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Sunday, January 31st, 2010
4:09 pm - Trash Trio
Someday soon I need to return to the horror that is money-making work. But until then I find it more fun researching information about people who fail as human beings. A few months ago it was the Manson clan...now it's notorious homophobic females.

I've never been able to understand how even some of the most religious heterosexual women can know first-hand the harmless joy of androphilia (the attraction to men) and not be willing to accept that some males happen to be hard-wired in such a way that they feel it too. While there are countless individuals who fit this description, I have narrowed it down to my own personal top three most fascinating anti-gay anti-heroines who dedicate their lives to being the most ladylike outspoken bigots they can be.

(Note: I would have included Ann Coulter as part of the top three, but, as well know, s/he is merely a female impersonating comedian who brilliantly assumes the role of an insensitive Conservative middle-aged Barbie doll for public appearances.)



Anita Bryant was able to convince the entire state of Florida that homosexuals were not only performing acts that went against nature in the privacy of their own homes, but were molesting children as well. And she wasn't just referring to certain homosexuals, she meant that every single one of them in existence was out to "recruit" children for their "agenda." I don't know where she got this idea because, from talking to many older homosexuals (and sharing a similar mindset with most of them) I believe that most gay people during that time were not interested in adopting or being anywhere near children, much less in fucking them.

But Anita was sure that she was right in her thinking, at one point being quoted as saying, "I will lead such a crusade to stop [homosexuality] as this country has not seen before." It almost sounds like something you'd hear a wicked queen from a Disney movie say, doesn't it? Frighteningly, however, Anita was not a fictional character. She was a real person, so unaware of just how much of a deranged villainess she was that she, along with every other chucklehead in her "Save Our Children" brigade, managed to get most of the basic rights of gay people in Florida taken away from them. This, in turn, led many heterosexuals to now view homosexuals not only as lesser mortals but pedophiles as well, thereby inciting them to do everything from firing them from their jobs to beating them to death in alleyways. Thanks to Ms. Bryant, gay people's lives had become even more of a living hell than they had been before, and there wasn't much they could do about it.

Enter Tom Higgins, a gay man who, under the guise of a news reporter, attended a press conference where Anita and her then-husband Bob Green gloated about their deed as though they had slayed a fire-breathing dragon. While Anita was in mid-sentence, Higgins quickly emerged from the crowd and approached her with a pie he had somehow been hiding and then...



Splat.

Anita's initial response was to say, "Well, at least it's a fruit pie." (I wonder if, in her anger, she might have added another choice word or two to this quip had the pie-slinger been a black gay man.) Bob Green immediately grabbed her hand and instructed her to pray for Higgins. So she took a deep breath and, with chunks of her just dessert running down her face, began asking God to forgive her baked goods assailant and to deliver him from his deviant lifestyle. But alas, she couldn't finish her so-called loving prayer before bursting into tears of humiliation.

Don't mess with the gays, Anita. Like even the sweetest of house cats, we can go from being purring pussies to ferocious felines when backed into a corner.





I'm not going to bother commenting on the music contained in Lisa Whelchel's lone album pictured above since the cover pretty much says all that needs to be said, but I feel her staunch anti-gay attitude is somewhat ironic when considering the lesbian subtext between her character and that of Jo on "The Facts of Life" (although if you ask me, Jo wasn't so much a lesbian as she was a man trapped in a lesbian's body). Lisa says she has a few friends who used to swing the wrong way on the Kinsey scale, but, through the power of God, have since found that a life of reproducing like mosquitoes and devouring the genitals of the opposite sex is truly more fulfilling...but should not be lived before getting married, of course.

After viewing Lisa's personal website, I have to say that, religious or not, the woman needs some serious help. She talks about angels playing music that only she can hear while magically providing lyric sheets to that music no matter where she may be at the time...even if she happens to be hiding in her bedroom closet (playing hide-and-go-seek with herself, I guess). She also mentions recently fasting for a few days because God had told her she needed to lose a few pounds. So, in a sense, God basically slapped her on the cheek and told her to fuck some baby fat off. Who knew our almighty creator was such a misogynistic creep?





And finally, I present the beautiful and charming Shirley Phelps-Roper. Shirley is the daughter of Fred Phelps, whom you may remember as that psychotic old reverend who picketed Matthew Sheppard's funeral by holding up neon-colored signs that said, "GOD HATES FAGS." Fred's too old to spread his hate as actively as he used to, so Shirley, as dedicated to the belief that everyone who is not part of their family is going to burn in Hell as her father is, has essentially taken over his role as head spokesperson for the Westboro Baptist Church. Considering she inherited Fred's "crazy face" features (including shark's teeth and eyes that move independently of one another), I'd say she fills the void quite well.

Shirley is much more aware of how evil she comes across than most others like her, and she is proud to be the inspiration for many a Halloween costume despite her belief that anyone who dares to celebrate Halloween will be sodomized by Satan for all eternity. She has eleven children, which leads me to ask a question to which I don't think there is an answer...why does the curse of infertility only happen to people who would actually make decent parents? People who, unlike Anita, wouldn't shield their children from every pair of men walking by a little too close to each other. People who, unlike Lisa, wouldn't force their children to drink hot sauce every time they say words like "naked" and "sorcery." And people who, unlike Shirley, wouldn't teach their children to stomp on an American flag in public along with committing other acts just for the sake of pissing people off.

