Tired: A Poem

Tired tired tired tired
jewface tired sleepy
crying while masturbating
tired tired tears crying
tired tired tired
terrorist fist jab

Top 5

Reasons I Hate You:

1) You tell me you're from NYC, I say "I am too. Where in NYC are you from?", you say "actually, New Jersey".
2) You think that the difference between you and you're "isn't such a big deal".
3) Don't love dogs
4) Make inane, sweepingly ignorant political observations; "Bush knew about 9-11", "Obama is a Muslim".
5) Reason five has been retracted because can potentially be read by certain employees of a certain company.

Matt Versus Matt

Alone, I sit in darkness; the pale moonlight glistens in my half empty glass of shit-brand whiskey.

The dim light of my computer illuminates my fingers; a half played game of Scrabulous is on screen, longing for my move. It will never happen: because as with most things, I'm doing poorly and have lost interest.

I take a slurp of the whiskey as a BANG sound comes from the couch. I lift up some pillows to find myself, aged 24, smiling at me.

"What are you doing here?", I ask.

The happy fucker responds glibly, "perhaps I should be asking you that question. Are you me?"

"I guess."

"What the fuck happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm noticing some love handles emerging. And why do you smell like whiskey and tears?

"Do tears have a smell?"

When I was 24, the world was my world-shaped oyster. Sure, I still suffered from a condition widely known as "neurotic Jew-itus"; but I had just finished my short film, it had played around the world, got universally good reviews, won a bunch of awards, and gotten me top notch representation.

"Well, I'm happy", my younger self says. "I mean, DiNero fucking shook my hand. That's like God taking you out on the town to pick up some hot ass; it just doesn't happen!"

"It's more like a brief candle being, uhh, blown out". My struggle for words mirrors my daily struggle to not kill myself.

He gives me a look like I'm a retarded monkey fucker. Which, actually, isn't too far from the truth.

"What the fuck happened to you, Manson? I mean, I'm banging broads and writing all day long". He looks over at my rabbits: "do you have RABBITS? What have you become?"

"The last three years? Well, first off, I've probably read like 6 books from cover to cover in that time. My vocabulary has become a grotesque mix of one syllable grunts and extremely misused larger words: Guess what I learned? A "social pariah" ISN'T someone who is the life of the party. I no longer walk, so my muscles are atrophying, which is why my flesh has become dough-like; and lastly, despite having all the time in the world, I seldomly write."

He grabs a gun and aims it at his temple.

"I will NOT end up like this. I won't be you! It's just...awful", his hands are shaking, but I know he's serious.

"Oh, by the way, I live in LA Now."

A single tear streams down his face.

*BLAM*

His brains splatter like a rainbow across my walls. Since I'm feeling lazy, I decide that I'll clean it up tomorrow (or whenever I get to it). Bored, I go over to my Scrabulous game and complain under my breath about the fact I have 4 I's, 2 U's and an A.

Three hours later, I drunkenly fall asleep and wake up at noon the next day.

24


VS

27

It Failed!

Well, much like my life; my little social experiment is a failure.

Since I wrote my handjob blog, I've noticed a distinct spike in readership. OK, "readership" isn't really the right word; how's about "men looking for cheap, unemotional hand relief"?

So I thought: "hey, why not include a bunch of phrases that might pique the interest of people searching the internet?". Let's see what happens!

Well, first off, I included the obvious ones: "free iphone", "dark night bootleg", "free porn", "escort service". 

For some reason I thought including "Lindsay Lohan naked" was a smart move, but let's be honest with ourselves; she's just a run of the mill crack whore who's about as useless as a vagina in West Hollywood; and I'm being easy on her. (you can read my uncensored thoughts on her in my new book "Pork On My Plate: Confessions of a Guilty Jew").

So, what, pray tell, did I get?Actually, before I answer that, what the fuck does "pray tell" mean? Am I praying you to tell me? Also, who the fuck says "pray tell" anymore? Cockney Bootblacks?Conspicuously Homosexual Butlers? "Pray Tell, Can You Please Insert This Frightening Plastic Moulding Up My Rectum, If You Would Be So Kind!"

