May « 2009 « KillerWhalePettingZoo

EXTRA VALUE MEAL

I hadn’t been to McDonald’s in while because I was on some sort of health food kick (and Burger King was closer), but I was feeling lazy and it was across the street from the dry cleaners that I’ve never been to. This was a special occasion. I brought in a brand new, authentic $20 Christian Dior trench coat to get tailored; I came across it at The Salvation Army right after a bum passed his grimy hands over it not realizing the treasure that lay in wait. The coat was one size too big; I tried it on in the mirror to show the girl at the front counter where to pin it. Don’t get me wrong though; there was an ulterior motive for stopping at that inland drycleaners. I just wanted to embarrass the cute little Asian girls slaving away in the back. I called out for them to get their opinion on how I looked. They ran upfront and giggled when I posed and danced like an idiot in the coat; so I picked one of them up and pranced around the storefront in a waltz step and sang the tune to a Frank Sinatra song…

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We felt so regal, almost like we were in a Parisian ballroom sipping champagne, a cool summer breeze on the patio, surrounded by a sea of black tuxedos and an air of importance. I started to lose myself, day dreaming about the possibilities, fumbling with her corset and trying to tear it off at 3am, she never took off her heels; we laughed in bed at the French room service menu; scared we might order snails or frog legs for breakfast. For several moments we stared into each other’s eyes and didn’t have a care in the world. Life made sense; life was perfect…

The petite girls were in frenzy; each wanted to be picked up and dance, but the old Asian woman stormed out from behind the row of sewing machines and started yelling in Japanese or Korean, it didn’t matter. The girls put their heads down and shuffled back into the maze of cellophane-sheathed clothing. All alone, the sticky linoleum floor brought me back to reality. The steam hissed and the temperature became stifling. I felt the vibe that the white guy with a presumably big dick in the company of young Asian girls wasn’t funny anymore. I sauntered across the street to the McDonald’s and remembered some girl who emailed me wanting to model. Not sure why I saved her number, honestly she didn’t look that promising. But I had nothing else going on that afternoon so figured I’d give her a call. ronco

“Hey what’s up? Wanna shoot around 4pm?”

“Um that’s like in half an hour!?”

“Get your shit together, I’m feeling spontaneous. You hungry at all?”

“Yea! I forgot to eat lunch. Wait, where are you getting to eat at?”

“Don’t worry about it. Be there soon.”

While standing in line at McDonald’s I had a vision; I bought some bullshit off the dollar menu and showed up at her hotel room. I kept glancing over my shoulder half-expecting to get tackled by a wave of police and bitten by the K-9 unit. She’s an escort by trade, but was going through some kind of artistic rebirth; either delusional model aspirations or too many Xanax pills. So I gave her a chance. Right when I walked in the door I knew I wouldn’t have to pay her to model; she looked that hungry. Everyone says “oh that was the best dollar I ever spent.” Often it’s someone bragging about their $20 designer trench coat, or an exotic sports car that goes really fast and hugs the turns while fake leaves are eternally suspended in the air; the camera pans away and you’re left staring at some asshole selling a rotisserie grill for three easy payments. But really, that dollar I spent on a small box of fries at McDonald’s was “the best dollar I ever spent.” Not only do I have a great bar story, but by randomly going to that drycleaners across the street I have a steady supply of hard-working Asian girls ready and waiting to steam press the fuck out of my pants on Friday nights.

ARIZONA ZONING

I called her from Southern Mexico with stolen phone cards that the locals jacked off tourists who left their bags unattended on the beach. She sounded like she really wanted it bad. Airplane tickets just went on sale; Phoenix here we come. Was I desperate? Yes. For the past couple weeks I was surrounded by poverty and disease-ridden girls; ones that I wouldn’t go within 3 feet of with two condoms on. Soon a small cut developed into a staph infection in my foot so I headed to the town’s only emergency room.

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The place was overflowing with drop-dead gorgeous Latinas and not a guy in sight. Something was wrong; why were all these hot chicks here? Only the rich families could afford a doctor, and then I realized this emergency room doubled as the local gynecologist’s clinic. Every one of those bitches was either pregnant or had a wart covered snatch. Flies swirling, not a latex glove in sight, this place was dirtier than the river I stepped in. Not even sure they used a new needle, but give me that shot of antibiotics in the ass; I have a flight to catch! I was bound for strip malls and cookie cutter neighborhoods dominated by saguaro cacti lawn ornaments. It was too hot outside for the kids to play so the city erected a gigantic tent over the playground. When their skin singed into third degree burns from the scalding yellow slide, no one could sue.