Actually, Shirley shouldn't be lumped together with Anita and Lisa because something tells me even those two narrow-minded crones see the Phelps family on TV picketing funerals of dead soldiers and AIDS patients as well as rejoicing in response to disasters like 9/11 and think the same thing that you (hopefully) and I think--"What a bunch of freaks!"

Shirley and her inbred entourage have officially offended everyone on the planet who isn't one of them. A small part of me believes that, if God exists, He made the Phelps' the way they are as a way of uniting everyone else in their mutual hatred for them. Maybe...just maybe...when Reverend Phelps finally dies, all the gays, the soldiers, the flag wavers, the Jews, the Catholics, the Irish citizens, Lady Gaga and everyone else he and his kind ever personally insulted will gather together to picket his funeral and, while doing so, will all look at one another and say, "You know, I may not agree with you on a lot of things, but I'm glad you're here with me today to watch this wretched man be fed to the worms." In that case, Fred Phelps could quite ironically be responsible for making world peace happen.


But I know better than to believe things will ever turn out that way. There will always be people who smack others over the head with their bibles saying, "You're wrong to be who you are because this book says so!" And the fact that some of these people are loving mothers who can't begin to understand how much of a threat they themselves pose to children everywhere is sad to me. So, in closing, I will say the following to the aforementioned Ladies of the Lord.

Anita--As a human being, you have the right to be wrong about whatever you want, but please allow others that same privilege.

Lisa--God doesn't care how fat you are. And He isn't a peeping tom who judgmentally watches people who do things like those Blair and Jo used to do after Nat and Tootie would fall asleep. So come on out of that closet (no pun intended) and start viewing the world through your own eyes and not through those of some big wife beater in the sky.

Shirley--If you'd get that hereditary eye thing fixed and take a closer look at your God you would see that he's really a devil wearing a fake cotton beard and a Holiday Inn bathrobe, not to mention Groucho glasses and a flimsy bald cap to cover his horns which really doesn't match his skin color at all. If there is a real God, I do hope you find Him someday. As for what I hope He does to you, well I think this pretty much sums that up...

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Tuesday, October 27th, 2009
12:33 pm - Shit from roses
All I want to do today is stomp around the house nude and shout misogynistic insults at inanimate objects in an attempt to make them feel bad about their shortcomings. But there are too many people living here to allow such behavior. Four bedrooms, five tenants, two felines...one cup.

I don't mind the fast rate at which the world insists on turning, but I wish I had the manual strength to avoid continually losing my grip on it.

Autumn '08 is repeating on me like an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet dinner [cue canned laughter]. I'd like to say I learned enough from that miserable experience to endure it more easily this time around, but it appears I didn't. This is yet another season filled with crying fits and dreams of running away to a purple-skied land of glossy smiling animals like the kind you'd see on a Lisa Frank notebook.

I guess I could solve everything by throwing myself off the Queensborough Bridge, but I just know Billy Joel would appear out of nowhere in a black trench coat to interfere with the process. On the other hand though, he might be wearing sunglasses and have a gospel choir behind him while instead encouraging me to go ahead and jump into the "river of dreams." If that man can't provide a definite solution to my problems, no one can.

Physical suicide is definitely not an option. But I do think it's time to take the re-invention that pulled me out of last year's depression to a whole new level and put the person everyone knows as David Brown out of his misery. Don't worry though...I'll make sure he's given the same kind of dignified burial any other decorated war hero would receive.

current mood: somber
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Wednesday, October 7th, 2009
9:44 pm - On-your-face humor


I must confess that I gasped out loud when I heard that Gotham Books backed out of the deal they had made to publish Dustin (Screech) Diamond's trashy tell-all autobiography "Behind the Bell" several months ago. But before I could even follow that gasp with a sigh of disappointment the book was unleashed, and now it sits before me in its extreme non-glory.

At least once on each of this book's 311 pages, Dustin Diamond makes it clear that he's bitter. Bitter about not being able to live a normal childhood. Bitter about being ostracized by his castmates. Bitter about his father sqaundering away the money he made from "Saved by the Bell." And, most of all, bitter about not being taken seriously as an actor. There once was a time when he disguised this bitterness in the form of self-depravation. But a person can only laugh at himself along with (literally) the rest of the world for so long before it starts to make him snap, and it wasn't hard to see that he was always on the verge of doing so.

The biggest selling point of "Behind the Bell" is that it reveals dirty secrets of his fellow teen actors from "Saved by the Bell" that they never wanted anyone to know. Whether or not these secrets are true remains debatable. Even the folks at Gotham Books weren't so sure, hence their decision to leave Dustin on his own with his sordid memoirs. But if you choose to believe him, then this is what he has to say about the other members of the Bayside Six:

Mark-Paul Gosselaar (Zack): A bleached blonde case of roid rage and a "douche" (I guess it really does take one to know one).

Mario Lopez (Slater): A rapist with plastic pecs.

Tiffani Amber Thiessen (Kelly): A whore and a pothead.

Elizabeth Berkley (Jessie): Also a whore (usually left with the female equivalent of Tiffani Amber's sloppy seconds) and an awful actress.

Lark Voorhies (Lisa): An aloof Jehovah's Witness whose behavior and temperament are similar to those of an abused animal.

