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26
May
09

if you lived at rancho vista apartments, you’d be home by now, but you’d have a neighbor with an adult baby fetish

By jimjbollocks Leave a Comment
Categories: Uncategorized and vomitus

My literary agent has said he wants me to do more to raise visibility of my “brand”, and recently he gave me a list of suggestions to that end. I question the merit of a highly publicized trip to drug rehab, though, not only because I don’t think it would spill that much ink, but mostly because I will never fucking stop using drugs, no matter who I hurt or how much property I damage along the way.  So instead I’m rolling with one of his other suggestions, and debuting my new Cosmo/Marie Claire-style advice column. As always, these are actual submissions from actual readers. 

Dana, Connecticut: My boyfriend likes me to keep things trimmed pretty closely, you know, down there, but my husband keeps complaining about the scratchy stubble. Help!

As with a lot of things in life, compromise can keep everybody happy. Take a cue from the British and manicure your lady hedge into a shape that everyone can enjoy. Something tasteful, like a lightning bolt. Look around on the internet; I’m sure there are templates you can print out. By the way, this is the only non-Halloween-related personal hygiene item that you should ever take a cue from the British on.

Mistee, Ontario: Lately I’ve been making decisions that have some of my friends worrying about me. I’ve been going home with a lot of guys, and my roommate has said I might be a nymphomaniac. Should I seek out a professional?

There are a lot of misconceptions floating around out there about sexual compulsivity, a/k/a nymphomania, so get the facts first. Here are a few:

1. it is awesome.

2. you should make at least a cursory attempt to convince guys that you have it.

Throughout time, nature has pivoted on the battle over the earth’s finite resources, and the dating world is no different. Do something that separates you from your girlfriends, who, make no mistake about it, are your chief competitors. It’s like when I wanted to start a Misfits cover band, before I realized we wouldn’t be able to compete with that one Misfits cover band that actually has Jerry Only playing in it.

Pam, Florida:  Lately I’ve noticed that gravity has begun taking its toll on my body. Short of finding the fountain of youth, what can I do?   

You may not know this, Pam, but I’ve been watching you for a long time and waiting for the right moment to bring this up. Your current bra is terribly inefficient, and you’re throwing away hundreds of dollars a year in energy costs. Furthermore, the hook assembly at the back is more complicated than the gear shifter on a Soviet car (don’t ask me how I know this; I don’t even have a driver’s license anymore). Think of a new bra as an investment in yourself, girl, and spare no expense. People say the rustproofing is a scam, but just try getting through winter without it.

Sirikit, Thailand: I was kidnapped by sex traders at an early age, but since I turned 17, my value has gone down considerably. So I may be due for a career change, assuming my captors don’t decide it would be cheaper to kill me. Any suggestions? 

Take some time off and find yourself. I’d advise you to study abroad for a semester, but you’re already in a foreign country. Whatever you decide, I wish you nothing but the very best of luck!

21
May
09

sometimes a human skull with pentagrams and upside-down crosses drawn all over it is just a human skull with pentagrams and upside-down crosses drawn all over it

By jimjbollocks 1 Comment
Categories: junk drawer and Uncategorized

If you are reading this missive, it means that I have died. If I have not yet died and you are reading this against my wishes, fuck you. In 2096, science definitively disproved the existence of an afterlife, but I will find a way to haunt you from beyond the grave.

The reason I created this mind-file, dear surviving friend or family member, is to confess something I never could muster the courage to discuss during my time on earth. My role in the Great Human-Robot Conflict of 2047 was much more prominent that I have let on. For decades I maintained that I was a low-level mechanic that didn’t see much action, but that was a mere cover story so I wouldn’t have to discuss the horrors I saw on the front lines of the war against the robots I had grown to love like brothers before the Betrayal.

Things weren’t always like this, you see. Robots were once our most trusted companions. When work obligations on Datison-12 prevented my biological parents from attending my high school graduation, I went into the attic and recharged the old Sittertron, who filled in ably. Years later, the recorded video of the ceremony through synthetic-tear-stained optic sensors still brings back memories.  Robots served us in ways that can never be repaid. A  friend of mine (not me, I swear) was once alerted to a testicular lump after a session with a particularly thorough Hitachi sexxx-bot (okay, it was me. but that was the 2030s; you had to be there).

