Public service announcement

As a service to online men, I give this simple illustration to fat women who want to describe themselves as "curvy".

 

Lubbock

Frankenstein walks
through the little college town
a skinny dreamy monster
engineer boots clumping
through Mexican botanicas
past quincinera shops
rented houses with dusty
lawns, trenches
dug by massive pit-bull
mongrels staked by the
front stoop. Stainless steel water-bowl
overturned. A thousand ticks
around the neck and
behind the ears.

He walks into ancient
Sanford and Son thrift
adobe-hangar full of
skinny 1960's suits, American flags
half-empty board games
console televisions like
crippled cathode Buicks, odds and ends
peeking from corners
florescent track lights
hanging dusty orange
light through forgotten high
windows.

He slogs through flea-markets
empty-pocketed, chain-smoking
to the sound of his boot heels
and chinking boot buckles.
Warm sandy wind whips his
olive-drab trench coat back and
forth around his boyish
framework. Greasy nicotine clouds
jet through the nose
like Dirty Dragon.

True Milf

(reposted from my Myspace blog of 9/10/2008)

I've been growing increasingly weary with the incessant drivel concerning Sarah Palin as MILF. Yes, 20+ years ago she won a beauty pageant, but let's be honest, Wasilla Alaska had fewer than 5,000 people when Sarah Palin competed in and won the "Miss Wasilla" pageant  in 1984.

There's not a hell of a lot to choose from in a population of 5000.

But, more on point, let's take the term MILF and break it down to what it is. When we were kids we sometimes got a gander of our freiends' not so homely moms working a trowel in the garden, and the top two buttons of their blouse had come undone. Their neighbor-lady bosoms were enough to send you into a paroxysm of pre-pubescent meat-beating. If we go along these lines, then Sarah Palin would qualify as a MILF. An older woman who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time for our 12-year old eyes to burn a hole in the ass of their pastel-striped pedal-pushers. She could have been anyone,

and at 12 she most often was:

Most of us, fortunately, have managed to mature a bit from our teenage years. Some so much so that they've managed a relationship or two, or maybe purchased a Hustler magazine or twelve. Because of this experiential growth what seemed like a good idea at 12 tends to be a bit embarrassing at the age of 27. Think of masturbating to the thought of the lady that lived next door to you when you were 11. Doesn't really work now does it? Kind of fills you with a sense of shame, right? It should.

The reason is this; a kid will rub on his knob for just about anything, but as we mature we develop if not taste, then at least preferences. If your preference is toward some wild-eyed jowly politician, then you go for that big prize mister! I myself have too little fantasy power to waste my time on such a ghastly scenario.

The term "mother I would llike to fuck" is no-nonsense. It is what it states. 

There are plenty MILF's for me:

Pam Anderson

Mariel Hemingway

And even uber-hot GILF Lauren Hutton

Being adults (grown men) gives us many responsibilities in this world. Not the least of which is the responsibility to ensure the respect of others. Part of this respect process is to imbue others with the confidence that you can make  rational adult decisions based opon your life-experiences.

Sarah Palin is a Milf? Really?

 

Koshka

Dynamo
muscles
rippling waves under
her taught skin.

Cutoff jean shorts
molded
permanent peach and
camel toe.

Smooth
blemish-free legs.

I've chased her
around the park.
She flew ahead
as I wheezed
my smokers cackle.
Her laughter bounced
with her bounding footsteps
trampling through the
warm velvet night
scattering
fallen leaves.

I caught her
by the fountain.
I tried to tell her
these wonderful feelings that
there are no words for

as the jets of water
ejaculate skyward
lamp-lit
like blue lava.

Celebrating Black History month

Ugly Girls with Attitude

Dyed blue hair and pushed in
pug faces
walk along University lanes
in fishnet stockings
and backpacks
full of attitude.
Ugly girls without bras
in Dead Kennedy's t-shirts
with skinny bird legs
and giant feet
being pursued by
white boys with mohawks
and black boys with
glasses.

Sweaty girls with
double chins
no lips
combat boots
and pierced faces
standing up guys who
humbly begged to
take them out for
coffee.

Lonley guys waiting
for the phone to ring
waiting to hear
comforting lies
from an ugly girl who
is now two hours late.