And while not an official Bayside Six member, Tori Spelling (who played the recurring role of Violet) gets slammed too for being a boy-crazy nymphomaniac with "negative boobs."

Also of note is that series creator Peter Engel and Ed Alonzo (who played Max, the magician/owner of "The Max") are both vaguely accused of being statutory rapists, the latter supposedly being responsible for Neil Patrick Harris' affinity for cock.

Going back to Elizabeth Berkley, I'd like to point out something Dustin wrote that made me officially call bullshit. He mentions several times how the release of "Showgirls" not only destroyed her career but how it also made things very awkward on the set of the show. He even cites the movie's release as what prompted her to leave the series. But considering the last episode Elizabeth filmed was completed in 1992, and "Showgirls" premiered in the fall of 1995, how is it possible that the film's release could have caused friction on the set, or that it could have led to her quitting the show when she had been gone for three whole years? By that time, the show was in its "New Class" mode, and the only original cast members still stuck in its damning clutches were Dennis Haskins (Mr. Belding) and Dustin himself.

This left me with no other choice but to discredit the author as someone who was clearly so engrossed in the rush that comes with dishing out dirt on those whom he hates that he could not be bothered to keep his stories straight. Therefore, how am I supposed to believe anything mentioned above or anywhere else in this nauseatingly tragic tale? How can I do as Dustin Diamond says and "Trust the Dust?" (I shit you not--he actually incorporates that phrase into the book). "Behind the Bell" is full of stories with holes so big even Dustin's alleged (by no one but himself) well-endowed penis couldn't fill them.

To those with weak stomachs who are considering curling up in bed with this book, I should probably mention that there are three whole chapters devoted to Dustin's sex life titled "GETTING LAID AT DISNEYLAND," "SCREECH IS A BORN COUGAR HUNTER" and "MAKING THE GIRLS 'SCREECH.'" If you thought the sex tape he made several years ago was sickening, just wait until you read about his lustful escapades in writing.

Another claim Dustin makes is that his stint as the antagonist on "Celebrity Fit Club" was all staged, including the tense confrontation between himself and Sgt. Harvey Walden IV. But if he can't even remember when Elizabeth Berkley left "Saved by the Bell," who's to say he's not confusing filming that confrontation with filming the one Zack and Screech got into which left Zack with a ripped satin shirt?

One compliment I will give Dustin is that, while the idea of making a live-action "Scooby Doo" film may or may not have been his own, I do think he would have made a much better Shaggy than Matthew Lillard did.

There isn't much else I can say about the content of "Behind the Bell," but there is a very strong criticism I must make about its format. It doesn't seem as though Dustin or anyone at the publishing company he found at the last minute ever took the time to actually read through any of the pages before printing and releasing them. Not only is the book riddled with numerous spelling, spacing and grammatical errors, but there are two pages with paragraphs that end abruptly, continue where they left off in the next paragraph, then stop abruptly again only to start all over in yet another paragraph. It looks like somebody used the Copy & Paste function (as well as the ENTER button) rather carelessly.

Oh yes, and then there's that picture of Dustin on the cover. Double You. Tee. Eff.

In summary, "Behind the Bell" is a work of someone who has so little in the way of self-perception that his perception of others cannot be trusted. In other words, it's the diary of a pathetic child star turned pathetic madman. So the next time you're in a bookstore and see this on sale for 50% off or more (which will no doubt happen very soon), my advice is that you not take advantage of it even if you're thinking of giving it to someone as a gag gift. I guarantee that the recipient will not only gag, but also choke.
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Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009
1:00 pm - Precious moments you can't get out of
After taking the W train all the way down to the soulless Financial District for an interview at a fancy chocolate shoppe (so fancy it's spelled with two additional silent letters), I was dismissed with an apology before the interview even started because the lady there said the sight of my monster cock was too much for her to handle.

Well, that's not quite how she put it. What she said through her thick unidentifiable accent was that there had been a mix-up and they had already hired a boy for the shift I was seeking. So to maintain the cutesy appearance of the place, she needed a girl to work alongside him, not another boy. Had I known this ahead of time I would have put together a Tootsie-esque disguise to wear instead of my more masculine interview attire (dress shirt, tie, slacks...bullet sash).

This was one of those moments where I wish the Big Bumbling Oaf in the Sky had been paying attention during my creation and put me in the right body. With tits and a full hairline I'd probably be ruling the world by now.

I need to stop going to job interviews. All they ever seem to do is make me feel bad about myself.

current mood: frustrated
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Friday, September 18th, 2009
4:12 pm - Fist pow boom
Holy shit. I think I've found my long lost biological mother:



It's too bad she's dead and we can never be reunited. But there may still be hope for finding whatever socially awkward white trick she must have turned in order to conceive me. In fact, it could be the guy she went on a blind date with in this lengthy but highly entertaining clip.

Actually I know who my real parents are. They're decent, God-fearing, practical individuals who both bear strong genetic similarities to me and, after 40 years of wedded bliss, still say "I love you" to each other with tender loving smiles.

Is it any wonder I wish they were crackheads?

current mood: tired
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Sunday, September 13th, 2009
3:25 pm - Hell's bells and peanut shells
title or description

I'm not sure how to feel about my morbid fascination with researching the 40-year-old Manson murder case. Furthermore, I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that I think Patricia Krenwinkel looks hot with a shaved head (manly features and ears that stick out are always a heart-winning combination for me).

