Story from 2004

WRITTEN IN 2004, I found this tripe sitting on my hard drive. Instead of burning it, I present it to you, unedited and vomitlicious.

Roland T. Humberdunger was a modest man. When he had success, he could only think of it's failure; his kugel-based passover dinner was tastier then a nubile young sephardic beauty showing off her brand-new gold plated menorah, yet he told people it was "too sweet". His penis was over 14 inches long, yet he told everyone he was a eunuch. He was a man who didn't like attention.

One day, coming home from an honest day's work at the Chabad "Beard-o-thon", he ran into his ex-wife, Sherida, a classic sadomasochist; sometimes she cried, sometimes she masturbated and sometimes she cried while masturbating. Needless to say, their relationship was doomed from the start, or at least when they both got a good look at each other naked.

When Roland ran in to her, he said the thing that was immediately on his mind:

'I thought you were dead'

'why's that?' she queried.

'well, your family told me. Also, that funeral of yours was a dead giveaway'

She pardoned his unintentional pun.

'Well, I just didn't know how to break up with people, Roland. I'm not very good at separating, I would have just ended up not breaking up with you, and neither of us wanted that'

'sure, right. So, you staged the whole thing, your mom was in on it, all our friends? Everyone knows you're alive but me?'

'I've got to make some phone calls' and with that, she ran away.

Roland didn't know what to do, and nor did he care. So his wife staged her own death rather then spend another moment in their deadening relationship. So she left their bed one night while he slept and replaced herself with the mutilated corpse of an unidentified young woman. So he was put on trial for her murder and served 10 years in prison until he was let off on a processing technicality

He didn't care.

He was modest with everything else, maybe it would be time to develop an imaginary wonderful girlfriend that he would tell his friends was studying in Canada somewhere. That way he would never have to worry about being in a relationship again.

Thus was borne Rachel, the imaginary Canadian botanist.

'She's studying a rare plant in Edmonton, so you'll probably never meet her' he would tell people at parties.

'wow, he's full of horseshit' people would whisper to each other when he turned away.

Sometimes Roland would write himself e-mails from Rachel; talking about love, life and certain brands of sugar-free cereal. He would joyously show these to his friends and they would swiftly notice that they came from his other email account. They smiled and ran quickly away from him to attend parties he wasn't invited to.

Roland, however, didn't notice. He was beginning to fall in love with Rachel. All of her emails seemed to really connect with him. She began to remind him of someone. At first, he couldn't think of who it could be, but it dawned on him:

It was himself! He was finally, truly and madly in love with someone, and it was him!

He was the perfect soul mate for himself and he decided he would ask Rachel to move in with him. The very next week, Roland moved a big mirror with "Rachel" written on it in sharpie into his bedroom.

But, alas, like all passionate romances, they drifted apart. Roland couldn't stand being around himself and the mirror was annoyed that it was constantly foggy.

The relationship ended one day when Roland caught the mirror in bed with reflective glass. Roland stormed in and broke the glass, and wound up being arrested for glassicide, which is a crime that doesn't actually exist. Neither did the policeman that arrested Roland.

Roland died in the New York City Mental Ward 60 years later.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Please watch this viral spot I did for Twitter and Zappos. You might have to be a Twitter person to get it, but try to enjoy anyway!

I Tweet Myself Music Video Starring iJustine.

Dear Garfield

Dear Garfield,

What the fuck is so wrong with Mondays?

You don't have a job, so it's obviously not the start of the work week that bothers you. Is it that your owner Jon is down on Mondays and it rubs off on you? Well, let me tell you something about Jon: He's a anti-social loner who borders on paranoid schizophrenia. He is down 7 days a week and I'm frankly surprised he hasn't put a gun to his pathetic, unloved head and blown his non-existent brains out.

So what could it be, Garfield? You are so hilarious the other 6 days a week (what, with your pithy observations about being lazy, obsessive eating and being lazy while obsessively eating), so what's with Mondays?

