104 Degrees

It’s 104 degrees out today and the city is nothing but tit-sweat and ball-reek. Our minds are blasted blank. Our souls are the black flakes peeled off a charred wiener. Our bodies are damp bags of gross. Our feet are like some kind of goddamn barf apocalypse.

The street is a tableau of misery. An old lady sits down on the sidewalk and cries. A little girl says the c-word. A dog basically dies. A guy has a machete.

I get on the bus and immediately start tallying up all the bad life decisions that brought me to this moment. I’m first hit by a fetid tsunami of stench, like someone found a bunch of fresh corpse taints and tried in vain to cover up the odor with patchouli and zoo farts. But that’s nothing compared to the vibe in here. Everyone has clearly divided up into factions and is ready to start murdering. “Margaritaville” blares from a boombox. I lose track of how many naked screaming babies are clutching at my leg hair with tiny greasy fingies. The bus driver won’t stop laughing.

I tear away my tearaway pants to reveal my novelty underwear that says Complimentary Gynecological Exams—Inquire Within. It seems to calm everyone down. Three days later we’ve formed a tight-knit community behind a Wendy’s. Our economy is strong. Tonight I take the first watch. There is a good woman here, Shinga, who I feel will bear me brave, obedient children. Perhaps tomorrow I will give her my LIVESTRONG bracelet, a symbol of commitment in our tribe.

» Rating: 104 SEXY LADIES OH GOD MY RATING SCALE IS MEANINGLESS

Going To The Bank

Get a loaf of this (no way am I fixing that sweet typo): I had to go to the bank today. The bank. Like inside? The building?

I don’t think I’ve stepped foot in a bank since Stephen Hawking invented ATMs because who am I, Liberace or whatever with fancy financial things to do? Like I need a small business loan to start a cat combing company? (Note to self: !!!)

But I had no choice so I slouched in there, bracing myself for the lines and the chained pens and the Soviet peasants impassively watching two dogs tear each other apart by the deposit forms, but guess what: The place was empty. Just three tellers standing there, smiling expectantly.

That’s when I realized that nobody goes to the bank anymore! Unless there’s something fascinatingly unusual about you! These tellers — each sporting just the right amount of too much makeup — could not wait to see what my deal was.

Sometimes when I’m feeling blue I walk through the lobby of a hotel I could never afford to stay in. Ask the concierge where I can get a quality shoeshine. Sit in an overstuffed leather chair and nod as I pretend to read the newspaper. Check my watch. You do that for half an hour and you feel like you have your shit together. Everyone there assumes you know what you’re doing in this life and why wouldn’t they? They have nothing to gain from poking holes in the lies you tell yourself.

That’s how the bank was. Suddenly it was Mr. Allen. It was Very good, sir. The carpet was superbly vacuumed. The temperature was amazing.

Savoring the moment, I concluded my business by asking for two crisp hundred dollar bills, “just in case.” The teller regretted to inform me that would exceed my balance and I just ran out of there choking back humiliated sobs that sounded like this: guh kuhh guhhhh

» Rating: SIX SEXY LADIES

Going Over That Big Bump

I’m driving down the road and as usual I’m thinking the big thoughts. (I do not have small thoughts.) (My smallest thought ever was probably peanut butter and spicy ranch pretzel chains and that still netted me nine large on Kickstarter.) I’m distracted by the gorgeous day, smooth and curvaceous, zaftig and callipygous, smelling like deodorant that smells like mouthwash’d makeouts in a freshly scythed meadow.

So the electronic road sign doesn’t really register aside from the word DAMAGE which of course puts “Damage Inc.” in my head. And I am, creepily enough, chanting “Dy! Ing! Time! Is! Here!” right before noticing this huge bulbous hillock in the asphalt ahead, as if God himself tripped and wrinkled up the road and he was all eh fuck it and just left it for me to hit at like fifty miles per.

I had a good half second to see it coming and do nothing about it. And in that moment I felt truly alive. And you know what? Feeling truly alive is the worst. You ever seen a baby come out a vagina? First off, barf, but secondly, that baby is never like hey guys what’s up c’mon gimme a hug! That baby is truly alive with no pills or video games to provide a comforting membrane between it and life. So it just starts belting out horrific shrieks which is what I did while my car caught air and which I suddenly stopped doing when it smashed back down to earth and all breath was forced from my body.