What's especially remarkable is that, even behind bars, Patricia and her sisters in crime can't escape the same kind of objectification from society that all women have to endure throughout their lives. Though they each managed to maintain their looks for quite some time, people are now saying that they "aren't aging well," or are "less fuckable than they used to be." No one ever talks about how sexually repulsive Charles Manson himself is. Men who let themselves go when they reach middle to old age are usually ignored while women who do the same thing are branded "unfuckable" and become targets of written (as well as verbal) stone-throwing. If you ask me though, Susan Atkins looks more fuckable now than Manson ever has even in her bloated cancer-ridden state.

That's pretty much the extent of my sympathy toward them. Aside from that, I'd say they probably deserve every insult they've ever gotten and every broken broom handle rape that's ever been inflicted on them for what they did.


I've really grown to hate violence, in both real and fictional form. While watching "House of 1000 Corpses" recently, I found myself becoming physically ill during a scene in which the character of Baby (Sheri Moon Zombie) gleefully stabs a young woman wearing a bunny rabbit costume multiple times. The movie was oppressively bad in every way possible, and I certainly can't say I liked the victim character at all whatsoever (all the characters were equally obnoxious), but something about the way this scene was filmed got to me. Maybe it's because I've been the victim of a minor violent crime that I can't stand watching innocent people in dangerous situations, especially when I'm expected to find it amusing at the innocent person's expense. Or perhaps it's because I'm not one of the many meat-headed individuals to whom a movie like this was made to appeal...the kind of people who would compliment it by saying it's "some badass shit, yo!!!" From what I'm told, the sequel ("Devil's Rejects") is darker and has even more moments that would make me feel unbearable discomfort. But I shan't venture into that territory. In fact, thanks to Rob Zombie, I'm done with horror films for the rest of my life. From now on, every movie I watch will either be family-friendly or porn...or family-friendly porn.

And while I do believe the Manson ladies are, for the most part, rehabilitated, they seem to be doing a lot more good behind bars than they ever did before they were placed there (even in their "unfuckable" state). So they might as well rot where they were planted and later bloomed.

current mood: restless
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Saturday, September 5th, 2009
1:37 am - Total screaming abandon
I must cut my hair and replenish my contact lens supply at once before this happens to me:



I want to make a joke about forcefully introducing his mandibula to my mantool, but to do so would be crass...and that's just not my style.

current mood: not the least bit cynical
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Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009
5:14 am - Spit against the wind
Four days into Funemployment '09 and I'm already severely depressed. When I can't sleep (as is the case at this very moment), it's because my right brain is continually scolding me for being so irresponsible and foolish. After a while though, my left brain overpowers the right brain by comforting me and sweetly saying, "Everything's going to be alright. Just go to sleep...it's not like you've got anywhere to be tomorrow," after which I am soothed into an infant-like slumber. Come mid-afternoon when I wake up though, that comfort is gone as I hear my right brain letting me have it once again. (I feel I should note that both halves of my brain speak to me in my mother's voice.)

Truth be told, I am a dysfunctional human being with or without income. I'll never figure out what I want to do with my life, the remainder of which will clearly be spent just "getting by" and "doing what I have to do." Don't get me wrong, I crave more than mediocrity, but I know better than to think I'll ever get it. And don't tell me it's because I don't work hard enough. I've still got dirt from scrubbing The Bean's floor all over my hands to prove that statement wrong, not to mention empty space on my scalp where hair follicles used to be before Shine/Morida's worst customers (and several employees) made them fall out. And don't even get me started on the internal scars that working at Brown Elephant and the porn shop gave me--I can never look at plywood or Jell-O Snack Packs the same way again thanks to those places.

While I guess it's all been a valuable learning experience, I really wish the knowledge I've gained from it could have been injected into me all at once through a syringe before I wound up learning it the hard way.


There's only one cure for the way I feel right now, and it exists in the form of a TV sitcom about four sexy single cheesecake-snarfing elderly gals of golden persuasion. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to join them as they discuss vital social issues as well as their love for cock.
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Saturday, August 29th, 2009
2:14 pm - Clock out with your cock out
So ends my latest saga at the sinking ship known as Chéz Bean. "Sinking ship" is definitely an appropriate metaphor to use because my boss there was, in fact, a seaman...and now he's a semen stain on the souls of everyone who's ever worked for him (the crusty kind that you just can't scrub out no matter how hard you try).

There's something about the last beep you'll ever hear on a time clock that somehow makes it sound like a choir of baby angels singing a special swan song just for you. It's enough to make tears flow from even the falsest and the laziest of eyes.

Man, am I full of pseudo-poetic crap. If Shel Silverstein and I ever team up and write a book together...well, it'd be kind of freaky because he's dead.


Enough of this nonsense for now. Let (f)unemployment commence once again.

current mood: rejuvenated
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Saturday, August 22nd, 2009
5:14 am - Internal dandruff
Have I always been wrong in my assumption that Natalie Imbruglia's 1998 hit "Torn" is about getting fucked too hard and experiencing vaginal tearing? Evidently I am a pervert for thinking so...and have been for over a decade.