Ugly girls with
attitude
who put on spiked belts
and shaved part of
their heads and
somehow realized that
some poor bastard
would be
blinded by
the leather pants and
skull jewelry.
Blinded enough to
accept whatever viciousness
an ugly girl
with an ugly soul
in a silly sex costume
could muster.

The beginning of a memior

            The first thing I remember is awakening in my crib. The room was dark except for the bathroom light that came through the doorway. I was lying on my back and watching in horror as a hundred butterflies polluted the air, and crawled along the crib rails. Even though I was afraid that they would bite me, I moved. I got up, and hopped the crib rail, moving toward the bathroom light. There I found my mother, who was washing her face, staring into the mirror.

“Butterflies!” I said. “Butterflies!” But being so small, my pronunciation was ,”Buff-ice.” I was screaming in horror, and nobody could understand what I was saying. Some things never change.

            I was born August 28, 1967 at 11:11 pm. For what it’s worth, this (along with a bunch of other information I’ve forgotten from my star chart) makes me a Virgo double Gemini. I’m not quite sure what it means, other than I want things to be a certain way, and I’m confused most of the time. I was born at South Side Community Hospital. My mother’s labor was induced by her doctor, who was impatient to go on vacation. Perhaps if he had waited, I’d have been born with a different personality, damn the astrology.

            The first six months of my life my parents lived in a small one bedroom apartment on Jeffrey Avenue. The apartment was only a few miles from the hospital. They were always good on thinking ahead.

            My mother worked as a file clerk for Prudential Insurance, but quickly quit after my birth only to work her way through perhaps twenty other insurance companies. Her wandering ended in 1974 when she wound up working for the Chubb Group as a Commercial Lines Rater. After 14 years of hard work, Chubb and sons laid her, and many other workers off. She then found herself at CNA insurance as an underwriting analyst, where she stayed for 15 years until she retired.

            My father had an office job with NW railroad. He got the job through the Urban League, who recognized that since the railroad lines were using Federal dollars to operate, they needed to hire a few Negroes to keep the quotas. He hated the job, and tried for five years before becoming a police officer. Five years! And I can’t remember him ever being anything other than a police officer. Back then, he was a reed thin man, and had been thin all of his life. The Chicago police department at the time had a minimum weight of 140 pounds. Before he could become a police officer, he had to gain ten pounds. He went on a diet of fattening foods that paid him off with exactly 140 pounds at the physical.

            After the first six months of my life, we moved to a townhouse at 9641 S. Euclid Ave. This was where we stayed for the next 14 years. Our townhouse was less than a mile away from the infamous townhouse where Richard speck raped and killed eight student nurses a year earlier. The student nurses were working at; you guessed it, South Side community hospital.

            They filled the house with their belongings and new son, and went back to work. During the days, I stayed with my fathers’ grandparents at their house. It was a large Chicago-style bungalow on South Langley. I can remember the sunlight as it came through the East windows, it was a calming feeling. Over the years I’ve done a few drugs, but nothing quite compares to the euphoric feeling that I got feeling that sunshine on my face. There were a gang of people living in that house. First off, there were my great-grandparents, who were named Luberta and Charlie fly. For some reason, everyone in our family either had a nickname, or answered to first or last name. This is only strange when you consider that the children were calling grown people by their Name. I never heard “Mom” or “Granddad” in my father’s family.  Luberta was known as “Doll.” Charlie was Just Charlie. They were light-skinned black people. Charlie, in fact, looked more like a mixture between a white man and an Indian. They lived in the house with their Daughter Luella (Li’l Sister), her Second husband Melvin Jones (Jones), Dolls’ Brother Douglas Freeman (Man), and her Sister Susanna Johnson (Daught). Growing up in a house full of old people should have instilled me with some wisdom. Maybe it did, I don’t know.

