Henri Goes Splat, or How the Eradication of Pleasure by the Species Affects One Horny Jew

Jesus means it feels really good

2010-04-29T20:37:00.000-07:00

So I'm getting a hand job the other day at a rub and tug parlor by some Asian woman who spoke three words of English: Honey and Sank you.

As she gently tended to my Judaic endowment, I repeatedly declared, Jesus. Afterwards, she asked me what jesus means. I said: it means it feels really nice. She said, Oh, sank you, honey.

Notes for a talk on capitalism as virus

2009-07-31T15:25:00.000-07:00

By capitalism, I am not referring to an economic system, as if financial models are something we can pick and choose. This, in fact, is one of capitalism’s techniques of hiding itself: it propagates the lie that it is an option, something we choose rather than something we are.

When I say capitalism, I am referring to a complex economy of desire, inter-personal politics, and capital. As an economist knows, the ebb and tide of markets have as much to do with the irrational laws of human behavior as they do with the supposed laws of markets. I work in branding and this is what we do, what we are hired to do: to navigate the economies of desire for capital.

If you’re having a problem w/ my word choice, I ask to put that aside for the moment and listen to what I have to say,

What I want to suggest is that capitalism is a virus that infected the human host long ago and has at once mutated and caused mutations in its human host to the point where it is very difficult to distinguish virus from host. And that this virus has mutated quite rapidly over the last 200 years and seems to be accelerating replication at an ever-increasing rate.

Why a virus? Because, like a virus, it seeks solely its own replication: it is not just a call for “more” but a call for more of the same, more of me. As such, it is a virus of quantity that, in order to replicate more effectively, seeks the eradication of qualitative states of being, affective experiences.

And, as a virus, capitalism will exterminate its host — viruses are not smart that way. As William Burroughs says, any quantitative system will eventually annihilate itself as it exhausts its environment.

Speed and replication: these are the dominant behaviors of capitalism.

The present economy moves at incredible speeds and is accelerating. The human body, the host, slows things down. In particular, the human propensity for pleasure slows things down. Humans are desiring machines: we enjoy the world. We seek pleasure. And pleasure is slow.

And so we are witnessing the extermination of the human body and, specifically, if its will to pleasure. Let’s look at our lives:

-First, the virus seeks to own time. Be at work, everyday, by 9:00. Leave, if you’re lucky, by 5, 6, 7. The work week is getting longer thanks in large part to technologic mutations and always-on micro computing. The majority of your waking time is accounted for — and accounted for being productive, for producing more capital.

-Of course, there will be no fucking at work. In fact, it’s against the law: there are elaborate rules and regulations and training sessions to ensure that not only don’t we fuck, but that we don’t even discuss fucking — or even look at each other with the desire to fuck. Why? Because fucking is pleasure and pleasure is slow and unproductive.

-While at work, we are not allowed any privacy. Work spaces are now, for the most part, open. No chance to sneak a wank — or even pick your nose, exercise, stretch, no chance to enjoy private indulgences. Even bathrooms are rarely private: we piss and shit in front of each other. There will be not space, no time, for private pleasures.

-We sit all day at work in front of a screen. We no longer need bodies that can lift and haul and operate; the information economy wants a brain to do the computing that computers cannot. The body gets in the way.

-We eat at our desks. And what do we eat? Wraps from Wendy’s: fat and processed corn and soy to ensure we are never feeling healthy. Why? Because a healthy body wants to fuck.

-When we get home, things are no better. Both husband and wife must work now: more more more more. So both are exhausted and dehydrated from their day. The kids are wiped out from being abused at school — made to sit in chairs and memorize nonsense. It is not a pleasant scene.

-So we pop Valium and Xanax and Ambien to sleep. Which makes us groggy and stupid and dehydrated.

-So we wake up — gotta wake up good and early and get the kid to school and yourself to work — completely exhausted. Enter: Coffee and the Starfucks conspiracy. Why is there a Starbucks on every corner in downtown America? Because capitalism demands we work and we are so fucking tired so we neeeeeed caffeine.

-Only we don’t really drink caffeine; we drink Lattes Grandes: high powered coffee dumped in a vat of antibiotic soaked milk fat. Which makes us sicker.

-The rise of coffee shop culture in America is not the rise of leisure and pleasure: it’s the spread of capitalism. Coffee shops in this country are places to work, laptops out and ready.

-And so we have become an increasingly impotent society. Which is the goal. But we still gotta breed — cloning is not up and running yet — so we have to take a pill. Doesn’t it bother anyone that there are ads for impotence all the fucking time? The signs are not subtle.

-Schools have been taken over as well: adolescence and youthful desire must be turned towards quantitative production. So high school students don’t fuck: they join after school programs so they can get into college.

-Once in college, they are recruited, No more taking acid, reading Nietzsche, and having orgies. Now it’s Adderall and internships. The majority of college students major in business.

-Acid has been eliminated. What else do I need to say?

-Of course, we can’t just eliminate pleasure. And so capitalism substitutes consumption: we consume, relentlessly. This drives the will to more: produce more, consume more, on and on and on. There is no delectation, just consumption.

-This virus is aggressively mining its host. The first thing it needs is not fossil fuel but human vitality — as in the matrix, it needs our energy production. The environmental movement is, for the most part, part of the capitalist engine that keeps our eyes on fuel rather than humanity itself. We create green cars. Green cars! That’s insane! There’s no such thing. You know what a green car is? It’s called your feet.

-Is there a cure? Is there resistance? Capitalism is very good at infecting resistant bodies incredibly quickly. It folds whatever emerges back into what Guy Debord calls the society of the spectacle. John Lennon’s Instant Karma sells a bank; Vincent Gallo sells Vodka. No sooner does resistance emerge than it is turned towards quantitative production and consumption.

All is lost. Head to the hills. Find the scraps of land still left, set up camp, and fuck and fuck and suck and read and draw and fuck some more because the end is neigh, dearies. There is no cure.

Miscommunication Wilts the Willy

2009-07-24T09:42:00.000-07:00

Few things throw a wrench in the cog of eroticism more than miscommunication. There you are — or I am, as the case may be — lying sprawled across the bed on my back, a lovely minx between my legs, tending passionately to my cock with her mouth. Oh, the pleasure is intense — and rising. In the heat of the moment, despite entering a place where language no longer functions, I manage to moan or mumble or murmur: "Oh, yeah, lick my balls."