I understand that occasionally a big pie will fly in your face on a Monday, causing you to exclaim "I hate Mondays!"; but I have a question for you. WHO THE FUCK IS THROWING PIES AT YOU? You shouldn't hate Mondays, you should hate the filthy motherfucking bandit that breaks into your house every week to THROW A PIE square in a cat's face. That fucker obviously has a kick for animal cruelty, but you can't blame Monday. No, Monday is the innocent bystander in this deviously perverse pie game.

I suggest you seek counseling, because Monday isn't the cause of the problem. There's obviously something deep and pathologically wrong with you. Blaming Mondays for your faults? Does George Bush wake up, look in the mirror and say "Fucking Wednesdays" when his approval rating is at 23%? No! Firstly, he doesn't read a newspaper, and secondly he knows better then to blame a day. He blames the Jews, like most Christians. He's still climbing that mountain to heaven, and as you know, the Lord Alps those that Alps themselves.

So Garfield, it's time to take a hard look at yourself and try to understand WHY you hate Mondays so much. Perhaps if you look deep enough, you'll find that you're morbidly depressed because you've been recycling the same jokes for thirty years and the idea of spending another week doing it tears apart the space in your chest that used to contain a heart. That, and you're queer for Odie. Just a guess.

Pieces of unwritten blogs

1) She was packing her bags. "I need to leave", she said. "Our relationship is over", she said. "You smell like fish", she said. I guess I shouldn't have been wearing my salmon hat.


2) Race Hate Haikus:

when i look above
i see the sky and stars of love
the jews own them all

pluto is upset
it's no longer a planet
mexicans stole it


3) So, being that I haven't mastered any languages, how do I compete in today's fast-paced, take-no-prisoners, International House of Pancakes world?

Babelfish.

No, not that little fish you stick in your ear and it eats your brains...I'm talking about the website. I think it's fool-proof! For example, let's use my introduction to every lady I meet:


Hello, I am Matt Manson and I would like to ask you to have sex with me. Afterwards, we can eat ice cream, watch Science Fiction and talk about our mutual dissatisfaction with our place in life.

See! That's a golden line that will work on any hot piece of tail. But say you're in Kyoto and the girl sitting next to you only speaks four words of English: "SUPER HAPPY FUN TIME". Solution: Babelfish.

Let's translate that into Japanese:


こんにちは、私はマットMansonであり、私が付いている性を有するように頼むことを望む。 その後、私達はアイスクリームを食べ、空想科学小説を見、生命の私達の場所との私達の相互不満述べてもいい。

Easy as that! All I have to do is repeat that to any little Miko that comes into my periphery and SLAM! It's sushi time! Now, what did I just say? Let's translate it back from Japanese into English:


Today, as for me it is mat Manson, in order to possess the characteristic where I have been attached, the fact that you ask is desired. After that, we eat the ice-cream, look at the fantasy scientific novel, our mutual dissatisfaction of our places of life are possible to express.

Wow! It actually made me sound even better! "in order to possess the characteristic where I have been attached, the fact that you ask is desired"? That's fucking Shakespeare! Sure, a drunken, retarded Shakespeare, that's maybe not William, but at least a 3rd cousin.

Thank you Babelfish, thank you technology. You've made me an international Don Juan.

The Do-It-Yourself Guide To Social Interaction

As all of you know; I receive a lot of fan mail. Most of it is from a nice man named Dr. Clement Okon from Nigeria who REQUESTS AN URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP. I sent him a money order and pretty soon I'll have 25,000,000 (DOLLARS U.S.)!

Occasionally, I get questions as well. Here is one of those:

Dear Matt:

I have a hard time communicating with my fellow man. I can’t handle greetings and salutations. Today some girl waved to me and I smiled and waved back. It turns out she was waving to her boyfriend, who saw me waving to her, and promptly beat me about the head with his thick, muscular forearms, as the girl pelted me with rocks and shards of broken glass.

I woke up the next day in a puddle of my own blood covered with chocolate pudding and a yellow post-it note that simply read “this is a yellow post-it note”. How do I prevent this from happening again?