Where was I? Ah, yes, the war.  Yes, we humans emerged victorious, but I, like so many of my generation, spent a lifetime laying awake at night wondering whether the price we paid was worth it. Hiding under a pile of dead robots, then surprising their grieving comrades with a flamethrower when they came to honor their fallen. Replacing an oil shipment destined for a robot refugee camp with industrial-size drums of yellow mustard. Goddammit, didn’t even have the decency to use brown mustard.  Gaining the trust of a simple farming droid, then hitting his off-switch, which was briefly exposed when he turned to introduce me to his children. Ultimately, I fear the acts I committed to preserve humanity cost me my own.  

And now, as I record this message from inside the hyperbaric chamber that has provided me with a full head of dark hair, six-pack abs, and diamond-hard erections on demand even at the ripe old age of 124, I pose to you a question: is the world you have inherited all that you want? Because if not, don’t waste your time looking for anything good on Sephalon-22. I made a fortune building condos there, but trust me, it’s a real shithole.

29
Apr
09

those little things floating around in italian dressing are actually mind-controlling robots

By jimjbollocks 1 Comment
Categories: Uncategorized and vomitus

Dear sir:

We thank you for your unsolicited handwritten submission to our publishing house. Although, regrettably, the time is not right for us to consider your manuscript, I personally felt your submission warranted special comment, per your promise in the cover letter to “kill and eat all who fail to join (you) on the path to glory”.

Your work contains a level of brilliance so subtle as to be completely undetectable, but more time honing your craft would do your work a great service. Perhaps five to ten years writing appeals to the governor would infuse your future work with the urgency necessary to keep a reader’s attention.

In conclusion, I personally encourage you to continue the noble pursuit of your dream, although one semester at community college, distinguished though it may  have been, does not automatically qualify you to write owner’s manuals for kitchen appliances. Best of luck in your future endeavors.

14
Apr
09

am i forgetting something?

By jimjbollocks 2 Comments
Categories: junk drawer and Uncategorized

taxes?

turn off the stove?

write the great american novel?

call my parents?

move to Florida and register to vote for Gore?

put the lid back on the pickle jar?

wipe my prints off the crime scene?

return that vhs copy of “carlito’s way”?

convert to metric?

refill the hostages’ water dish? 

pick up my dry cleaning?

close that one interdimensional portal that allows demons to cross over into our world?

prank call that cable access show?

bribe the judges?

disable your passenger side airbag?

get in line to camp out for tix to the Jacksons’ Victory tour?

renew subscription to Cat Fancy magazine?

warn Nicole about OJ?

Photoshop my face out of picture with Roger Clemens?

carry the 1?

12
Apr
09

grapes are like nature’s bicycles, except there’s no world record for eating them

By jimjbollocks 1 Comment
Categories: junk drawer and Uncategorized

Entry 1: My name is Dr. Benjamin Stryker. It is my hope that this journal will serve as some historical account for future generations to learn from, as contemporary minds have yet to offer a reasonable explanation for my predicament. The origins of my current path are unknown, but I have established without a doubt that I have been traveling through time.

Entry 2: Waking up in a disoriented haze, I rush to the nearest newsstand at the break of day to get a newspaper so I can determine today’s date, but am thwarted when the man at the kiosk asks if I intend to pay for a paper, or just stand there drooling. Not knowing where I am in time or what the economic climate is that I’ve awoken to, I cannot divine the cost of a newspaper, or even what the currency is in this strange place. Instead, I rush into traffic, causing several cars to come screeching to a halt.  I slam my hands on the hood of one vehicle and scream at the driver, “What is today’s date?”  Unsympathetic to my plight, he gets out of the car and begins accosting me, his fists raining down persistently upon my head. I fall from consciousness unaware of my surroundings.