She, of course, can't hear me: she's got a cock ramming in and out of her mouth. So, polite interlocutor that she is, she removes said cock, looks up, and asks: "What?"

The moment is gone. My willy wilts.

Why I like buying sex

2009-07-14T11:33:00.000-07:00

The demands of contemporary heterosexuality are untenable, exhausting, and emasculating. How the fuck are we supposed to fuck when we need to be not just friends with our lovers and spouses, but punching bags, sound boards, structures of support for every banal anxiety. We have to listen to each other moan about the assholes at work, the attending angst, the pimples and dimples on our rectum, the endless list of soul deadening tasks — bills and house cleaning and car and future and payments and and and and....

And so thank goodness for the discrete encounter — an hour and 2 Benjamins later and I've been treated like a goddamn king. No discussion about our anxieties and fears, no seething resentment, no repressed rage: just generous strokes and nibbles and napes and no hesitation in asking her to lick my bunghole or let me lick hers. Nothing but desire consummated.

The Disease of Designers

2009-07-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

The coastal cities — New York, Boston, San Francisco, LA, Seattle — have birthed a most wretched spawn, an insidious, deranged, and grotesque thing: the so-called "creative" job.

For those of you who don't know to what I refer — and if you don't, count yourself as lucky and head now for the hills — go! run! faster! — the creative is the person who makes corporations look and sound pretty. These are the people who, for money, film the ads, design the logos and websites and brochures and signs, those who write the taglines and the dialog and name shit all sorts of wacky things. In the industry — the marketing industry, that is — these are referred to as "creatives" to distinguish them from business wonks and computer engineers.

But do not be fooled by the name: there is nothing, and I mean nothing, creative about it. People who write taglines and web copy actually call themselves writers. Writers! How did they come to take possession of that mighty word? Writers, for fuck's sake, as if they were Melville or Nabokov or Borges. Those, dearies, are writers. Coming up with "Better service for your needs" is, distinctly, not fucking writing.

These people relish what they call an interesting project. That's what they'll say: "I'm working on an interesting project." "And what, prey tell, is said interesting project?" I'll ask. "Oh, we're designing a brand book for the new Nike Air Jordan." To which I have been known to respond — and which has resulted in my exile, "That's interesting? Seriously? You want interesting, read Kant's 3rd Critique. Now that's fucking interesting."

Splat.

These creatives are a class unto themselves. They dress well — not in suits, mind you, but in jeans so cool you've never heard of them; in Paul Smith glasses (they all have glasses because they sit hunched over their computers for daze on end) and Prada shoes. They drive VWs, mostly, although today they may drive a Prius. Why? Because they are all what we call liberals — they make knowing jokes about "W"; they all commiserate over the passing of this or that state proposition; they all had Obama inauguration parties — and cried. In earnest!

But not only are they the most conspicuous consumers of all sorts of shit — iPhones and iPods and gadgets and gear and cars and vacations and shit and shit and shit — but they make consumption more palatable. That is their fucking jobs — to make people not only want to buy more and more shit but to let people justify to themselves the buying of more and more shit.

It is all so fucking obvious. But these nimwits have the ultimate disease of the weak: self-righteousness. They assume what they do is so cool, so hip, and so right — yes, they claim the ethical high ground as all liberals do. It's maddening: the people who sweat their days away pushing product for the Man are sanctimonious in their morality! They imagine themselves doing good because they recycle the wrapping of all the shit they buy. It's enough to drive a man insane.

I have, on occasion, tried to point this out to these self-appointed creatives. This has proven a poor economic strategy on my part as, well, now no one will hire me.

Because, yes, I too am a creative. But I don't call myself that. I call myself what I am: a whore and a pusher. At least I used to be. Now I'm just poor and hungry.

Impotence: The Limp Canary in the Mine

2009-07-12T07:52:00.000-07:00

Turn on your television. Just for a moment. Leave it on any channel for, say, 10 minutes. Notice anything odd? Any of the ads surprise you? No, not the ones for "green" cars that are miraculously good for the plants and animals (what the fuck is a green car? A green car! Jesus, we're stupid). And not the ones for this or that so-called food that exhausts your intestines with an unsettling vigor. No, I mean the ones — and there are multiple products — that help limp dicks get it up.

What the fucking fuck? What is wrong with these people? Why are these ads so prevalent? Because we are an impotent fucking culture, literally. Our hard ons are being systematically bred out of us.

We're made to sit very, very still for 10 hours a day in front of a glowing screen, ensuring our bodies and brains atrophy. In order to maintain our attention on said screen, we get Starfucked with cafe latte after cafe latte — which is to say, we drown our coffee in loads of fat and antibiotics which drain our bodies further of any whiff of vitality.

When we finally get home, there is no respite from the fray. We are greeted by our deranged spouse who has had the identical day to yourself because, these daze, everyone works — and is proud of it! the madness of it all! And then come the even more deranged children who have been forced to memorize idiotic nonsense while they sat in their chairs for 8 hours — why are they sitting? They're kids, for fucks sake, they should be playing with mud.

But you know what? Your day ain't even over yet, bud. You can't just kick back, smoke a joint, and sully the ass of your sweet wife. Nope. Thanks to technology, you are always on, as they say. Your Crackberry whines and wheezes, your computer screen blinks and beckons. No doubt, there is something more important than fellatio that must — must! — be dealt with. Capitalism knows no bounds.

Come sleep, sleep doesn't come. You turn to your wife for a little nooky to help usher slumber but she's dead asleep, 10 mgs of Ambien pumping through her lifeless body. And so you follow suit, only now you have to take 20 mgs.

You wake to the same nonsense as everyone readies themselves for another day of sitting still and being inundated with shitty food and asshole co-workers.

And soon you begin noticing that you're not having any morning wood. Everyday of your life, you woke up with a nice juicy hard on. Now it comes less and less. Maybe I'm getting older, you think to yourself. But is 38 that fucking old?

No, dick wad, you're losing your hard on. It's being bred out of you, out of us all. Sex — desire — gets in the way of capitalism, gets in the way of sitting still for 10 hours a day in front of a fucking screen, surrounded by other morons doing the exact same thing. So no wood for you. No wood for any of us.