            I remember Little Sister and Jones having a crowded bedroom. The bed seemed to take up a lot of area, with a slim walkway between it and the dresser.  On the dresser was a small black and white television and I remembered watching I Love Lucy and The Honeymooners on it. One important piece of my development came from that television. I remember watching Svengoolie on it. Back in the early seventies there were two TV shows that showed old horror movies, Creature Features on WGN and Screaming Yellow Theater on WFLD. Creature Features had a creepy opening, with the sound of a clock striking midnight and a coffin opening to a poem:
Gruesome Ghouls and Grisly Ghosts
Wretched Souls and Cursed Hosts
Vampires Bite and Villains Creep
Demons Scream and Shadows Sleep
Blood Runs Cold in Every Man
Fog Rolls In And Coffins Slam
Mortals Quake And Full Moon Rise
Creatures Haunt And Terrorize ...
This poem was read over a creepy song by Henry Mancini Experiment in terror, and accompanying this was a cool video montage of famous monsters that were moving to the beat of the song. The opening was enough to weird me out as I watched it on my parent’s big living room TV in the dark night. The house would be dark except for the light of the television and I’d be mesmerized as I watched War of the Gargantuas or Frankenstein.

Screaming Yellow Theater, on the other hand had a host named Svengoolie, who was a hippie vampire (with wrist stitches like Frankenstein’s monster). Svengoolie would do actual skits between movie segments. I’d watch Svengoolie as I sat on Little Sisters bed, and I’d imagine that I was on the island with the Mushroom People. Screaming Yellow Theater never creeped me out because Svengoolie was there to help me to identify with being a monster. These horrible things were accompanied by a laugh track. Perhaps that’s where I developed my appreciation for dark humor.

I was a monster fan from as far back as I can remember. It came naturally to me. When I was perhaps three years old, my mother stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, and I asked her for a glass of water. I was wearing a set of cheap vampire teeth. A glass of water appeared above me on the counter, and I eagerly gulped a swallow before discovering it was warm and soapy. My mother laughed at the expression of disgust on my face. That, combined with the vampire fangs struck her as hilarious.

Another three year old memory concerns an ice cold glass of coca-cola which sat on the dining room table. Adults were buzzing around me like giant flies, and I was only partially aware that they were having a party. I wanted the coca-cola in that glass. It looked delicious. I couldn’t control myself. I downed the drink and probably went, “Ahhhh” Afterwards. It was a warm day, and the party packed up to move to a different location, with me in tow. I was standing on the front porch, when the world suddenly tilted and I fell into the hedges under the living room window. The branches snapped and snagged and scratched at my skin, and I looked up at the adults in a wave of embarrassment.  The coca-cola had been mixed with rum. This was a story that my parents told over and over again. They had such wonderful senses of humor.

The day came when I had to go to Kindergarten. I was to be left with strangers. My mother dropped me off at the center, amongst 20 very unaffected and adult children. It was frightening. I let out a wail that could be heard all the way in Indiana. I begged her not to leave me. I screamed and cried, but I’m sure it sounded like a lot of snotty-nosed nonsense. To my surprise, she wound up leaving me there, with all those little strangers. I loved my mother, how could she do this to me? It was a travesty that nobody seemed to give a shit about, which was the thing that eventually quelled my tears; shame. I sat down, away from the other children, and found a toy, a wooden car. I rolled it back and forth, and this somehow pacified me. With the pitiful and frightening screams behind me, other children came to say hello to me. I had been initiated.

It was an all black class, but I was known as a “White boy” along with two or three other light skinned boys. This upset me. I knew very little about race, but I knew that I wasn’t white. Why did they call me that? Why do people always want to make you feel ashamed of yourself? The little cocksuckers were my first taste of ghetto niggers. Five years old to fifty years old, they’re all the same. All they want to do is get some shit started. All they managed to do was make the light-skinned kids ignore all the shit brown boogers.

Speaking of shit, one day the kindergarten class was taken to Chinatown. Everything there seemed to be fancy, and red. We walked along the sidewalks and the sidewalk markets. Our parents had left our teacher with a few dollars for each of us to buy trinkets. I wound up with a kaleidoscope. I liked the way I could hear it clicking on the inside as I turned the collar on the tube. I was walking along, intermittently looking through my cardboard tube, and following the other children when I got a powerful urge to take a shit. I mean it was growling and moaning inside. I tried to ignore it, how embarrassing it would be to have to stop the entire field trip so that teacher could find me a bathroom. How embarrassing for them all to know that I ‘doo-doo”. I smashed my mini butt-cheeks together, and willed myself not to go, but it was all in vain. A wall of mush came splattering and caking my underwear. I’d worried about the other children seeing me being taken to the bathroom, now I had to contend with the fact that they all knew that I was walking along with shit caked to and drying on my ass. When we got back to the school, I remember having my ass wiped by a truly understanding teacher. She threw my underwear away, and my ass felt chilly swinging free in my cords.

