Hello again, my main motherfuckers. As you may have gathered, over the years that I’ve been writing this article, I sometimes fall victim to being quite a bit introspective. When that mood strikes me, I like to read a lot of books written by great philosophers and strategists. Through those late-night manic reading sessions, I’ve developed some rules I attempt to follow on my journey through this mortal coil. I want to share some of my favorites this month and I hope you can find value in at least one of them. If you want to start learning how to make your own rules for winning, I will certainly reference a few books you should check out, so stay tuned...
I won’t name names, but I recently performed at a kitschy little spot downtown called The Big Legrowlski. Nothing particularly wrong with this venue, except that it was clearly an idea that sprung from lots of cocaine with close friends, sitting around a couch late at night. We all have these talks (sometimes without cocaine) and then they are quickly forgotten in the morning after the hangover wears off.
"Duuuuude, remember that Coen Brother’s movie? Like...what if we had a whole bar that was like, based on that movie?"
Passing fads will always be a mainstay of the youth. Remember Tamagotchis, hypercolor and delicious Tide pods? They were here and then they were gone, blazing a bright trail through our collective consciousness, like a shooting star. Every year, there’s a slough of crazy new fashions that make us cringe to see in photographs, years after we’ve outgrown them (remember Joey’s chick-magnet rat tail?). Musical one hit wonders, questionable culinary choices and briefly popular gadgets wind up in the discount bin within months. This year, Exotic’s crack team of scientists invented a time machine that they only used once, before re-purposing it into a bong and a fancy trash compactor. We sent one lone man (thanks to Roger, for risking his life with our untested technology) a year into the future and back, to report on what we can expect from the next season’s big fads for the young...
People are always complaining about
the future and how it’s not what it’s
cracked up to be. "Where’s my flying
car?" people are often heard to exclaim,
as though anyone under 70 was
promised a flying car (and not an Orwellian,
cyberpunk dystopia). The future,
however, is indeed upon us. And,
while yes, only the very rich are doing
things like taking trips to space for
fun, many decidedly ordinary things
in the lives of even the least of us have
been improved through new technology
or trends. "Well, fuck you, that’s
bullshit," you might say. But, I say "no."
In fact, here’s a list of some common
things that weren’t here, even a few
short years ago...
I just had the most fucked up thing happen—I think my boyfriend was trying to fuck my dog in the shower. I got home and heard her (my dog) screaming. I got into the house and he has her in the shower with him. He tried to tell me he was just spraying some water on her bottom. First off, why have my dog in the shower with you? Second, I’ve never heard her cry that loud before. I’m seriously thinking my new boyfriend was sexually abusing my dog. My mom is in town and I asked her if she could take the dog for a while. I’ve had her for nine years. I’m seriously afraid he may have done something to her. I didn’t tell my mom that. I just told her I’ve been working so much that I haven’t been attentive and that she would be happier with her for a while.
I’m not gonna front—because, I’m not in high school anymore and I can pay for my weed at the time of purchase (if you don’t know where the pun is in that sentence, you’ve never been a broke student who needs a sack). To be honest, while it’s technically illegal (and, possibly immoral) to suggest that underage kids get high, the fact of the matter is...well, underage kids get high. So much so, that the urban myth surrounding "420" actually originates around a group of school buddies, who would meet at 4:20 in the afternoon to smoke weed after school. So, while this column should be seen as satire, parody, opinion or whatever we need to say in order to keep things legal, let’s not kid ourselves (pun accidental) here—weed and high school go together like cocaine and college. Now, you shouldn’t even be reading this magazine if you’re not of legal age, but if you happen to be a fifth-year senior, read on for some pretty basic (but, often overlooked) advice from one former teenage pot smoker to another...
The best thing about flying is taking a dump in an airplane toilet. I know, I know...but, hear me out.
Usually, when you pump mud beyond the confines of your home, you can pretty much kiss your privacy goodbye. You’re facing a multi-stall situation, with God only knows who squatting next to you, tighty whities or panties drooping around their ankles, tooting their bung flute and stinking up the joint.
Not on a plane.
On a plane, you enter your own personal sanctum, complete with toilet, sink and everything else you need for a solemn, private defecation experience...
At first, Woo Girl seems to be just another enthusiastic customer—she sits at the stage, spreads out a few dollars and yells her trademark "woo!" no matter what the dancer on stage is doing. If there is a physical manifestation of the over-supportive Millennial, Woo Girl is it. Dancer steps on stage, Woo Girl yells. Dancer wipes down the pole, Woo Girl yells. DJ announces "Sapphire on standby," Woo Girl yells...
I awoke, eleven minutes ago...naked, half-wrapped in red sheets—Egyptian Cotton, smooth as silk, but with the heaviness of lust—a little patch of sunshine warming my thighs. I awoke, feeling rested and content...and hungry. A different sort of hunger, down deep between my legs. My eyes close again and imagine, dreamily, my stockinged legs splayed open on your bed. That hunger gnawing at me, as you watch. My tender rosebud lip caught between my teeth, as I slide my fingers between my thighs. The hot, electric chill felt in my spine and the soles of my feet ,when your knowing fingers graze my swollen clit. But, you stop me. You reach down and you hold my hand still...
I am an asshole. If you didn’t know it already, you know it now. I am an asshole who hates traveling. I am an asshole who hates traveling, but finds ways to have fun while doing so. I am an asshole who hates traveling, but finds ways to have fun while doing so and makes you hate traveling even more than I hate it.
Sometimes, it’s fun, like when you throw your hands in the air and yell, "Wheee!" Treat turbulence like a roller coaster, because you’re more likely to get killed by a dog, a stripper or a stripper’s angry pet dog than a plane crash...