Sure, they pump porn down the pipe to make us think our lives are still sexual, that our bodies are still sexual. And so we sit even longer in front of the fucking screen, desperately tugging our half-limp cocks to another anal cum shot video and with each stroke, your hard on wanes just a tad more.

Still, we have to breed. We must have workers. Oh, but our cocks don't work. Enter Viagra. We need a goddamn fucking pill to get it up. And not only is there no shame in it, not only is it not something we try to keep quiet, we broadcast it far and wide on every fucking tv show.

The signs are not subtle. We sent the canary down the mine and it came back, sure, but it came back with a limp fucking dick. And we're too fucking impotent to do anything about it.

The fading light of a once great luminous asshole

2008-12-12T19:13:00.000-08:00

Few things make me sadder than knowing that a once potent memory has begun to fade, not in its factuality—I may remember all the details—but in its affective resonance: it no longer gets me going. I pine for the pining, long for the lust. There is a great pleasure, a tortuous pleasure but a great one nonetheless, in feeling your body overtaken with a memory, to have the butterflies flutter in your stomach, the lips tickle your neck, to taste the shadow of a tongue in your mouth. You will never touch that flesh again, you will never know the scent of her on your fingers. But at the mere thought of it your body still quivers.

This thorough kind of thought comes less and less as one ages. Soon, this longing resonance is exiled for good, replaced by relentless distraction which is, really, the abstraction of desire. It is the desire for the desire that takes the place of longing. And it is a pale replica, a poor substitute.

This is why Tantric sex is reserved for middle-aged horndogs; it is an attempt to find pleasure where there is pleasure no longer. The popularity of Tantra among middle-aged northern California hippies is a desperate plea for longing, for total immersion in pleasure. And you know what? There may be a kind of thorough delight there. But it will never be, never even compare to, that unbridled abandon of yesteryear, when you rolled in the proverbial hay with your 15 year old sweetie, her flesh so pure, your desire so innocent, flesh merging, and there was nothing but great seething delight. No, nothing will replace that. Tantra tries, perhaps admirably, to turn its disadvantage to its advantage. Now, sex will not be abandon at all but absolute and total self-consciousness. We will not surrender to the unabashed melding of flesh; we will, on the contrary, amplify the awkwardness between us. We'll buy a book, study the pictures, read the idiotic prose; we might even take a class: 'Tantric Loving for Couples,' $375, please. This is admirable. This is the final attempt, the last gasp, of a libido on the wane, just before true sexual pleasure is all together gone.

I tried the Tantric thing. I masturbated and breathed and pushed and pulled my kundalini up and down my spine, in and out of this and that chakra and while it was nice it's not even in the same ball park as eating the pussy of my exquisite high school girlfriend, half Chinese and half Indian and one hundred percent pert and hot with big tasty tits and the most luscious cunt imaginable and my finger half way up her ass and my swollen jew cock spurting across her belly and eight minutes later I'm hard again and pushing that cock into her pussy while I suck her perfect tits and I know—know—that 10 minutes from now I'll be doing it again. That is the pinnacle of man's delight; that is the apogee of existence. Everything else, however meaningful and delightful, is descent. All the sad hippies with their grotesque bodies and ponytails and impressively illustrated books will not persuade me otherwise. Fuck Tantra. Give me my 16 year old self, give me my 16 year old hard on, my 16 year old readiness to be overwhelmed by desire. I dedicate myself now to mining the web for an image of what I once knew, some semblance of unbridled youthful lust, and I want to puke.

I can still barely make out the taste of my sweet Asian 15 year old's asshole. Man oh man, I loved sticking my tongue up her asshole. I'd never seen porn, not really. This is long before the internet when all I'd seen was a few moments of Marilyn Chambers giving a blowjob on a pool table. Don't misunderstand—watching those few moments, packed in a sweaty living room with 12 other adolescent boys, I came in his pants. But when I would stick my tongue up little Joy's ass—her name was Joy! I'm not making this up—it was not an attempt to resuscitate desire that had waned. It was not as if I'd tired of her perfect, tight, tasty pussy or her impossibly firm breasts or her luscious, delicious lips—oh, fuck, I could kiss her all day and be happy, happier than I'll ever, ever be again; no, when I would slide my tongue up her ass it was because I was so enmeshed with her flesh that eating her ass was continuous with eating the rest of her. I can see that perfect little asshole now and it makes me want to scream in the hope that if I just scream loud enough, I might reverse time and find that impeccable ass perched inches from my big jew nose where I could inhale it with utter and complete satisfaction.

What a luxury that I can still conjure that luscious little gaping corn hole! The light of it is waning, I can barely make it out. But the fact that I can catch even the slightest glimpse is a source of incomparable delight. This is what is left to me, what is left of me: the fading light of a once great luminous asshole.

How I Used to Write

2008-11-27T10:10:00.000-08:00

Here was my writing process, before decay settled in. First, I'd visit the video store and pick out three to five videos, each promising some tidbit of true eroticism (this was pre-web) or at least a girl who had that look, like perhaps she was not insane, stupid, and/or drug addled. Next (after depositing the videos at home, of course; that's a whole other reckoning—carrying pornographic films home clanking clumsily in their boxes stuffed conspicuously into my coat, hoping some homeboy doesn't think I'm packing a gun and wacks me there on the street, Tranny Surprise #8 tumbling to the pavement along with my bullet drenched body and any remnant of dignity), I'd visit the coffee shop and order a depth charge—coffee with a shot of espresso—and a chocolate fudge brownie, jet fuel. I'd then retire to my apartment, the coffee already streaming through my veins, putting mind and cock equally at attention. I'd pop a video in the VCR, turn the TV to face the desk, and set to work.

Assuming my throne, the computer would beckon with the promise of the well-turned phrase, the deft curve of argumentation, while the TV winked with the promise of the deft curve of breasts and the well-turned blowjob. Soon, my pants would wind down to my ankles, one hand working the keyboard, the other working my aspiring cock. And, o, did it aspire. Between coffee, brownie, Merleau-Ponty, and oral cum shots, my cock would never be so hard again, so full of itself, so proud, my prose so lucid, so prolific, so incisive. My erectile prowess and my intellectual prowess acted synergistically: pre-cum and phenomenology streamed from me in equally fine proportions.