By the age of five I was well acquainted with my father’s belt. It seems to me that I got whipped for the smallest things. If a person shouldn’t cry over spilled milk, should they get their asses beaten over it? Probably not, but it happens. One day I was laying on my kindergarten nap mat, trying to get to sleep, when I noticed a loose thread wrapped around my toe. It was understandably annoying, so I took off the sock and pulled at the offending string. To my horror, the sock unraveled at the toe. Holy Christ, I’d ruined a sock! I was going to get a beating! This was the kind of shit I had to worry about at the age of five. My tiny brain went into motion, trying to figure out a plan to keep my ass out of the fire. I worked with the sock so that I rolled and tucked the open end under my toes. I was too scared to walk around with the sock not tucked, because I thought that my mother or father might ask me to take my shoe off for some reason, and having it tucked would give me a bit of camouflage in case they did. I spent the rest of the school day learning to walk on the uncomfortable lump of sock so as not to look gimpy. My father picked me up from school that afternoon and I walked beautifully, both to the car and then straight up to my room. In my room, I waited until my parents were both downstairs, and I stripped off the pair of socks, and put on a new pair. I stuffed the damaged sock and its mate into the right leg band of the socks I was wearing, and then made my way to the kitchen, where I stuffed the offending hosiery deep into the trash, praying the whole time that my mother or father wouldn’t go garbage spelunking later in the evening. To those of you who say a five year old can’t be paranoid, I say you’re full of shit. Fear of getting your ass whipped will make you do strange things.

When my father was a little boy he went to school at St. Peters Elementary school, so that’s where I wound up. St. Peters was a school building which was built onto a church building, and headed by the dreaded Pastor Ford. Pastor Ford was rumored to have a short and violent temper, and if you were unlucky enough to be called before him, he would damn near kill you with a strap named “Ugly Charlie”. Ugly Charlie was made of leather, folded in half, and had been around since before my father’s elementary days. Pastor Ford was also a drunk, if you believed the gossip that was clucked around between our mothers and grandmothers.

The girls wore matching blue tartan dresses and the boys all looked like tiny salesmen in their white shirts and navy blue pants and ties. I didn’t mind wearing the little suit. They were like dress clothes that you could get dirty in, kind of like being a detective. The uniforms actually made for a feeling of camaraderie between the boys. It was like a gang almost, looking like everyone else.

I got along with everyone in my 1^st grade class, and I was a good student, managing to get into trouble only once. Not Ugly Charlie trouble, just cloak room trouble. I wondered, back then, why they called it a cloak room. None of us wore a cloak, just sweaters and snowsuits. Perhaps it was a way of trying to instill a sense of class in us. How many American black youth of today would ever have the opportunity to say “cloak room”. The cloak room, was a darkened closet/storage room in the rear of the class. My teacher, Mrs. Hassell seemed to prefer to avoid using ugly Charlie. She was a tiny old white woman, and perhaps she didn’t feel she had the right to beat on black children in those early seventies. Instead, she ordered us into the cloak room, where we were supposed to stand in a corner and be bored or reflective, or both.  There was an arched stained glass window in there, perhaps four feet off the floor, and I managed to climb a storage rack and stand on the windowsill and feel the light on my face. On top of the shelf were Halloween decorations. I picked up a collapsed accordion-style pumpkin and opened it up, hearing the faint ratcheting sound, underneath the sound of Mrs. Hassell’s voice, and I didn’t miss the classroom at all. Up in the window, I could zone out and think about nothing. There were no lessons and no bigger kids teasing me because I didn’t have an afro. It was 1973 and because of my shaved head, I was known as “Egg”.