Anyway, I got barely any google hits for those terms, though it is worth noting that I continue to get hits for "hanjob massage" and "handjob parlor", which just proves my theory: men prefer a handjob over Lindsay Lohan any day.

Arf Arf.

handjob massage?

Wow! There are certainly a lot of people coming to my blog after googling "handjob massage".

Didn't realize that was such a popular phrase: at least not as popular as "lindsay lohan naked", or "teenage sex", or perhaps "dark night bootleg", or "free porn"...or even "barack obama naked".

Let's face it; that phrase will never be as cool as "free iphone" or "webkinz". Definitely not as much as "escort service"!

Uhhh...this entry is a social experiment. Let's see what happens!

Houston

Dear IP Address From Houston,

You were looking at my blog everyday; sometimes 5-10 times a day. How wonderful! How on Earth did you find me? I've never been to Houston, as I don't enjoy having sex with my cousins, condemning homosexuals, or eating grits; but I'm intrigued!

So tell me Houston...where did you go? Did my unfunny ramblings about bodily functions and Judaica scare you away? Did you find yourself turned by my neuroticism? So turned on that you killed yourself for fear of orgasming in your pants? Does that last sentence even make sense?

Wait- I know what happened: You were Estelle Getty! You stopped coming by my blog because you've been suffering from Lewy body dementia for the last 10 years and finally passed away yesterday morning. Somehow, in your confused state, you figured a cunning way to mask your IP address! Well, Estelle may you rest in peace (Golden Girls Forever!).

And you, Houston, if you aren't EG...and if you're out there: Please come back. I promise it'll never happen again. I did it because I love you, baby. You just...get me so crazy sometimes, I lose myself, and I don't know what's happening. We can tell people you walked into a wall; they won't ask questions.

ANOTHER DAY AT THE HANDJOB MESSAGE PARLOR

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HOT SEX ACTION

What causes war? Fundamental disagreements between cultures? The eternal struggle between Freedom fighters versus oppressors? Butter Battles? Well, I, for one, think hate and war is human nature.

We fight, we love, and we have sex. That's humanity for you; a bunch of stupid apes whose primary reason for being is to continue their race. More importantly, their culture. Their Way Of Life. Why did Nazis fight? After WW1, they began to feel contained; kept down. What did they do? With an overwhelming streak of nationalism, created an idle reverie where blond superheroes controlled the world and overtook every other culture. Or, at least, they hoped.

Terrorists? They're fucking pissed off that Westerners are setting up camp in their territory. Their way of life is at stake, so they need to blow a bunch of shit up to prove that they're for serial.

So, how do we end all wars? A lot more sex, sports, beer and sandwiches.

OK, you're a terrorist. Fucking infidels fucking up your shit again. All those cocksuckers coming around, killing your neighbors, taking your land; importing bootleg DVDs of "Big Momma's House 2: The Directors Cut (Now With More Fat Jokes!)".

You're strapping a big homemade bomb to your chest and getting ready to run into the American embassy to blow those fuckers to kingdom come. And you? 20 Virgins Awaiting Your Hot Jihad Action.

Just then, a beautiful girl comes in with a freshly made turkey sandwich. "OK" you think. "I'll take a break from this Jihad to eat something". Quick bite and you think: "Ooohh, Delish...Wait, gotta get back to the blowing stuff up".

Then what? The girl brings you an ice cold beer. "Fine, fine" you mumble to yourself; "Just one beer. Better sit down for this".

You start slurping and all of a sudden get a little tipsy. "Must concentrate...blow Jews up. Fucking Jews with their Jew...things".

Then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. "Hey, I kinda look Jewish". You shake your head and continue sipping your beer. "Down it fast, then kill boom boom".

Your lady friend turns on soccer. "Oh right, the Palestine Mohammads are playing the Terhan Burkas at Jihad Bowl '08. I guess I'll just finish watching this". You sip your beer, take a bite of your sandwich and kick your shoes off. "I'll kill myself and a bunch of innocent passers-by AFTER the game".

