Saturday, July 30, 2005

I want a dog

That's it. I want a fucking puppy. I need a little puppy that can share with me in my lonliness. And I want one that looks like he's sad all the time. This is very crucial. I don't know what it is about sadness but girls are hot when they cry and puppies are friggin adorable when they look sad. Fucking adorable. Like two babies hugging. Or Jonbenet Ramsey. But of course he'd be a happy dog. He wouldn't actually be sad, he'd just look sad because his face would be kinda chubby ya know? So he'd be like some old guy at IHOP who looks like he's frowning but he's not, he's just reading the paper but his cheekfat pulls the sides of his lips down.

I'd feed him Pedigree, only the best, and if he was really good I'd give him a strip or two of bacon. Don't worry I'd cook it first. You fucking germ-o-phobe.

My dad doesn't want me getting a dog though. He says all I'll wanna do is play with it but when it comes to cleaning up shit n piss I'll disown it. He's right. Fuckin a man. They invented seedless watermelons but they still can't invent a dog that doesn't shit and piss. Worthless peons.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Dickshunary. Get it? Cuz it's suppose to be dictionary but i spelled it... fuckoff

I've been coming up with these new terms lately. Trying to at least. Lots of them suck but I figure if I keep trying at least one of them will stick and become part of everybody in the continental USA's vernacular. Today I described a beautiful woman as being "edible". That one sucks, gah I suck at this game. That one was more for me though, I've been caught up in this whole fruit/women phase.

I want to be quoted because I may die tomorrow. This is a fact. Yeah you may be living right now but at any given time you may die, and that's just a cold hard fact of life and no heater of yours will ever make it warmer. Have you contemplated your mortality motherfucker?

My way of staring death in the face is to be quoted. Maybe I'll contribute a single word to our vernacular, maybe an etire phrase. I'm hoping on an entire quote, one that is simple in phrasing but large in concept, like a fat woman with a skinny soul. I haven't really thought of anything yet. I have some pretty simple ones like "eat a dick" or "shut your fucking face you king-sized cunt" but those are a bit low-brow in comparison to what I'm shooting for.

Yet I believe that nobody can ever "shoot" for being quoted. Ya can't just go out searching for profundity, it is not a hooker, it does not beckon at a moment's whim; rather it comes with the territory. I personally feel that our most creative moments or glorious insights are sparked, brought fourth on the back of a moment's feather. They are not insipidly contrived like the mad scientist to the Frankenstein, against the grain of nature's flow. Fuck that shit.

I thought of a word to describe when I'm feeling horny. Now, whenever I'm feeling horny as shit I say I'm "puppied" up. I find it fitting because it's a "cuter" way of saying I'm horny, yet at the same time I am nothing more than a hump-happy dog, minus the red dick, so the word is really killing two pigeons with one bbgun. The word is yours though, you can have it. Load it up in your opium pipe and smoke it, dream on it, I don't care.

I have a few more I could give you guys but to be honest, I'd rather go masturbate. No really. I'm gonna go masturbate.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Sex is in the air.

I love women. Women women women. Oh god, you women and your beautiful, well-moisturized muffs. I would... I would eat you girls alive if that expression didn't turn out to be so damn disgusting if actually tried. You're all like delicious plums. Delicious, juicy, plums... all of you. I want to be the one to remove your little stickers.

Where is this talk of women suddenly coming from? And aren't I supposed to be gay? I don't know, and I don't know, I"m just puppied up and horny as shit after reading Sex's blog and I need to express myself. Usually on this blog I keep the sex talk to a minumum because 1) I am about as emblematic of sex as the Pope and therefore 2) I stick to my area of expertise. I could tell you all about masturbation though.

When I was at Fullerton College I shared a bathroom with 2 other dudes. Both were fairly hairy and looked like chronic masturbaters. I can just tell. To make a long story short, the shower drain was clogged after a mere two weeks. What's worse than an amalgamation of hair and semen for shower drains? A stop plug. That's about it..