After some time—the sounds of the keyboard seamlessly intermingling with the sounds of on-screen slobbering—I'd find himself teetering at the point of frenzied mania. At this juncture, this apogee, I'd jump up, pull my pants to their rightful place, tuck my bulging erection into the elastic briefs, turn off the moaning of the TV, and head over to the peep show across town—the Lusty Lady, alas, and a fine alliteration at that—where for a mere five dollars worth of quarters, I would view the nakedness of 20-something girls whose bushes had not yet been groomed to contemporary standards. And there, in the solitude of a cum-drenched booth, nothing between me and the four sets of breasts that dangled a mere yard away but a piece of glass—there, I would ferociously tug my meat until, as the last of my quarters dwindled away, I'd expend myself, emptying a gallon of semen on the floor where it would mix with my exhaustion, guilt, and the sperm of those who came before, awaiting the sullen, male jizz jockey who would mop it up with god-knows-what thoughts streaming through his head.

That period was the pinnacle of my health, a concentration of sensory input orchestrated just right to drive the organism—me—to a rarified and glorious productivity, all words, ideas, concepts, and cum. All pistons were blazing, a well oiled machine churning at full capacity.

Long Live the Cock!

2008-11-15T19:04:00.000-08:00

Nicholson Baker can't stand men in his porn. The dick kills his hard on. Not me. I need to see that dick, that big, stupid, barometer of pleasure. I find the dick refreshingly obvious: it just wants to be touched, kissed, caressed and it lets you know it. The cock is the most assured of signifiers, shooting itself into the hungry mouth of the referent. The Romans understood: Can you imagine enormous cunt sculptures gracing the town square? God bless the pussy for being so amorphous. But god bless the cock for being so cock sure of itself. No little tiny obscured hooded clitoris here; the dick is a clitoris the size of a fucking salami—and sans hood. And circumcision? Circumcision says, "Get everything out of the way, here comes my big Jew cock!" Really, it's in the moyel's prayer: 'Baruch atah adonai, get out of the way, here comes another big Jew cock'—slice.

Without the dick, porn confirms my greatest nightmare—the world of pleasure excludes me. Now, I understands Baker's aesthetic. Baker just wants to see all that shiny, happy female flesh, free of the needy groping and prodding of the moron cock. Can't blame him—all those cocks is kinda gay. Nonetheless, I gotta have the shlong.

A National Disaster

2008-11-15T18:59:00.000-08:00

High school—high school, for fuck's sake—has become competitive. These kids in their prime, oozing sexuality, with cocks that are always hard, that can cum 14 times in one day and not break a sweat, these primed, luscious young things are not fucking and sucking with abandon as they're supposed to do, as they're built to do—they're joining the Chess Club, reading John Grisham to the blind, and changing the shit filled diapers of the old, just to get into college! My god, it's a national disaster! And it's not as if once they're in college they can get down to all that drug and pussy eating, because once in college, they begin thinking about work. About work! Businesses are actually invited to campus to recruit students. I'm flabbergasted by this. It's a moral outrage. Am I alone on this? And get this: the majority of undergraduates, presumably of their own volition, major in business. In business! It's no wonder kids are fucking, sucking, and eating drugs at a younger age—it's the only opportunity left for pleasure, appetite's last vestige. I applaud them. We all should. Go, kids, go. Roll on your E, blow each other in the bathroom, frolic as much as you can and start as early as you can because they're gonna take your cocks and cunts from you soon enough and stick you in some soul killing job and that will be that.

A Sick Species

2008-10-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

I am perpetually flabbergasted by the aching stupidity of people—to wit, a commenter on this very blog. Does this fucking idiot imagine that I believe men to be superior to women? Has this shit stick missed the point so completely? The species is sick—not men, not women, not children, the entire fucking species.

I'll give the fuckstick the benefit of the doubt and suggest that perhaps I've not made clear my disdain for masculinity. Women are vampires but men are doltish zombie fiends, exuding fear and loathing in every gesture, wearing watches and cologne and wagging their impotent cocks at nothing in particular.. What is more unsavory than the image of a man in his business suit, his watch, his cologne talking about the market or cars or a sports, his soul leaking out his ears?

Oh, I've seen the men at the playground. These new mothers may be a bastion of guilt, fear, and utterly depressing surrender to the vampires on their teet but the men are no fragrant flower. The men who rarely see the kids and then take them to the park on Saturday, their fucking Crackberries strapped to their belts, just where there chi should be—they've traded their vital energy for a corporate network and what, I ask, is sicker than that?—trying their darndest to seem like they give one ounce of shit about their kids—their maniacal jackass but at least playful kids—giving anxious glances at the other fathers as each tries to out-man the other with some sordid display of false paternal love, all the while texting their very lives away, no doubt selling out some old lady in Fresno who's just trying to make her mortgage payments, all the while delivering a shit eating laugh of mirth as they absent mindedly tickle their kid, all phoniness and fear. It is grotesque.

Am I going too fast for you, ass muffin? I am no misogynist. I'm a fucking misanthrope—not because I hate humanity but because I know humanity to be a virus, fundamentally vampiric, sucking the life from this planet without batting as much as an eye.

Women are vampires

2008-10-03T11:23:00.000-07:00

Women should never have been given the vote. Ever since then, they've been so uppity. The fact is, women have always been the ones with power. They can reduce men to mush, to putty, with a wink of an eye and the flash of a tit. And they are gatekeepers of the species. And so men, essentially castrated, claim the body politic—as if governance were the seat of any real power! As if the real power were not buried in the pussy!

But that was not enough for women. They had to have it all—and I mean all. So they take the posture of the victim and wield guilt like a serrated cleaver and hack men to pieces. These uppity twats take the vote; then they take the right to work; then the take the right not to work; then they take the right not to work and not rear the children; and, all along, they've had the right not to fuck. They leave men with nothing—no time, no peace, no sex, no soul, no vitality. Jesus fucking christ: we even have to help them birth, tending to their every need while their pussies are torn asunder. No man should ever have to witness that. But women have disposed of the waiting room where expectant fathers used to wait, nervously smoking cigars with their friends. They are no more. Women have ensured that men have to suffer alongside them.