Then, the lady slowly unzips your pants. "WAIT, this is immoral!" you cry out. Before you can grab your "beating stick", she's already made pubic contact with her mouth. Suddenly, you forget about the savage beating you were going to inflict upon her and think "actually; not so bad with this!".

After a few minutes, you're done, she's done, and you've called up a few friends to finish watching the game. When it's all over, all you can think about is the Plasma screen you want to buy and having another sandwich.

Kill myself? Blow shit up? No memory. Not a fucking thing. Life's too good for that shit.

If Hitler was getting some hot action in the 1930's do you think for a second he'd be all crazy with the hate killings and invading Poland? No, he'd be too busy at Oktoberfest with his decorative beer hat and getting under-the-table handjobs from Eva Braun. Instead he had one ball and a severe Oedipus thing going on.

One ball and a fucked up sex life = race hate.

Give Slobodan Milošević a tuna melt, two beers and a blow job. What would the Hague tribunal have charged him with? Being a fucking champ.

Robert Mugabe? Bobby would be kicking back on his motorboat, cat-calling drunk college girls vacationing at the Democratic Freedom State of Zimbabwe. "Ay, You, Big tits! Come 'ere and give Bob Mugab some sugar!"

Don't you think it's interesting that Mugabe spent his youth "mostly around priests". Yeah, that's a guy who's well adjusted sexually.

Let's not fool ourselves. All homosapiens want is some tasty food, room to relax and hot oral sex. If we all got that, the world would be a much better, safer place. People are too uptight and convince themselves that there's so much more to it all.

Sure, we each have our own individual pursuits, but when it comes down to it; sex, food and entertainment will solve all of the world's problems. Well, actually not all of the world's problems. I don't think anything will salvage primetime TV. Have you seen "The Big Bang Theory"?

Vegas Odds On Why We Exist

1) God's Super-Secret Plan (100,000-1)
2) God's Sick Joke (100-1)
3) To Find The Ultimate Answer For a Group Of Mice (42-1)
4) Stick It and Quit It (10-1)
5) Stick It, Quit It, Have Existential Crisis (5-1)
6) Decipher The Magical Secret Hidden In Humanity's "Seven Bridges of Königsberg"; a female Clitoris (4-1)
7) Kill Each Other For No Reason At All (3-1)
8) Do Absolutely Nothing With Your Life, Watch "Entertainment Tonight" (2-1)
9) Cry, Masturbate, Cry While Masturbating (1-1)
10) Absolutely No Reason At All (1-2)

Whatever the case is, we'll never know; unless we steal a starship known as the "Heart Of Gold", drink a few pan-galactic gargleblasters, and meet some super intelligent Magratheans.

OK, enough nerd references, I'm off to Cry, Masturbate, Then Cry While Masturbating (that's where my money is)...

My Subconscious Teaches Writing

Drifting off a few minutes ago, I suddenly started to have an almost dream (the kind where you're not actually 100% asleep) which went like this:

I'm trying to write. The following scene begins to happen:

Tom and Jim are playing Scrabble in a messy house. They are obviously dumbasses. George, a smarter bloke, comes up to them and looks at the board.

George: Tool, Taint, Balls and Cock. Wow, it's a real meeting of the minds here; except your minds are meeting in Queens, where you're from.

Suddenly I stop writing. "except your minds are meeting in Queens, where you're from"? Could that even be construed as funny? The sentence itself makes me want to vomit in my mouth.

Then Patrick Stewart (of Star Trek: TNG fame) comes out to coach me.

Patrick Stewart: You wanna know how to write? Don't try and copy what's been written before, try to flip it on its head! Go get 'em, number 1!

OK, I'm determined to write something better; let's make it weird. Let's try and create a little in-game Scrabble tension.

Back to the scene:

Tom and Jim are playing Scrabble. Tom looks really upset and Jim is just confused, but he's got a big smile on his face.

George enters and looks over the Scrabble board in amazement.

