Coke Talk of the Day

“I used to love Matt and Kim back when they were jamming Brooklyn art school parties, but ever since they sold out to Bacardi, I just can’t listen to them anymore.”

We’ve all heard something like this before — some Pabst swilling douche in a wolf t-shirt talking endless shit about a formerly-obscure-turned-popular band for no other reason than they’ve tasted commercial success.

I consider it the worst flavor of hipster hypocrisy, but the thing is, I just realized that I’m guilty of it too.

Not with my music, though — with my porn.

Now that she’s gone mainstream, Sasha Grey just doesn’t do it for me anymore.

I was flicking my clit to Sasha back when she was trading spit in Razordolls (look it up, bitches — anything by Jack the Zipper. Trust me, it’s the hottest lo-fi art porn ever made.)

Then Sasha broke like a Kmart condom, and suddenly she was everywhere. Industry awards, music videos, and scenester spreads for American Apparel, Vice Magazine, and Terry Richardson.  All of it, dull-eyed and garish.

And so now, I’m the hypocrite:

“I used to love Sasha Grey back when she was jamming cocks up her ass in gonzo porn, but ever since she sold out to Soderbergh, I just can’t get off to her anymore.”

Wild or Crazy

I am wild. I am not crazy. There is a difference.

The stupid can’t see the difference, the inhibited deny the difference, and the authorities just don’t give a fuck about the difference — but the difference is everything.

Wild or crazy. At the extremes of sex, drugs, and rock and roll — anything worth doing, really — you’ll find only these two flavors.  They are the chocolate and vanilla of passion. The yin and yang of sin.

Wild explores. Crazy escapes.

Wild is beautiful. Crazy is broken.

Wild seeks enlightenment. Crazy seeks annihilation.

Know the difference. Be aware of the difference. Embrace wild, and send crazy packing.

Savor a savage fuck. Sample a heroic dose. Enjoy any raw and filthy moment of human vulnerability your heart desires, but always ask yourself: are you consciously seeking enlightenment or are you seeking to annihilate your consciousness?

If you don’t know the answer, get the fuck out of the room.

If you’re trying to escape, stop what you’re doing. Get help.

If you’re trying to explore, smile with your soul and take every inch of the experience as deeply as you possibly can.

And no matter what, don’t fucking judge — blowing a fat line of cocaine off a rock hard cock in a Vegas bathroom can be just as valid an exploration of consciousness as dropping acid in the desert with a tantric drum circle of naked hippies.

You don’t need to be burning incense for it to qualify as a religious experience.

You don’t even need a god.

All you need is a brain and a battle-cry:

Bitch, be wild. Don’t be crazy.

Coke Talk of the Day

Jim Henson should make my pussy into a muppet. My pussy would be called The Rainbow Connection, and she would have a little tampon sidekick named Rag who’d be just like Beeker.

My pussy would be part of the original cast of the Muppet Show and would not live on Sesame Street, because that would be weird.

My pussy would have an on again/off again relationship with Animal, because my pussy likes drummers, and you know that crazy little bastard gives gives good felt.

Kermit would confess that my pussy is the reason he learned to play the banjo.

I am so fucked up right now.

Coke Talk of the Day

I always shake my head when I hear strippers talking shit about porn stars. Come on, girls… whether you’re on the pole or on DVD, a sex worker is a sex worker. Just because none of the cock you suck is in front of a camera, it doesn’t mean you’re somehow morally superior.

Can’t we get a little sisterhood?

Coke Talk of the Day

I have mixed feelings when my old-school party girls suddenly cash in their whore wings and become breeders.  Sure, I’m happy for them, but shit can get awkward on Sunday afternoons by the hotel pool.

I’m nursing a hangover with a bloody mary and a half-pack of parliaments, and this perky bitch rolls up with a stroller and a mimosa like she’s ready to get her brunch on.

First of all, anyone who’s lived in this town longer than a hot minute knows there are certain pools where you just don’t bring your fucking kids on a Sunday afternoon (The Roosy, The Mondrian, or — god forbid — The Downtown Standard.)  It’s roughly the equivalent of ordering bottle service at a club and then requesting a hi-chair.

I know you’re one of the cool moms, but we used to talk endless shit about the trophy wives who’d show up to the pool with champagne and splash-happy toddlers. So now you squirt out a gremlin and suddenly the rules don’t apply? As an old pro, you should’ve damn well known better.

Second of all — and I mean this with all love and respect — no, I do not want to hold your little bundle of joy. Why? Because it’s bald, screaming, and strapped to a sack of its own shit, and I’m still drunk from the night before.

Besides, you know I don’t do baby talk. What am I supposed to say to the little squirmer? “Your mommy and I used to take turns blowing coke up each other’s buttholes through a straw, and I bet your Daddy doesn’t know about the night I helped her fuck three guys at the same time.”

Sorry, not interested.  Plus, if you knew where my hands had been you’d make me boil them before touching your offspring.

It’s not like I don’t want to hang out, but you don’t see me doing lines in the bathroom at Chuck E. Cheese, do you?

I don’t know, isn’t there a country club you can join or something?

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