The Pussy Read online

  We hear this and we ask: but what will we do for work?

  How will we be slaves?

  Everyone is broke and underemployed. Leadership gets elected by promising them jobs. We’re gonna put this great nation back to work. America is a great nation. But Americans are fucking cretins. Who will create jobs? Nobody. Real jobs are gone forever. And all real jobs ever did was murder your life to make some jerkoff richer. Don’t demand jobs. Demand money. Take your jobs and shove them right up your ass.

  Every other first world country, this is how it works: when people protest, they demand money. Social programs. Redistribution. We then look down on them. Lazy communist freeloaders. Not like me, I’m the most dedicated free market smoker of grisly millionaire cock in the world, sir. I’ll clock hours I don’t bill for, sir; I’ll get my hand chopped off by sheet metal and won’t sue. I’m happy never to see my kids, sir. To drink cheap beer in front of the TV as my dead-eyed wife snores under the Afghan; once she’s good and passed out I’ll sneak on the internet and pump one off to some Creampie Thais, sir. Thank you so much for making these quality electronic goods so affordable. I’m the best worker bee you’ll ever have, sir, not like these lazy Greeks, Spaniards, Portuguese who want to take an hour– an hour! away from work and drink tea and have siestas. Not like these socialist bums who demand a pension, sir, sick time, sir, vacation, sir– I will suck your musky corporate dick and tickle your smelly gray balls for a free market driven wage, sir. A free market driven wage in a free market that now includes places where you can dump mercury in the well next to a schoolhouse. Places where the water gives you worms. Where young people fight to the death over the right to sleep forty to a room in windowless bunkers that stink of farts, spend their free market wage on speed to stay awake so their head doesn’t droop down into panes of iphone glass whizzing by, molten baths of solder. That is your wage competition. People one generation removed from their life savings being a water buffalo. Zero generations removed from selling their daughters. Their organs.

  Well these people work hard, not like you coddled college kids. I dare you whiners to try picking strawberries for one day, ya bums! And we pay ’em two dollars an hour because YOU want cheap strawberries. They line up to get it! Look at your fancy new phone! Ha! What if that phone cost more? You wouldn’t like that, would ya?

  Yeah, I’m sure picking strawberries sucks. And I don’t deserve to eat any more than the pickers do, or the kid at the phone factory does. But it’s a moot point. Once two lines cross each other on a graph at Consolidated Strawberry International, it’ll be a machine picking those suckers. Anything that grows on a tree they already shake off with a machine. They’ll make one that works on a bush. Stoop labor will be in the same boat as the rest of us. Useless. If you don’t work you are useless. It is useless to just be a human being.

  Work will go to the third world, then to the machines. Then get one of them STEM degrees, why don’t ya? Tell the robots what to do!

  That’ll last you for a bit. Then the robots will be told what to do in India. Then the robots will tell themselves what to do. The Prime Directive will be to get a hold of whatever anyone else has left and funnel it to the Walton family.

  There is not enough work now and there never will be again. They will figure out how to ship everything to the Third World. Once they get uppity, everything that can be automated will be. Governments might resist. But corporations don’t give a fuck about governments anymore. They are global. They will take their money wherever they can fuck people the most. Plenty of hungry holes on this planet. Apple is an Irish company now. So is facebook. No taxes in Ireland apparently. Fiddle dee fuckin dee. Every cruise ship ad says “ships registered in Liberia.” It’s not because of Liberia’s rich naval history and stringent maritime safety laws.

  Companies will go where they can, do what they can, to fuck the most people the hardest. They must. They have an ethical obligation to maximize short-term gain for shareholders. A fiduciary duty to screw their customers and employees as much as they can get away with. Cut costs. Cut services. Cut bloat. You are bloat. Labor costs are a thing they tear their hair out over. Used to be taxes, too. But they bought governments and laws. They made taxes disappear. Soon they will buy robots and make you disappear. You and your simpering demands for food, medicine and leisure. If they pay you, they hate you. They want to make you go away. They will succeed.

  Then what.

  Unless you inherited something, you own nothing. And you never will. You own debt. The bank owns you. You get a bill every month for what you “own” and you better work to pay it. So much for your assets.