1^st grade at a Lutheran School wasn’t exactly exciting, but every once in a while one of the kids would do something stupid, and we’d have a bit of entertainment. Once, Edward Smith was busted with sweetened powdered drink mix in his possession, and it wouldn’t have been any more dramatic if it were cocaine. Mrs. Hassell caught Edward smacking his lips, and asked him if he had candy. He denied it so thoroughly that I didn’t think about it. The problem was, his lips were blue, so either he was suffocating, or he was eating something filled with artificial color. He denied it and denied it until Mrs. Hassell sent for Mrs. Ford, who was Vice-Principal and Just as Mean as her Pastor husband. She came down with ugly Charlie. She grilled little Edward for what seemed like half an hour, but in reality it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. He finally gave up the sweet powder after having to show his fingers, which were the same dark blue shade as his lips. He had lied! Oh my goodness, it was a scandal. In parochial school a lie isn’t just a lie, it’s a sin! Because he had denied it so many times, the one lie was counted like fifteen times, and Ugly Charlie was then administered. Ugly Charlie was sometimes used on the buttocks, but in this case it seemed almost poetic to use it in its more popular way; the palm of the hand! We watched the strap fall into Edwards hand again and again, and we were filled with both indignation that we were forced to sit in class with a liar, and regret that the poor bastard had to get his hand whipped over a bag of colored powdered sugar. Ugly Charlie was a menace. I went to St. Peters for five years, and saw it spread its horror again and again. In fact, it was used twice on me. The first time I got swats on my butt for “horsing around” in the boys bathroom. Mrs. Ford however was no match for my father, who raised welts and bruises on my body on a regular basis. I felt like laughing it off, but that would only lead to a phone call to my parents, and hell at home. The second time it was used on me was devastating. It was in the forth grade, and I was found by our teacher, “Mrs. Knott” to have not done my homework. Mrs Knott was a huge fat black woman with a short neat afro, who could put her poundage behind Ugly Charlie’s strikes. When she struck the meat of my palm it felt like the Korean War, and she didn’t give me five swats, or ten, but thirty. Thirty swats in the palm. It was enough to quiet every voice in the room. I’d broken a record. I’d been made an example. I walked quickly back to my desk and put my head down on the wood.

Combating the angles, part 7 (the blackout)

A very common angle trip is the aforementioned "blackout". It's another trick that women are very familiar with (like vertical stripes) to cause the illusion of slimming, that non-homosexual men have no familiarity with. The blackout is simply the use of dark clothing and backgrounds to hide the parts of the body that you feel are "weakest":

Okay, this is a good example of a headshot that reveals little. Chin is angled forward, face framed by hair.
She's succeeded in both hiding everything and looking like she's getting ready to condemn you to the Phantom Zone. In the second photo she actually shows a bit more:

Notice what she's done; she's given us a vertical line from the bangs to the cleavage, framed by darkness, and as we know vertical lines are slimming. What you have to be aware of though are the round shoulders, which you can just make a bit out in this
picture. Again, I have nothing personal against any of these women. I'm sure she's a perfectly nice individual. Problem is, whether it's subconscious or not these angles are being used and guys like me suffer from it!

Viaduct 1981

Walking along the ready concrete shores of this subterranean ocean of flowing rotting howling automotive power and history. Watching the Rivera’s, Cutlasses, Monte Carlos, Gremlins and Hondas rattle across the pock-marked pot-holed old brick Chicago streets. CLUNK BAM SLAM, pieces fall off and echo like snare drums.

                Garbage flies around my head in filthy albino batwing newsprint. The sudden onslaught of black night during the brightest daylight.

                Hit those horns monster boy. Hit those brakes mom and dad, as the kids are yelling, then it all goes black suddenly, like the end of an era. The old mummy in a brand new Lincoln slams on the brakes as she dips into a patch of rotten street, missing bricks. The horns become a symphony of the startled, a fugue of the default stunt driver.

                The two lanes turn into one and a half, but they manage to squeeze through the smallest spaces like greasy cobras slipping through a sewer-pipe, materializing to your left or right, as big and solid as a cocaine bull and you with two inches of space on either side. A wimperous yelp cutting your throat. Sweat pop-rivets your greasy forehead. Jackhammer heartbeat.

                The walkway passes malignantly under my twelve year-old feet. Overhead sarcophagus running-lights. A rat racetrack urinal, blank canvas for the full-bladdered monosyllabic street-artists.

