The Cutting Room Floor

A couple of essays that missed the final cut of the latest book. In hindsight, I have no idea why. It’s hard to kill your children. Or, in this case, to put them in the back of the file cabinet. Here’s some sun, little ones. You very pale, vitamin deprived, ghost like little ones…

The Tyranny of the Empty Page

In the beginning, God created indecision and anxiety…

Similar to a stand up comedian that’s just shot their special, this feels incredibly empty and daunting. Just thinking about it comes with a dose of lethargy. You’ve just blown your load, and now you are partaking in awkward conversation as you wait for the Chinese food to be delivered. (This is the city’s version of the pizza. Post coitus, you have more options for delivery. After all, this ain’t fuckin’ Bakersfield.)

Take a deep breath. Glance down that road that will take you months to walk. Hard sighs that sound more like soft grunts. This walk will be difficult. (Begin!) The first steps are rigid and painful. Muscles and ligaments loosen. Knuckles are cracked. Heart beat rises. And with the first bead of sweat that collects on your forehead, you are off.

Starting anything isn’t easier than not starting anything. That first day without alcohol or doughnuts does not come with a fashion photographer knocking down your door. It’s going to be a long time before those jowells melt away. Which is depressing. The only thing this doesn’t apply to, I suppose, are relationships. Mostly, you simply look up and thirty days, weeks, years have passed. You can’t approach a date saying, “Ok. Thanks for coming. This is day one.”

“What did you say?” your date inquires.

“Well,” you begin, “I’ve already decided this relationship will be a year long before it crashes and burns. It will be so bad, that we will never speak again. But today is day one. Should we order an appetizer?”

BTW, it’s unfortunate you can’t inquire into how long your partner takes to finish. Apparently, it’s rude to ask. I don’t see why, but I’ve learned the hard way.

ME: So, how long does it take you to cum?

LADY: Excuse me?

ME: I mean, are you easily pleased, or do we have to rent a jackhammer?

LADY: Well, I, this is, oh my god…

ME: The reason I’m asking is: I’m feeling some chicken vindaloo for after we fuck, and I know this great place that delivers. But it takes them an hour to get here…

BTW2, I saw this video with a woman, belly down, on a bed. There was this massive dildo attached to what looked like a lawn mower engine. She also had a small vibrator that was used to stimulate herself by reaching underneath her torso. Obviously, very flexible and in excellent shape.

ANYWAY, this molded cock hammer is just plowing into her at a rate and time no human could possibly be in shape to do. I mean, this motor has to be overheating and on the verge of catching fire. She’s rubbing herself with the vibrator like she has poison ivy of the clit. How her clit doesn’t fly off into the next room is baffling. And for twenty minutes she keeps saying, “I’m getting close. Uhhhh. I’m getting close.”

Close to what, starting a house fire? My god, woman. This is the saddest shit I’ve ever seen. Technically, you could flip on the generator, tip your cap good luck, then go have dinner and drinks with different machine fuckers. Maybe even a movie. Be considerate, though. Drive through In ’N Out on your way home, because this girl’s gonna be famished.

“Hello! I brought you a double cheeseburger and some fries. Of course it’s animal style, you impossible to please psycho. Animal style for the animal. Hey, I have an idea: Maybe you should stop sand blasting your vagina and it wouldn’t take you a milenia to cum! It’s like you are giving your crotch a concussion. Take it easy… I also brought you a cannoli from the restaurant. No, don’t do that! Just because it’s phalack doesn’t mean… You eat it, you freak. It’s food. You put it in the hole in your head!”

BTW3, If you walk into a restaurant on Valentines day, you can witness every stage of a relationship. If only you could read their minds…

Table one: The new relationship.

“I wonder if I were to order the deep fried mint ice cream, would that seal the deal for a blow job?”

Table two: The newlyweds.

“This is the same restaurant he proposed to me. This can’t be a coincidence. Maybe a trip to Paris? Hell, I’ll take a new car.”

Table three. The parents.

“I think I will have another glass. Maybe we should get a bottle… I hope that new babysitter isn’t rifling through my dildo drawer.”