Burroughs was right: women are vampires.

The environmental movement's fallacy, or Fuck regime change, we need species change

2008-06-15T11:54:00.000-07:00

The shameless rape of the planet by contemporary capitalism—the purging of the seas, the burning of the forests, the paving of wetlands and dunes, the mindless consumption of fossil fuel—is not the disease. It is a symptom. Trying to curb such a malady is like taking an aspirin to heal a brain tumor.

If human being is a mutation gone awry, the white man is a virulent virus, consuming its host with tenacious, blind vigor. The white man, you see, is a vampire, incapable of producing his own source of life and so he is forced to drink the blood of others. That is what a virus is: it either kills its host or is killed by its host; it never seeks symbiosis.

And the main source of life these zombie virus vampires go for is life itself! The 40 hour work week with 3 martini lunches and summer vacations has becomes the 70 hour work week, a lunch wrap made of reconstituted flesh and fat and, perhaps, a long weekend to catch up on laundry and bills. Capitalism is exhausting all reserves of life to fuel itself. And who fuels capitalism? Stupid, soulless, fat fucking white men.

C'mon, people, this is not subtle. What the fuck is Viagra but the last ditch effort of a culture that has no place for pleasure—a culture that can't get it up? Jesus fucking Christ, the rape of the land is a symptom, not the disease. When some environmentalist busts his ass 70 hours a week, comes home stressed out of his mind and pops a Viagra just so he can jerk off to some web porn because his wife has lost all remnants of the erotic, he is not doing the world a service. On the contrary, he has joined the army of vampires.

Vampirism is not sustainable. It's a zero sum game. Hence, the human species is not sustainable. The white man virus is flooding the planet with his disease and soon there will be nothing left.

We don't need changes of law or changes of regime: we need changes of species.

Perversion is discerning

2008-06-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

I think we imagine the world of desire—and in particular what we call perversion—to be some undifferentiated orgy of every conceivable vice—horses, diapers, shit, bukkake, dildos, facials, feet. But the Id is not without its particularity, its predilections, its nuance.

For instance, I enjoy watching women fellate a penis to fruition; she sucks until the man ejaculates into her mouth—what's referred to as an oral creampie or CIM, cum in mouth. This seems like a pedestrian enough desire, nothing to blush over and presumably easy enough to find on the vast vice-riddled world wide web. But, alas, it is not so. Sure, I come across (ahem) sites that speak of such things. But once you delve deeper you find something else entirely: yes, the woman sucks the man's penis but when it comes time for the grand finale, he takes it out of her mouth and masturbates himself as she sits there, panting like a dog, her mouth agape as she waits for his self-administered orgasm. This is downright distasteful. What's wrong with these men? And watching a woman sit there with her mouth open as the man tugs ferociously, and often interminably, is not sexy: it's absurd.

Or take animals. I don't find the idea, or the image, of sex with animals even remotely erotic. But dogs? Sure, I think a woman sucking off a dog or bending over innocently as the dog, horned up out his stupid little mind, impales her with his very odd veiny red penis. Dogs are part of our lives, they are these sensuous beasts that sleep in our beds, lie in our laps, lick our lips as we pet their bellies. Dogs have erotic potential. But a pig? Or horse? A snake? Uh, man, that's just awful. I don't understand how one site could possibly mix dogs with farm animals. It's downright unseemly. Have these people no sense of decency?

Or anal sex. Occasionally, I do enjoy watching a woman penetrated anally. What I enjoy is the the moment of penetration, watching as the woman holds her ass checks apart as the man gently, carefully, guides his cock into that reluctant, tight little corn hole. It is a tender moment. And it is this I find so erotic—the impossibly tender coupled with wanton desire (it is her asshole, after all). But go to any porn site that advertises anal sex and you'll find none of this. There's no tenderness, no slow appreciation of the moment. On the contrary, you get some big, gaping, excavated skank hole that some big, hairy dude pounds with his steroid dick. That's not sexy. That's not erotic. It's repulsive.

A discerning whore monger

2008-06-01T19:54:00.000-07:00

I do like buying a woman. But I am absurdly discerning. If she has any sense of being a whore, I am not remotely interested. I am not interested in touching her vagina—the pussy of a strange woman is just downright disgusting. Indeed, pussies are disgusting. It is precisely this that can transform them from a stinky, stank hole into an Eden of unbounded pleasure. For once I’ve learned to trust a pussy, once I’ve come to appreciate the woman, her body, her manner, then I can find her pussy the most glorious thing in the world. I would gladly spend hours down there, tending to it with fingers and lips and tongue, lovingly coaxing it into a frenzy unique to it: it begins to moisten, loosen, to swell a bit, sometimes to ooze (I’ve heard of women who ejaculate—I’ve even seen videos—but never encountered it and, frankly, am glad for it). This strange pit of human being, this vague depth of exposed flesh—where’s its skin?—at least the cock has skin!—this grotesquerie can be the invitation to another world, where skin and form give way to undulating delight, human uni.

But on some skank who sells it, yuck. So when I pay for a woman, I’m paying for a very particular thing. I need her to be fresh, her skin glowing with health and vitality. She needs to smile and sparkle just a bit. Her teeth must be in good shape, her breath fresh, not with toothpaste but with a cleanliness of soul. And, most importantly, her fingers must be elegant, lean, feminine. Few things repulse me more immediately than a woman with masculine fingers. I find hands perhaps the most erotic part of woman.

And so I mine and excavate the web in search of this elusive, pristine slut. Yes, whore advertise on the world web web: all hail the internet! I examine her photos like I was a diamond dealer. I download them, blow them up in Photoshop, looking for any glimpse I can catch of her hands. Her toes, too: a sloppy big toe can kill the whole thing for me. And then there’s the language she uses. I may sound like a prick, but she has to be able to spell. And that’s not because I think she needs to be educated or proper but because I want to think that if she’s taking out an ad advertising her body that she’s taken the goddamn time and energy to spell check.

And, I have to tell you, after all this expenditure of energy, I do find the perfect woman to buy. Thank god for the sex positive movement and the lack of interesting career options for semi-bright, semi-creative women: these are the true treats of a free market system. And thank god for the internet for readily facilitating this free market, this economy of desire between my debauched needs and the availability of frisky 20-somethings who dig dick and money and don’t feel completely humiliated by yanking my shlong.