George: Wow! Qi, Za, Opiate?
Jim: It's all me!
George: Great job.
Tom: Yeah, it would be a great job, except he didn't know they were words, he was just putting down letters that "looked pretty".
Jim: I love Pictionary!
Tom: Scrabble, we're playing Scrabble!

Then I woke up.

I'm not sure the second part is well written (actually I'm pretty sure it ain't), but as least Patrick Stewart was there (AND HE CALLED ME NUMBER ONE!). That's pretty fucking awesome.

"My mustache has destroyed better Borgs than you, sir!"

Sweet Vagina 'o Mine

Oh dear...

I was all alone this weekend. Not a physical soul interacted with me from Saturday afternoon to Sunday night.

I'm pretty sure when you're all alone your true self reveals itself. What is my true self? Let's examine some evidence:

1) I have Weird, Weird Thoughts of Things That Might Be Funny: Case in point: I'm consistently thinking of things that might be funny to write. Why? I have no idea, my brain's just sorta always been like that. Even when I was a child, I would watch Marx Brothers movies and think "how would Groucho react to a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?", well, anyway, little has changed.

I have no idea where this came from, but after being alone for 12 or so hours, the lyrics to an unwritten song "Sweet Vagina O' Mine" started popping up in my head.

Unhilarious, you say? Well, probably...but when you're alone and "My Vagina Reminds Me of The One Safe Place Where as A Child I'd Douche" repeats over and over in your head (and you can't stop it), nothing seems funnier.

2) I love Listening To Songs Over and Over: Actually, I do this anytime I'm alone. I have no idea why, and I've been criticized in the past by anyone remotely near me...but I just fall in love with specific songs. There's nothing I can do about it. I will literally listen to a single song 200 times (my iTunes says so) until I get sick of it. Currently, it's "I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts" by X, but it could literally be any song. If there was iTunes in 1998, they would have tracked "Suffragette City" to about 100,000 plays.

Completely irr-elephant from what I'm saying...I almost cast John Doe, the lead singer of X in my short film when I was in college. My cousin is actually the president of his fan club and I met him at a gig and handed him my script. He actually called me back (no small feat, considering I was in college) and told me "he was trying to get away from his rock n roll persona", which was nice code for "your script sucks, dickwad!". Well, anyway, I did pretty well and some other rock dude was into it. But it probably would have been better with John Doe. D'oh!

3) I Need Noise All The Time: Whether it be Music, TV, Radio (or TV on The Radio) I need to hear sounds all the time. Personally, I think it's to drown out the voices in my head calling me "a failure who should end it all right now", but I could be wrong: It might be just to drown out my gentle sobbing. Either way: it's TEARS, TEARS, TEARS!

I won't even go into the fact that I played approximately 10 hours of scrabulous while watching Intervention and a 1977 Dr. Who story.

Well, I'm not sure what any of these things say about my true self other then I'm a psychopathic loner who hears voices telling him to kill, and upon chance, watch British comedies.

Conversation with a Doctor Today

Social Setting. Boring and unremarkable.

A Doctor begins to speak to me. A genial fellow of around 60, speaks with a smile and, at least according to himself, knows a hell of a lot. He kinda reminds me of someone who would play tennis with my father.

Anyway; strangest bit of the conversation is what I shall present to you.

Doctor: Any family history of balding? Father?

Me: No, he's got a full head of hair.

Doctor: Brothers?

Me: Losing a little off the top, but there you go.

Doctor: You know there's only one way to prevent hair loss. One way.

Me: What is it?

He smiles.

Doctor: There's only...one...way...

Me: OK, do tell.

Doctor: Castration.

Me: Really? Is it the testosterone?

Doctor: Exactly. I've literally seen people who are completely bald; you cut their nuts off, and *WHAM*, their hair starts growing back. Cutting your balls off is something you can do if you don't want to lose your hair.

Me: Yeah, but no one actually does that to prevent hair loss. Right?

Doctor: Yeah. It's kind of a moot point. But if you ever want to chop 'em, you'll never have to worry about balding.