                Spinning head over my shoulder to check for real-life boy monsters in trench coats, grimy-faced, hard-dicked, wild-eyed…

                Was the bully going to follow me home today? Both hands in my coat pockets, firmly grasping the manna and mother’s-milk of mace and brass knuckles. The subzero wind howling fat-lady opera. But it is over.

                The light breaks at the end of the tunnel, both birthing a new world and playing sunshine taps to the old.

Combating the angles, part 6 (The slieght of tits)

Most people know that fat women tend to have big giant tits to go along with their big giant everything else. Fat women who angle like to take unfair advantage of this, and their trickery is cruel. They know that most guys are fixated on tits, so they use them to hypnotize men. The most common angle shot by far is what I refer to as "forced tit perspective". In this shot the camera is held above the subjects head so that the tits are more prominent than the belly, making them appear to be proportionate. Example:

 This is a wonderful example. Notice how the arm girth is camouflaged by hiding the right arm behind the back, and the left arm under the head. The hips are cropped out, and the double-chin is tucked. She also did a wonderful job hiding her fat girl shoulder-width, which is more prominent in the next photo:

In this photo she has once again hidden her midsection and ass, but you can see her thick neck and wide ankles. But once again, she brings us back around with more titty-hypnosis:

 

Her fun-bags are prominently displayed, her head tilted to just the right neck-reducing angle, and everything else is cropped out. In the second picture she even manages to look like a Barely Legal girl. I guaran-fucking-tee you this woman is HUGE! Not that all big women are look bad, it's just how you carry it! There are 3 major types of fat: 1) Porcine. This is the "baby-fat" look, when everything is in proportion. A bit thick in the middle, but the ass and tits are in actual proportion to the waist. This, to me, looks great! But porcine never lasts much as you get into the mid-20's. It will turn into either, 2) Bovine, which is when the fat is concentrated in the middle, with thin arms and legs, or 3) Elephantine, which is an overdose of fat deposits on the overall body, which ruins the proportionate shape, and just makes the person round. This woman is a true master of the angles, and I salute her for her artistry, but curse her for her deception.

Update (9:55 PM) I have been notified that the woman I've picked out here is not actually the best example. She is actually "big and tall" which makes her more porcine and therefore pretty hot in actuality (so my apologies to her). In fairness I will include a better example. Hot, hot, hot:

Ummm... nevermind:

Combating the angles, Part 5 (The toons)

I've never met anyone IRL from a profile that used a cartoon as the profile photo, but many women use them:

Somewhere there are people, human beings with enough brains to connect to the internet that think it's a good idea to portray themselves as cartoons. I pity both them because they're either going to wind up meeting some guy that is stupid enough to think that they actually resemble a cartoon, or a guy so horny that he doesn't care what she looks like... on second thought, maybe that's what they're looking for after all.

One of you sons of bitches has a copy of the Tragic Machine demo

Perhaps the greatest of the late 80's early 90's Lubbock bands was Tragic Macine. I'm loking for someone with a copy of their demo, which I lost. If I can remember every word of theirsong Martin (Mar-teen) then one of you cocksuckers has this cassette in your dresser drawer!


MARTIN

Well all this chaos
follows me about
my entire being pains
can't let it out.
Nothing changes
always the same
shotgun blast
echoes my name
but I don't cry
when I go home
I pass by
I'm all alone
I'm swattin' flies
When I go home I'm tellin' lies
when I go home.

Sittin' at the bar
mum'blin my drunken prose
and memories of endless hate
got plenty of those
nothin' changes
always the same
shotgun blast
echoes my name
but I don't cry.
No I'm not cryin".

Sittin' at the bar
mumblin' my drunken prose
and memories of endless hate
got plenty of those
nothin' changes
always the same
explosion of the passing car-bomb
echoes my name
cryin when I go home
cryin'
I'm all alone,
but I don't cry
I tell these lies
I'm swattin' flies.

Lies lies lies.

When I go home
when I go home
get in the car
we're runnin' late.

The best of the best

Next to the Tragic Machine song "Martin", this was the best of the Lubbock 80's songs.

