the email said,”

why don’t you ever say any bad things about yourself? You talk about asswipes, you sound like an asswipe.”

never one to turn down a request, crude as they may be, here goes my secret admirer.

heres all the bad things i can write about myself in four minutes. ready? set? go

watches sports constantly, likes strip clubs, smokes a pipe, not a crack pipe suckers, christian minister, slow safe driver, safe sexpert, talks dirty, on the computer a lot, doesn’t eat much, doesn’t sleep much, likes the bed, contradictory as hell, cheap, mad slacker, will probably say something wrong to your mother, laughs at his own jokes constantly, reads too many magazine, likes to make out all day, bad cook, messy as hell, wants 8 kids, not motivated at all by money, thinks he’s destined to burn in h e double hockey sticks, compliments way too much, doesn’t speak french well, doesn’t like to do the dishes, homebody, eats a lot of pie, horrible memory, lucky in lust, reads poetry, watches hella tv, will call you on your shit, terrible memory, bad dresser, likes to drink, tons of friends, hates the phone, will never divorce you, thinning hair, hates the cold, has no problem with porn, likes bikinis with prints designed with the image of revolutionary Che Guevara.

happy, giselle?

but to answer your first question. its my belief that the devil lies hidden in the part of your brain that tells you that all those things are bad. and they’re what’s keeping you from what you want in your life.

as if the devil was going to be dressed as a pretty girl, or wear a red suit and twirl his tail and knock at your door with a see through briefcase of hundreds, a box of acid laced sugar cubes and the dallas cowboy cheerleaders.

some might say that the devil isn’t that creative. i say he doesn’t need to be. the list of things that freak us out are so basic and predictable all the guy has to do is start with your face your ass your hair and your gut and rinse and repeat. if he really needs to get at you he can remind you how little money you have in savings, that your girl might be thinking of leaving you, and how closer you are to death.

don’t kid yourself into thinking hes not there, acknowledge him, but pay him no mind.

be worried if you cant hear him.

be terrified if you believe a word.

envious of: bitchen’s visit to fenway

winona called, but i hung up.

beyonce called, but fuck her. things get weird when i talk to her.

cher called, it was the wrong number.

david letterman called, but then he put me on hold.

angus young called and i said, i love you and he said, right back at you.

madonna, prince, rupaul, sting, eminem, shakira, britney, and liza called but none of them could get me stones tickets for the halloween concert at staples so i hung up on each of them, disappointed and put-off.

venus called, then serena, then their mom. fuck em all.

the president called and i said, legalize weed like britan did. he said, it’s not legal?

“spin” called and offered me a job, but they didnt really mean it. they havent meant it since 1989.

hef called, but he was just looking for ashley.

then anna called. my love. my true love. the girl of my dreams. my lil russian nite cap. the only girl. the reason some of you are here.

she said, quit recording my calls.

i said, done.

she said, quit using pictures of me when you talk about me, it makes me think that you only like me for what i look like.

i said, fine.

she said, and whatever you do, do not under any circumstances post another entry until at least three different readers comment in your comments section.

i said, uh…

she said, you get 500 people a day on your shit and you let them lurk. if they’re not going to give you money for a car any more, make them– a few of them at least– show some love.

i said, they show plenty of love.

she said, do you want me to call you again?

i said, yes, my dear.

she said, then dont let me see you write another post until this one gets at least three and your last one gets three. i liked your last one.

i said, then why didnt you comment?

she said, im commenting now, dumbass.

cute picture of the day

when the ducati of life throws you off when you’re in second gear taking the s curves of Hanover

your pit boss tells you to hop back on but fernando threw down his helmet and walked off the track climbing over the hay bales that lined the chain linked fences, unzipped his fire retardant leather suit and retreated into the adjoining forest.

quitter, his crew was heard yelling in a variety of languages and he thought to himself fucking ride that shit yourself then fuckers and walked and walked and walked. eventually he couldn’t hear the whines of the motorbikes and the screams of the crowds and he climbed out of his advertising, stripped off his long johns and climbed an inviting tree in nothing but his lucky boxer shorts that said chico’s bail bonds.

as he climbed he saw he had a different perspective of the forest and saw it was bigger than he thought. he saw the race below him and couldn’t make out who was winning and eventually grew disinterested when all that it looked like were colors and shapes circling and circling. motion but no movement. action but and no progress. volume but no sound.

he kept climbing and discovered something very uncomfortable in his right boot and realized it was his secret diary, just a little spiral notebook with a few pages and a pencil stolen from his country club golf course. he sat on a branch staring at a clear-cut section of the forest thinking about a happier time when he was an ice cream man during a summer vacation from college, and he thought of a girl he met on his route and wrote the first chapter of a poem that he’d never finish.

he wrote:

in the richest meadow of a wooded plain

Where clouds and rain and pain,

are as

rare as a train.

You take your showers by standing outside

in the sun

and letting its rays soak you.

While the birds hum

and the children play, and the day

and the air and your hair

are all one.

every once in a while you sigh

and say, “Where the heck am I?”

It’s then that you know,

(although you sorta thought so)

that’s you’re on vacation

or at recess

or at home

or in Love.

and lucky for all of us, a huge gust of wind took the world champion by surprise and sent him to his violent and dramatic death.

blushing: at moxie’s photo essay