Meanwhile, I’ve been assigned a hot young Indian chick who barely comes up to my ribcage and has an ass you could write sonnets about as an intern so god knows where my fucking life is headed. At least my assistants are ugly. Ugly and professional.
Also, what the fuck is the difference between an assistant and an executive assistant? I don’t think there’s any real difference. I think one of them just has better health insurance or something. I should probably find out.
Surgery is very sexual, don’t you think all that opening up and getting inside and fixing all the problems, see, baby, it’s a problem you got, every fuck a prelude to war, you’re screaming loud enough to wake the neighbors when I lick your cunt but you’re always knives in hand when it comes to shooting straight, see, baby, surgery is sexual because it’s intrusion but you kind of like it, you like it when it hurts, (you don’t have to tell me twice) (hell, you didn’t have to tell me once) spankings and chokings and open palmed slaps are romantic in the oldest sense of the word, let’s operate under these parameters, let’s scrub the bathroom walls after I shoot off all over your tits and neck, surgery is very sexual, don’t you think, wake the neighbors up sobbing when you cum blind with two of my fingers in your mouth, like when I run a rib shear right through bone to get at your unfixed heart, that’s a heart run wild right there, what will the neighbors think when they hear you gag deep throating on surgical gowns and running your limber lady tongue over backyard barbeque conversations, were you flirting with that guy, baby, I’ll fucking kill him, I’ll run him down because I know you get soaking wet when I get violent, because no utopia was built without a good old fashioned reaming, whether with fists and faces or light slapping getting harder, you running your hand down the front of my pants to take my temperature, doc, baby, sweetheart, I got a fever, let me show you my thermometer, (save the groans for the balcony, guys, you’ve said dumb shit to get laid too) let me take the ambulance to general and when they open me up make sure they label my organs properly, kidneys, liver, guts all the way up and down, inside people is always more boring (and more interesting) than it first appears, who hasn’t had a first thrust thinking about laundry, box scores, (get it, box scores?) what time the next train is gonna take you the fuck out of here, no baby, not away from you, away from all those other tramps I fuck, it’s not hands off when I’m hands on, I could play piano or hell even be a surgeon with this ten fingered instrument, oh, baby, when you strip down to those tiny lacy panties and that big big bra, I can’t help but think of the smell of sterilized steel, how you’ve got me toe-tagged while you’re wearing high high heels, surgery is so very very sexual don’t you think, it’s theological and gynecological and illogical all at one, looking into the face of god and seeing a pussy that screams "FUCK ME HARDER" right back at you,
and the choirs of angels sing, and the choirs of angels sing!
In response to my flagging (and normally unwaveringly lecherous) sex drive, a friend of mine suggested, rather eloquently, that I “jump-start my dick”.
A few days ago I tried this, with a particularly spirited and aesthetically pleasing friend with a penchant for moderate to extremely unconventional moments of filth, only to discover it’s still nil. Christ, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m more turned on listening to AC/DC than I was actually getting some.
according to human resources it is not legal nor has it ever been legal to hunt people from Los Angeles so I apologize for all the confusion and does anyone want some rifles barely used I mean never used ha ha ha ha
Bob The Cunt:FOR SOMETHING SATURNAL IT SEEMS TO BE LODGED IN URANUS!
Bob The Cunt:Aye, see what I did there?
Me:I wonder why everywhere I go, there seems to be some idiot desperate to convince me there's a sliver of truth in astrology.
Bob The Cunt:Oh that's obvious, then.
Bob The Cunt:Yeh've got to have some fuckin' moon unit to make the rest of yeh look like sane people.
Bob The Cunt:This is an office of mad barking fuckers running around the loony tree, and without that one utterly fuckwit lunar member obsessed with little slots and dalliances, well, we'd be exposed for the massive cunts we are.
Bob The Cunt:It's all in perspective. Yeh've got to let them believe in their little lies, so the big truths can sit behind them and laugh.
On Affairs Pertaining To Minor Celestial Bodies And Their Indifference To Secular Humanism
I chose my friends the right way pathetic with extreme personalities it’s a good match, you see I am a pathetic man with an extreme personality it’s all empty nailguns and broken steps on ladders all the way down! I want the people who will sing along in a bar, screaming ”DOO DOO DAAAH DOO DUUH DUH” during the keyboard bridge, why would you not love people like that? all people are pathetic, minotaur to centaur, smile to suffering, you’re born fleshy cage with bad taste transmitted from staircase to staircase finding your way upside down in the best instances,
finding beauty momentarily, finding reason even as it vanishes in your hands, why not live in the magnetic regions of people, polarizing, opinions of a rough gestalt shouted in coarsely loving living room brawls, you must battle what you love or it will never let you hang flags from captured battlements, there’s no such thing as a friend too extreme, a person too far out there, man you will find in the smiles of the madman motherfucker mouthpieces stabbing Zep into jukeboxes with dirty fingers, all the answers to a libidinous cosmos unlocking the tower times of space, why don’t you tell them your favorite album, why don’t you talk to strangers at bars, they’re not in a van no candy the worst that can happen is you waste a drink on a pathetic statement, so for jack christ’s sake stop telling me we’re so alone in this universe, I hope we are,
means there’s nothing but this conversation, this ugly masculine bullshitfest, nothing but time to argue the fine points of gruesome things
This executive bathroom is playing weird jazz way too loudly and the tiles are super cold and my tie is unbuttoned two buttons down and I can see this whole scene is being shot in a fish-eye lens, Terry Gilliam fashion, and as the wall between narrative inclusion and extra-dimensional show reality wavers, I flip my tie over my shoulder and puke again.
Vaccerelli awoke in his office to find himself troubled by an unsettling strain of doubt. Had he fallen asleep there? He took his feet off the desk and began rearranging the scattered contents of the tabletop for no reason he could think of except that he was all of a sudden stricken with the notion that an important client would soon be coming in to see him. Of course, it quickly dawned on him that this wasn’t the case. The last thing he remembered, it was his birthday shindig at the Edinburgh. Jesus, how much coke did I do?
You know I swear to god I used to be this lunatic drunk writer living in the scummiest weekly hotel ever scrounging for the week’s rent because I drank all my money away and then one day I woke up like this. It feels like that was just goddamn yesterday, sometimes.
I have two. They don’t show up on here very often because they’re super competent but not that funny.
And I don’t harass them as much because I need them to make sure I don’t show up to important meetings without my information and sneezing blood and puking strange unholy chemicals and speaking in tongues. Sometimes I forget.
It’s a horrifically sunny day outside so I’ve told my assistant if she can replace the windows in and directly outside my office with obsidian and get it past building code I’ll authorize her for a raise.
A 6.1 earthquake and my adjacent roommate bolts out of the house, my roommates downstairs are screaming, and I just put my hand on the bigscreen, as if to comfort, while the walls shake and things break in my neighborhood, and say “well…”