  What the fuck happens when nobody does anything anymore? We gotta start figuring this shit out now. You won’t be growing your own food. Every piece of arable land in the country is owned by one corporation. That’s an exaggeration, but just barely. So what will all these people do? What will they be for?

  I don’t know– fucking. Singing. Swimming in the creek. Playing board games. Jerking off between rounds of robot built Playstation 15. This idea of the nobility of work– “the pride of having a job”– kill it. It’s a relic of the witch-burning 1600’s freaks who poisoned this country from the get go. The puritans believed toil was sacred. They also believed in the death penalty for masturbation. Fuck those Thanksgiving decoration-looking prigs and everything they stood for.

  What will I do for work? Forget that. How about this instead– hey rich man: give me free money. Hey government: use your force monopoly to take the Waltons’ dough and guarantee everyone a living for doing nothing. Kill the welfare bureaucracy and replace it with a straight check. 25 grand a year tax free for every human being over 18. If you want more you can work. Good luck with that. I’ll be jerking off.

  It’ll never happen. Capitalism will burn to its natural end. Five families will own the Earth. Rest of us will be fucked. You won’t get a job cleaning their toilet. You won’t even be able to sell them your daughter. There will be robots for that.

  We’ll be useless. Worthless. Or, we’ll be worth the value of our organs to the Waltons and Mark fucking Zuckerberg the 5th. Christ wept.

  Fuck man, I better get more booze.

  Coffee Shop Diary: Megadrought

  The coffee shop. It’s hot today. There was a fire. Big brown clouds out of Glendorra that make the light look like the apocalypse. It’s not going to rain, we are told. Ever again. The pine trees in the park are cracked and brown and the city’s going to come and raze them all. Their bark has been ravaged by the pine beetle. It preys on vulnerable pines in times of dearth.

  What’s more this jerkoff’s gigantic head is blocking my view of the one hot Asian chick in the cafe. Do not sit between a man and a hot young piece of ass, if your skull is the size and shape of a wall mounted air conditioning unit. There is another girl across from me. Ruddy faced Irish broad but she’s wearing a low cut V neck dress and about an inch and a half of tit is showing. I’ll have to make do.

  She is texting intently, one thumbed. Her eyebrows tell me that the text is really interesting. No girls text me like that anymore. Nikol has a boyfriend and Emily has a job. OKCupid is a god damn wasteland. This is the year Tinder broke it. For a brief shining moment you could get laid by typing interesting words on a keyboard. Now no one reads. There used to be blogs. Now there’s Buzzfeed. The dating profile of the future will be a column of GIF’s.

  I should have settled down when I could have. But then I’d just be with some old twat. I want to be with some new twat. OKCupid, I pine for your golden age like a mother for her lost child. How is it that I can’t get a date now when I write for another guy on there and he’s killing it. He has a cool job. What if I need a “cool” job again. What a nightmare. What if to get women you have to be the only thing you hate.

  Relax. Look at the titties. Like when you’re on acid at a concert and the trip starts going haywire: just focus on the band. Thank you for showing me your titties, miss. You don’t know the joy you’ve
brought.

  After this I’ll go sit in the park. School will have gotten out and I will leer at underage Mexicans. There was a purpose to my life besides this once. But no more. I will age and decline and be forgotten and die.

  Here’s another girl. Big tits in a sheer white shirt and turquoise bra. Thank you for this clothing choice. Her face looks a little like Steve Buscemi had a baby with the Old Man in the Mountain, from the New Hampshire license plate. But big tits. I’ll take it. Floppy little ass. Maybe 35. Too old but she still has something. She’s fucked a lot of men in bands. She’s done slip and dips at hole in the wall art gallery openings with her belly full of Two Buck Chuck and cheese cubes. She has herpes, she’s had syphilis. She doesn’t give a fuck. Her hair is tastefully colored. She walks back, pulls her eyes far to the right to avoid making eye contact with me. Keeps her Buscemi perma-sneer on. To avoid looking at me she risks walking into a picnic table and taking the sharp corner right in the pussy. Worth it to her. I look like a serial killer. When a girl makes eye contact and smiles I feel like a romance novel cover. When she does what this chick is doing I feel like a slug on her sidewalk after the rain. An invertebrate. Not even. They pity the slug. I am beneath pity. Get a hold of yourself man. Look at the Irish girl’s tits.