I hadn’t had sex in weeks, but I figured a little foreplay entertainment might be proper, so we went to three different strip malls, two movie theaters, a Halloween store, and then she sucked on a $7 drink from Starbucks. Fucking Christ, this place was an air-conditioned wasteland. After several days of this repetitive riff-raff she wouldn’t put out. In total I spent $400 in airline tickets and lodging to go to the mall, which I could’ve done back in California and bought 6 nights of hookers in a row. Maybe even 4 nights in a row of 3-somes; I’m an optimist. I was beyond frustrated so later that night I shared my sorrows with a balding Middle Eastern 7-11 clerk trying to pawn off 8-hour old taquitos. He told me to go to the nearby strip club. Fuck you. I don’t go to those places, it’s just a bunch of coked out whores; I’m not that kind of guy! So I went over.
But before I even made it in the door I met a stripper, named Kool-Aid, in the parking lot. When she saw my camera her eyes lit up; I thought she was going to steal it to trade for crystal meth but she just wanted to be a photo slut.

“Let’s go take some pictures at your hotel, I hate working here.”

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Sounded like the best motherfucking thing I heard all weekend. So I’ve still never been inside a strip club, but for some reason I was sitting with a rural Arizona stripper on my bed in a shitty hotel room from some package deal on Travelocity. She told me about how she goes to Mexico and buys Oxycontin to sell to all the girls at the club for $10 a pill. Her boyfriend, the local drug peddler, taught her all she knew. I thought the going rate was $5…inflation I suppose. She had the bright idea of going on a vacation to Mexico.

“We should drive across the border and stock up on meds!”

No fucking way, I was just down there in that hell…. Wait! You’re pretty cute, how many guys have you slept with? Have you ever been tested? I know this guy down there, he’s really good…trust me.

KARL KARL KARL

I have a lot of respect for Karl Lagerfeld, owner and creative director of Chanel. He wears high collared shirts, a menagerie of jewelry, and various chains that could get stuck in any modern American mall escalator. Maybe it’s because he goes to Monaco/Paris/etc. that he just doesn’t give a shit. “Sunglasses in the evening are like eye shadow for men.” I wholeheartedly agree, but I wear mine because the flash bulb goes off 3-500 times per night which would leave me with eye cancer from all the UV output. Did Canon/Nikon/shitty off-brands stop making UV bulbs? I sure hope so.
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But back to Karl; I have a lot of respect for what he does. He makes some amazing handbags with a logo that increases the price one-hundred fold. And that’s fine. The man is a bag genius. I just wish he’d educate his staff that when I buy a bag don’t ask me if I want a bag for my new fucking bag. Of course it’s not a gift, I would only splurge that amount of money on myself, not some other schmuck. Unless it’s made out of leather, keep that mass produced plastic Pampers shit away from my designer clutch. Yes I’ll be using it right now, and dispose of this old ratty thing, don’t even think about donating it to some charity or making a quilt bag for your Spring 2010 line.

But back to Karl. I have a lot of respect for him. I mean I feel like I’m closer to him now that he’s on Twitter. He often has fun tidbits of information to reflect upon. Since he’s so much more accessible, I think he and other celebrities are losing their stardom glamor. I don’t want to know that Oprah took a fat shit and is watching re-runs of herself wearing pajamas and eating Corn Puffs. I don’t want to know that some A-lister just walked the red carpet and tripped on his shoelaces. But Karl Lagerfeld tweets about the more refined aspects of life. He recently stated that he was reading in his glass house one morning suspended above a river in France. I’m not sure if that’s a metaphor or if the guy got so fucking rich from selling bags he schemed up some bizarre exhibitionist living situation. Either way, at least he’ll have perfect Wi-Fi Internet reception all over the house with no solid walls to impede his Twitter updates. Come to think of it, I’m more like Karl than I initially thought. I hate when my Wi-Fi signal cuts out too; I can’t jerk off in the kitchen.

PENIS SCARF

I bought a pair of New Balance sneakers that squeak horribly on the right shoe; no matter what I tried I couldn’t make it go away. My mom said that that was lucky; it meant I was going to go on a trip… I found myself two flights, a train ride, a taxi jaunt, and a cargo ship later trekking over 70 miles with 80 pounds of gear hacking through dense mosquito-infested jungle… I was on the isolated end of the island, so with no one around for miles; I decided to do some nude sunbathing. I brought a Hawaiian sling on the airplane, which is a long pole, a rubber band, and a trident affixed on the end for spearing fish. I thought I’d give it a go; the idea of catching a fish and cooking it for dinner sounded pretty romantic even if I hadn’t seen a girl in several days. I snorkeled out into the middle of the lagoon, watched the breakers explode along the edge of the reef, and was completely overwhelmed by the colors. Soon I saw massive schools of fish and skewered one in the side, but just as I squinted through my mask a gigantic creature darted in the distance.