Masturbation was my first sexual experience ever. I started off pretty young, second grade to be exact. I'm not embarrased, as a matter of fact, I am going to give my kids pornography around the age of 13 and turn a blind eye to what they do with it. For every minute they lock themselves inside the bathroom, I'll have the security of knowing they're not out there impregnating women. Granted, my bloodline has some pretty good seed to spread but paying child support just isn't worth it man, it just ain't worth it.

And I know what you're thinking ladies. You're thinking, "Oh Greg, you poor little chronic masturbator, pity-fucking poor young chronic masturbators is my exact specialty". Okay, I might just let you have me. Will you cook me breakfast? Look, if you don't cook me breakfast it's a no go. I'm very peculiar about these sort of thing.

I prefer corn beef hash over sausage. Thanks sunshine. Oh that reminds me, eggs sunny side up yeah?

Oh god please someone hold me.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

On the nature of freaks and bums.

The world is a crazy place.

Correction: People inhabiting the world are crazy, the world itself isn't actually crazy

Correction: There should be a period after "crazy".

I say this because I went to Venice beach on Sunday. For those of you who are unaware, venice beach is to freaks as West Hollywood is to homosexuals. Which is to say, it is their natural environment. The freaks are left alone to roam, smoke pot, drink beer, play with themselves - one guy walks around begging for change to help him "get drunk" - and this is all appreciated behavior. Anything else would be civilized.

Oh fuck me I did not just seriously use a play on words. Just keep going Greg, keep going.

There was this one guy who looked like he was shipped in straight from Kenya. Skinny as bones, dressed up in imitation leopard loins and holding a plastic spear. There was a sign in front of him that read I AM A BUSHMAN. Occasionally he'd hop up and down and yell, "I can only do what I am, I am a bushman!". To which another bum/freak holding a beer in his hand responded, "How can you be a bushman if there aren't any bushes? You're at the beach man, you're dillusional". But the harsh words bounced off the bushman's impervious skin.

This is the kind of shit I live for. I love watching people who's brains aren't quite up to par. When the lights are on but nobody's home. Love it. Especially when it comes to bums. Bums have a special way of adapting to life - it's called insanity and its fun for the whole family.

Westwood has some good bums but they can sometimes be obnoxious. Inversely, they can also be downright friendly and hospitable. One time a bum came up to me and a friend for a cigarette. Conversation followed and we naturally drifted on to the topic of hookers and crack. The bum - what a champ he was - insisted that we come back to his alley and, being that he claimed to have a well-imbedded repoire with the local prostitutes, assured me that I could take a stab at any one of his usual gals, on the house. Then he asked me for five dollars on a pack of cigarettes.

I didn't give him any money but I almost always do spare whatever I can to bums because they need it. Although there was one time at the promenade where I realized my purpose for giving money to bums was purely selfish. I was with a chick (titties yay girls!) who felt particularly sorry for this blind lady in a wheelchair holding an offering's cup. I felt bad for this poor old sap as well. My allowance was fresh so I pulled out a whopping two dollars and placed it in the lady's foam cup. But she was blind. She had no idea a loving transaction had just occured. There was no thank you, no acknowledgement, nothing.

So why the fuck bother, right? I took my two dollars back out of the cup and bought a pretzel with it. Purely selfish, I tell ya.

Monday, July 11, 2005

I'm not jealous.

There is this girl in my counseling class who is always happy. She's, ya know, one of those type. Always walking around with a big smile on her face, always laughing and joking, filled with the vibrancy of life. I want to murder her and stick her in the back of my trunk. Okay I'm just kidding, I don't have a trunk, I drive an SUV.

My point still stands. I don't hate Richard Simmons because he's gay, I hate him because he's happy. Too happy. And his curly hair looks like you could build a bird's nest in it. He's an unfashionable happy peppy fuck.

