December 23, 2005

You and Tito and Your "Old Lady"

Today will be a good day. You won’t even need your AK. Your AK-47, that is. Sometimes you do. When you are disrespected, that is. When drug deals go awry and such. Or when your “old lady? acts like a bitch and you need to shoot her multiple times in a very short period of time. Say 30 times in six seconds.

But not today.

Today you will find yourself in line at a convenience store with 3 small items, and a middle aged woman with a huge ass and a full cart of groceries will say, go right ahead, sir… don’t mind me. And you will quickly pay for your purchase and head toward the corner bar where you drink when you have nothing better to do.

There you will meet Tito, your best friend, and he will tell you how happy it is to see you, and how much he’s missed you. He will tell you how much he’s always respected you, and how attracted he’s always secretly been of you. You will tell him the same; and you will leave shortly to put your penis into his asshole like you’ve always secretly wanted.

Later, you will go out to the club with your home boys and your “old lady?, and you will dance with many hot women who also think you’re hot. You will feel many breasts that aren’t your “old lady’s?. One hot girl isn’t wearing panties—she let you feel. Don’t worry, your “old lady? won’t care—you’re having fun, she says. She will buy you drinks all night until you can’t stand up straight. Until you’re fighting with some scrawny white dude who accidentally made out with your “old lady? in front of you while you struggled to keep focus, to concentrate on what the fuck was going on. Until you’re kicked to the curb by that faggot-assed bouncer who looks like a fuckin’ fag.

That’s what you called him, anyway.

When you get home, if you’re not too drunk to still be able to maintain an erection, try to pretend it is Tito’s ass you’re fucking. That will keep you’re stomach down. Maybe it might help you cum. Don’t call your old lady Tito, though.

She already suspects something. Don’t give her anymore ammo. Women are fucking detectives, dude. The fucking F.B.I.

Posted by albu0009 at 5:38 PM

There Were Some More People You Forgot About, But Now Remembered Seeing While On Holiday In The Old Country

There was a peasant, there was a king, there was a bitch that wouldn’t keep her mouth shut so we had to off her, there was a boy with a pegleg named Joey Joe Joe, there was Stephen King singing a Boyz II Men song, there was a piece of shit, there was a long narrow alley with homeless people piled on top of each other as far as the eye could see (which wasn’t too far, actually—it was foggy out), there were dogs humping fire hydrants until they bled and eventually died, there were city folk, there was a farmhand selling acid to the kindergarteners while they played during recess, there was a cunt, there was a young man beating up an elderly gentleman because the man cut him off and he had to put his brakes on and he missed a green light because of it, there was a genie in a bottle, there was Brittany Spears fucking a donkey for $20 bills, there was romance, there were lovers in the park hugging and speaking sweetly to one another, there was a cokehead begging to suck someone’s cock for some more coke, there was another bitch who wouldn’t keep her mouth shut so we had to off her too, there was a group of policemen twirling their batons, there was a computer nerd blogging about it all, there was a jealous girlfriend dumpster diving for a half-eaten hamburger, there were fucking vultures everywhere what’s the deal this is the Old Country; there shouldn't be vultures here, there were rich white men begging for handouts, there was a hedge fund manager picking up hookers by the dozen—he put them all in his big trunk—they didn’t mind at all, there were holocaust survivors making us feel bad for them because they said we’ll never know what true pain is—yeah ok whatever, there were New Kids On The Block as far as the eye could see (which wasn’t too far, actually—it was foggy out), there were sort managers asking why production was so shitty last night, there was a fat girl at the Dairy Queen, there was a teen with his Ipod listening to a song about heroin but he didn’t know that’s what it was about, there was a sign that said this: Work At Home. $5,000/wk. Call Nate, there were broken dreams, over to the left was a taxi driver that looked like Joe Pesci and smelled like ass, there was Yo La Tengo playing a show on the sidewalk but everyone thought they were just panhandlers (in a way they were right), there was a washedup porn star signing autographs for dollar bills—she was still pretty hot—there were men with hardons lined up down the block waiting for their turn, over there was a small child not more than eight years old, laughing at it all, writing it all down in his little notebook, with a twisted smile on his face.

His name was Peter and when he was 22 he wrote a funny book about it all. 34,430 people bought his book, which isn’t much, but it’s something I suppose.

Posted by albu0009 at 5:29 PM

December 20, 2005

A Bunch Of Different People You Saw While On Holiday In The Old Country

There was a girl who had seizures when she fucked, there was a boy who ate so much candy his penis fell off, there was an old man who loved kissing underage teens, there was an elderly boy who shat himself until he bled, there was another girl I swear to god with tits so big she hired two people to hold them for her while she walked, there was a girl with a tiny red sweater with a perfect smile that said come get me I’m yours, there was someone with no teeth and no gums, there was someone else with no ears and no cheeks, still there was another someone with a vagina that tasted so good men and women from all across the country would make the pilgrimage to have the chance to suck on her for just a few seconds—some when they prayed, prayed in the direction of her pussy, there was an old woman with a hip that broke on command, there was a Japanese couple that always fucked in public and called it art, there was a poet who never learned how to rhyme, also there was an athletic type that never learned how to love but fuck he could shoot hoops dude, then there was a God that wanted to try stand-up or at least see if he could shop his sitcom idea around to a few execs, over on the other end of town there was this guy that would fuck anyone in town boy or girl young or old didn’t matter, then there was a cat that pissed on anything she could find, then there was this crazy fucker that went around cutting himself—the dude would ring doorbells, wait for the person to answer, then slash a deep gash in his body and watch their reactions, then there was a man with a tiny penis who thought it was the biggest penis in the world, then there was another man who hated himself because he wasn’t a woman, there was someone who played the most beautiful piano and sang with such grace and style but was so afraid of someone laughing that they never shared it with no one, then there was someone who watched too much pornography and died of malnutrition, then there was a professor of economics, and there was a guy who thought he could rap but just sounded like an idiot, there was a goddamn lunatic with a killer’s stare that could cut right through you.

There was a pope. There was a prime minister. There was an emperor of Rome. There was a castle. There was blades of grass. There was dirt. There was a group of swingers fucking and sucking each other in the parking lot. There was a film crew. There were birds singing Motley Crue. There was a young man dancing provocatively. There was Jesus. There was niggers. There was a spic. There were crackers as far as the eyes could see. There was Benjamin Netenyahu. There was Mary Magdelen getting her pussy eaten out by God, while drunken apostles jerked off around them and watched. There was a diplomat. There was a client. There was a dead man. There was you, of course, with bright red rims around your eyes, tall but not too tall, fat but not really fat at all, a white cord attached to your digital music player running up to your ears so you could hear the sound, a shirt with a unicorn, and a leg with a tattoo of a gang that you once belonged to when you were fourteen and found the idea of being part of a teenage gang was sexy and dangerous to you.

And there was this godawful folk singer whining about lost love and death, and he was out of tune and terrible but everyone loved him except us.

Posted by albu0009 at 4:32 PM