  She knows now. She is locking her knees. Awkwardly putting her elbow in front of the tits. To do so she has to fix her arm like a broken chicken wing. She knows. She would rather mate with a slug. Fine then. Fuck off, you Brian Cox faced cunt.

  My thirst is so deep it’s permanently mutated my DNA. I can’t even conceive of speaking to a woman. Here’s another one, fat little blonde in a short short skirt sits down with her back to me. I just look at her flaxen hair. That Maurice Ravel song plays as I twist up a fistful of it and plunge into her fat white ass from the back. Looks to be in college. Her hair, her hair. Her jiggling white thighs. Please, Lord, just castrate me.

  I have to piss. Ask the Irish girl, will you do me a favor.

  … maybe.

  Flirtatious. I am getting somewhere. I ask her: if someone steals my computer will you yell at them?

  Yes.

  Great. Thank you.

  I piss. But first I fix my hair. After, I think of what I’m gonna say. When I go back she will tell me that Huns tried to take my 2007 Acer Aspire. She fought them off. Stay in the can till it comes to me. Yeah, I could tell you have a touch of Charles Bronson going on. Good. Head back.

  I come out and thank her. She just makes a don’t talk to me face.

  Sic transit gloria mundi.

  ‘Cuz a lot of my friends are really into like sculpture right now, the fat little blonde is saying. She talks like a sparrow. I’m putting together a zine panel at Headspace. Colleen McTits has to get up. She does not ask me to watch her computer. Tries hard to get up in her short dress without giving me a panty shot. Fails. They are black.

  Check my phone. Lena Dunham favorited my twitter picture. Her with Nicolas Cage’s head. This delights me. I have been noticed by someone famous. I’m in an Echo Park coffee shop drinking a tea called “Spring Jasmine.” Grinning uncontrollably because Lena fucking Dunham knows I exist. I prayed for castration. God said: granted. Giggling at my own shit like a little girl being tickled. Colleen sees it. Can’t help laughing too. Looks up from her book. I’m just trying to concentrate on my work, she says.

  It’s impossible, I tell her, to see someone laughing stupidly and not laugh stupidly yourself. You should only feel bad if your book is about the holocaust.

  No, it’s about the mutiny on the Bounty.

  Was that a book before it was 15 movies?

  Well it was a historical incident.

  But no, I mean is that book about the Bounty, or–

  It’s about six of the sailors who weren’t the original, you know, the main guy, who just took women and sailed away.

  Yeah, with like a breadfruit plant.

  Right.

  But Mel Gibson played someone in one of those movies. So it is tangentially related to the holocaust.

  Ha ha, yeah. Very tangentially.

  And it dies again. But I’ve taken it somewhere. Now it’s awkward if I don’t ask her out. I don’t want to. She doesn’t want me to. She would have kept it alive. Still. If I don’t ask her out it is a cruel indictment of her humanity and bone structure. She is wearing plastic sandals the color of band aids.

  Lena Dunham knows I exist. Ha. Take that, with your stupid schoolwork. I called her show a trifle but now I’m thinking about her movie, which I loved. That movie was genius because she favorited my tweet. Fuck you, you Captain Bligh studying motherfucker. You should have kept the ball in the air. Instead she is clearly nervous I’ll speak again. She just wants to finish her paper and go home to her boyfriend.

  Now I’m laughing again and I don’t want her to think I’m laughing because of her. I’m hiding my face with my hands to make it clear I’m not watching her unbraid her hair and put it in a bun. Who fucking cares dude. Let it go. Norman Greenbaum’s ”Spirit in the Sky “ comes on the radio. The blonde says she’s had internships where they didn’t know what to do with me, it’s silly. She is 21 years old. When she was born I was already a fully formed human being and now what.

  Colleen has finished with her hair. Looks back at the book. She smirks at something in it. I say nothing and leave.

