Monday, March 11, 2013

Girls: Jizz

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA

My thoughts on "On Al Fours" (episode 9, season 2) of Girls...

* * *

Yo Adam-

You got the Hannah Virus. AA is too Draconian for artists and won't cure you, but you need to get your ass to a shrink after humiliating that sweet girl Natalia by jacking off on her tits. The Hannah Virus is like an infestation of termites that methodically gnaws away at your internal mental frame, until one day the walls come crumbling down, triggering you to snap because one moment, you're inside the Starbucks on Astor Place and the next thing you know... you bludgeoned everyone to a bloody pulp with a broken chair leg.


You're a weak man. The first sight of Hannah and her bloody Q-Tip sent you off the wagon... so far off the wagon that you went on a Jack and Ginger bender, which transformed you into a primal pervert and you molested your adorable girlfriend by making her re-enact a scene from a Sasha Grey domination video. Sure, she might have had dirty tendencies (like the time she blew her college friend's cousin), but forcing her to role play as Deviant Hannah was depraved. Making Natalia crawl on all fours in your dingy apartment was demeaning enough, but you topped it all off by dropping a load on her breasts. The only thing worse would have been a full-blown facial. At least you offered to clean up the spooge with your t-shirt. Hannah used to let it air-dry and cake on her chest before she finally washed it off eight days later.

Don't expect Natalia  to ever call you again. And if she does call you back, then don't see her. The last thing you need is back-to-back psycho girlfriends.
 
Get your shit together, bro. You've been infected by the Hannah Virus. Better quarantine yourself before you infect any more people with your self-destructive behavior. What you really need is to move to Bangkok for three or four months and hate-fuck a couple hundred trannies until you finally get Hannah out of your mind.

Later on,
P

P.S. Don't go back to the same AA meeting where you met the cougar (a.k.a. Natalia's mom). She's liable to jump you before the meeting and shank you with a screwdriver. Or worse, she'll beg you to rub one out on her chest too.

* * *
Dearest Marnie,

Keep practicing otherwise you'll never get out of your YouTube self-wanking phase of wanna-be Katy Perrys. The voice will not happen overnight. You gotta put in the time and do some hard living in the real world, but I don't think you have the intestinal fortitude to grind out the starving artist lifestyle. Start chain-smoking Marlboro Reds so you can get a raspy voice like Janis. Drink a ton of whiskey out of the bottle and watch old Steve McQueen movies, which will help get you all surly and make your eyes look mean. Heck, you might as well get addicted to downers, but do something totally Amy Winehouse level of crazy and mix up downers with a cocaine addiction. Then, and only then you might be able to add a little soul to your singing and sound like someone with real fucking problems instead of a whiny princess ensconced in her first existential dilemma.


You need a new schtick. It was fucking hysterical the first time I saw a whiter-than-white whitegirl belt out a bubblegummy cover of a hip-hop song with incendiary lyrics.  But now, it's meme that's been beaten to a dead horse. Try to do something completely different for a change and think out of the box. Like do a punk version of Motown songs, like pop hits by The Supremes but give it a "fuck you" CBGB's gritty edge and break empty bottles over your head during the chorus. Don't forget you're in a room full of jaded hipsters who already have 500K hits on their Harlem Shake video and already did their own ukelele version of 2 Live Crew's "Face Down Ass Up." Just so you know, before you even finished humping Charlie, half the room already Vine'd your shaky Kanye West cover.

You're a sly one. You need a sugar daddy to pay the bills while you pursue your dream of becoming the next Lana Del Rey. You're too prissy to suffer for your art, which is why you're trying to re-hook Charlie. He's got big bucks now and can bankroll you're journey toward stardom.

You're still a hot mess. I'm telling you, better start working on your Burning Man costume right now. Nothing is worse than waiting until the last minute. You can build your own eco-friendly mini-stage out of recycled Amazon.com delivery boxes and use a solar power rig to power up the trippy lights and sound system. Every night, you can perform an entire set of hip-hop covers naked but your private parts covered in body paint.

See ya on the playa,
Pauly

* * *

Yo Ray,

You're still a schmuck.

Your so-called best buddy Charlie made a shit-ton of cash with an app and launched a big-time company and yet he never bothered to offer you a job? Not even as lemonade squeezer? He must be a total dick for keeping his success to himself, or knows you're a lazy malcontent who hates everything?