Table four. The empty nesters.

“How long can I keep up this charade? The smug face. The same stupid jokes. The same freckled penis. I’d blow the busser if he could save me from this nightmare.”

It isn’t a road as it’s more of a path cutting through a very strange world. A world you’ve created. A path littered with odd bedfellows. Strange people doing strange things. You document your observations, and move on. There! Another bench to sit on. Just under the canopy of an unassuming tree. Sit and reflect. This path isn’t going anywhere. Pause a moment to contemplate vaginal concussions. Hmmm…

The reality is: this path has only one finish line. You must keep walking until you can’t walk anymore. Until you take the final breath, the last step, on this mortal coil. That’s the rub. Not a clit rub, just, you know, the predicament. So, just keep walking. After, of course, I’m done contemplating that earlier stuff.

Is That Porpoise Smiling At Me?

LADY: It’s was the hottest night I’ve ever experienced. We were fucking like animals.

ME: Really? Like, in the style of a dog?

LADY: No. He did not fuck me like a dog.

ME: You said animal. I was just looking for specifics.

LADY: It’s just a turn of phrase. You’ve never heard “Fucking like animals?”

ME: Sure, but I always wondered which animals. Because, I’ve never seen passion in the eyes of an animal. I’ve never seen any reach arounds. Or blow jobs… I don’t actually understand the comparison.

LADY: Ok. It was otherworldly. Not human.

ME: Like vampires? Come on, lady. Put down The Twilight novels.

If you own a pet in the city, there is something wrong with you. You have to be mentally challenged in some way. You have to agree, it’s odd to want to play the part of a slave owner/zoo keeper in the confines of your thousand square foot apartment. The idea of shit particles on every surface of your place is gross. Piss stains in your closet? Unacceptable. I can’t see an upside.

Unless, of course, you suffer from Anthropophobia. Which is an extreme, pathological form of shyness and timidity. Social anxiety rules the roost in your poo covered flat. So, you grab a few pets and anthropomorphize them. A way to have friends without having friends. Like some deranged autocrat who imprisons actors and casts them into a production of “Ratatouille Goes To The Psychologist.”

KIM JONG-IL: Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Whiskers. I had to kill that girls parents. They weren’t crying enough when Eight Ball died. You know I loved that tarantula. And you loved him to, didn’t you Bambi? Awe, you look so sad. Do you feel like crying? It’s ok. You can cry to, Mr. Whiskers. But it better… Hey! No, Mr. Whiskers. Put down Fifo this instance! Please don’t kill him! I don’t have that many friends!

Projecting personalities onto your pets is a bit like explaining to people who you were in a previous life. It’s never a negative thing. No one ever says, “I was a seventeenth century panhandler with a birth defect that left me with stubs for hands. People would constantly knock my pan off my stubs because, well, I had no fuckin’ hands. So, I was always surrounded by coins I couldn’t pick up. God damn those stubs for hands! I also had a horrible case of Syphilis. I was dead by sixteen. Alone in a gutter, surrounded by coins.”

Your pets are always happy and grateful.

“You love your new doggie bed, don’t ya? Did you see that? He smiled!”

No he didn’t. He’s probably hot. Dogs can’t perspire, dude.

“Here you go, Miss Fuzzy Britches. You love your fancy feast. What was that? You love me too? I know you love me, silly.”

No she doesn’t. She tolerates you. She’s a cat.

There’s never a moment where the dark side of humanity is projected onto your prisoners. One day, I would love to hear the following…

DUDE: Oh, man. You probably should leave.

ME: Why? What happened.

DUDE: Adolf is going to fuck you up. I just saw it on his face.

ME: Adolph. Your dog?

DUDE: He’s wondering if he acts fast enough, could your whole face fit into his mouth. He’s going to severely disfigured you if you don’t get the fuck outta here.

ME: Are you fucking kidding me? Do something about it. Put him in the other room or something.

DUDE: That’s an animal over there. He’s coming, bro. You better move.

ME: Fuck me…

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