There's nothing quite like buying a woman

2008-06-01T19:42:00.000-07:00

“There’s nothing quite like buying a woman,” says my Asian engineer friend. When we were in college together, in Philthafuckingdelphia, he and all his 118 Chinese dork pounds, would ride his bike to Broad street where the skag black crack hoes hocked their flesh in mini skirts and tube tops. He’d pull up his bike, negotiate with some big black drugged out mamma—$40 for a covered blow job, $60, uncovered—and then they’d go into some ally where this fat black hooker would put a condom on my friend—he was not safety conscious, he was cheap—and there and then she’d suck his little Asian cock. The whole thing, from negotiation to ejaculation, probably took 20 minutes. He’d ride home and tell me about it, always with a bit of regret: “Should have splurged and given her $60.”

I remember the first woman I bought. She was a street walker; it was four in the morning, I was completely fucked up on an assortment of drugs and booze and driving my girlfriend’s beat up 1980 Honda Civic. I pull up and what I remember to be a nice looking young woman in a black dress but might as well have been a big black man sticks her head in the window: “$80 to come upstairs,” she says. Well, I know I’m not going upstairs so it’s not even worth asking which upstairs.

When I hesitate, she says she has a plan and, in a flash, is sitting next to me in the car. “Drive,” she says as she cranks up the heat because San Francisco is always—always—cold. She leans towards me and as she fondles my cock through my pants lets me know there’s something we could do in the car for $50. I follow her instructions to a parking lot. We park; I pay her; and she asks me to take it out. I do. She then proceeds to somehow, miraculously, get a condom on me with her mouth and begins sucking my cock like she was a goddamn nuclear powered vacuum cleaner. There was nothing even remotely erotic about it. I began laughing and then, tentatively, tapped her on the shoulder—her head was buried in my lap—and asked if we could, I dunno, talk. She sits up, saliva dripping from her mouth, her fingers firmly ensconced with my cock, and growls, “You want me to talk dirty to you?” I hesitate and, wham, back down she goes, sucking away. And, lo and behold, I cum.

Afterwards, she tells me I pushed her head down a bit when I came. She scolded me. This street walking whore who just sucked my cock off for $50 scolded me. There is no end to the humiliation.

The horrors of parenting, or the sacrifice of pleasure

2008-05-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

We're not allowed to tell our kids anything. We explain, we ask, we reason. This is the official philosophy of my boy's school: don't tell, ask. I'm not kidding. It's madness, I tell you. Why can't these people see that kids are tiny, rambunctious jackasses? Don't ask them to sit down; tell them. And not because kid's need authority—I'm not a reactionary who pines for the day when a man's word ruled, even if that does sound nice. No, I'm not suggesting we tell kids what to do because they need it. I'm saying we should tell kids what to do because we need it, because this makes life with them bearable.

The entire discourse of parenting sacrifices the parent; its sole object is the pleasure of the little beast. And the result of this indulgence is we breed self-entitled assholes who yell and shriek and whine and generally make life unlivable for everyone around them. Walk in anyone's house with kids and it's a fucking nightmare of noise, shit, and stink. Try to have a conversation with a parent with a kid around: it's impossible as the kid, all 20 pounds of him, won't allow it. The kid, that deranged bundle of incoherent desires, has become all mighty. This self-entitlement drives their lives and the demise of our sustainability.

The little fuckheads in my classroom resent me when I actually ask them to learn something; if they don't get it, it's my fault. But when you question this indulgence we bestow on today's youth, you're met with book upon book by doctors, shrinks, parents, Oprah, lawyers, teachers. It's not open for debate. And it starts with parents who treat their children as if their own kids were clients and the parents were afraid of being fired. It's so insanely backwards. The very possibility of telling your own kid what to do has been eradicated by an elaborate discourse that penetrates the courts, the doctor's office, the home, your mind. Even mentioning it makes you a sick fuck, and probably dangerous.

The horrors of parenting, or stupid fucking white people

2008-05-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

I used to take the boy, my son, to the playground but it became unspeakably obscene. White people—middle class white people—think that the miracle of childbirth should be a source of endless reflection, appreciation, and expression. It's all they talk about when they're together. Some 42 year old woman—because that's who has kids these days—the weight of self deprivation sitting on her face like a goddamn elephant, hate for her child bubbling just inches from the surface, starts babbling to me: "Chloe (all the kids these days have fruitcake names, including my own: all the girls are either Chloe, Zoe, or Sadie; all the boys are Max, Miles, or Sebastian) just couldn't sleep last night, the poor little baby." My usual reply: "Have you tried blowing bong hits, you know, in her crib?" She laughs at this—as if I were kidding! Another parent pipes in: "Max had that problem. So now he sleeps with us." Oh, man, that's just awful. What's wrong with these people? They are incapable of discussing anything other than their children. "Zoe loves to read. She loves it. Oh, oh, wait, ZOE, GIVE THAT BACK, Wait, I'll be back." Lucky me, I think, as she darts across the playground to stop her precious Zoe from beating little Max to death.

As all these demented parents prattle on, they speak as though they were in love with this horror that their lives have become when it's clear all they want to do is kill their kid or run far, far, far away. White people think kids are just such a goddamn miracle they can't shut the fuck up about it; and yet they are being slowly but surely killed by these little miracles. Try talking about a movie, a book, sex, art—anything—and they simply can't do it. The playground proffers one ghastly experience after another.

The downside of web porn

2008-05-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

I fear this internet, proffering the most spectacular pussy and delivering it—I never have to leave my god damned house, I don't even have to get out of my fucking seat; this is pussy delivered right to my laptop, for god's sake, right to the hard drive of my lap top—this creature of so much promise, of heaven on earth—it's all there, a million virgins, a million more whores, and all consummation is immaculate—oy vey, it is heaven on earth, this wondrous cornucopia of breasts and bellies and blowjobs—this is what's killing me.