But who can put their finger on precisely what it is that wakens my urge to kill when confronted by these type. Maybe with this particular girl, it's that she has no reason to be that happy. She's not hot, she obviously ate one too many burrito, and unlike the luckier ones, her personality does not make up for her unequivocal lack of aesthetic. She is like my metaphorical Shaqueeta - fat, black and proud; what a faith based emotion.

But if she had every reason to be happy I'd hate her even more. I just hate happiness and pep mixed together for long periods of time. Happiness and pep are good in small doses, sort of like malt-o-meal or oatmeal with a bit of cinnamon in it, but after a while you just get fucking sick of it. Now bacon, that is something I could never get sick of. I could eat bacon night and day. Bacon is like mellow people. Always good to have around. I could even eat bacon with ice cream, yeah... fuck yeah.

You'd think depressive saps would be the scum of the earth but no, it is the exact opposite. Depressive saps are bad, but they're already too busy trying to kill themselves to make me want to complete the process. Instead, these happy peppy people feel the need to rub their high seretonin levels in my face. I want to burn down their houses to see them cry. This isn't jealousy talking, it's my sense of humanity.

I just want to show them pictures of starving kids in Somolia. And be like, "Listen to me you happy fuck. Everytime you laugh, a child will die of starvation." That'll get them.

Friday, July 08, 2005


Today I went to the beach and read a book. Not something I'm usually prone to do but I've been feeling a bit... free spirited as of late. And reading books on the beach is fucking wild. So I sat there reading my piece of non-fiction and proceeded to have my mind somewhat blown. And it was nice. I read about the universe and the issues with infinity, the problems of correlating math to natural existance, Zeno's paradox*, among many other things.

I wanted to tell someone about the things I was learning. These things that most people wouldn't necessarily think about or hear about in everyday life, but would be fascinated with nonetheless. About the history of Einstein, his simple blunders despite his legendary brilliance, Cantor and his obsession with figuring out infinity, how some infinities are bigger than others, how Newton may have been a closet homo; but who the hell wants to hear it? Although the thought of an apple chomping homo is of natural interest, there's a time and a place for that sort of talk.

I'm not playing the victim here though. As if I were lonely. I'm a sex magnet, ya see.

But I do sometimes feel isolated. Isolated by my own ideas. Everybody feels this isolation in some form or another. We see the world a certain way and we just can't convey it to those who adamantly oppose us, or fail to put it in words moving enough to shift the tides of emotion, and likewise whatever thoughts are glued down by such overstrung convictions. It is entirely disconcerting to know that, despite our seeing certain things with undeniable clarity, others won't understand, won't want to understand, or can't. That is isolation.

It makes me think of times when I'll have a revelation, one that is profound. Something that was never known to me before that is suddenly made known, and it trickles it's way into my viewing of the world, and stays with me for days to come. I'll dwell on it until I've wrung the idea for all it has to offer, until the oxygen is gone and the fire goes out, and suddenly it is no longer profound. It's emotional impact is lost as it becomes accepted; a stepping stone to higher knowledge. It has integrated itself into my web of beliefs so seamlessly that I merely accept it as one of the things I now know to be true. What was once profound is now common sense. Imagine that. Imagine that...

I wonder what Einstein felt like when Special Relativity became his common sense idea. Isolation, probably. Sure he had his colleagues, but what I guess I'm getting at is... for chrissakes, find someone to share your world with. This message brought to you by It's 4:08 in the Morning and I"m Calling it a Goddamn Night.


* (Zeno's paradox went as follows: Just as there is an infinite amount of decimals between two numbers, there is an infinite amount of points between two spaces, even if only the width of a hair - infinately large works in reverse as well - so then, as we walk we are actually crossing an infinite number of points, so we must be moving infinitely fast. How is it that we're not, yet moving nonetheless? The answer probably lies in the fact that matter equates to nondivisble quantum particles in its most minute form, so in particles, infinity does not exist. Interesting paradox nonetheless)