I feel like 1998 was one of the last years when having a hit single meant anything. It was a pre-Napster (not to mention pre-9/11) time that we can never live again when musical recordings were still enjoyed in the form of a round disc which you physically held in your hand and played using an electronic device that didn't come with a mouse. And you actually had to go out to a store to purchase such a disc, which would come in a semi-fragile jewel case for which you then had to find space on a shelf filled with countless others. File sharing was something only the nerdiest of nerds did, and whatever files they shared usually weren't very cool.

The concept of keeping music on a hard drive is a mixed blessing for me. I hate the way it's changed the face of music consumption for all time, but I have to admit it's nice to have the extra space in my home that once would have been taken up by bulky shelves of media that, for the most part, I'd only make use of once in a while. Instead, that space can now provide a tad bit of extra room for those moments when I get the urge to do a cartwheel.


I'm thinking about dying my hair grey to match my unhip outlook on our ever-changing world. I also want to do it as part of an inexplicable desire I've had to make myself look like Bea Arthur from her "Maude" days. I just hope if I succeed in doing this I won't wind up sleeping with someone who looks like Bill Macy.

current mood: exhausted
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Wednesday, August 12th, 2009
8:31 am - Licka-sticka-lickaricious
Mothers in Texas are eating their young and gay porn stars are fucking women. Could an apocalypse be far behind?


It looks as though my final exit from The Bean will go smoothly. My replacement is a young man who, like myself, wears dresses and lipstick. He's also less hesitant to get violent with unruly guests than I am...if the story I heard about him once stabbing a patron in the hand with a plastic fork at his last workplace is indeed true. And to top it all off he's from Seattle, which means he'll be able to provide the same kind of unique West Coast charm that Jake brought when he replaced Ted on "Hey Dude." This should ensure that hilarity will continue to ensue even after my departure. Then it will only be a matter of time before Captain Lou Albano makes a special guest appearance.

Sorry to anyone reading this who never watched "Hey Dude" or has since blocked it out of his or her memory. In either case, that's a crying shame. No other television program managed to captivate and educate me on so, so many topics ranging from alcoholism to (fake) Native American heritage. I'm still anxiously awaiting a highly publicized cast reunion (complete with at least one sploshing incident for old times' sake)--assuming the dreamboat who played Kyle can ever be coaxed out of hiding and Christine Taylor is willing to take a break from sucking Ben Stiller's cock. And lest we forget Mr. Ernst because if there's anything to be learned from Dennis Haskins' reaction to being left out of People Magazine's recent "Saved by the Bell" reunion/photo op, it's not to exclude television's bumbling-but-lovable authority figures.
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Wednesday, August 5th, 2009
12:27 pm - Strong hands and short hair
Life is an endless string of disappointments. One minute you're deeply admiring the rear end of someone walking out of a bathroom...the next you're in said bathroom inhaling the stench of what came out of the rear end you were just admiring.

I turned in my notice at The Bean (yes, again--but this one's going to stick). I can only spit in so many drinks and exert violence on so many handicapped people before it begins to make me hate myself. I have nothing lined up to replace it, but I'm at the all-too-familiar point where I want out too badly to care. Besides the general discontent, I've also acquired a female stalker who visits me there, and I'd like very much to get away from her. She even jokingly calls herself my "stalker," to which I never know quite how to respond other than with nervous fake laughter. I want to explain to her that any sexual experience we could ever have would be practically lesbionic in nature...which, according to the Good Book, is a sin.

Whatever happened to the good old days when a gender-bending gay man could attract closeted record producers with hair plugs and violent tendencies? Nowadays he gets nothing but mentally askew girls who want him to father their mentally askew gender-bending children. Perhaps if I tell her that Otty Sanchez is my heroine, she'll abandon her twisted pipe dream and leave me alone.

Speaking of which, does killing a three-week old child really require a steak knife, a sword, AND a machete? I admit I don't have any experience with killing and/or eating babies, but I would think that the knife alone ought to be more than sufficient.
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Monday, July 13th, 2009
12:11 am - Hurry up and wait
"Hearty laughter is a good way to jog internally without having to go outdoors."

I'm glad my misfortune cookie told me this because I can't tell you how sick I am of getting sunburned every time I go outside to do my internal jogging. Too bad the concept of hearty laughter is nothing more than a vague memory to this long sad drooping face.


He who I very recently referred to as "my crush" looked at the Plasmatics T-shirt I was wearing last night and said with a half smile, "I love the Plasmatics." Unable to avoid gushing like a moron, I simply smiled back and replied, "Me too." This is the first person I've wanted to sleep with who not only knows who the Plasmatics were, but who also shares my love for them. Why aren't the two of us making hot sweaty man love by a roaring fireplace while listening to "Maggots: The Record" right now?

Oh right...because he has a daughter and is basically married. To whom/what he is basically married I don't know, and why he continues to talk to me in a slightly more-than-friendly manner makes me all the more confused. He must be straight because no gay man could ever manage to be so nice AND incredibly insensitive at the same time.

One of these days I want to wake up and find myself humping something other than my queen-size mattress. Preferably something with a beating heart...and human...and over 18...and attractive...and yeah, male.

Where, oh where is the brave and noble knight who is destined to rescue me from the dragon of loneliness? Sigh. Something tells me he fell off the white horse and is lying unconscious on some sketchy train platform while covered in his own vomit.

current mood: disusgted
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Sunday, July 5th, 2009
2:45 pm - High, low, hard and repeatedly
My crush has a seven-year-old daughter and is "practically married."

