Coke Talk of the Day

The most powerful drug? It isn’t a white powder or a little red pill. It’s the scent still fresh on my pillow the night after a love affair.

There isn’t a chemical that can compare to the signature of infinite subtlety left behind on my sheets that when inhaled leaves me instantly drunk, swimming in euphoria, and drifting off to sleep with a silly grin.

I just shared my bed with someone new who left me a heroic dose so delicious that I’ve been walking around high for days.

This is trouble. I could easily get addicted.



“Cougar Convention” women scare me. I pray my vagina falls out of my undercarriage like a burnt out transmission before I become like them.

When I’m well into my second half-century, I hope I have enough self respect to acquire a taste for equally-aged cock (or hang up the spurs altogether) before feeling the need to suck the life force out of some frat boy with an oedipal complex.


Ask your coke dealer to start stocking clove cigarettes.

Just when you thought the world couldn’t get any more outrageously hypocritical, the authoritarian douche-tanks in DC have up and banned flavored ciggies.

For the record, this bill was sponsored by a republican from Marlboro Country, so don’t kid yourself into thinking it will have any effect on public health. All this restriction will do is frustrate pretentious euro-trash and make a few goth punks run out of safety pins.

Oh, and don’t worry black people. Newports are still legal. Despite them being a legitimate teen gateway to a pack-a-day habit, Menthols make up 28% of the market, and Philip Morris wouldn’t put up with that crap for a second.

Once again, the bullshit that stuck to the wall was that they’re protecting the kids, this time from the evil candied temptation of sweetened smoky-treats.

Nothing makes my cunt pucker more than the phrase “protecting the kids.” Fuck your kids.

Fuck every fat, stupid, overprotected little crotch trophy whose mother’s inability to parent is infringing on my god-given right to blow vanilla flavored smoke all over a cute Frenchman to mask his post-sex body odor.

Fuck anybody anywhere who thinks they have the right to tell me what should go into (or come out of) my body.

Fuck Obama for signing this piece of shit bill.

And finally, fuck clove cigarettes for being the next thing that I have no desire for whatsoever, but will soon crave for no other reason than that they are illegal.

Coke Talk of the Day

I just spent a long, decadent weekend in Malibu celebrating the birthdays of four very close friends. I don’t know why I always end up surrounded by Leos, but a suspiciously large cluster of my inner-circle was born in mid-August.

One of the birthday boys made a shit ton of dot-com cash back in the day, so he and his wife have a ridiculous house at the very tip-top of Las Flores Canyon. It’s one of those rare places where you have the holy trinity of naked fun — a heated pool, a spectacular view, and total privacy.

Now, when I say very close friends, I mean very close. There are about a dozen of us, and we all have the kind of relationship that most folks could never understand. If I even tried to explain it to my workaday friends, my tongue would get tangled trying to describe the love and respect we all share, and then I’d have to suffer the indignity of watching their eyes go wide in judgement when I let it slip about the sex.

Yes, we all fuck, and it’s wonderful.

We share endless sweaty, slippery hours of blissed-out orgiastic fun, and then we all sit around the dining room table and have bacon, eggs, and bloody marys. It’s fucking great.

My vanilla friends are constantly asking me why I’m single, and my canned answer is that I’m picky. The whole truth is that I’m not willing to give up the good times I have with these friends, and it’s surprisingly difficult to find a man emotionally intelligent enough to handle it.

You’d think more guys would be self-aware enough to recognize that fresh attraction to the opposite sex is dictated by biological imperative. But no, most guys are in a constant struggle — to cheat or not to cheat — and it never occurs to them that in order to cheat, you have to accept a set of rules before you can break them.

Why accept the rules? It’s so much healthier to simply reject the underlying premise of the assumption.

Monogamy and fidelity are not the same thing.

It’s such a simple statement, but there is so much freedom in it — monogamy and fidelity are not the same thing. Being true and faithful in your relationship has no inherent connection to how many sexual partners you have. The connection is artificial.

What am I suggesting here? Well, it’s not all that prurient. Really, it’s about integrity and strength — the integrity to be totally open and honest in a relationship, and the strength to allow yourself and your partner to pursue happiness wherever it may be found.

Why should I care if my man has some fun, sexual or otherwise, with another girl?  Why should he care if I do the same?  It would be naive and egotistical of me to think that I could satisfy every emotional and physical need of another person, and yet under the traditional monogamous paradigm, that’s exactly what is expected.

The healthiest relationships I’ve ever known are those based on unwavering mutual respect and the kind of gut-level honesty that most folks can’t handle.  Add to that an intelligent, emotionally healthy habit of saying “yes” instead of “no” to your partner whenever possible, and suddenly you find yourself open to all kinds of possibilities.

It’s not for everybody, I suppose — but it’s too late for me. I can’t imagine life any other way.

Mount Douchemore



Oh look, kids. It’s Dane Cook, Jeremy Piven, and Kid Rock indicating how many dead hookers they have stashed in their Hummers.

I suppose only one question remains — who should be the fourth man on Mount Douchemore?



“We auditioned a lot of people,” says Colette Burson, the co-creator of “Hung.” “It is incredibly difficult to find beautiful, talented, funny women over 35.”

“It is incredibly difficult to find beautiful, talented, funny women over 35 willing to play a nagging one-dimensional twit on a painfully boring show built entirely out of middle-brow cliche and one lousy big dick joke,” I think is what she was trying to say before swallowing her fucking foot.

And what the fuck, Colette? Anne Heche is neither talented nor funny. Actually, she’s kind of creepy in a sinewy, eyebrowless kind of way so clearly you cast about as well as you write.

Coke Talk of the Day

You know what we as a culture have collectively missed out on? Getting to name our homes. Anne had Green Gables, Scarlett had Tara — hell, even Robert Evans has Woodland. Why can’t I name my condo?

Fuck if I need some sprawling plantation or grand estate before I can give it a name. From now on, I’m referring to my place as Halcyon.

Tonight after the club, I’m gonna raise a glass and say, “Friends! Let us retire to Halcyon!”




Due to an unfortunate spelling of the word “Annals” on her superhero application, Jessica was given the power to travel through time, but only while she was taking it up the ass.


Swollen and fried.

I woke up today with a mouth full of dryer lint and breakfast sausages for fingers. Everything coming out of my body is the wrong color, and I’m sore in parts that I don’t remember using.

I’m not complaining — after all, you can’t party for six straight days in Mexico without consequences. This is totally expected.

Whenever I go on vacation, I tell everyone that I get back a day later than I really do. As far as my friends are concerned, I’m still incommunicado.

No one gets to see me when I’m paying the tab on my party karma.

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