Constantly wooed by the promise of the next unbelievable thing—a promise that is kept, mind you, and repeatedly, for I have seen unbelievable things, young women I should never have seen naked performing the most delectable acts of licentiousness—, I keep my eyes glued to the screen, one hand to my beaten cock, the other to the Eucerin-coated mouse. My head begins to ache. I am leaking cum and piss indiscriminately. My penis hurts, for god's sake, it hurts which should be enough to stop me from what I'm doing. But on I go, yanking, surfing, clicking, scrutinizing. My back is hunched. When I finally cum, four hours later, I'm nauseous and the orgasm is an odd, vaguely unpleasant sensation. I moan nonetheless.

The profound pleasures of web porn

2008-05-24T19:55:00.000-07:00

A video, clearly homemade, of a German couple engaging in oral copulation; a posed image of a so-called 18 year old blonde coed in bra and panties and with the most enticing come hither expression; a man, bent over, being penetrated—lovingly—by a strapping Brazilian shemale; a browser window worth of thumbnails portraying everything from a posed pregnant woman to a cigarette smoking fellatrix to a woman being impaled by two penises at once, one for each rear entry hole; a browser download window marking the progress of a 57 megabyte video portraying an amateur Japanese woman, with pigtails, taking a man's penis, and eventually his semen, in her mouth—an oral creampie, as they say; a breathtaking still of two impeccable young women in a heartfelt, open mouthed, finger diving embrace. With all this at one's fingertips, who still rents porn from the video store?

All hail the internet!

But the internet offers more than bewildering breadth and prodigious variety: it offers the allatonce. Video porn serves the monolithic body of desire. Internet porn serves the teeming body of desires. I can take client calls while whacking furiously to the curiously provocative image of a woman blowing a dog all the while answering my friend from Idaho's hilarious email recounting the trials and tribulations of being the only big nosed Jew for thousands of miles and still, miraculously, getting laid.

BBBJTCWS

2008-05-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

For the ever-cool, caninophilic Frenchman — perhaps that's redundant—, Michel Houellebecq, sexual pleasure is the sole respite from the excruciating fray of contemporary human existence, from the misery of banality, stupidity, and biology. Houellebecq's erotic ideal—an ideal rarely achieved, mind you—is a sexual relation of mutual generosity and selfishness, an absolute respect for pleasure. There is no seduction, no second-guessing, no failure: everyone gives, equally and readily, a sexual democracy.

Of course, Bob Seger said the same thing. But if for Bob Seger, there's a passionate pining for those hot, sweaty night moves, for Houellebecq, it is all quite matter of fact. There's no sexual passion, none of the ribaldry of, say, Henry Miller, none of the ecstatic strutting of Robert Plant, the lemon juice running down his leg.

The straightforwardness, however, does not castrate the pleasure (except in the reading—you will not catch wood reading his books, so don't go running to the library, you little horndogs). On the contrary, this democratic approach facilitates pleasure, allowing it its full expression.

In such a sexual democracy, you can truly relax and enjoy every moment of her tongue working your glans, your perineum; only in such an encounter premised on absolute respect for pleasure, can you cum explosively, fully, without doubt or guilt or hesitation, filling her sweet, kind, loving mouth with every ounce of your cum.

Don't buck your hips, thrusting your hard on against tonsils and throat. Just relax. Feel every flick of that tongue, every whisper of her fingers on your balls, along your shaft. Be selfish and let her make you cum, all on her own. Then you can truly cum, cum forth, cum hither, let it loose. Only then can you cum so fucking hard you remember why you liked to cum in the first place. Only then can you discover what this whole fucking thing is about: the unadulterated, uncompromised blowjob to finish.

In the lingo of the so-called hobbyists, the path to true pleasure and, alas, our redemption, is the BBBJTCWS—the bare back blowjob to completion with swallow.

The pathetic fallacy of parenthood

2008-05-23T19:38:00.000-07:00

All the pathos that surrounds family and children and parenthood is the demand of the species—for without this pathetic fallacy, no one would procreate and we'd be wiped out in one generation, maybe two due to accidents.

If would-be parents got a whiff of the real truth, if they actually knew what parenthood entailed, no one, not one person, would breed. There would be ten, maybe 20 years, of unabashed orgiastic sex. And then the species would be over. We would all have fucked and sucked until we were impotent and barren and there'd be no youth to tend to us and torture us and the heat or cold would come and we'd all die alone in our apartments and we'd die happy because we fucked and sucked unabashedly for 10-20 years and now death seems just fine.

True civic mindedness

2008-05-23T11:24:00.000-07:00

You want to be a good citizen? Obey the fucking traffic laws. They're not complicated: red, stop; green go. The whole thing hangs on following these simple goddamn rules; if we don't, there's enormous pain, misery, and very quickly, total chaos. And traffic laws are so fair, they apply to everyone, equally. No one is injured by waiting to stop at a red light. And still asshole upon asshole insists on running the lights.

And when you honk at him, preying he'll avoid killing you with his car, he flips you the bird.

You want to be civic minded? Let the car desperately trying to enter your lane in. Wait for the pedestrian to pass. And, if you happen to be the pedestrian, don't linger in the road against the light. Come the fuck on, people. If you're a biker, I know it's tough out there with the cars. But I gotta tell you, you're not helping things by running stop signs. You think I want the fucking headache of running your dreaded ass over? Jesus.

You want to be civic minded? Don't take a year to order your ridiculous coffee drink. Don't eat popcorn right behind my fucking ear during the movie. The civil and the civic is what surrounds you. Be good to yourself. Put down that fucking newspaper and go fuck your spouse.

Newspapers are snuff films for the masses

2008-05-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

Few things signify the out-of-whakness of the world to me more than watching a bunch of folks sitting around a coffee shop, inevitably bespectacled, sipping their coffee and reading the details of the latest atrocity in some god forsaken corner of the world. Tell me, what comes of such so called news? What, precisely, is accomplished? It's some sort of twisted sado-masochistic fetish for these people, looking at pictures of emaciated or eviscerated bodies—then reading the details that accompany the photo. As if the photo wasn't enough to make a decent person turn away and scream, "Get this the fuck away from me!" Who, in his right mind, publishes these horrors? What kind of sick fuck distributes these images?