Thanks,

Mr. Ezra Stein (deceased)

Well Ezra, if there is one thing that’s plagued human beings from the beginning of time, it’s their inability to carry on simple day-to-day conversations with other people. Inane banter is fine in sitcoms and any movie with the word “Extreme” in the title; but in real life, it’s very, very hard. The best advice I can give you is avoid unnecessary social interaction of any kind.

Here’s a little multiple-choice test you can give yourself:

OK, you’ve seen this guy in the hall three times today. First time you smiled and said, “Hey, how’s it goin’?”, second time you gave him the old closed-lip grin and wave and the third time you gave him the acknowledging eyebrow raise and head jerk.

He’s coming down the hall again…what do you do?

1. Turn around and avoid walking into him with the “I forgot something” snap of the fingers.

2. Start violently coughing and pretend you don’t see him.

3. Pick up your cell phone and call your mother, start an argument with her about why you don’t have a girlfriend.

4. Cry, cry and cry some more.

5. Stop, Drop and Roll

Personally, I prefer to mix it up; turn around, being coughing violently, then cry. But enough about my sex life.

Another good way to avoid having to carry on a conversation is to completely ignore what other people are saying and respond in a distant, perplexed deer-in-the-headlights manner. My mom is great at this.

Read and learn:

Mom: (stuffing food down my throat) Why don’t you eat, put some meat on those bones, you're walking around looking like your thin cousin Herbert. Do you want to look like Herbert? You'll never get a girl looking like him.

Me: Herbert's gay, Mom.

Mom: Your uncle Albert would have a heart attack if he heard you talking like that!

Me: Albert had a heart attack last week. Remember? I was talking to him about his gay son Herbert.

What can we learn from my mother? Marriage is a huge mistake, according to my father. What else?

Don’t pay attention to what anyone says to you. Look confused when someone asks you a question, get angry when someone disagrees with you, whether you are right or wrong, and if the pressure’s on, offer them some food. That way you can seek out the kitchen window while they're eating your kasha varnishkes.

Some of us can handle the pressures of social interaction. I call these people “gentiles”. Here’s a little chart I’ll “chart” out for you so that can tell you what kind of person you really are:

Potential Social Situation:	Jew:	Gentile:
A Pretty Member of the opposite sex walks up to you and asks you for the time.	As your asthma starts to act up, you make an awkward joke about the metaphysical relativity of time.	You say, “I’ve got the time baby…in my pants”. You are married and driving an SUV in no time.
Someone engages you in an inane conversation about a local sports team in the elevator.	You smile and nod at your elevator man and pretend to know what he’s talking about. Leave him an extra large Christmas bonus because you are afraid he thinks you don’t like Puerto-Ricans.	Sign his autograph and tell him the knee injury is day-to-day and you’ll be back on the court in no time.
Your accountant asks you out to dinner to discuss financial matters.	Give him that secret “Brotherhood of the Jews” handshake, eat Matzo, make fun of Christ.	Tell him you’re busy. Slam down the phone, complain to the wife about how the Jews are “ripping us off; fucking hebes”.
Someone at the Supermarket tries to talk to you about the Middle East.	Try to convince him Israel isn’t the cause of all the world’s problems, and that if the Palestinians wanted, they could have peace and their own land. Feel really, really guilty for absolutely no reason at all.	Agree to bomb Iraq, Pakistan, and any "Mooslum" countries. Reaffix 9-11 Soaring Eagle "Freedom Isn't Free" bumper sticker.

Are you a Jew or Gentile? Note: there's no such thing as a Jewtile.

There you have it. They keys to conversation. Use wisely.

To obtain a copy of this transcript, simply send 20 dollars and a SASE to MattyM c/o The Internet. If you don’t have an envelope, just send yourself and Matt will stamp you.

Letter to My Mother: 6/29/91

Wow, a famous poet picked up on my last blog entry and put it up on his blog. Kudos to him for realizing great genius, and negative kudos to the giant cabal of hipsters who threaten me with their fancy shoes and highly questionable taste in literature.