I whipped around and started kicking for shore, but in my panic I snagged my leg on a coral head and the water became bloodied. I screamed a string of expletives, but it just sounded like a bunch of gurgling bubbles. Not only was I bleeding in tiger shark territory; I had a struggling fish attached to my pole. A wave rushed over and sent me closer to the reef; the tip of my cock grazed the fire coral. The horror took a few moments to set in. FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!!! I had just cut my cock open. Back on shore I watched my penis and leg bleed simultaneously. I howled in pain as I doused my wounds with alcohol and strapped on some gauze with duct tape. I was really disappointed to see that the catch consisted of puffer fish, the ocean’s equivalent to the porcupine; completely inedible and probably poisonous.

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I looked like an idiot bumbling around on a beach with a penis scarf, but fashion was the least of my worries. How shitty would it be to die from blood loss out the penis? Anyways, sometimes girls see or feel that bump on my cock and ask about it. Usually I just tell them I cut myself shaving, because if they knew the truth they’d want to be taken out to a seafood restaurant to get in the mood to hear the other stories, and let’s be honest, “lobster special” just sounds expensive. That fucking pair of sneakers still squeaks; hope that doesn’t mean I’m going on another trip to cut the rest of my cock off.

SPANISH SPEAKING GERMAN SHEPHERDS

I recently went to a party that was like an optical illusion. It had huge sponsors fronting all kinds of money and little fucking key chains I probably didn’t want anything to do with, but I think if you stared around cross-eyed long enough some deranged dog would jump out of a bush like in those Magic Eye books. I never really understood Magic Eye, I mean the one time I tripped out on PCP was way better than the book because not only was I chilling with a bear or sloth (it’s not important right now) there was a damn palm tree growing out of the my Costa Rican hotel room wall. Why I didn’t go outside to hang out with real palm trees still escapes me. I would just sit near the bay window and watch the little lava rocks puff out the volcano cone like fireworks and ignite the derelict palms at the base. We were blazed out of our minds and on a Spanish school trip which basically fronted as the Central American Chronic Tour.

My Jewish/Lebanese friend, who was addicted to listening to Ibiza techno on his Walkman, somehow schemed that rolling up blunts in layers of cellophane and Vaseline wouldn’t allow a professionally trained dog’s nose to smell a whiff through his rudimentary cover up. I wasn’t really sure why we were bringing weed into a country that grows it in the jungle, but I digress. It was a royal fuck-up in the making, and we started sweating every time that Spanish-speaking German shepherd came within fifty feet of our one-way ticket to prison. So later in the trip we were beyond starving; with no 7-11 Mecca nearby; we did the obvious; called the front desk. Yea, we know the kitchen is closed and it’s 3 am, but bring us 5 cheeseburgers, 20 rolled tacos, 3 liters of coke and some ice cream motherfucker! Make it happen!!!

15 minutes later a knock on door was followed by an entourage of Costa Ricans carrying towers of white Styrofoam boxes. Where did all this shit come from? It didn’t matter; we ate it all till one-by-one we passed out. The next morning I couldn’t figure out why everyone was smirking and staring at me while I was standing in line at U.S. Customs. Maybe I was just overreacting and having flashbacks from the PCP. The German shepherd did kinda look like the sloth and what kind of asshole landscaper puts a fucking palm tree in an airport? Must be a Central American thing. Falling coconuts kill 80+ people per year. But most likely, the glaring eyes had to do with the bold swastika dominating my forehead.

VULTURES

I have no idea why people think I do drugs. Ok sure I’m awake all night and look like a porn star, maybe even your creepy Italian uncle, but a drug dealer? C’mon now…This time the tables were turned, no one was buying, but instead gifting me drugs. Not sure what kind of idiotic stranger would give away drugs for free, but the idea was entertaining. I was standing at the urinal, probably peeing because I don’t stand within 3 feet of them for any other reason. Maybe to hand out gifts like this asshole. He came up from behind and nudged me with a closed fist which scared the shit out of me, never disturb a man while he is in pee-land.

So with my other hand I reached over and he dropped a little white pebble into my hand. Who the fuck shares rocks at a urinal? “Nah man, it’s a 1/3^rd Xanax.” 1/3^rd you cheap motherfucker? You split it up into thirds? Do you think this will even affect a man that is 6’1 with high metabolism? “Well look man if you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.” Okay you eat it and I’ll take a picture, deal? “Ok deal.” He was already tripping out on something else and that started to send him over the edge. I had to get the fuck out of there. Did I mention that this was the bathroom in a gay club? A lot of the guys are pretty blatant about grabbing my ass, and giving me a sack check just to see if I really am Italian or want to go home with them. I might start doing that to girls, just give a big vulture attack to the crotch, latch on and see where I end up. Either in jail or some sex-fueled orgy are the likeliest of outcomes.