Me: I think I'll deal with the balding.

I guess you learn something new every day. You also have new visions ingrained horribly in your mind forever. I can't even think of ball chopping without wincing and curling up into the fetal position. 

That's one area I wouldn't sacrifice for a full head of hair. 

Basically I wouldn't sacrifice my balls for anything; unless chopping my balls off allowed me to have perfect pitch. That would be pretty fucking awesome.

Stand by your Man-ischewitz

Google "Jew"...

I know, I know: "Matt, seriously, you play the Jew card too often". Well, I hate you.

I thought to myself this evening "I wonder what will come up if I google 'Jew' ", that was right after I thought to myself "Slash down the vein, not across", but that's a different story.

What did I find when I googled "Jew"? Check it out for yourself!

OK...so the second hit is "Jew Watch News", an affable, friendly site for Aryans and race-haters alike. They call themselves "[a] Scholarly Library of Facts about Domestic & Worldwide Zionist Criminality".

Well, that certainly sounds "Scholarly"! What "Scholars" prey-tell? Professor Hanz "Dyed Blond Pubic Hair" Klinkihoffer? International Relations Expert Joseph "Tickles" Kockinstuffer? Music producer Adolph Hitmaker?

On to hit number #7: this website is cleverly, one might even say subtly, called "THE INTERNATIONAL JEW - THE WORLD'S FOREMOST PROBLEM". Forget the global AIDS epidemic, poverty or deadly international culture wars; it's the JEWS that are the problem.

Actually, considering that we cause all of the above, I guess it makes sense. What? You didn't know that 10 evil Rabbis get together in a graveyard in Russia on the third Sunday in March to plan all the awful things that happen in the world over the year? Yes, they even plan hurricanes! Just don't tell water vapor evaporated from the ocean surface that!

You didn't know that? Well, I guess it's time for you to read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion! A book which literally says that and still is a top seller in the Middle East. In fact, here's a picture of the Syrian version:


Note the fine detail in the covetous hands and thick, evil eyebrows. Boy, isn't it completely true that Jews control everything, and literally have the world in the palm of their hand? That would certainly explain how we've avoided all forms of persecution throughout our history!

I would continue, but the bile in my stomach is churning. If you google "Catholic", "Buddhist" or even "MUSLIM"(in a post-9/11 America filled with bigoted morons!), you will not find a single Racist page amongst the first hits.

Why? Perhaps it's because we're so damn sexy? Perhaps it's easy to hate people who aren't like you when you hate yourself? Whatever the case, I am going to crack open the Manischewitz, put a schmear of cream cheese on my bagel, watch a Woody Allen movie and take a shvitz. Why? Because unlike the stereotype, I'm not a self-hating Jew!

Actually, I loathe myself, but that has nothing to do with the fact that I'm Jewish...

My Michelle Obama Dream

I guess I must have been feeling especially patriotic last night (aided by 4 Margaritas), but I dreamt a complex, feature film-like dream about Michelle Obama, her husband Barack, and a group of kidnappers.

I remember bits and pieces, so here we go.

Michelle and I are sitting at a fancy restaurant. We're old friends and just catching up: I want to know how the campaign is going and she wants to see what's new with me and all our old friends.

I tell her how much I admire her. I explain that I recently saw this video:



and thought it was amazing that she swatted at Barack when he pulled out his Blackberry (it's at around 2:10). I couldn't imagine Cindy McCain giving a shit about John watching a soccer game with her kids in it. It felt natural.

Then, she tells me they knew the cameras were there and it was nothing more than a photo-op. My heart breaks slightly.

Suddenly, she begins to get upset. Michelle is a strong, dignified woman, so she doesn't break down, she just sighs loudly.

"This is such a drag, Matt. I barely see Barack anymore...we're drifting apart."

She presents her hand to me and moves it to my mouth, expecting me to kiss it, as if she was a queen in 19th century England. How can I not?

But Barack is an old friend and I'm feeling kind of weird about the whole thing.