I am a piece of wannabe homewrecking trash. And a DILF-chasing freak of nature.

I wish Farrah Fawcett's butt cancer had killed me instead of her.

current mood: morose
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Thursday, July 2nd, 2009
9:14 am - Cuckoo For Cocoa Cocks Part 3-D: Back In Training
The following are events that occurred on Wednesday July 1st, 2009. Most times are approximate.

12:56 p.m. - I arrive at The Bean short of breath and wearing an oversized dragon shirt from my wannabe badass phase in high school along with a pair of pea green shorts. I had woken up several hours earlier extremely anxious and the delayed subway ride that had almost made me late for our staff meeting (which was to take place promptly at 1:00) did not help to ease that feeling.

12:59 p.m. - I am standing alongside several co-workers as well as our [not so] beloved employer, Guy, who stares malevolently at his cell phone clock and then back at the door, wondering aloud why so many people have not arrived yet. As he stands directly underneath the track lighting, one can easily see that he has been lax in his effort of keeping the sides and back of his head closely shaved to mask the lack of hair growth on the top. Just before 1:00 finally rolls around he says, "I wish this fucking thing could tell me how many seconds are left in the minute."

1:00 p.m. - In what some might consider to be a rather ridiculous move, Guy irritably puts his cell phone back into the pocket of his American Eagle shorts and tells the person who is working behind the counter not to let any employees who come in after this exact second downstairs to attend the meeting. Literally twenty seconds go by and two young ladies arrive short of breath (just like I had been four minutes earlier), but they are both turned away and told to go back home...one of whom had come all the way from Brooklyn on her day off only to get caught in a traffic jam. It seems Guy is annoyed that they don't respect him or the business enough to arrive early and so, as punishment, they don't get to experience what those of us lucky enough to have barely arrived before the minute change are about to endure.

1:01 p.m. - Having just uttered about six words (at least one of which is "fuck"), Guy stops in mid-sentence to look at me and asks me to remove my sunglasses so he can see what my eyes are doing. Apparently, he's afraid they're plotting something against him.

1:10 p.m. - After telling a crude pee joke while informing us that the bathroom isn't being cleaned on a regular basis and referring to the fact that someone hasn't been putting empty boxes in their proper place as "just retarded," Guy states that, while he considers us good workers, we're basically dispensable. I guess I've known this all along, but I must say it hurts to hear it said out loud.

1:14 p.m. - Guy acknowledges that the night shift needs a supervisor and says he wishes someone would step up and take the responsibility of that job, looking at me the entire time. I just continue to stare at a stack of empty muffin boxes which some reportedly retarded person left in the wrong place. I refuse to let myself officially be called Night Supervisor at The Bean...even though I've pretty much been forced to pose as one for almost a year.

1:16 p.m. - I give up on my initial plan to keep track of how many times Guy says the word "fuck" during the meeting, as I have now lost count.

1:21 p.m. - The meeting is over. Everyone in attendance except for myself asked or stated something during it, so Guy ends by looking at me and saying, "Dave, you got anything for me?" Still staring at the empty muffin boxes (and wanting to tell him once and for all to stop calling me that horrible nickname) I simply shake my head. "Are you sure?" he asks. I nod. He smiles and tells me I talk too much. A few people laugh. I don't even try to feign a smile in response and instead put my sunglasses back on and leave to go find lunch. I don't think I've ever felt more like a turd on the bottom of someone's shoe than I do at this point in time.

2:59 p.m. - I return to The Bean to start my 3:00 shift. Ordinarily I would arrive much earlier in order to prepare for the night and help those working the morning shift to get out sooner, but Guy had announced that he frowns on my doing this at the meeting. So, at this point, I have decided never to come in early again.

3:00 p.m. - As I'm putting my bag in the office, I am reminded that my boss's clothes have the ability to come off as I see his sweaty gym outfit lying on the floor...which I'll eventually have to pick up while wearing rubber gloves or else I'll get chewed out for not keeping the office clean.

9:05 p.m. - My crush comes in to gather caffeine for himself and his co-workers. I tell him about the staff meeting that took place, which I said was more like a staff infection, all the while wishing I had changed into the ghastly pink muu-muu I had brought with me (to match my pink nails) and planned to work in tonight, as I'm sure he would have appreciated it. Unfortunately, after that incredibly demoralizing meeting, I didn't really feel like dressing up, especially since I knew I would be forced to do more in the way of filthy grueling work than I had in months just to appease the beast who is my occupational superior.

11:41 p.m. - I go outside to bring in the heavy wooden benches. Lying on one of them is an unconscious bum. I attempt to gently wake him, but after opening his eyes halfway, he closes them again and gives me a partial smile, then rolls over in an attempt to continue his drug-induced slumber. I tell him once again that he has to get up so I can take the bench inside. He does not comply. With rage rushing through me I angrily say, "So it's gonna be like that?? Fine!!!" And from some unknown force, I gain strength that I never knew my body was capable of having and pick this man up who is about twice my size, then I toss him onto the sidewalk. The manager of the hookah bar next door, who I'm guessing had stepped outside to see what all the commotion was about, stands and stares at me wide-eyed and open-jawed while I carry in the soiled bench.