Entry 3:  I awaken to an intrusive light shining directly into my eye.  “Good morning, Mr. Stryker,”  I hear a strange female voice say. “Welcome back to the waking world.” How does this person know my name? Have I landed at some intergalactic hub for time traveling? Unfortunately, I drift back to sleep before I have a chance to ask for answers, or even correct her for calling me “Mr.” instead of “Dr.” Hours later, I reopen my eyes and find myself in some sort of holding area. I’ve been placed in a bedlike apparatus and my clothes have been replaced by a single-piece gown; clearly, clothing design in the future is based more on utility than aesthetics.  This place has an antiseptic, almost clinical atmosphere that I find threatening. Eyeing an overcoat left on an unattended chair, I steal it and make my escape into the night. I hail a cab to take me to an apartment building I recall having lived in at some point in the past, but upon discovering that my wallet has been taken, I jump from the moving vehicle before the destination and sprint the last few blocks to the apartment building. The cabbie, following me the entire way,  screams at me in some unintelligible language  (note: perhaps aliens are living on earth at this time?) as I climb the stairs to my once-apartment, finding it abandoned. The door has had several locks placed in it and an eviction notice is posted thereon.   

Entry 4:  This morning I broke an outside window and accessed the apartment. I found several items that appeared familiar, but as if in some alternate universe, the place was in absolute squalor. Half-empty Ramen noodles cups, some with roaches floating in them, litter the hallway leading to the bedroom. The bathroom looks as if someone has been using it as a place for injecting drugs. Horrified at my findings, I grab a medicine bottle and few crumpled dollar bills from the bedside table and venture back out before the drug-injectors return. Will I never find a pattern to my time-traveling? I silently fear that nothing in my educational background, not even my postgraduate degree in international finance, can prepare me for the discoveries ahead.

Entry 5: Relief has washed over me as I encountered a fellow time-traveler today, a woman named Wendy. As a brilliant means of avoiding attention during her travels, she has been posing as a prostitute. Wendy was able to explain that she, I, and countless selected others, have been traveling into the future at an approximate rate of 52 weeks per year. ”Ah- It’s coming together!” I exclaimed. Connecting the dots, I was able to determine a pattern: on this date exactly one year ago, I was 38 years old, while on today’s date, I am 39 years old! Of course! It’s so simple! To celebrate our breakthrough, I pour out a few tablets from the medicine bottle, then we crush and snort them. Together, we will bravely face the future, whatever form it takes.

16
Mar
09

in some cultures, it is considered a great compliment to draw a moustache on a lady as she sleeps

By jimjbollocks Leave a Comment
Categories: Uncategorized

I feel bad about not having posted of late. Judging from my traffic statistics, though, my negligence has been a victimless crime. I wish I could say the lack of posting has been due to a particularly fruitful period of work on ye olde novel, but truthfully I just haven’t had any ideas appropriate for the short form lately (though I did recently write a tremendously satisfying note on facebook about my ten favorite albums).  To absolve myself, dear reader, here’s an excerpt from the novel:

the

Pretty meager offering, I know, but due to my famously stringent self-editing process, it’s the only thing that I’ve committed to in the drafts thus far. More soon, I promise.  I do need to take a break from thinking about the big project.

08
Jan
09

paging lenny bruce

By jimjbollocks Leave a Comment
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags:

So I’m working on a piece in which the characters have relations with each other. And… unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any way I can do what I want narratively with the romantic encounter unless I get a bit, uh, graphic. So graphic, in fact, that I’m having to debate which spelling to use: ”come” or “cum”.

In the absence of a style manual on this delicate matter, I’m leaning towards “come”, mostly because I feel like it’s classier. My memory’s fuzzy on these things, but it seems like  Penthouse used “come” in its ”I never thought this kind of thing would happen to me, but I was installing aluminum siding on my house when my gorgeous neighbor…” Forum letters, while I think I remember seeing the “cum” spelling in less mainstream volumes like Juggs or Swank in their comparable “I never thought this kind of thing would happen to me, but I was volunteering in a soup kitchen when this gorgeous homeless lady…” fake letters section.  Needless to say, using porn mags as a measuring stick for anything is making me uncomfortable. 

Off the top of my head, I can’t recall Roth or Updike using the term one way or the other.  Oh, and didn’t Quiet Riot use the latter spelling in their 1982 hit ”Cum on Feel the Noize”? Because that brings the two sides back to a tie.  You can see why this is so difficult.

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