Consider the Alternative




Do you ever feel like changing that image of Britney holding a baby bottle? You’ve come a long way since Coke Talk.

Yeah, well. You gotta consider the alternative.



Lazy Bullshit



Ugh. This lazy bullshit has all the artistic merit of a low-rent “Dirty Debutantes” porn shoot. The only difference between Terry Richardson and actual pornographers like Ed Powers is the dwindling cultural relevance ascribed to him by his proximity to celebrity.

And Miley? We get it. You’re a wild child now. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. At least the girls who do gonzo porn have the courage to fuck on camera, so until you’re sticking out that tongue to catch a load in your face, I’m not impressed with all your silly pretending. (Oh, and thanks for reminding us that Arizona Grapeade is for white trash.)

Fuck all this stupid nonsense.


Jacob & Emma



Hey Coke Talk!

Hope 2013 has been treating you well…just wanted to let you know that we are still reading and still out here making things happen, but all the while, keeping your motto in mind (see attached picture from our 2nd anniversary).

Thank you again from the bottom of our hearts for writing our wedding vows. They hold just as true today as they did the day we said them. We are building a wonderful life together as absolute best fucking friends, and our marriage has been more fucking awesome than we could ever imagine.

Cheers and love and all good things,

Jacob & Emma

Holy shit, you two are sickeningly adorable. I can’t believe it’s been two years already. Thank you for this!


Pulp Fiction Sequel



I’m in the mood to write a present-day sequel to Pulp Fiction centered around Butch and Fabienne’s nineteen year old daughter.

Her name would be Emmanuelle, and the main story would revolve around her cross-country revenge quest to retrieve her father’s gold watch after it is stolen off his arm the day he’s murdered during a robbery at his Big Kahuna franchise in Knoxville, Tennessee.

Jules, still on his righteous path to “walk the earth,” becomes Emmanuelle’s unlikely mentor as she learns about her father’s shady past, and her journey of self-discovery turns into a bloody rampage through the streets of Los Angeles when she figures out how Butch’s murder is linked to Marcellus Wallace’s crumbling criminal empire.

She eventually finds the watch (a potent symbol of the American Dream, each generation sacrificing to pass it on as a birthright.) Of course, she finds it damaged beyond repair and realizes that it’s just a useless hunk of metal she never even wanted in the first place.

It all works out in the end when Mia Wallace, now a powerful TV executive, offers Emmanuelle a role in the remake of Fox Force Five.


Pacific Road Trip



1. In the interest of getting the fuck out of Los Angeles as quickly as possible, I took the 5 up through the Central Valley. It’s an ugly drive, but I made great time. Crashed with friends in Marin. Grilled out. Smoked out. Passed out. I got a lazy start the next day, but finally made it up the 101 through redwoods and rocky beaches to Oregon.


2. Woke up early and went whitewater jet boating through the Rogue River wilderness. The day was wet and majestic. I saw punk-as-fuck bald eagles, a goofball sea lion, a herd of elk, an adorable family of otters, a ridiculous pile of turtles, and most amazingly, a deer and a bear eating berries out of the same briar patch. Fuckin’ nature, man.


3. Digs at the Jupiter Motel. Dinner at Doug Fir. Drinks at Union Jacks, where I got hit on by a dreadlocked lesbian stripper named Pantera who swore it was her real name. (Her mom apparently had a thing for/with Phil Anselmo.) The next morning, I brunched at Pine State Biscuits and briefly attended the Soapbox Derby at Mount Tabor Park as my Portland-flavored ironic hipster experience. I walked into Powell’s and signed a copy of my book, which felt like checking an item off my bucket list. After dinner and drinks at Clyde Common at the Ace Hotel, I felt like I’d done Portland properly.


4. Scored a last-minute room at the Crater Lake Lodge. (That never happens. They made me promise not to tell anyone.) Ate a weed krispie treat and hiked down to the bottom of Crater Lake in my Chanel sandals (definitely not the recommended footwear.) Fully clothed and high as fuck, I jumped off the cliff rock into the freezing cold lake. It was baptismal. The jump was terrifying, the water was delicious, and the plunge was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I got to watch the sunset over the rim during the hike back up, and there was a roaring fire waiting for me back at the lodge where I feasted on bison and a bottle of pinot noir.


5. The lake was too beautiful. I needed a buffer of ugliness and shit before heading back to Los Angeles, so I decided to poison myself by driving to Reno. It worked. I tried to get in the mood to play a little blackjack, but all I could do was smoke a few cigarettes and watch morbidly obese gamblers feed bills into the Dolly Parton themed slot machines. I nearly choked on the metaphor.


6. The drive through the Sierras was gorgeous. I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, so I pulled off at Mammoth, rented a little motor boat for twenty bucks, and got caught in the rain out in the middle of Lake Mary. It felt like the perfect way to end my trip. The rest of the drive was one long exhale as the mountain range receded into urban sprawl.


Lover’s Cave


This video smells like herpes and bong resin.

Is it wrong that I wanna blame Lena Dunham for this greasy hipster aesthetic? Probably. I blame Lena Dunham for a lot of things that aren’t really her fault, like cronuts and internalized misogyny.

Plus, I really can’t stand this rancid flavor of stringy haired indie-bro.

These scraggly douche mops are always lounging by the hotel pools in skinny jeans and leather jewelry. They’re the ones in town from some crusty fuck corner of London or New York who talk endless shit about LA while picking their toenails right in front of you. Then they wanna hit on you by aggressively trying to trade sunglasses. No thanks, dude. I don’t wanna catch head lice from your neon wayfarers, and if you don’t like it here, you can fuck off back to the gloomy pale underbelly of whatever urban jungle you find most authentic.

Whatever. If you ignore the band, I guess this is a decent little tune. I don’t suppose anyone minds a bunch of gap-toothed dirt squirrels flopping around with their tits out. If rug burned knees and cheap lingerie are your thing, then hey, who am I to hate on a good time?


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