  The Heart Touching Magic

  I woke up and I was taking her from behind like a savage. She was black, dark black. Tattoos. I popped into consciousness out of blackness and my dick was pushing into her tight pussy and she was moaning. Eat your heart out, Quantum Leap.

  She had flaked on our date. I showed up at the bar on time. Ten minutes later got the text that she forgot. Before that another girl “had her car towed” 20 minutes before our date. Before that a Manic Pixie Dream Girl emailed me 15 minutes before our date: her friends were throwing her a surprise party. But she forgot to put the “o” in “.com” so I showed up and sat there forever like a jerkoff. Manic Pixie Dream Cunt.

  She forgot. She was at a happy hour in Hollywood. It was implied that I might join her. But the sun had been down for a few hours so my BAC was at felony level. I needed to draw her back. I needed a miracle. I needed cocaine. My dealer had been deported to Honduras. There to be ventilated by death squads no doubt. Sorry Manny.

  On a scale of 1 to 10, I texted, how good is your coke dealer.

  11, she said.

  Thirty minutes later I was walking two miles down Normandie from the 4 bus with my rent money in my pocket. She was cute. We got high. Stocked up at the liquor store. We coke talked about the state of race relations in America. Listened to Band of Horses youtube videos. Her laundry hamper was in the living room. Every time she went to take a piss I dug for her dirty panties. Sniffed them like they were an oxygen mask and I was trapped in the rubble of the World Trade Center. We’re not going to have sex, she said, as we smoked out the bathroom window. Fine. But I kept pawing at her. Pulling up her shirt and pulling down her pajama pants to look at her ass. Magnificent.

  She had pills too. Percocets. The pills and wine won their battle with the coke when I was smearing tangerine scented massage oil in her ass crack. I woke up and I was fucking her. She got on top of me and she could move. The state of race relations in America was improving. Next date we’ll have dinner.

  Write Her a Lovely Message…

  I accidentally saved you to my favorites. I say accidentally, because I didn’t know that little thing down there did that.

  I hope you don’t take that as an insult. If you did, get over yourself. I don’t despise you near enough, at this point, for my favoriting you to not be ironic.

  Your profile inspired me to write that. Have a nice day

  ***

  Only a few people despise me nearly as much as I deserve.

  You want to get a drink some night?

  ***

  Possibly… We should maybe chat a bit and know each others names first, though

&
nbsp; I’m Jess btw

  ***

  Give me a topic and I’ll write something about it.

  ***

  The topic is – “you”

  Go!

  Here’s the thing with me. I want to find a nice girl. But I also want to get you hammered in my filthy silverfish infested jack shack and rawdog you in the second hour of our first date. I’ll pull out. But maybe the one wild drop squirts in you and gets you pregnant and thinking about this is getting me hard on the train. This is not a proposition. I am not saying “hey let’s fuck.” You can’t do that. You have to pretend your conversation is about absolutely anything else. Your job, your TV, whatever. But what I am thinking is: hey let’s fuck. Then I can find out if you’re a nice girl. After. But until you fuck her you have no idea. All you’re thinking is will I fuck her can I fuck her God if I give her one more glass of wine she’ll fuck me. I hope I’m not blowing it I can’t afford this wine but I just need that ass so bad. One date, three, a year of friendship, whatever. Until you fuck you can’t turn that off.

  And then you fuck. And it occurs to you that she’s boring. She laughs at your shit but never says shit that makes you laugh. She’s “feisty” and adversarial and you mistook that for a sense of humor when your ball sac was burning white hot through your bluejeans. But now she’s just a pain in the ass. You are probably one of these girls. All but maybe five of them have been. Nothing against you though. My definition of boring is most people’s definition of a happy, successful life. I do not have a happy, successful life. I want you to be a sad broke drunk like me but secretly think you’re some genius with a biting wit so having no money is OK. Compulsively tearing up meaningless pussy (or cock, in your case) on OKCupid is OK. Debasing people is OK, dehumanizing people is OK. Debasing and dehumanizing yourself. Because you’re a secret genius. Better than everyone else. And maybe the world will never know but you know and people can see it in your eyes. I want you to be like this. Then it will be us against the world .