So I go for it and immediately we cut to a TV screen showing me kissing Michelle's hand. The cable news is all over it: "What's Michelle Doing With Him?" "Where's Barack?", Fox News: "She's With a WHITE MAN!".

Everyone righteously upset, and we cut to Barack making a prepared statement:

"Matt is an old friend, in fact I was supposed to be at dinner too. Listen, the guy's no threat to my marriage...didn't you see that video of me and the wifey at the soccer game? We're in love!"

Camera shuts off and Barack shakes his head. What the fuck was Michelle thinking? Why did she involve Matt?

We cut to Barack and Michelle's oddly cramped New York City apartment. Michelle is pacing back and forth.

"God, I'm so stupid. Why did we go out to that brightly lit, hugely populated restaurant?"

I'm still confused.

"I'm not actually sure what's going on, but I love my good friend Barack."

Barack comes home, and looks angry; but before he can say anything, two kidnappers come and hold us hostage. One is played by John Leguizamo, and the other by an equally notable actor. The dream kinda spirals down from there, and I don't remember much, but I do recall thinking "what an odd casting for a kidnapper; couldn't they have found someone less wacky?"

Not sure what the dream was about, but I think it means I need to get more sleep, read less political blogs and stop drinking before I go to bed.

Top 10 Excuses To Why You Didn't Respond To My IM

Thanks Nkechi for suggesting this.

First three by her:

1) "sorry, I just feel asleep...so tired!"
2) "sorry someone is knocking on my door...I think he's bleeding. no offense. ttyl"
3) "I have to go...ummm...nothing came up...you just suck."

4) "I've reported your last message to international authorities. You should be ashamed of yourself and what you did to that monkey"
5) "Sorry, not paying attention to you because I hate Jews"
6) "I'm uncomfortable watching you jerking off to that picture of me in a bikini on flickr"
7) "I'm not responding until you admit you were the one that made my privates itch"
8) "OMG; BFF! IMNECTHO, UR PWNED! FTW :)"
9) "Next time don't Twitter 'looking for booty call; talking to ugly bitch on IM'"
10) "Can't type; hands are covered in jizm and moisturizing cream"

Now one by Nikki:

11) "sorry, but after turning on my webcam i was inundated with ims from cuter boys and yours just got (conveniently) lost in a sea of cyber sex offers. i'm so popular, lolz!"

Good one!

WHAT ARE YOURSES?

Why My Last Job Sucked Balls

I used to work at a certain video-sharing/social networking site founded by a certain former CEO of another, much more successful social networking site. Vague enough for you? Well, I did sign an NDA, so it's neither here nor there. Let's just say the place was a mess.

There were precious few competent people who worked there. In fact, most were just friends of the CEO who had no previous on-line or even remotely related experience. One used to be a waiter, but he was handsome, in shape and did a bunch of coke, so he was hired as the "creative director", something he had no experience doing (he was an actor/waiter...c'mon!)

We were not judged on metrics (I ran several successful shows with tens of thousands of fans, yet I was never even offered a pat on the back, let alone a promotion), but judged on politics.

Anyway, here's a few observations about that company, which will stick with me forever:

There's a certain ramshackle charm to working around a bunch of incompetent losers.

1) First; you know that you're better then everyone else. and that's not an immodest statement here; the special ed kid in my sixth grade class would be Warren Buffet in this situation.

2) Secondly; there's no rational expectation of success. When there are no goals set for yourself, or even the company in general, it's every man for himself. These new breed of websites are such uncharted territory that barely anyone understood what was going on or what "achieving something" meant. I always tried my best, but after a while, it became evident that I defined my own success to those around me:


SCENE:
Matt sits in a room with three other co-workers who are checking their Myspace pages.

Matt is watching Dr. Who.

INCOMPETENT MANAGER WALKS IN:

Manager: Hey Matt, what are you up to today?
Matt: I just added 100 friends to our show's channel!
Manager: Wow, that sounds awesome!

Manager Leaves.

Co-worker turns to Matt.

Co-Worker: Didn't you have 100 friend requests when you woke up this morning? All you did today was hit "accept all"?
Matt: Shut up, I'm watching Dr. Who.