11:42 p.m. - I come back outside to finish gathering the benches and the bum, still lying on the pavement with his arms and legs curled up like an upside-down cockroach, tells me through slurred speech that what I did was "not cool, man." Without humor, I tell him not to call me "man" as I bring in the last bench.

12:02 a.m. - After walking all the way to the train station but knowing my crush is working and wondering whether or not he'll be there during the upcoming holiday weekend, I turn around and walk all the way back to 1st Avenue. Though I realize I'm making an obvious lovestruck fool of myself, I decide that I've earned the right to have a drink and celebrate what I feel was one of the few shining moments in my entire life--when I hurled a helpless bum onto the concrete.

12:07 a.m. - I walk into the watering hole and find my crush cleaning a table. He shakes my hand and looks somewhat down, so I tell him about what I had just done less than half an hour before. It appears to cheer him up a bit and he expresses pride in my actions. He then tells me that he has a lot of misery in his heart and he's always happy to commiserate with someone like me.

12:08 a.m. - I am surely blushing in response to what my crush has just said, but then I look over at the seat where I usually sit (right by the sink where he spends half his working time) and notice some asshole with dreads sitting in it. There isn't even a seat in the vicinity of this area, so I'm forced to sit on the other end of the bar and drink with nothing pretty to look at.

12:25 a.m. - Staring at the TV screen, which is playing what I think are highlights from a baseball game (or a bullriding competition...I can't really tell the difference), I sip my drink and think to myself that I'm an idiot. An idiot who doesn't know the first thing about playing it cool when I like someone. An idiot who works in a shithole of a café for a person who, in a perfect world, would be a turd on the bottom of my shoe instead of his own. An idiot who has decided, after two drinks, that it's time to head home.

12:27 a.m. - I catch my crush stepping outside for whatever reason and give him money. He thanks me and we partially hug. I semi-drunkenly express sorrow for the misery in his heart and tell him to come find me if he ever feels like throwing a human being face first into a sidewalk, as I'd be happy to let him do it to me anytime (again, playing it cool is not something I'm programmed to do). He says he probably wouldn't have to do it to me since he's seen and helped remove more than enough of the plentiful bums from my own work establishment in the past, mostly from our bathroom. This leads me to try to re-create the magical bodily fluid conversation we had last week. But before I can go anywhere with it, a female bartender inside shouts his name. I realize I have kept him from doing his job (which would annoy the hell out of me in that position regardless of who I'm talking to) and apologize for doing so. I quickly hug him once more and tell him to have a good night. He says, "You too" as I stumble off into the darkness.

12:41 a.m. - I ride the N train home and feel that God may actually exist and not think so little of me for letting me experience a day that started out so rotten and ended so victoriously. I also remember several instances where I've hugged objects of my affection a little too much and talked to them WAY too much and wonder if history is repeating itself. Furthermore, I still wonder what his intentions are, assuming he has any at all. If nothing else, I guess we can always mentally jerk each other off by comparing shitty work experiences. That would, after all, be a lot less messy in the end.

1:18 a.m. - I'm home, and as I take a much needed piss in my bathroom, it hits me that love is really nothing more than a disease. With this in mind, I go to bed.

current mood: indescribable
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Monday, June 29th, 2009
10:25 am - P.I. Tee
Now that the Moonwalker has passed away, I guess R. Kelly is America's new favorite pedophile by default. And once he's gone, I'll undoubtedly be hearing "Trapped in the Closet (Parts 1 through Infinity)" every single place I go because his music will suddenly be important enough to erase all of his sins.


My crush and I had a brief but enchanting discussion about having to clean human waste particles left in the restrooms of our respective hellhole workplaces. He said someone had put a glass full of piss on top of their toilet recently. I one-upped him and said that someone keeps smearing shit all over the seat of ours. He gave me a horrified look and said, "You win." I argued that you really can't be called a winner when you're wiping fecal matter from a commode seat. It was all so romantic.

Then we hugged each other goodbye. Whether or not it was just a hug or one step closer to violent copulation remains yet to be known or understood.

Someday I'm going to get laid, and all my sick thoughts and perverse comments will cease and I will never again make a dirty joke. Or, at least, that's the plan. Keep in mind that plans have a tendency to fall through...and that applies to both my disownership of perverse behavior as well as the act of getting laid.

current mood: drained
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Thursday, June 25th, 2009
11:09 am - Mugged and groped and insulted
Will everyone please just ignore Britney Spears so she'll finally fade into obscurity where she belongs? She has lived long past the life span as a shitty pop star and looking at her now is like looking at a 23-year-old balding and diseased housecat. It's just too pitiful to be funny.


My ever-so-eloquent boss relayed a message to me from a female friend of his who told him she wants to "fuck the shit out of [me]." Those, according to him, were her exact words. It seems she is incredibly aroused when seeing me in women's clothing while I'm at work and has been contemplating telling me this to my face. Women coming onto me when I'm in a T-shirt and jeans is discomforting, but pardonable. The idea of it happening when I'm wearing, for instance, a church dress not only makes me uncomfortable, but I believe it might constitute as a sin. Furthermore it enhances my lack of understanding for how the universe can force so many individuals for whom I feel absolutely no attraction whatsoever to heavily lust after me while objects of my real affection say, "No way in hell" whenever I hand myself to them on a silver platter.

