployment’s oppressive weight, its humiliation and unjustness. I hope that she never bares children. I know that her powerful thirst for children is at least as great as my own. I hope that she hasn’t and never will bare children. I hope that she feels my pain for the rest of her days. Fuck Nancy; the bloodsucker. Fuck her. I mean, really, really fuck her.

“My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done”

I saw “My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done,” directed by Werner Herzog on DVD as soon as it hit the streets. I'm sorry to say that it sucked.

I don’t think living in L.A. or working with Hollywood actors has, for the most part, been a good influence on Herzog. While Herzog’s “Rescue Dawn” (2006) was awesome, I miss the heady days of the Herzog experience, which featured Bruno S., Klaus Kinski, the beautiful Eva Mattes, and daring shoots in the middle of the Amazon jungle.

Aren’t I lucky to live off the dole?

I think the letter, below, that I received from my public housing office pretty much speaks for itself; however, I would like to add that this letter was slipped under my door at around 4:00 p.m. on September 16, giving me only a few hours before they (maybe) barged into my apartment the next day (on a Saturday) at 8:00 a.m. on September 17 in order to ensure that I haven’t made myself rich by pawning their twenty year old oven and refrigerator. Also, September 17 happens to be Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar.

I posted a note asking them not to disturb me on Yom Kippur. The note has mysteriously vanished. Maybe they fear a Jewish uprising.

The Man Purse

 

Occasionally I see men walking around with a man purse, and every time I see them, I say to myself, “You go, girl!” I want a man purse. There is simply too much crap a man has to carry around with him in his pockets in the modern world. I need a man purse! Yet I cannot have a man purse because I fear being ridiculed, harassed, and beaten up.

I am simply not man enough for the man purse.

I applaud the brave pioneers of man pursery, paving the way for cowards like me to some day carry a man purse.

Harvey Pekar, Dead

Perhaps my last hero, Harvey Pekar is dead. Amy Goodman announced the news on Democracy Now. She mispronounced his name, calling him “Pecker." Goddamn her!

The well traveled woman

I have criticized women in the personals for years for trying to pass themselves off as well-traveled and sophisticated because they have been to Paris or London or some big Western European capital. Big whoop. But finally I have found a real, truly international woman who has even been to Bali. Anyone who is cool knows that Bali is a must see. She is the real deal. But then I keep reading and I see this shit: "It's very hard for people to be happy, but if you can achieve that in your life, you have succeeded." This is such bourgeois crap. Happiness has nothing to do with success in life. This woman is deluded, perhaps even shallow.

The Cosmopolitan Hotel-Tribeca -- The Worst Hotel in The World

The Cosmopolitan Hotel
95 West Broadway
New York, NY 10007

http://www.cosmohotel.com




I stayed at The Cosmo for one night because I had an interview in the vicinity the next day. The total cost, with tax was $204.33 USD.

I could sense something was not right the moment I stepped foot in the hotel room. This is how the toilet paper was when I got there. It had of course been used by someone, and I felt little as if I were in a bus depot.




The room was a little musky and cramped, but it's Manhattan so I shouldn't complain:




When I attempted to take a shower at night, the shower tub got clogged up:

They sent someone up to look at it. He came back with a plunger and plunged and plunged and plunged. It was getting late, very late. I needed to be at an interview in the morning.



I happen to have experience with clogged bathtubs, and I knew that no amount of plunging on earth was going to unclog it. It needed to be snaked. But they kept plunging.

Finally, after 2:30 a.m., after a lot of bitching and moaning, they granted me another room, right next door. This room had a toilet with a broken fill sensor, so every half minute or so I'd hear annoying water sounds, which was very unsedating. I regret now even giving the maintenance guy a dollar tip for carrying my bag (which I could have carried myself) into the new, shit room.

I had asked for a wake up call before all the shit came down. Of course I never got it, because the fuckers probably never made a note that my room was switched.

In the morning I opted not to complain to the manager because I had an interview and I didn't want to upset myself. They didn't knock a dime off my bill.

The worst hotel in the universe. Stay at your own risk:

From Family Guy to Sex Guy

I have been on OkayCupid for a long time. Too long. In the past, when I had some money (though never nearly enough), I tried to look for a women that I could potentially start a family with. But the recession dried up the already shriveled money teat. I refused to let the dream die, and I plotted and planned to go overseas to find employment -- even devoted several hundred hours to the study of Russian. Recently, I botched an important interview, which derailed my immediate plans of going overseas and put the whole mission plan into question.

