But then again, since when is it not fair game to make fun of white people? And if we want to go there, how come we don't distinguish between European white and American white and Canadian white, etc? I am definitely not even remotely the same kind of stereotype as some of the Euros I know. They're crazy motherfuckers.
I don’t even know, lady. Crackas be all crazy n’ shit.
so you're saying people will be racist in purpose? make people feel bad, just to be "contrary"? See to me that makes me want to speak out more against racism. if people don't understand the weight of what they're doing when they wear a racist halloween costume, that means to me that there's a lot of educating i still need to do. so no, i will never shut up about it.
isn’t designating a costume “racist” furthering the gap between races and therefore making everything more racist, rather than making everything inclusive? or is this all about cultural separation? where’s the line between separation and appreciation? what is racism, anyway?
SHIT MAN THESE ARE DEEP ISSUES. I WAS JUST TIRED OF MY FRIENDS REBLOGGING THOSE LAME “NOT A COSTUME” PICTURES
dear everyone who’s complaining about racist costumes on halloween,
grow the fuck up already. jesus titsmoking bearfuck christ on a carousel. it’s fucking halloween. the more you complain, the bigger the backlash. you ever figured out it’s in human nature to be sarcastic and incredibly contrary? wait for the blackface. wait for it.
Of course. We’re all just stupid. I had no idea…
oh my god favorite reblog ever
you guys there’s a blog called “wtfwhiteprivilege” who actually spend their time hunting this shit down
THAT'S RIGHT, THIS IS A HARD-ON OF BROODING MISERY
Well, I’m sitting here, drinking tea, and I have the saddest erection.
Alright, that’s probably no way to start a story. I was standing around in the shower and thinking about why it’s wrong for guys my age to fuck eighteen year olds but it’s oddly, and significantly more acceptable to fuck nineteen year olds. It’s weird, but it’s true. No one except the truly creepy in my age bracket fuck an eighteen year old, but a nineteen year old is more a “aw, dude” with a side of “well, god damn, she’s young and crazy hot”. Or, in a lot of cases, “she’s crazy hot and crazy retarded” because she’s nineteen. I can think of maybe two sensible nineteen year olds I’ve known, and both of them kind of freaked me out. but if you fuck an eighteen year old, people are all GOD SHE’S A BABY YOU FREAK.
Then I got thinking about music and how the only people I know who like music like I do are hardcore music nerds (a group tragically umbrella’d into “hipster”, as are so many things) and it’s sad. And how dubstep really, really sucks, even if you’re on a bunch of drugs. I think I hate dubstep almost as much as I hate The Smiths, and I really don’t like The Smiths.
Then I started thinking about tea, and then somehow that immediately segued into my head into having sex with Jen in the shower. Which was how we started pretty much every morning for months. So first off I get a nostalgerection, which is kind of annoying, and then I’m remembering how really great sex with Jen was, partially because she was a fucking amazing kisser (if you don’t realize how a great kisser can make sex significantly better you’re fucking stupid), and that’s just depressing. I don’t think about Jen so much these days, since we don’t talk — and that’s healthy and probably how it should be — but every once in awhile I have the crippling guilt of realizing that she has no idea just how many people know who she is, and all of them know so absolutely little about her. they know she’s absurdly beautiful, has great tits, great hair, great eyes, and an impossible knowledge of movies, but that’s where it stops. everything else is the abstraction and the art and the nuance of heartbreak and longing. basically, I reduced her to an artistic vehicle to create this world in which to deal with my problems, and that’s kind of shitty. and unfair. but that’s also how writing works, so.
Then I started thinking about how The Heads were a really weird project. I mean, the Talking Heads without David Byrne? it was a funny album, but it wasn’t a great album.
Then, Altered Carbon, and how it was so good and then the ending kinda just didn’t make that much sense, and then…
but then maybe my life has been one big paradigm of performance art and classic movies and reinvention
I assume people on the internet assume I don’t act like this and drink this much and do these things in real life because…because…actually I don’t know why. Apparently there’s just some barrier in documentation, that you can’t be a spastic fuckhead, and still write about it coherently at some point.
I have a lot of friends who don’t use facebook for obsessive social networking and notification-grabbing and sharing of links; in and of itself, they just use it to comment on birthdays and post pictures of parties.
however — however! I’ve noticed something. they all have the same distribution of 22 profile pictures. as follows;
4 couple pictures - 2 silly - 2 romantic
3 pictures of them as a kid
2 high quality watermarked pictures of them at a show with a bunch of other people
2 pictures of them near an ocean
2 pictures of them from a shitty camera phone
4 pictures that are completely the same that they mistakenly uploaded again and again that aren’t really that good a picture in the first place, all cropped differently
but anyway, she says, trying to wrap her jaw around some stretch of food, what did you do today
perplexed by movement, I watch as she smiles around ground beef, grinding around gristle, and wonder what it’d be like to fuck her face, just really shove her head all the way down watch her come up gasping with a moan, a look in her eyes like a submarine or a u-boat in foreign waters, legs already trembling with the damaging onset of lust
Hungry, I stumble into a Taco Bell/KFC combo. I mean “hungry, and broke”. The first thing I notice is the line is longer than normal, and it’s mostly preposterously overweight people who look like Fat Albert. The notable exception are the giant smiling guy who is second in line, and the head of the line.
The head of the line is an old Chinese woman, who as far as I can tell, has ordered every piece of chicken in the entire place. The staff are slightly confused, and the language barrier is holding them up. They explain how much it’ll cost for every piece, and she waves a few hundreds in their face.