In case you didn't figure it out by the end of that paragraph, I'm experiencing yet another life-disrupting crush. And the experience is no less ambiguous or senseless than any crush I ever had before. The only things I've gotten out of it so far are a three-beer hangover and a pink miniature My Little Pony which I named Teena Marie (because I decided that, like the real Teena Marie, she is a black female trapped in a different colored body). If I could suppress my ridiculous infatuation I would, especially since I'm partially convinced that this current unconquerable conquest isn't really into me or any of my kind--whatever that may be. If anything he's just very very very VERY friendly...and looks at me like he's peeling a banana.

Wherever this goes (if it goes anywhere) it's undoubtedly going to end with me crying and masturbating at the same time, and then having to clean up the mess of fluids that will make.


In slightly less depressing news I managed to shave both my legs in their entirety. But in slightly more depressing news, they look like they were clawed by a bloodthirsty animal with an infectious case of acne. In times such as these I thank Heaven for opaque red tights.

current mood: horny
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Tuesday, June 16th, 2009
1:11 am - Hello inspiration!
If Heaven is real, it's exactly like this at all times...



...and Sylvester is truly the spitting image of God.


I find myself becoming increasingly irked whenever someone refers to me as any one of the following:

-man
-dude
-buddy
-bro
-boss
-champ
-Big Guy
-Wildman
-homeboy
-stud
-"Sir"

So I was cursed with male genitalia. Does everyone have to continually remind me of it? I know it's all said for the sake of being friendly, but I still find it degrading. Even my own name is starting to make me cringe every time someone calls me by it due to its masculine quality.

If only Chaz (formerly Chastity) Bono and I had taken the time to switch brains before he started the hormonal treatments, we'd both be better off. I honestly think it would be more fitting if I were an overweight 40-year-old woman...and a descendent of Cher, herself, no less. I can't deny shuddering in ecstasy as I imagine what a glamorously trashy life I could have lived I had I sprung forth from those silicone loins in the form of a female child.

But there's no sense in dwelling on what can't be undone. Chaz is what he is now because of what he once was, and though I may not be getting my private parts surgically altered, the same can be said about me. So onward we go in pursuit of our actual selves. Anyone who wishes to stand in our way will be mercilessly stomped to death with our cross-dressed footwear...and I swear the blood upon our heels will never dry.

current mood: determined
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Saturday, June 6th, 2009
1:50 pm - Guilt for the road
I feel the need to scour my eyeballs after having seen the odious musclebound ogre who is my employer changing clothes outside his office two nights ago. Apparently the whole world is just one big locker room for him. I think it goes without saying that he was secretly hoping one of the female employees would catch him doing this. I wouldn't have even noticed his revolting presence had he not exclaimed, "Oh, it's just you" (as if I should be any less phased by seeing him half-naked than my vagina-clad co-workers might be).

Men are such shit stains. And women are such cunts.

Oh, how I wish I were genderless--an emotionless inanimate object with no social restrictions on my appearance or behavior...like a George Forman grill. When was the last time a George Forman grill got beaten mercilessly in an alleyway for sashaying its hips a little too much? Or asked, "Did you lose a bet or something" while wearing make-up? Or chastised by its father for sitting down to pee? I'm about 70% certain that none of these things have ever happened to a George Forman grill.


Well...time to take a massive post coffee-drinking dump and get ready to reach for one ungraspable cloud after another.

current mood: complacent
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Tuesday, May 26th, 2009
1:53 pm - Brown rice and cocaine
It's apparent that I can't accidentally leave an iPod sitting on a bank check desk and turn around for two minutes to make a desposit without some buttfucker nabbing it for himself. This is the second iPod I've lost in two months.

My first iPod was Nelson, named after my favorite "Simpsons" character. Nelson somehow acquired a vast array of horrible electronic diseases and was declared corrupted by an Apple genius. Luckily, I was given a replacement which I named Shandi (after singer Shandi Cinnamon). Shandi faithfully and lovingly stuck by me for a while but was eventually stolen by three [insert plural form of racial slur said out of anger and not out of true belief here] along with several other precious personal items. Eustacia followed Shandi, and I wasn't very nice to her...maybe because I just couldn't accept her as Shandi's replacement. I can't say I blame her for jumping out of my coat pocket and running away back in March. The fourth and final, which I named Disgraceful Faggot Son (hoping that not giving it a proper name wouldn't make me feel so attached to it), is now on the black market being fondled by filth.

I clearly don't have the mental capacity to hold onto objects that people with I.Q.'s beyond the single digits can hold onto without a problem, so to hell with the iPod and mp3 players altogether. I'll break out the Discman and stick with that, at least until they invent a cure for idiocy. It's so clunky I'm sure I'll never lose it, and it's so dated nobody in any social circle will want it badly enough to steal it. And perhaps it will help me go back to appreciating full albums as opposed to selected tracks taken from them and played in a random order, which I blame for the musical A.D.D. I have acquired over the past few years.

It's funny how there are so many stupid and spacey people in the world who never have things like this happen to them (most of whom aren't even nice enough to render their stupidity and spaciness the least bit endearing), yet I'm expected to be more on top of things than they are. Heaven forbid God should forcefully take a heaping dump into their mouths and make them swallow it. Nope. That's my unfortunate role.

And let me state for the record that despite His divine and holy state, God's shit tastes (and smells) just as bad as ours.

current mood: livid
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