Through every available orifice!

I won’t sugarcoat it. I write real. I write truth. It’s not in my soul to lie with words. Wish it was, man. [exhales cigarette smoke] Wish it was.

Anyway my tires did not explode and I was not thrown through the windshield but I still felt like I’d experienced something pretty real so I went home at a reasonable speed and took a long time deciding which pills and which video games would really hit the spot.

» Rating: THREE SEXY LADIES

2012

I awake on New Year’s Day to discover my fingers stuck in ten different vodka bottles. They make a terrible clatter as I somehow manage to don my kimono emblazoned with a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda and the words I WILL DESERT STORM DAT ASS in Papyrus. I wait for my boner to subside and then go outside to greet 2012. The wintry air is invigorating upon my boner which did not subside. The year stretches out before me like a gay magic scroll, its enchantments yet to be written.

I see a year filled with adventure and delight. I see a year filled with topless tickle fights and brain veins exploding with wonder. I see children holding hands and singing in harmony because I ordered them to and they’re scared of me. I see the sun rising on fields of robo-slaves harvesting my coca plants and setting on the twinkling sapphires embedded in my margarita flagon. I see myself breaking the neck of a giant white wolf and watching as his pack circles around me, sniffing, hesitant at first but finally bowing their heads with respect because whoever slays the head wolf becomes the new leader. I see me and my wolf pack solving crimes in exchange for sex. I see me and my wolf pack eating every world leader and becoming Emperor of Earth, launching a new era of peace for me and prosperity for me. I see me and my wolf pack rolling around in front of my fireplace and getting all crazy and pretend-fighting and just having the best time.

I wave my vodka bottle fingers at the paperboy and he starts crying in terror because he’s trapped in an old media career. I laugh uproariously, and for too long.

» Rating: GOTTA BE TEN SEXY LADIES, MY MAIN MAN. I’M CALLING IT.

Splashing Water On My Face

Life presses down gently but firmly, its hands enormous and dry. I try to be strong but, you know, sometimes I buckle. Sometimes I just buckle and pout and fling my arms around like boo hoo I went to private school I deserve better! The buckling, the entitlement, I’m pretty sure it’s a genetic thing so it’s not really my fault. It’s like how I can roll my tongue and I’m morbidly obese and gay.

Anyway after a long day of Life’s firm dry enormous hands, I like to splash some water on my face. I don’t make a big thing about it, I just head to the nearest sink and make it happen. A small moment just for me. A brief, refreshing respite from the terrible pain of being alive.

But, for some reason, it makes me feel like I’m George Clooney’s penis bringing ululations of pleasure to every exploding star in every galaxy.

It makes me feel like I just “slept with” the hole in the ozone layer with George Clooney’s penis.

It makes me feel like George Clooney’s penis didn’t just walk into Mordor but instead forced [EDITOR’S NOTE: Good day, this is Josh’s editor. You never would’ve guessed he had an editor, would you? Judging from his irregular and self-indulgent work? Touché, indeed, and truth be told I am not a very good editor but I will step in from time to time when I have the choice of either a) standing by and letting him unfurl his 15,000-word ode to a certain actor/humanitarian’s “dingle dongle” or b) not doing that. I have opted for “b” but will leave you with this piece’s original closing words in a ham-handed attempt at a punchline. Ta ta!] and that’s when I headbutted the chupacabra into the volcano and high-fived Madonna’s ghost baby — back to Hell!!!

» Rating: TEN SEXY LADIES

Hanging Out With Indiana Jones

“What you got there?”

“Uh. A popsicle.”

“What flavor?”

“It’s. It’s strawberry. Well, technically it’s kiwi strawberry.”

“Looks refreshing.”

“Indy, I know it’s not the manliest treat in the world.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I mean it’s pretty hot out so like—”

“That’s why I carry this canteen filled with river water.”

“And I have to slowly suck it like this because my teeth are pretty sensitive. So I can’t just bite into it. Plus I’ll get a, you know, a cold headache.”

“One time I got a headache because a Nazi general held my face against the wheels of a moving tank.”

“Ow.”

“You think your sister will be back from Walgreens pretty soon?”

“Yeah, she was just gonna pick up some sex gel and Pringles.”