Newspapers are particularly egregious in that they aim for the facts alone. Newspapers are the ultimate hard core porn—forget the story or the foreplay, gimme the fucking, gimme the cum shot. Instead, for these perverts, it's gimme the dead bodies, gimme elaborate tortures and beheadings, gimme child murder and rape. You know what? It's not even hard core porn—for at least in porn there's some pleasure. Newspapers are snuff films for the masses.

How did reading the newspaper and knowing the details of some 8 year old's rape become the sign of sophistication, intelligence, and civic mindedness?

Why guns are so popular

2008-05-23T11:12:00.000-07:00

Why do you think guns are so prevalent in the U.S.? Because cocks are being castrated left and right.

I don't know how Michael Moore missed this blindingly obvious truth: we have so many guns in this country because this is Ground Zero for pleasure's extermination, the epicenter of global capitalism's pleasure eradication program. And so now we have all these dickless men walking around strapped with Glocks, imagining themselves making everyone their bitch.

Why do you think Zionists are the way they are, macho and violent and hell bent on having the Bomb? Because Jew cocks are constantly under attack by the world and the Bomb is the biggest cock of them all—and we're primed and ready to use it, baby.

The entire madness of the Middle East comes down to a whole bunch of castrated zombies grabbing anything they can get their hands on to make them feel like human beings—rocks, guns, dynamite, Scuds. Suicide bombers just want to feel what it's like to fuck because their stupid fucking religion won't let them. The war that's coming is the war between Scuds and Starfucks, our world's two responses to the global waning of appetite—either fuel up on coffee and get back to work, bitch, or blow some shit up. But these two options are not opposed. They are the same thing—the desperate tactics of a species losing its appetite for existence.

Consumption vs. Enjoyment

2008-05-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

Let's not confuse unabashed consumption with the lost art of enjoyment. The Wall Street brokers who blow lines during lunch, head back to the office to close the deal, then head off to a strip club where they drink bottles of Cristal and drop $2K on a blow job are not pleasure seekers. They've substituted consumption for enjoyment.

I go out to dinner with a client, this homunculus who made boodles during the first dot com boom—which idiot banker didn't?—and the poor little misguided fuckhead orders a beautiful bottle of wine along with a feast of appetizers and deliciousness. Watching him eat it is horrifying: there is not one moment of delectation, no pausing over a bite or sip to savor or indulge. He consumes; he doesn't enjoy. Europe may be filled with xenophobic anti-semites but at least they understand life—long lunches, a siesta, summer off. But that won't last long: the relentless, soulless tyranny of capitalist speed will soon ensure that the siesta is a quaint thing of the past.

And don't be duped by the hipsters you see skateboarding to work: they signal the end, the full eradication of pleasure. The so-called dot com liberation of the work place was not a liberation at all but a total enslavement. Now work is supposed to be fun, there's coffee and friends; there's no need to leave the office, ever—we even have ping pong! The path to slavery is paved with foosball.

Our demise is the stuff of humor cliche

2008-05-23T10:16:00.000-07:00

This, from my undergrad alumni magazine (class of 91): "I'm happy to announce the birth of my son....We are so grateful for all of our visitors, including a [college] friend...who commented, 'So did you think that 20 years later we'd be sitting here talking about our kids?' Amazing."

Amazing?!? Amazing?!? Who the fuck is this bitch kidding? Amazing? What the fuck else was she gonna do? You know what would be amazing? If she were writing this naked in the jungle, writhing amidst a primate orgy. That, I have to say, would be amazing. But this—breeding in a nice safe bourgeois home just like your parents and all your friends, doing the very thing you and everyone around you always--always--assumed you'd do? For that you use the word "amazing"? Jesus fucking christ.

Her note continues: "I currently live in Menlo Park, Calif; and after years at a law firm, went in-house...I also have an unfinished first novel and unfinished first commissioned painting that I suppose is now on an 18-year hiatus."

This, I assume, she thinks is funny. This is what is allowed to pass for a joke—giving up all personal creative pursuits to lawyer and child rear (is that the right word—"rear"? It is peculiarly appropriate). But it's not fucking funny, dearie, it's a fucking nightmare. How did the elimination of pleasure, of creativity, become the stuff of casual humor?

And what's so horrifying is that her joke is a cliche. People don't read her note and think, "Man, this chick is a sick fuck." They smile conspiratorially and go on with their own horrifying lives.

The Big Head Theory

2008-05-22T13:02:00.000-07:00

Homo sapiens are odd, grotesque creatures with a conspicuous ailment: enormous heads. We have this skinny little bodies on top of which sit these wobbly masses. Now, this in and of itself may not be so bad. The problem is in birthing these big heads.

Our heads are so big we have to be born ridiculously early—raw, in fact. We are born these big, fat headed aggregations of functions, burping, farting, drooling, oozing, flaking. It's not pretty. But that is not the problem.

The problem is our heads are so fucking big that on the way out of the woman, they bust the pussy in two. They stretch it and stretch it and then when it can't stretch any more, they bust the seams. The very thing that brings us—men, and women, too—enormous pleasure—namely, the pussy—is mauled in birth. The math is not complicated: to give birth, humans must abandon pleasure.

But if it were only a busted pussy, I could live with it. I mean, it still works, sort of. And there are plenty of other ways of getting and giving pleasure. Of course, the boobs are temporarily glorious before loosing their perk and sliding into a sorry, deflated state. Again, this could be tolerable.

But because our dear little spawn are born so goddamn early, they need—need—every ounce of our being just to make it through the fucking day. For god's sake, they can't even digest on their own. They are powerful, pithy little beasts, siphoning the life out of their elders in order to forge themselves into something resembling life. They are shit drenched vampires.

This is the formula for human existence. This is how our species perpetuates itself. In order to further our lives, we must sacrifice our lives. I have to tell you, this is not a recipe for longevity.

And yet there's something depressing about not breeding. Imagine being 63, all alone in your apartment, going down to the corner bar for another fucking glass of whiskey or to the taqueria for one more fucking burrito. How many burritos can a man eat? At what point does just sitting in a bar, eyeing chicks and drinking bourbon become boring or, worse, humiliating? It's all fine and dandy to be 30-something, single, a non-breeder, and to booze and smoke and eat as much pussy as you can. But it seems another thing all together to be 65 and still doing that. So what the fuck are you gonna do?

To paraphrase Kierkegaard, if you have a kid or don't have a kid, either way you'll regret it.