Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Stevie finds a helping hand

While wiping crusted urine from the toilet bowl and tossing Schlitz empties behind a neighbor's garage, it became clear my potential was going to waste. How would I ever achieve my dream of collecting welfare checks and banging high-school girls if I was busy cleaning up my own piss? Like any modern man, I turned to the internet for a solution.

At first a slave seemed like a good idea. Unfortunately, my research showed most of the modern slave force specializes in sex, and very few of them boast the crude literacy needed to peruse the yellow pages for pizza joints and massage parlors. Next, I thought about hiring this homeless guy named Hugo who sleeps on the steps of my subway stop. He seemed amicable at first, moaning and spilling White Tavern on my shoes, but when I took his hand to direct his shaky steps toward my apartment, he stabbed me with a rusty screwdriver. You try to give these people a leg up, and look what you get.

After pouring some of Hugo's vodka on my wound, I called my old buddy Hank, whose Wall Street job made him an expert at exploiting those weaker than himself. When I told him I needed a slave, his response was immediate: "Dude, you need to hire an intern. You have that shitty blog, right? Just say you're a writer in need of assistance." And I thought craigslist was only for browsing poorly spelled expressions of racism.

Within hours, Michael From Yale appeared on my doorstep wearing a suit worth more than my furniture and willing to do my dirt for "college credit." As I cleared empty cigarette cartons from his "desk" at the kitchen table, Michael From Yale launched into a speech about how much he enjoyed covering student politics for the Yale Daily News and looked forward to assisting me with my research and hopefully some writing.

Twenty minutes later he was dutifully filling out my paperwork for the County Assistance Office while I took a conference call from a colleague at 1-900-HATE-FUK. I haven't asked yet, but I'm hoping he has a sister in high school.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Stevie becomes paparazzi



Like most of my bitterly consumeristic friends, I sure love me some celebrity gossip. Tom and Katie, Brad and Jen, Michael and that little boy he jerked off -- the more I obsess over them, the less time I have to hate myself. For years, I've looked down my nose at the paparazzi for hounding my heroes, blurring their lives through voyeuristic lenses. More recently, the truth has become clear: Paparazzi run the new world order.

Forget Iraq, Afghanistan, Darfur and North Korea (if you haven't already); the huge news stories of our day come from expertly manufactured publicity events and the occassional manic-depressive breakdown, all captured by our new friends, the paparazzi. No more do I look down on these journalists as peeping flunkies. If Princess Diana has taught us anything, it's that the paparazzi know how to get things done.

Anxious to earn the respect of these flashy freelancers, I grabbed my camera phone and crept down to Soho. Just as Gawker would have you believe, Dean and Deluca on Broadway draws anorexic actresses as surely as JonBenet Ramsey attracts worms and beetles. I stalked my prey.

While holding my breath in the cheese aisle, I dutifully eyeball-fucked every skinny girl with a designer handbag, a river of drool flowing over my lips in anticipation of a real, live celeb. Having trouble distinguishing between coked-out models pretending they're famous and famous actresses pretending they're not coked out, I settled on some blonde skank with bags under her eyes and a shopping cart full of meat and eggs. Click!

The bitch went off like a fire whistle. She screamed about her civil rights and how I had no right to do "God-knows-what" with her photo. I just smiled.

It turns out she wasn't famous at all, but I still put her photo to good use. Like I said, we paparazzi know how to get things done.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

The best place to score anal ...

It's come to my attention that high school has become the best bet for butt sex. What used to take a fifth of Jim Beam and some "accidental" prodding has apparently come into vogue among the 16-and-under crowd.

In a gambit never conceived by previous generations of horny high-school football players, modern young pervert has somehow convinced modern insecure whore that anal doesn't qualify as "real sex." We laid the groundwork with the blowjob, but these kids actually turned woman's most feared sex act into a party favor to be handed out in basement rec rooms across America.

On one hand, old Scurrilous Steve is thrilled with this development, anticipating a near future brimming with college girls proclaiming, "This is just our first date! You're going to have to settle for doing me in the ass." On the other hand, countless episodes of awkward post-coital weeping lost their value the moment I heard the Cult of Mary-Kate and Ashley had ripped the lock off the back door. Now I understand how the lame-ass high-school Christians of the late 80s must have felt when the "What Would Jesus Do?" T-shirts turned up.