3) My co-workers were so drugged up, it was hilarious. Life was amazingly terrible at that company, and literally everyone tried to escape through getting fucked up.

There were three types:

-Martini Girls At Lunch: The group of girls who would get so drunk during lunch that they could barely walk in straight. Secretaries, HR people, Assistants.
-High Creative Types: In order to fulfill the tedious, non-creative work that many of my co-workers were given, they all got high. Even when they were high, no one noticed, because everyone else at the company was so retarded, that they fit in just fine.
-Coked Up Agent Types: This is the funniest bunch, because I personally dealt with a sports agent all the time who was so coked up, that he was awake around the clock writing emails and making plans for partnerships (that never happened because the company was obviously a huge mess to anyone who came in). Since he was so hyper all the time, he used to speak in these ridiculous sports metaphors:

Come on guys! We've got to hit a home run on this and score a touchdown. This partnership is on the one yard line and we've got to kick the soccer ball in the net! Hockey lacrosse foosball!

That's literally how he spoke.

Anyway, I quit and I'm happy I did.

I ran into a former co-worker recently who, for some reason, has NOT quit. He smiled when he spoke, but his eyes belied a person who was dead inside.

"So Matt", he said. "Do you regret quitting at all?"
"No"
"You sure, not a little bit? Nothing you regret?".
I could tell he was desperate, so I gave him what he wanted.
"Well, I guess I miss working with the actors from my show".
"I knew it!", he exclaimed.

We spoke for a few minutes before he asked me what I was doing.

When I told him I was still making videos, he asked me if I still had his email, and then he told me that he would love to work with me in the future.

Good times.

Matt's The Art Of Flirting

"Boy Matt, How Are You So Successful With The Ladies?"
"Matt, I Notice All The Women Staring At You. How Do You Do It?"
"Sir, Would You Please Stop Fondling My Underthings?"

These are questions I get every single day.

How am I so popular? Let me "tip" you some tips on how to pick up on the lady-types.

1) Awkwardly Compliment Them: Nothing says "I'm an Lothario" like awkward compliments. Try saying something like "That's a really cool lower back tattoo. Not that I was staring. I mean, I was, but not in a weird way. I'm going to leave you alone now".
2) Never Make Eye Contact: Looking at a girl in the face is a mistake. Whenever you address them, look at the floor, towards other women in the area, or, if possible, at their chest. Nothing says sexy like feeling so insecure about yourself that you're unable to look in their general direction.
3) Don't Let Them Know You Like Them: If you can, try and make it seem like you have no interest in them whatsoever. Do they want to "go back to your place to watch TV?", then tell them that your cable is out. Sure, when you realize an hour later that they actually wanted to have sex with you and you blew your only chance, you'll feel like an ass; but at least you'll have piece of mind (which is better than piece of ass, mind you)

Let's "play" a little play to show you what to do in a difficult situation:

You are alone at home and it's 11:30 at night. You've just received the following text message from Hot Lady Friend (HLF)

I have mozzarella sticks to give you. May I come over? LOL OMFG WINK

Thinking to yourself that you're not actually hungry, but you like mozzarella sticks, you say "OK"

Let's take the scene from there.

She knocks on the door.

You: Hello "HLF".

She hands you the mozzarella sticks.

HLF: Hope you like them.

You take a bite and realize they are lukewarm. You grimace.

HLF: Oh, is something wrong?

You: Nothing.

HLF: That's good...

You: I mean, it's just that they're lukewarm. I guess I can microwave them.

She stares at you for a second and bites her lip, suggestively.

You: So, today was really temperate, wasn't it?

She gazes deeply in your eyes, and you look down.

REMEMBER, NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT!

You think, "I bet she wants you to kiss her. Probably best not to. What if she doesn't want you to kiss her and she claims rape? Also, it would be totally embarrassing".

THIS IS WHEN THE AWKWARD COMPLIMENT COMES IN!

You: Your hair looks much nicer then it did yesterday. Not that it looked bad yesterday, I mean, it looks especially nice today.