There was no use in saying that I wanted a nuclear family in my profile if there was no money to fuel this with, so I went "Sex Guy," and selected Casual Encounters, and deselected Long-term and Short-term dating. Though I like sex a lot, I am not a "Sex Guy." I was just tired of being probed about my assets. It's oppressive. At least a fuck buddy would want me for me, and I wouldn't have to waste my time and energy on women who want more than I can give.

I was horrified to learn recently that I had not fully transitioned my profile from Family Guy to Sex Guy. There was still a remnant of the old Family Guy stuff:

"My dream is to find a (non-crime) partner who loves children and desires, as I do, to create a loving family."

God knows how long it was there. It probably seemed very confusing to people.

So now I am fully and completely a Sex Guy. I never dreamed that I would be reduced to being a Sex Guy. I'm sure it could get worse. It probably will...

Our Presidents...

Our Presidents, after smoking some seriously good shit.

Charles River, after the great rain of 2010

The genital suckers who insure my car

Arbella

Claims Department Head

P.O.Box 699195

Quincy, MA 02269-9225

Dear Sir or Madam,

On 26 March 2010, a Kia SUV, driven by Elizabeth Kim collided into the side of my car while I was parked. I contacted my insurance agency, [undisclosed]. Shortly afterward, a woman called me from Arbella to tell me that an adjuster will be contacting me in order to set up an appointment to have my car evaluated.

On 3 April 2010, someone who called himself Phil, who said he was with Arbella, left a voice mail for me saying that he was an appraiser and was interested in setting up an appointment with me in order to have my car appraised.

I called him the next day around 11:00 a.m. in order to make an appointment with him. He told me that he had already come by that day, and that he had already appraised my car. Phil asserted that there was no damage done to my car and objected to my assertion that the car had been damaged.

I am puzzled by why, if I was home, he did not ring my bell. Phil told me that he had taken numerous photos. Since there was a row of hedges not one foot away from my car, and a severe rainstorm going on at the time, I am puzzled by how Phil was able to take proper photos and be able to do a proper assessment of the damages.

The next day, when it was dry, I drove my car out of my space and took numerous photos of the damage done to my car by Ms. Kim. I have overwhelming evidence of scratches going along the entire length of the side of my car that was hit by Ms. Kim's Kia. Even after all that rain, I could still see the paint from Ms. Kim's Kia. I not only have numerous scratches, but a dent. I also photographed how my car was parked at the time in which Phil asserted that he took these photos, demonstrating that it was not remotely possible to do any type of proper assessment, had he in fact been there. I also have someone who witnessed my parking of my car, who can verify that my car was parked in the position that I stated it was.

I called Karen Cormier the next day and left a voice mail informing her of what had happened with Phil. I also asked her to contact me. She did not do so. No one from Arbella has contacted me since Phil asserted that he had done the assessment.

I demand that my car be assessed properly, by a professional assessor, and that he or she makes an appointment with me in order to go over the damages.

Just let it die

I have never seen so much rain. I've never experienced a warmer March. Is it global climate change? Perhaps. Now Obama wants to drill as well as kill. And there's nothing that anyone can do about it because there is no less backward alternative to Obama in sight. And even if there was, the planet may already be fucked.

Maybe instead of going down with this sinking ship bitching and moaning we should embrace the good aspects of humanity and the great progressive we've made throughout our history, not only technologically, but socially. While it has been slow, we have made progressive and collectively improved ourselves.

I once heard Bukowski talking in an interview about all these people who want to save the human race. He said, why should we save it, just let it die. He was essentially saying that the human race was not worth saving. I think that we are just as deserving of being saved as any other animal, but that perhaps we should not get so fucking bent out of shape if we can't be saved, and not waste energy saving something which is probably not in our nature to be saved. You may say that I am a defeatist, but take a good look at our current situation and offer me a realistic and viable solution.

Our intensive use of resources which has allowed us to dominate as a species is what will probably fuck us. I expect that humans, because of their intelligence, will continue to exist, despite radical climactic shifts, however it will be in a dark age that we will exist is. Future generations will probably look back at us in anger, and accuse of annihilating the world. They will overlook the fact that they are the same animal as we, that it is in our nature to exploit the fuck out of everything, and without this nature, we wouldn't have survived as a species.

Speak English, fucker

I was listening to Jay Severin while driving in my car. I hate this right-wing fucker. He makes a living off of bashing Mexicans. When he starts to feel cornered in an argument with one of his callers, he calls them a homo and ends the conversation.

As usual, today he bragged about how many women he sexed it up with during his college days at Vassar. This ugly fucker might have gotten a lot of sex in college, but I can assure you that when this sex was done with people that it was quite imaginary. Women just don't dig ugly. Trust me on this.