Science has not created a scale to measure how pissed-off I was in the 80's, that I didn't look like Roland Gift.

Just say no? No way!

Evidently, in the perfect world of Riverdale, teenagers don't need drugs!

See? At least that's what Archie says, but who is Archie to tell me what to do? Fuck that guy! He doesn't know what he's talking about. For example, he says you don't need drugs to:

He's right in a very naive way. You don't need drugs to dribble a ball or play around, but as everyone knows, you do need drugs to win! Even the most retarded leviathan of humanity realizes that there's not a professional American athlete that hasn't used some sort of performance-enhancing drug.

Aside from sports, Archie says you don't need drugs to:

And what friends you get to meet. Here we see a sociopathic-egomaniac, a stalkerish blonde hottie, an idot everyman who is to stupid to either cut the blonde loose or realize she is a nice twin version of the bitchy rich girl he sacrifices his dignity to, and finally a gluttonous closeted-homosexual who may be a high-functioning autistic. Y'know what? I'll stick with the friends you meet while drunk in a bar!

The next thing drugs are supposedly not needed for is to:

Everyone knows you cannot fully enjoy music unless you are stoned on weed. 

Lastly we do not need drugs to:

"Feeling good" is a result of Dopamine being detected by the brain. Dopamine is a drug. Unless you are an upper-level Mystic who has mastered reality you will not be able to feel this dopamine rush on a constant basis. You will need drugs as a backup my friend.

You have a choice, but I wouldn't recommend it.

Twins

I'd just put my 2

cans of soup on

the conveyor belt

when she walked

into the supermarket.

She wore a strange

long

patchwork coat

braided hair and

freckles.

She strode up

to the service

counter.

She made furtive

nervous glances

and kept pursing

her lips in

a way that seemed

to indicate

resignation to

a horrible world.

As the cashier

gave me my change

the girl

was asking the

service clerk

about personal

checks.

I stepped outside

and waited

with my

soup

until she came out.

I said, "Hey."

She stopped, turned

and locked her eyes

on me.

"I was noticing the

way," I continued

"that you walk, and

your facial expressions.

You remind me

of me".

She looked at me for

a second and

said

"Anything else?"

In an annoyed voice.

"No", I answered.

"That's what I

thought."

She said

brushing me

away.

Her angry feet

found her angry

minivan

and she

drove off

cursing at a driver

that

got in her way.

I walked back to

my car in

awe of

her anger

and thought

"I just ruined

someones day

by comparing

them to

me.

Either that

or I'm a poor

judge of

people."

I settled on

the

second one

as a merciful

lesser malfunction

of self,

but still tried

not to look at

my shadow

as I walked to

my car.

Jackson, MS 2004

Combating the angles, Part 4 (the Mystery Woman)

I'll say it one more time: pretty women want you to see how pretty they are! They don't obscure it. When you see a profile photo with an obscured face, run! You may be tempted to think that this woman is trying to be mysterious:

 
And she is. She's keeping her face a mystery. Why? Is she a secret agent? Is she a starlet that has to look for men anonymously so she can see if they love her for who she is on the inside? No, she's obscuring her face because she looks like this:

I'm not trying to be mean when I say it looks like she's wearing a wig. I'm trying to warn you (from experience) that she's probably wearing a fucking wig! And in internet dating land that means "scalp condition".

Combating the angles, part 3. (Bait and switch)

A very common technique is what I call the "bait and switch". This where the woman posts a profile photo with 2 different women on it. Example:

Okay, we have two women in this photo. There's a cute raver-type, and a skinny chick that looks like she fell asleep in the sun with her shades on. You get a picture like this and you focus on the cute girl, but as you look through the photos you find:

That's right, the profile belongs to the skinny chick. Not only is she skinny, but she is also a baby-making machine. Are you man enough to handle her and her three (four) kids? I sure as hell am not! The more extreme version is when there is only one photo on the profile:

Do you ask, "Are you the one on the left or right"? Or, "Are you the skinny one or the fat one"? Or perhaps, "What the fuck lady? Why would you post such a confusing photo"?

Remember

Remember that undergrounds were our hot-rods, and that we'd sweat under the hoods with our pencil-stubs and splayed brushes, trying to get them to go faster than Superman.