Now she's very uncomfortable (just where you want her!)

You: I guess I'll microwave these now.

HFL: Well, I guess I should go then.

You: OK, thanks for the mozzarella sticks!

She leaves, shaking her head.

END SCENE.

Remember, if she doesn't leave shaking her head, then you haven't done your job.

So, I hope these tips are useful, and remember:

ACT:

Awkwardly
Compliment
Them

CRY:

Eye Contact
Really
Troublesome

DEHKUKE

Don't
lEt
tHem
Know
yoU
liKe
thEm

And remember, a dehkuke a day keeps the doctor away!

It's pronounced deh-kookie, BTW.

Porn-No

Last Thursday I was taking an innocent drive down Silver Lake Boulevard in Los Angeles. I was quite close to Griffith Park and the houses were rich, colorful and very obviously built for the country-club set. That's why the porno that was being shot outside of one seemed quite out of place.

"Porno", you ask yourself? "Matt, are you taking those funny pills again?", you might say. Well, SHUT YOUR FILTHY WHORE MOUTH FOR DOUBTING ME.

Driving my fancy-pants BMW convertible, I caught a huge ass out of the corner of my eye. Usually, I wouldn't notice such a thing, but this ass (even in my periphery) was an object to behold; other asses sit around campfires, sipping whiskey and recounting their ever-so-brief encounters with this ass. Ass historians will write books analyzing this ass's place in the pantheon of wondrous asses. If Paul McCartney had seen this posterior in 1968, the song would be called "Hey Ass". Did I mention it was huge?

Anyway, as I turned to look, I saw the woman the ass was attached to. Now, I'm not one to judge: but she definitely had no soul behind her eyes and her spirits had been crushed by years of never-ending abuse and severe drug problems. Did I mention her ass was huge?

Standing on the street, dressed in a cut-off tee that exposed underboob, and cut off jean shorts that exposed ass-crack, she stood next to a pole, caressing her body and staring directly into a camera, which was being held by a man who looked like he was just happy to be there.

The kicker was her co-star in the video; standing in a wife-beater exposing a thin, wiry frame with skull tattoos, his black hair was slicked back and a pubic-hair mustache sat limply above his top lip. His lips were perched into a what seemed like a frozen kiss and I heard him make various grunting noises at his lady companion.

It was like something out of a Fellini movie. I mean, I enjoy porn as much as the next sex-crazed inveterate pervert, but seeing it being shot took all the mystique out of it. The magic was gone! Say it ain't so, pornographic producer...say it ain't so.

Who would have thought Pornography was so depressing, filled with degenerate lowlifes taking advantage of broken souls who have no hope of redemption? It came as a complete shock to me! It literally turned my world upsidedown. Left is right and right is left, apple sauce tastes like oysters and if you fry tacos in green tea they taste like shoes.

That said, I will continue to watch pornography with no compunction whatsoever. I gotta support the arts, you know?

Anyway, here's a few tips to pornographers to make all our experiences better:

1) NO CLOSE UPS: Jesus Christ, do we need to see the ass herpes, razor burns and track marks? At least put a blur filter on.
2) NEVER, EVER, CUT TO THE DUDE: We don't want to see that muscular, ape looking gentleman going "oooh, yeah, bitch, pussy time!" while grimacing with all the sexual machismo of Pauly Shore and Carrot Top's illegitimate lovechild.
3) WHAT'S UP WITH THE SHOTS OF THE IN-AND-OUT: I know what sex looks like, thank you very much. Do we need a close up of the old "in-and-out" for 90% of the video? If pornography is supposed to be a sex-surrogate, then my question is, who the hell has sex and stares at a penis entering a vagina the entire time? Try it. I betcha your sex partner will call the police.
4) NO GAPE/STRETCHING BODY PARTS, PLEASE: Since when has pornography become an anatomy lesson?...What's inside should be inside, and no matter what: it's not sexy. I literally vomit tears each and every time we begin to "take a look". I will say nothing further for fear my fingers will commit suicide.