JaySev was also talking some shit today that I've never heard of. He claimed to have been arrested thirty times protesting for civil rights. He claimed to be a close associate of Abbie Hoffman and, if I remember correctly, Jerry Rubin. I'm surprised he didn't say he was a member of the Chicago seven.

JaySev made this statement about his close Yippie associates:

"I had ran with those guys..."

That made me pause for a second. It sure didn't sound like correct English.

When I stopped I pulled out my verb conjugator iPod app that I had bought for $2.99. I was able to verify that this fucker cannot speak proper fucking English. You can not say "had ran." You can say "had run" if you want to form the past perfect tense. In this case, JaySev was trying to express the simple past tense, so he should not have stuck an auxiliary verb in front of "ran." He should have said "I ran with those guys." I'm sure that if JaySev saw me criticizing him like this he would immediately call me a homo. Everything contrary to JaySev is homo.

What bothers me is that this fucker acts as the English Police, having shitfits when people speak Spanish. If you're going to appoint yourself as the English Police and make money off of bashing Spanish speakers, you better speak fucking English yourself. Otherwise you just look like right-wing, jaw-flapping asshole.

Facebook, cannot do it anymore

This was a FastCupid blog post.

The defrienders don't bother me that much, it is the frustration and agony of trying to figure out who the hell it was who did the defriending.

There are many things that I hate about FB. Some of you here are my FB friend, some of you are too good to be my FB friend -- and trust me, you're not nearly as good as you think you are. Some of you I defriended a while ago during a drunken night of madness. I regret this act and every single person that I defriended.

I think that I cannot handle FB anymore. There are two things that really disturbed me about FB recently. One was the woman I was in contact with who I met on OKC. She lived in a rural backwater in the Midwest. She was a quite severely good looking woman, though probably too old to reproduce, and I make it very clear to women that I am looking for someone who can reproduce. I don't however use this language. I thought she was cool. I had mentioned, without even thinking too much about it, that I visit her in Green Bay for a vacation. I would have stayed in a hotel. I was amazed that she offered to have me stay at her house.

I had bashed Obama numerous times on FB. The reason is that Obama pisses me off because I believe he is a war-mongering, business-friendly suckup. I am a Socialist, so what do people expect? In any case, this hot, Midwestern woman says this horrible, defamatory thing right on my FB page about Obama's race. And I'm like, what WTF? It horrified me that I could possibly have been sexing it up with a redneck. And this woman was very beautiful. I could have really, really, sexed it up with a redneck. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. I defriended her and ceased all contact with her. She continues this day to try to refriend me. She does not quit. I probably should have explained to her why I defriended her.

The other disturbing FB situation is another woman whom I have also never met before, yet we established a fairly close bond for penpals. We had also spoken on the phone a few times. I thought she was my friend. I thought she was cool and she understand what a fucking nutjob I could be. Yes, it is true. I did once ask her to leave her boyfriend for me. Though hours later, upon seeing its complete insanity, I told her that I had gone mad and to treat my prior message as a momentarily lapse of sanity. I sometimes go mad, but I am in touch with my madness, and am capable of seeing reality. Not too long afterward, she ceased communicating with me. I don't quite think she understand that I was not as obsessed over her as she thought I was. I don't get too bent out of shape anymore about any woman. I just don't care. I'm not trying to sound cool. I have realized that women don't give me happiness. They give me pain because I do not meet their economic requirements. And I don't really need their sex too badly anymore. If I am to be truly honest with myself, the feeling I feel when women reject me is relief. While I am ultimately responsible for scaring off this FB friend, I actually thought she understand me better, and I am actually no longer interested in being her FB friend and looking at her statuses, yet I cannot defriend her.

Getting back on topic, I'm so fucking tired of Facebook. I am not going to delete the account, because I would appear as defriending all my friends. I think I will just stop posting. I'm not really sure how to get out of it.

If you're an ass-kicker, at least write like one

I'm tired today and feeling a little nihilist. I came across an OkCupid woman with a profile that was quite unreal. This sample from her profile is really just the tip of the iceberg:

Remember, I am a successful woman who needs a guy to match me in my ability to acheive goals. If you are not this guy, please, don't waste my time.

I would not dream of contacting a woman like this, but I have an overwhelming desire to help alpha-doggers with their spelling and grammar as they embarrass me, not that I am any type of expert in these matters.

First of all, we need to remember that old spelling rule we learned in the first grade: i before e except after c. Accordingly, "acheive" should be spelled "achieve."

Is her first sentence grammatically correct? Probably, but it sure done sound funny, eh? A truly successful woman like her would want to be more concise in her wording and instead say something like this:

Remember, I am a successful woman who needs a guy to match my ability to achieve goals.