CHOO CHOO PART II

This little train pissed me off so much I took a second photo of it when it came around the loop another time, and that was with film! If you own a digital camera and just asked “What’s film?” take your memory card, pretend you’re in prison; shave it down against the nearest concrete wall and shank yourself in the neck.

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I couldn’t afford to take my kid to the San Diego Zoo which is literally 200 yards away from this crime scene, so I told my wife we’d ride this joke of a model train and be much closer to the animals; our daughter is so young she’ll never remember. “Daddy! Dead? Dead?” “Oh my GOD PETER she just spoke her first word!!!” “She said, ‘Dead’?” Yea Peter, that’s right. That fucking giraffe is made out of plastic and your toddler sees right through your scam. I mean treat it like a safari with the camera and all to make it feel authentic, you might even see a loose Rottweiler leap across the tracks and latch onto your wife’s neck. Now that sounds like a proper time at Wild Animal Park. Your little kid is scarred for life. Should’ve cut your coupons out of the newspaper and splurged the $20 to go see some real malnourished giraffes.

TAN LINES

I can’t believe the amount of makeup that some girls use. I’ve seen it crack and peel by the end of a date, even start to glob up and ooze on a summer afternoon. It rubs off on my clothing and even tastes like complete shit. It all costs a fortune too; I remember this one girl brought over $35 lipgloss, which I ended up smearing off her face. That kiss probably cost her $2.99, and I thought condoms were expensive. I might try the whole makeup thing; I know a lot of guys who wear eyeliner get laid more than I do. But they also use a ridiculous amount of coke as a kind of bait to reel girls into their lair. I’m not into drugs, or fishing for that matter. It’s like catching a yellow fin tuna using a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; with coke it’s that easy. None of the guys in Bass Master Pro on ESPN use those fancy designer lures, they just keep it simple. Or was that the name of the video game? It’s not important.

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Girls are using so much makeup these days they even started putting it on their tits. The girl pictured wasn’t about to shoot porn, she just needed a little color to mask her tan lines. I’ve been swimming in a Speedo a lot lately, got a radical tan line to prove it too; the chicks melt when they see my crotch glowing in the dark like a nuclear reactor. It’s one of those testaments to working out, kinda like having a gigantic protein jug on top of your fridge. But it was beyond weird, this other girl I was dating a few months ago had a screwed up face one night, not that it looked ugly just her expression of shock and horror when she was giving me a blowjob was weird. I’m the only guy you know who finds blowjobs hilarious, the whole idea is just so funny to me they end up down there 20-30+ minutes working away until I burst out laughing and walk out of the room. Something must’ve been seriously wrong with her though; she seemed really upset and had a sour face. I showered, shaved and everything down there, but couldn’t figure out what I did wrong. Then it hit me. “Oh babe, I’m so sorry I forgot to tell youuu! I applied some foundation earlier; just needed a little color.”

SWEDISH FISH

You really figure out who you are when staring over your shoulder into the lavatory mirror 33,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean and the seatbelt sign comes on. You’re not even sitting down, just pissing everywhere and holding on for the ride, wondering if that sporadic trip to Maui was worth it. I’m not even sure why I was chasing this thing across the world; sure, she had an ass to die for and was amazingly intelligent but still I was chasing a woman under the guise of working for a travel magazine. After we landed I had to regain my composure, so I took a $50 taxi ride to Fashion Valley looking for something sweet. Sugar always makes me feel better, not fatty shit like potato chips or ice cream, something chewy. Something I could sink my teeth into just like that amazing Swedish ass and perky c-cups that never felt a pushup bra in their lives.

SWEDE

I dragged my luggage into one of those tiny candy stores in the mall with overwhelming bins upon bins of candy. Ok ok… everything in moderation, some Swedish fish for nostalgia, couple jellybeans… “That’ll be 21 dollars.” Fuck you. “Umm sorry sir it weighs 8 oz., and you’re paying for variety.” Well then give me the American fish motherfucker. I’m tired of chasing these foreign sluts around the world ok?!?!! Why can’t they just live in my home town, be domesticated and like late-night booty calls instead of wearing a Louis Vuitton art smock strategically covered in oil paint and want to go on spiritual journeys to Maccu Pichu? I can’t afford this shit anymore!!! You seem pretty normal; I mean you never finished high school and work for minimum wage in a claustrophobic candy store chastising unsupervised toddlers all day. We should hang out sometime, how about in like an hour, you get off at 5pm right? I’ll just wait outside near Sbarro Pizza. Security.

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Collaboration poster with Commune. Signed and numbered; limited edition of 100.

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