of.
willie
THE ITEMS IN MY SHOPPING cart are the following: one leek, one large carrot, a cucumber, one Chinese eggplant, condoms, lube, maxi-pads, toilet paper, and wet wipes. I impulse-buy some energy drinks at the checkout and head to the crib to wash up. I just finished yoga.
The porn chick on the show today is a little white girl with a big round ass and a large black following. We’re playing a game called “Guess What’s in Me.” I’m on the mike trying to be clever and put condoms and lube on the vegetables at the same time. It’s not easy. I shove the lubed-up veggies into her pussy one at a time and work them around for a bit. She’s blindfolded and has an industrial-strength vibrator on her clit.
She’s spot-on, she knows her veggies. I fuck her with the Chinese eggplant till she cums. Listeners love this shit, the phones are going crazy. I don’t even get hard. It’s just a job.
Porn’s ruined for me. Ignorance is bliss. Sometimes lies are better than the truth. When they listen, they’re thinking abouther cumming, I’m thinking about herpes. I’m thinking about big dicks pounding dry pussies and fake moans.
We sit in awkward silence and wait for the song to finish to go back on the air. Not much to say after you just threw some vegetables up a stranger. She tells me she used to watch me on Jenny Jones . I tell her that’s cool. She tells me her friends never heard of me. We take calls. I thank her. She’s sweet. Show’s over. I’m off to bus tables.
It’s what I do for fun. I’m Andy Kaufman. When people I meet find out I bus, they think I’m poor. “Radio doesn’t pay well? It’s tough to make ends meet, huh?”
I wish I could let it slide, but I tell ’em, “I do well, I’m just slumming it.”
It’s a joke. Some laugh; others don’t. They think I’m talking down. I came up doing this shit. My mom was the help, I’ll make those jokes.
My real job is to sit in a box by myself talking shit. It’s nice to be around people and move. I ain’t slumming it.
I know this chick, a Harvard lawyer who fucks Mexican busboys to feel part of the struggle. I hate that bitch. She’s slumming it. Yeah, I wanna fuck immigrants, too, but it’s more about the movement of their ass in them sweatpants walking down Vermont, pushing a stroller. Their willingness to let you cum in ’em speaks to the inner caveman in me. Fuck the struggle; they can keep their fucking struggle.
I’m driving to work down Pico checking out a Mexican chick walking, baby in hand, one in the stroller, a tamale away from being overweight, ass swinging. I’m listening to WillieNelson in the car, like my dad used to do. He’d bang around town in the maroon Chevette, smoking Kools, singing along with Willie, You were always on my mind. You were always on my mind. Take a drag, blow that shit out.
They put him in the loony bin around that time. Him and my mom are arguing, phone rings, it’s the guy she’s seeing, she takes the call. Pop goes bananas, he’s hollering, breaking shit. Cuts his hand open on a busted jar. It’s long and deep, he’s bleeding everywhere. Drives himself to the hospital for stitches and they admit him.
I’m on the porch sharpening Popsicle sticks, staring at my dad’s blood on the concrete as he rushes off.
Days go by. I ask my mom where my dad is.
“He’s sick. He’s not feeling well.”
We go to the hospital to see him. We’re outside in the visiting area by the pull-up bar with the wood chips. He’s sitting at the picnic table, somber. He looks like a man who just lost.
He told us about the rape years later, when I was ten or twelve. We were going to my Nonnie’s in the Buick and he laid it on us. Rachel and I were playing in the bathtub when it happened. They were still married but she wouldn’t fuck him anymore; she said she wanted to be faithful to Darryl. So he put a knife to her throat and raped her.
He said he did it for love, said the knife wasn’t that big,
willie
THE ITEMS IN MY SHOPPING cart are the following: one leek, one large carrot, a cucumber, one Chinese eggplant, condoms, lube, maxi-pads, toilet paper, and wet wipes. I impulse-buy some energy drinks at the checkout and head to the crib to wash up. I just finished yoga.
The porn chick on the show today is a little white girl with a big round ass and a large black following. We’re playing a game called “Guess What’s in Me.” I’m on the mike trying to be clever and put condoms and lube on the vegetables at the same time. It’s not easy. I shove the lubed-up veggies into her pussy one at a time and work them around for a bit. She’s blindfolded and has an industrial-strength vibrator on her clit.
She’s spot-on, she knows her veggies. I fuck her with the Chinese eggplant till she cums. Listeners love this shit, the phones are going crazy. I don’t even get hard. It’s just a job.
Porn’s ruined for me. Ignorance is bliss. Sometimes lies are better than the truth. When they listen, they’re thinking abouther cumming, I’m thinking about herpes. I’m thinking about big dicks pounding dry pussies and fake moans.
We sit in awkward silence and wait for the song to finish to go back on the air. Not much to say after you just threw some vegetables up a stranger. She tells me she used to watch me on Jenny Jones . I tell her that’s cool. She tells me her friends never heard of me. We take calls. I thank her. She’s sweet. Show’s over. I’m off to bus tables.
It’s what I do for fun. I’m Andy Kaufman. When people I meet find out I bus, they think I’m poor. “Radio doesn’t pay well? It’s tough to make ends meet, huh?”
I wish I could let it slide, but I tell ’em, “I do well, I’m just slumming it.”
It’s a joke. Some laugh; others don’t. They think I’m talking down. I came up doing this shit. My mom was the help, I’ll make those jokes.
My real job is to sit in a box by myself talking shit. It’s nice to be around people and move. I ain’t slumming it.
I know this chick, a Harvard lawyer who fucks Mexican busboys to feel part of the struggle. I hate that bitch. She’s slumming it. Yeah, I wanna fuck immigrants, too, but it’s more about the movement of their ass in them sweatpants walking down Vermont, pushing a stroller. Their willingness to let you cum in ’em speaks to the inner caveman in me. Fuck the struggle; they can keep their fucking struggle.
I’m driving to work down Pico checking out a Mexican chick walking, baby in hand, one in the stroller, a tamale away from being overweight, ass swinging. I’m listening to WillieNelson in the car, like my dad used to do. He’d bang around town in the maroon Chevette, smoking Kools, singing along with Willie, You were always on my mind. You were always on my mind. Take a drag, blow that shit out.
They put him in the loony bin around that time. Him and my mom are arguing, phone rings, it’s the guy she’s seeing, she takes the call. Pop goes bananas, he’s hollering, breaking shit. Cuts his hand open on a busted jar. It’s long and deep, he’s bleeding everywhere. Drives himself to the hospital for stitches and they admit him.
I’m on the porch sharpening Popsicle sticks, staring at my dad’s blood on the concrete as he rushes off.
Days go by. I ask my mom where my dad is.
“He’s sick. He’s not feeling well.”
We go to the hospital to see him. We’re outside in the visiting area by the pull-up bar with the wood chips. He’s sitting at the picnic table, somber. He looks like a man who just lost.
He told us about the rape years later, when I was ten or twelve. We were going to my Nonnie’s in the Buick and he laid it on us. Rachel and I were playing in the bathtub when it happened. They were still married but she wouldn’t fuck him anymore; she said she wanted to be faithful to Darryl. So he put a knife to her throat and raped her.
He said he did it for love, said the knife wasn’t that big,
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