But even this sounds a little cave-womany.

How about:

I am a successful woman. I desire a goal-oriented man who matches my level of achievement.

Or perhaps you could just try the cut-the-crap approach:

I kick ass! I bite the heads off fuckin' bats and eat them. You should too. Fuck the rest of ya!

Suicide Mission

Dear L,

I am in Florida now visiting my parents. I didn't get access Wifi until today.

I think I learned too much about the intimate details of your life. I am specially referring to men. I know that I have also revealed personal details to you along these lines, and I am a hypocrite, but I am jealous of any man who you like.

I am not speaking to too many people these days anyway. It's hard to be chatty these days. I feel like I am on a mission to create offspring that is so risky that is practically a suicide mission. I could piss away all my valuable time and meager savings on an ESL certificate (which I may not even qualify for or complete) so that I could go to the backwaters of Eastern Europe or Siberia to get fucked (not the sexual kind). Or I could stick around and keep doing what I'm doing which will invariably lead to my being fucked, or as I like to call this scenario -- the slow death.

I actually looked into janitorial jobs today. Goodwill is paying $28,000. This is what an entry level computer programming job paid me ten years ago, where I worked 100 hours a week, so the Goodwill job scrubbing toilets is really the better deal as there is less investment in time and stress. People treat you like shit at these jobs because they assume they are superior to you because of their higher social status, but in my last 28K computer programming job my boss was a fucking tyrant and literally screamed at me. The Goodwill job is probably more secure that any programming job. Maybe this is the better deal than teaching ESL in Siberia. Maybe my chances of meeting a woman for the purposes of reproduction would be about the same. But my instinct tells me that I will probably get fucked as a janitor. I can just imagine the faces my OkayCupid dates make when I tell them that I mop floors for a living. While there are some exceptions most of these people are incredibly shallow despite how enlightened they attempt to portray themselves,

I'm running out of MOJO, L. I am fortunate to look younger than my age, but very soon time is going to catch up with me and I am not going to be able to attract reproductively viable women. Personally I don't give a shit about getting old. I just don't like the idea of being old and being faced with the existential horror of life without meaning.

It just feels like I am desperately running out of time and everything is closing in on me.

You could always call me. But please wait until I get back from Florida on the 27th so that I could have a little more privacy.

Here is my google voice number, if you don't already have it:

A FastCupid blog post I never posted

I wrote this for the FastCupid blog but never posted it:

There is a whole little universe within a universe operating here. It revolves whether I'm here or not.

I could tell you how I'm doing, but people who know me know that I'm probably going to tell you that I'm miserable, lonely, and completely obsessed with a need to create my own family. What many of you don't know is that I have become Captain Ahab and am fully prepared to sacrifice everything in pursuit of my dream.

I pass up perfectly good 44 year olds who write me, and instead chase the elusive 34 year olds that will go out with me. It has nothing to do with getting a better fuck. I really don't care about sex. As horny as I am, my need for sex is the least of my problems. A younger me would never conceive that I would say something like this.

One of the provocateurs on this site stated that I could not get laid. I did not reply to him, but this is really not true. I haven't had sex since 2001, but I've had opportunities to get sex from women my own age within the last few years. I turn down these opportunities because when they present themselves I worry about all the time my having sex with women will take up. That is time that could be better spent plotting to put myself into a position where I can increase my odds of finding someone I can start a family with. In addition, it raises moral issues, which I'm not going to get into.

I have only so much MOJO left in the tank. And right now I'm running on fumes. All I have to do is get just a little bit older, and I will not be able to attract reproductively viable women, anywhere. As the impending doom of age encroaches it takes me further down the road of panic, desperation, and perhaps madness.

The stuff I do when going mad at 4:30 a.m.

I used to read novels, historical books, but now I just read personal ads of people from all over the world. I often do this at night. I am often slightly mad at this time.

I came across a woman from Bulgaria who expressed a very strong desire to live in the USA. I wrote the following to her. She didn’t write back. I didn’t expect her to. By the way, she smoked:

I'm not sure why you want to go to the USA so badly. There's no work here unless you work for the medical industry. And if you smoke in my country you're treated like a leper. Cigarettes in the USA are probably pushing $10.00 USD a pack. You need to be rich to smoke.

I look forward to getting out of the USA. I look forward to working some day. I recommend you go to Western Europe, maybe France or the UK. They have better social programs there. These are more civilized societies.

The good stuff

I don't need to make love to women anymore because the pure deliciousness of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale is just as good. The only problem is that my DNA and this beer's DNA cannot combine for the purposes of reproduction. I will need to work on this...