“Maybe I’ll go wait in the biplane.”

“Cool. Cool. Hey, you wanna hear this joke on the popsicle stick? It’s pretty funny.”

“Just let her know where I am, kid.”

“OK, Indy.”

» Rating: TWO SEXY LADIES

My Erotic Thriller So Far

Jack Delt had a long, stressful day at his job as a PHP ninja. He went to unwind at his local watering hole, Dave’s Alcohol. As he ordered a Suddenly Stop Caring his eyes fell upon the stunning gams of a stone cold fox. He slowly cast his gaze up the gams, past the vagina area, up to where the boobs are and then finally to her eyes. He was pleased to note she was looking right back at him not in disgust.

He sauntered over and asked if she wanted to finish his drink. She did so with a single chug and then said she needed someone to walk her to her condo because her neighborhood was pretty rapey. Jack Delt took her by the arm and escorted her back to her place. She invited him in for a nightcap and they drank and chatted about websites but soon enough they were tongue kissing like crazy. Jack Delt was really getting into it and thus closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was morning and he was handcuffed to the futon, like to one of the wooden slats somehow. The lady, whose name was — spoiler alert with the was — whose name was Daphne L. Giandomenico, was sprawled on the floor, lying in a pool of still-steaming blood and gore.

Jack Delt couldn’t remember anything after the frenching but noticed a bottle of knockout drops over there by her tampons. When a SWAT team kicked open the door he had two thoughts simultaneously: 1) This is certainly an exciting story I’m suddenly involved in, I wonder what will happen next, and 2) What’s the deal with morning wood, does everyone get that every day or what exactly.

» Rating: FIVE SEXY LADIES BUT IT KIND OF FALLS APART AT THE END SO LET’S MAKE IT FOUR

This Fragranced Soy Candle

I had a really hard time deciding which fragranced soy candle best defined me as a man. I was standing there in Target for like ten minutes, hungrily inhaling the redolent aromas of Coconut Bay, Garden Hideaway, Celery Fantasia, Motorboatin’, Dryer Sheet, Biceps, New Cheese, Curious Beaver, Ham It Up. All delightful, but would they really create the vibe I’m looking for?

For you see, when I light a fragranced soy candle, I do so with purpose. I know some guys out there blow up the commode and just want to cover it up with Hazelnut Daydream or whatever but I’m trying to create a mood over here. I want me and my fresh-faced companion — lured to my apartment with an offer to help her study for the GED — to be transported to an exotic realm of the senses, one that is intoxicating, overwhelming, dangerous, much like myself.

This morning I fired up WordStar and scripted out exactly how things will go:

THE LADY: Holy shit it smells nice in this piece!

MOI: Would milady enjoy a champagne cocktail with almost no spanish fly in it?

THE LADY: My underpants just falled down!

Anyway I went with Creamy Nutmeg. Just took it for a test spin and it’s super lackluster. My date tonight might be into boning inside a pumpkin pie — pretty likely, considering I picked her up in the alley behind an IHOP — but that’s not really the transcendent experience I was hoping to provide, gratis.

And that’s when it hit me: What I really want is to fill her sinuses with my natural odor. That heady melange of musk, mousse, latex, peanut butter, taint, and whatever soap was on sale. I hereby endeavor to distill this powerful essence into soy candle form! And when I succeed, you shall see no further blogging from this hombre! For he will be extreme snowboarding down a mountain of euros and landing face first in a classy kidney-shaped swimming pool filled with diamond-encrusted classy prostitutes! Goodbye forever!

» Rating: THREE SEXY LADIES

This Sharpie

I’m in my cubicle and decide to take a little break from providing value to draw a picture of Boba Fett on my desk with a Sharpie. I’m not good at drawing hands or legs or feet or Boba Fett so I have him hiding in a dumpster, which I can sort of draw. As I ponder my art with avuncular fondness, I idly dangle the Sharpie by my nose and take a long, desperate huff. The dumpster peels itself from the cheap particleboard and says Jump inside me! Let’s do adventures! So I hop in and sure enough Boba Fett’s in there too, just cold lampin. We bust through the fluorescent lights and rocket into the sky and the dumpster goes Eeeeeeee this is fun as shit! and Boba Fett says basically nothing. We do a barrel roll and then land on a guy riding a moped, killing him instantly. The dumpster says she thinks this guy did bad things in the community, so it’s OK, we’ll probably get medals. Then we soar on over to Office Depot where I buy five packs of Sharpies for the weekend and the dumpster swaps stories with the other dumpsters out back. One time I had a baby in me! one of them says. It was like I was pregnant! Then I wake up in a holding cell, a luxurious Lincoln beard Sharpie’d on my face. Evidently I was arrested for Using one’s genitalia to click to the next PowerPoint slide which I have no memory of but it does sort of sound like me.

» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES

7-Eleven, 12:45AM

Nobody is happy to be here. No one is proud of the decisions they’re making right now. Nothing good will come of this. Our night will not be taking a good turn because of the corn dog rollers, the egg salad sandwich, the porn magazine entitled FUGGO, the 64 fluid ounces of Pepsi mixed with Diet Pepsi, the lottery ticket, the tampons, the 5-hour energy shot, or, in my case, all of the above.

I put everything on the counter and the clerk takes a moment to read the tragic short story written there. When I ask for a carton of Newport menthols I can see something inside him break. Poetry is my life but maybe I should’ve majored in business or something instead? Isn’t web design an actual job now? Maybe I could do that. Yeah. Yes. It’s a new era for Skyler!

I ask if he takes checks and his shoulders sag, defeated. As he bags up my stuff I look around at my fellow shoppers and they do not look back. We go about our business quickly and quietly, eager to get back to the dark safety of our cars, the radio drowning out our thoughts. We shall never speak of this again.

» Rating: ONE SEXY LADIES

This Taco

OK, yes, technically, this is indeed material inside an edible wrapper, but otherwise it’s more gastrointestinal doomsday device than taco. The meat is a fetid gritty paste the color of crib death. The cheese has both the flavor and texture of a ribbed, lubricated condom and don’t ask how I know that. The lettuce is, I believe, cleverly decorated slivers of construction paper. The sour cream is disconcertingly beige. The hot sauce is neither hot nor sauce but rather a kind of lukewarm gel. The shell is limp and chewy and seems humiliated by what it’s being asked to carry.

This is the fifth one I’ve had tonight. My mind is suddenly splayed wide, open to all possibilities. The universe reaches down and high fives my soul. I tear long jagged scars in the fabric of reality, revealing the unnameable horrors that lurk underneath. I eat death and shit genius.

» Rating: NINE SEXY LADIES

Making Small Talk With My Friend’s Kid

“You’re, what, like four years old?”

“Nine.”

“Wow, you look great, bro. So what are you into these days? Pokemon? Uh. Pogs?”

“I think a lot about space.”

“Outer space.”

“Yeah.”

“Flying saucers and shit?”

“Space is vast.”

“Look at you with the vast.”

“Some of the stars we see today might’ve blown up a long time ago. We don’t know.”

“Pretty freaky, man. What’s your favorite planet? Uranus?”

“Yeah that’s a good one.”

“Your anus.”

“Did you know the Earth gets 100 tons heavier every day because of falling space dust?”

“That sounds about right. You go to a special school, champ?”

“Yeah.”

» Rating: SIX SEXY LADIES

Denny’s

It’s an old story. I enjoy my Maple Bacon Sundae, which is a real thing, punctuated by quick hits from the flask I keep tucked in my jorts. The taste of banana schnapps reminds me of a very special evening in a very special McDonald’s PlayPlace. I am alone, but not lonely—if that makes any sense lol? The happy hum of my fellow diners keeps my spirits high. My erection is hardly noticeable.

My waitress becomes more beautiful with every passing moment. She started out as a sad bitter wretched sickening old smelly old hag of a woman, but now she’s basically like Phoebe Cates somehow had sex with another Phoebe Cates and somehow birthed a baby who was then raised in an organic cruelty-free hottie farm, given a steady diet of gourmet lo-carb meals and regular aerobic exercise and advanced lessons in the art of l’amour and working it and having a crazy-ass rack.

I leave her a 150% tip and a note that says: My VW Beetle (lime green) in thirty seconds. I want your moons over my hammy.

Now, we wait.

» Rating: PROBABLY TWO SEXY LADIES AT BEST, BASED ON MY PERSONAL TRACK RECORD