First off, you fell in love with Shoshanna after she got all whacked-out by accidentally smoking crack in Red Hook and then you unceremoniously deflowered her. Since then, it's been a twisted relationship. Instead of dumping you outright, Shoshanna passive-aggressively punished you by nailing a doorman (I assume he was in the union). She's the worst emotional poker player on the East Coast and couldn't hide the fact she got long-dicked by some other dude while you were moping around the apartment in dirty boxers. When she confessed to her infidelity, you quickly took her back without a fuss. What the hell is wrong with you? Man, you're such a fucking pussy.

If you let her cheat on you the first time... then she's going to keep doing it. This is not a one-time affair. It's like the scene in Jurassic Park when the velociraptors were testing the electronic fences to see if they had any weakness. Shoshanna is like the raptor and telling you about the tryst with the doorman in the mailroom is like testing the fence. You failed the test bro. I expect a long and tortuous future of Sho smuggling more cocks than Liberace on Gay Pride Day.

The next time you catch Shoshanna giving the pizza delivery guy a rimjob, don't come crying to me. I warned you about that naughty little, Jappy vixen, and you just gave her permission to shag anything that moves. Well done, Mr. Pushover. Is she going to start fucking you in the ass with a strap-on next?

Ray, you're a pathetic shitbag and put up with Sho's promiscuity because you're desperate for a place to live and want the comforting blanket that makes you feel normal that you have "girlfriend." How can I have any respect for a man, who cannot respect himself?

I really hope all this is a slick ploy and you're putting up with Sho's cheating bunhead because it allows you to stay close to Marnie. I get it. She's hot and vulnerable and you hide your erections in your waistband when you give her tutorials on Garage Band. I wonder if she knows you sniff her panties when she's not there? You're a sick and twisted fuck.

The more I think about it, the more I like your "possum" style or opting for the rope-a-dope. It's twisted, demented and bonkers. You make everyone around you think you're just a dumb grump but in reality you're pulling off a sleeper cell Tony Clifton performance like your hero Andy Kaufman. Keep on manipulating a guilt-ridden Sho and parlay this into at least six months of free rent, which will give you ample enough time to make the moves on Marnie. Wait until she gets re-dumped again by Charlie and catch her when she's super vulnerable and if you got any game, you can magically work a Shoshanna/Marnie threesome. Until that happens, you're a fucking mook in my eyes.

See ya,
P

* * *
Oooooh La La Shoshannah,

You dirty little trollop! It's that time of the week for you to hop up on Santa's lap and tell him how you've been naughty. How many doorknobs have you waxed this week? Don't be shy. Tell me everything.

You need to kick Ray out of the apartment. He's dead weight, a min-wage lifer who called his car his home. I know people who live out of their cars and they're called degenerate gamblers. Ray was born under an unlucky star. He's the hipsterfied version of Ignatius J. Reilly, who sits around in his underwear all the time and goes around collecting Marnie's stray hairs because he's a creepy fuck who preys on young 20-something girls. Do the nice thing and put him out of his misery already. No sense in drowning yourself in guilt. Give him the boot then you can play hide the salami with every doorman on the Upper East Side.


What's the deal with the danish on your head? It's like a twisted Jewish version of Princess Leia because it looks like a Kaiser roll. I look at your head and think, "Hmmm, I'm hungry. I'd really like a pastrami on a  Kaiser roll with a Dr. Brown's black cherry soda." And what's up with your old lady dress? I mean, my mom wore that shit in 1965. You're turning into a Jewish version of Hannah. You have a fucking bun on your hair and you think you're on Mad Men and you can't hide the fact that you cheated on your loser boyfriend with a doorman. No wonder you hate yourself with the hateful desire of a thousand burning suns.

Nice try offering yourself up to Charlie like that after complimenting on how hot he looked and how he could have sex with anyone at the party. But you're too neurotic and have a suicidal boyfriend and obviously a miserable gold-digger, which is why Charlie ended up doing the freaky freaky with Marnie on his desk illuminated by the warm and sensuous glow of his computer screens. It's disturbing that you're turned on by his 20K MAUs. Thanks for revealing more sexual weaknesses and vulnerabilities.

Note to self... Sho gets moist by doormen uniform and web numbers.