Already battered by the pressure of working in fast food, the staff sigh en masse and begin the task of boxing up every piece of chicken. As they do, all the Fat Alberts look at each other and begin clearing out of the line, like a social security office closing early. I imagine in my head, Zep’s “Kashmir” as the staff pile bucket and bucket of chicken together. I try to envision it in slow motion but relativity and quantum physics aren’t having it.
After this, the giant ahead of me, smiling, who I have deduced is a German tourist, begins ordering random things in incredible amounts with a thick German accent. After awhile it is explained to him how much food there actually is in these things, and he settles for a large medley of waxy KFC wares. I order a couple of tacos and sit down, waiting.
The German begins eating the sandwich, and then hauls out some unfamiliar smart phone. The person on the other line answers and he begins gushing about the amazingness of the KFC sandwich, which looks limp and soggy. I think it is his wife, but he is speaking in English, so I assume she’s a different breed of European. I can imagine some blonde British woman on the other end with a pile of oversized towhead children breathlessly imagining the unbelievably quality of American chicken and the succulent genie-in-a-bottle gravy that smothers it.
My tacos arrive and I sit down, entranced by the German’s mushy, glowing praise as he narrates through every bite of his sandwich. At which point two grimy homeless folks enter and, with the stealthy, aware movements of black ops agents, sneak into the bathroom. One of them loudly exclaims “if I don’t shit soon, I’ll fuckin’ die” and the other nods, but with his mouth open, so the gesture looks like a possessed puppet in a horror movie.
There is silence, and then suddenly, there is a brief howling noise, like sports fans or the lull in a concert ending as the drums kick in. Then begins foul, indescribable moaning. From pained, this moaning soon moves to erotic, as though the bowel movement has gone from ripping to sensual. I hear two low voices in there, and I realize they may be fucking while one of them is taking a shit. I don’t know what to think of that, and every picture in my head is an atrocity.
Then there is silence again. Then — then, impossible, the loud wracking sounds of profound, liberating vomiting. Spattering noises seep out from underneath the door. Coughing and gasping and puking. Silence. Hacking and wet gruesomeness for a moment more, and then the homeless couple emerge, looking exactly as they did before entering.
I decide it’s time to leave before anything more disturbing happens.
it sits across the table from me, in a nicer suit, sipping some white mocha latte foam creation of science, some cancer researcher hauled off task to make foam creamier and cheaper, and it smiles with tiny even white teeth holding out a hand, making unsubtle, sexual motions at me, and after a moment, I just nod
in high school I knew this slut, I don’t mean that unkindly, she just kind of fucked everyone, as you do
she was a sweet girl who got too pretty, too much attention, with great big everything winding up all the hormone-shaped boys in our class dealing with her issues, banging a steady series of stiff inexperienced dicks sucking her way through the higher grades
now, she’s left behind dirty words and slimy screws in the back of collegeboy cars, to marry some smiling guy, just some smiling guy you know the type, and now, she’s happy, I guess, pregnant with her hand wrapped in her first little boy’s probably wondering what the hell happened to being young, so full of energy until you were ready to burn, and burst, ripe, every day so like an orgasm
listen, I’ll apologize for not doing the dishes and leaving socks hanging around the closet like traitors cast to the noose, when you apologize for having such great tits with that flowing mane of hair that makes me try to get home early every night so I can make all sorts of awful noises with you
“Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we’re being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I’m liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That’s what’s insane about it.”—John Lennon
given all the earthquakes, police states, and super sexy ultraviolence around the Bay Area recently, I have no choice but to conclude that the “Event” which leads to the ultimate Orwellian nightmare societies is slowly unfolding before us. fortunately, I have a plan; drink myself senseless during the process, survive the post-apocalyptic earthquake whatsis, and then sign up for the Party or whatever predominant fascist egocentric oppressive faculty moves into power.
sorry, revolution. I love trouble and all, but I’m a big boy now. I have to make the adult decisions. and I’d rather not get imprisoned or shot over something people won’t remember after the “revisions”, you know?
My entire adult life I’ve had this odd paranoia I’m going to die at the hands of a beautiful blonde girl, so, I tend to (although not always) steer clear. Which is apparently Hitchcockian. Finding this out, I immediately went on a hunt and found several interesting articles not on just Hitchcock’s psychology towards blonde, but social, psychological, and a couple of metaphysical takes on blonde hair. What a fascinating and oddly fractured perspective we have on blondes.
well between the crippling amounts of drinking, the stress of the job hunt, the lack of stable living space, and yet another onset of grey hairs…life’s been interesting, fellas, been real interesting-like.
I will establish the funk persona of the devil while touring in a fiery red bus, demanding oral sex and pinball machines from a god-like manager, and play electric bloody ricochet soul classic songs, feel-good blues riffs in blasting rickety guitar beat grooves, while my manager tugs on his white beard and stares down stacks of accounting breaking gigs and groupies up and down the boisterous stage
Perhaps, they’re right, that God is in the numbers
While he’s sitting at a calculator, and I’m getting up to get down get down, get down
Not true — I’ve been to that spot, north of London. where the hills are a color of green you never see in the movies and the cobblestones on the street smile at you underfoot, and the people have a murmur of constant amusement, like the great joke of life itself is all punchline, for them. where the towns all have fountains older the civilization and the bookstores smell properly musty — with the tang of knowledge, and the pubs are cheaper than water. and old men, sitting in the corner near the fire, know the name, the face, and the eyes of God.