The Anal Girls of Tobacco Road
Dir: Ty Endicott
I smoke two packs of cigarettes a day and have been doing so since I was 15. And I like it. I like knowing I won’t have to live as long as the next guy. I like waking up and spitting out thick green-gray balls of phlegm. I enjoy getting winded the first two minutes into a two-on-two pick-up game and fighting for each breath. Those moments make me feel tough and manly and alive. Sure, there have been a few fires over the years from falling asleep drunk as a skunk with a smoke in my hand, and all my sheets and shirts have burn holes in them, but that is little sacrifice for how sexy I look when I smoke. James Dean had nothing on me. Women cream their panties just by seeing me exhale. I am one hot motherfucker, back that ass up. A Camel Wide with a dangling inch-long ash only makes me more desirable. The American government spends much too much time and money trying to stop tobacco manufacturers from advertising and exploiting smokers, but what they don’t understand is that the tobacco manufacturer is my friend. And I really don’t appreciate people fucking with him. If it wasn’t for Joe Camel, where the hell would I go to get my nicotine fix? Would I be forced to risk imprisonment by driving over the border to Tijuana as I do for my pharmaceuticals? Would I be forced to move to France and buy a beret? My fingers are shaking as I type. I get so angry when I think about all the things the government is trying to stop me from doing. But to lose my smoking privileges would be like losing my first-born son. Give me a gun. I can’t go on. But there’s always Canada. They’ll let me smoke. I’ll load up the car with the kids and the dog and the Foreman grill and I’ll bring a VCR with this video, my only reminder of that great land, the land I loved, the land that ended my days of getting a blowjob while some slut exhales second-hand smoke onto my cock.
1001 Ways to Eat My Jizz, Vol. 1
Dir: August Arkham
I hate cooking shows. I can’t see how anyone other than the hired help of a wealthy glutton could get anything from those types of programs. Do the producers of all cooking shows believe that all viewers happen to have kitchens with three ovens and eight burners? Do they think I just happen to keep every Indian and Ethiopian spice known to man in my cupboard? Don’t they realize most people own standard pots and pans and typical utensils, not 50-gallon drums and ladles shaped like pythons? You want to know what I cook—and this is when I’m feeling really ambitious? A cheeseburger. On my Foreman grill. And you want to know my secret spices and herbs that I add to it to give it that oh-so-succulent flavor? Ketchup. Granted, I can cook very well. I can also take out your car’s transmission and replace it for you, but that doesn’t mean I’m in the fucking mood to do it. Does it mean I have a spare transmission up my ass just waiting for you to ask me to install it? No. I’m busy. I watch porn. I have to brush my teeth. There are bars out there that don’t close and they need me to pay their electric bills. There are women lusting for a man like me, a man that is at least one-eighth the man they’d always dreamt of. I don’t have time to cook. I don’t have time to write this damn review, but if I don’t I’ll have no money for beer, and I’d hate to be held personally responsible for putting even one bartender out of work, onto the streets. And so it is for them I suffer. But who are the women in this video suffering for, I wonder? Their pimp? Their dealer? Their fathers? I just can’t figure out what would possess a girl to eat a can of tuna covered in semen, or a bowl of dog food mixed with man juice. But there are a lot of things I don’t understand. I lived with a girl once who insisted when I had to piss that I piss in her mouth. My entire wad of piss she’d slurp down in one clean gulp. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind at all. My water bill had never been lower. But I just failed to see the joy that could be had by swallowing urine directly from the tap. I also failed to see that she had stolen my car and moved halfway across the country, never to be seen or heard from again.
California College Student Bodies #25
Home Grown Video
Did you know I went to college to become an accountant? It’s true. The only subject I excelled in was math, and I figured accounting is only addition and subtraction—I could do that. So off to college I went. Fifteen minutes into my first accounting class I fell asleep. I woke up halfway through, picked up my pen, and pad and went to my dorm room and smoked a big bowl of dust. I was big into dust at the time. Straight-up. No tobacco. No weed. Just the straight leaky leak. I enjoyed the feeling of swimming out of water, or trudging through a carpet of knee-deep mud. In the midst of flying around my room I decided I should change my major. At the registrar, my pupils dilated and my hands shook as I tried to control the snake full of ink long enough to fill out the change-of-major forms. Then I met with a counselor. “So what do you want to change your major to?” he asked. “I don’t know, what’s good?” I replied. He gave me a queer look and asked what I was good at. I told him, “nothing in particular.” “Well, there must be something,” he said. His face was melting off. I could see cheekbones. It was like that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. But his glasses stayed in place. And what was with his Adam’s apple? It rolled about in his throat. It was alive. It wanted out. What was he saying? What did he ask? “I like fencing,” I told him. “I’ve never done it but I think I’d be good at it. I’ve seen all the Conan movies.” What was left of his face smiled and his bony head nodded. “I’ll just put you down as undeclared,” I think he said. Then I was on the Path train heading into the city, going somewhere. I forget where. Dust will do that to you. You just kind of pop in and out of blurry false realities, never sure what is authentic or if time has stood still, freezing everyone and everything but you. Odd thing is that I still believe that although I was twisted out of my head on PCP, I handled myself rather well with the counselor. He felt otherwise. While I walked aimlessly through the streets of New York, college security ransacked my room, found my dust, my pills, my booze, and nearly a QP of dirt weed from Harlem that I was going to sell to the basketball team. Four days later I was expelled. And that was the first of six colleges I was expelled from, dropped out of, or didn’t graduate from.