If numbers get you hot and bothered, then I want to show you what Tao of Poker's traffic looked like during the WSOP Main Event. We put Charlie's numbers to shame. Or how about Coventry's traffic whenever Phish is on tour? That redonkulous spike in visitors should get you all hot and bothered. My traffic report is better lube than KY jelly.

Toodles,
P

P.S. Still waiting on that handjob.

* * *

Yo Charlie,

What will happen when your 20K a month customer base finds out you actually nailed the ex-girlfriend who inspired your app? I smell a class-action lawsuit.

Or will this recent romp inspire another new app? You pay $100 every time you sleep with an ex-girlfriend?

I envy you, bro. You make the interns squeeze fresh lemonade for you from the organic lemon trees you have on your roof garden. That's pretty baller.You're so powerful that you have an entire office full of hipster-geeks (or geeksters) at your mercy, you give them a pittance of peanuts for pay and no health insurance, yet think they have the coolest boss in the world because they get to eat free candy from over-sized community bowls and make weekly meme videos on company time. Your minions deified you for raking in millions on the Marnie inspired-app, yet instead of cash bonuses, you reward them with cheap beer, cold pizza and a boring DJ, who is yet another dickhead with a Macbook who thinks he's Girltalk.

You demonstrated that if you treat women like shit, then they'll fall for you. You blew off Marnie for lunch, which whipped her into a sex-crazed manic episode that inspired her rendition of a Kanye song. You insulted her singing and her stalking ways, and you still got busy on your desk. Bravo.

Seriously, why haven't you gotten in touch with me about the sportsbetting app? March Madness starts next week. We're missing out on a huge potential here. Degens drooling to piss their money away. Give me a buzz.

See ya,
P

P.S. I hope you left your webcam running during the wild rumpus.

* * *
Hannah,

It's bad enough to pick wedgies out of your ass eight times, but it's even worse to put the same finger in your ear eight times. Are you trying to transmit fecal diseases to your ears? And where the fuck did you buy that dress that looks like the curtains from the Holiday Inn circa 1978?
 
 
Only a dumbass lives in a Brooklyn apartment with hardwood floors and sits bare-ass in the living room. The splinter is a trite metaphor... you put yourself out there emotionally and you got wounded and had to fix yourself back up and pulled out the splinter yourself with a pair of tweezers by looking awkwardly in the mirror.

Poking your ear drum with the Q-tip? Another trite metaphor. You want to impair your hearing so you cannot hear the truth. The first time might be an accident, but you crossed that danger zone a second time using the same fucking Q-tip. You might try to let everyone think your OCD caused the ruptured eardrum and bloody ear canals, but the real reason you punctured (both) eardrums is to make sure cannot hear everyone around you tell you about how horrible you are.

If you can't hear the truth, it doesn't exist, right?

Hey sweetie... put down the jar of olives and stop stuffing your face eight olives at a time and wake the fuck up. If you accept the stone-cold fact that you are not the center of the universe and you have to get along with people and make sacrifices and accept responsibility for your decisions... then and only then, people will finally start to genuinely like you, well maybe not like you... but feel sorry for you. You only have friends because they want to feel better about their pathetic lives, so they hang out with you. As soon as they get their shit together, they'll toss you out like lumpy, sour milk that is three months past its expiration date.

Stop the fucking amateur bullshit, get your lumpy ass in gear and start writing. You got a deadline to meet so stop whining and dicking around and deliver the Anais Nin-knockoff, crotch-tickler that your flaming gay publisher is paying you good coin to write. You're a sad sack of shit that would rather run up an unnecessary ER bill than finish her e-book. A million writers would kill for a book deal and you're totally ungrateful and feel grossly entitled (only you would want a book deal and have mommy and daddy to pay your rent). Yeah, you're one of those wanna-be writers who likes to say they're a writer but when it boils down to it, you're nothing but hot air and thousands of empty pages because they are too chicken shit to sit down and write.

Yours truly,
P

P.S. Say it with me...

Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.
Everyone hates me because I put Q-Tips in my ears.

* * *
 
Here is last week's take... Girls: OCD, It's Back.

1 comment:

  1. Good Blog Sir... your blog is very helpful... I am happy to find this post very useful for me, as it contains lot of information. I always prefer to read the quality content and this thing I found in you post. Thanks for sharing.
    Bangkok Apartments Rent

    ReplyDelete