Jealousy and risk of rectal dysfunction aside, I think we should be proud of this new generation for forging a new road -- even if it is the Hershey Highway.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Stevie arms himself




I've been thinking about buying a gun for a long time, but they're just too expensive. On top of the increased homeowner's insurance and the "Cool, loaded gun carelessly stuffed in here" sign for the kids, there's also the cost of bullets to worry about. Not so with the taser.

For only $400 -- soon to be recouped at my local liquor store -- I got my hands on a 50,000-volt, M18 TASER. Now, think back to that digital camera you got last Christmas, or Chanukah, or whatever the hell you people celebrate. What's the worst thing about such a cool gift? Waiting for the batteries to charge!

I killed the time by drawing a mental map of every dark alley and shady corner in Queens, anywhere I could provoke hooligans into molesting me enough to legally blast the motherfuckers. By the time my weapon was juiced up, it was 1 a.m. and the lonely streets of Long Island City were calling. It wasn't long before I found a victi-- er ... attacker.

On the corner of 21st St. and 41st Ave, practically underneath the Queensboro Bridge, a strange man approached me, menacingly rattling a cup full of change. My palms itched as he hobbled into my 13-foot "optimum" range.

"Gotta couple bucks, buddy?"

This dude was trying to ROB me! The next few seconds passed in the blink of an eye. I yanked my shiny new peacekeeper from a jacket pocket and spun it deftly on my index finger, Clint-Eastwood style. Sparks flew!

Twenty-five minutes later, I woke up next to a pile of trash, both my taser and my shoes missing. The reek of piss and shit told me my attacker was still nearby. Craning my neck to see if he was behind me, I saw a dark stain spreading across the back of my pants.

"Looks like he got away," I mumbled, my lips still quivering from the Electro-Muscular Disruption I'd suffered.

Now, shitting yourself in public may not seem like a life lesson. But, as I logged back into the taser store to replace my lost weaponry, I swore to never, ever trust homeless people again.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Yoga shitting

Raising your arms while taking a dump results in a stunningly smooth bowel movement. Just sit up straight for once in your life, salute the judges as you make your deposit and prepare to be amazed. After 10 short seconds, you can proudly flush the most efficient turd you've ever produced. I'm changing lives here, people.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Fuck Ty Pennington

Much like every girl I know admitted to masturbating once she'd graduated from high school, grown men keep telling me they weep during ABC's "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." It appears that while I was busy suppressing my childhood traumas, it became cool to turn on the waterworks while watching cancer-ridden dwarves with Down Syndrome drool over the giant Sears logo gleaming on their new plasma TV.

Granted, there is something really sad about this show: Disney-owned ABC sends the family to Disney World every week. Every branded material used during construction poses for a close-up, and by the end of each episode, some unfortunate has broken down in tears, mumbling, 'Thank you so much, ABC," while wiping snot from his or her nose. It's like the cultural intersection of prostitution, IKEA and the "Blair Witch Project."

If moral turpitude disguised as good will weren't enough to make me retch (which, let's be honest, it isn't) then Ty Pennington seals the deal. If Martha Stewart and Ryan Seacrest fucked in the back of a Ford Focus, the result would look a lot like this megaphone-toting, platitude-spewing douche bag. It's only a matter of time before his new line of Sears home-decorating products cross-brands with Kleenex to include "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" tissues with clever phrases like "Move that bus!" scrawled in Ty's own handwriting.

Wipe your tears, bitches. I'll wipe my ass.

It all begins right here ...

It could be I've arrived here because my family and friends are sick of hearing about my failed relationships, pathetic career and snarky opinions, so I've moved on to share them with the internet's landscape of sad loners and sexual predators. Perhaps I've created this blog because I'm locked in my Midwestern dorm room, chatting on instant messenger with my "best girl friend" and pretending I'm not gay. And maybe -- just maybe -- I'm here because I want to write about all the cool New York restaurants and bland hipster bands I take in, while still managing to believe I'm not a condescending prick.

Or maybe not.

But I'm here for something, and I'm guessing that at least 10 percent of the time, it's going to involve my balls. (The sexual predators dig them.) So, buckle up, motherfuckers; Stevie's finally got his own shitty blog.