In any case; going through old letters and pictures I am reminded that I've grown up a lot since I was a child, yet I haven't really changed at all.

Case in point:

Letter written to my Mother on 6/29/91.

Dear Mom,

Last night I got 2:45 of sleep. I don't feel well, in fact I feel horable, it's not pscosymatck. also, I'am very incomfble. tell me went you're home so i call call you! Oh, I forgot I cryed softly last night no one heard me! I HATE camp! The working part is easy so I won't lose wight.

Love Matt,

As we grow up, we become retarded, idiotic emotionally stunted versions of who we were. We forget all the idealism and eager passions that made us children, but keep all the quirks and neuroses.

It's like life is a canvass; childhood is the outline and adulthood is filling in that outline, except some areas get a cursory broad stroke and some are filled in too much. You can spend your life trying to even it out, but in the end you get a really, really shitty painting.

I came across this little "ditty" while going through an old notebook. Written in 2005, it's probably as relevant as ever:

So you wants to be a hipster!

But do you have what it takes? Sure, you’ve moved from the mid-west to New York; OK, you’ve made inroads in the Lower East Side music scene, and yes, you shower no more then once a week. But does that really make you a hipster? An emphatic no! Sir or Madam; an emphatic no.

To understand what a hipster is, we must first look at the origins of the word: “Hipster” comes from the Latin “Hypsterdoophus”, meaning a group of slightly different potatoes, or potato salads. It has, in recent times, come to define a culture of young, mostly unemployed (or unemployable), layabouts whose main talent is sleeping, being ironic about irony, and sleeping some more.

Let us dissect these creatures.

When moving to New York City from Generic Small Town, the true hipster knows that appearance is everything.

First, adorn your body with several tattoos. Who would know you were into Asian lettering or stars on your elbow without pumping ink your frail, pasty arm?

Next, you must find decent clothing. Go to designer stores that sell vintage shirts for a 4000% mark-up. Tee-shirts are a must: Sleeveless, preferably, to show-off aforementioned tattoos. They should have pun-filled sayings poking fun of irony, like, “Tee Shirts are So Yesterday”, or “Ithaca is Gorges”. To be post-modern is no more! Post-Post modern is the way to go: remember it makes a delicious paradox. And so do you, sexy hipster, so do you.

The shirts should be tight enough that nipples show: whether they be erect or not. Make sure the shirt is so ridiculously tight that it forces your posture into a sloping hunch. This way, pensively gazing at your shoes isn’t such a chore!

If you’re really feeling brave, a form-fitting blazer is a plus. Remember nothing says, “I’m sort of sophisticated, in an ‘I dropped out of college to spend more time writing my blog’ sort of way” like a blazer that you found in a salvation army “rejected by the homeless” pile.

For pants, the lower the cut, the better. Even for men, show it all: Shaving your pubic hair isn’t just for the criminally insane and people riddled with STDs anymore!

Glasses are requisite, whether you have eye sight problems or not. Remember, glasses make you seem pensive and emotionally troubled. Plain old thick black frames went out with mesh caps like 6 months ago! Nowadays it’s all about REALLY thick black frames. Remember to obscure your ugly, acne scarred face.

As for hair cuts, there’s an easy equation you can remember:

Today’s Style=Hair Style of musicians 20 years ago

Does anyone remember when long, dirty hippie hair was popular in the late ‘80s? Or when people spiked their hair punkishly in the late ‘90s? Well, the same can be applied today. It’s that simple! Beat everyone to the punch: Flock Of Seagulls is making a comeback.

Now that you’re dressing like a hipster, it’s time to live like one. Living within your means is out, living within your father’s means is in. Here’s a little guide to help you choose where to situate:

POTENTIAL LIVING SITUATION	HIPSTER QUOTIENT
300 sq foot “2 bedroom” 6th floor walk-up in alphabet city. Potential price $2500	Pretty darn good. You’re near some bars that serve Pabst Blue Ribbon and of course, drug dealers. Plus some points if you sleep on only a mattress, no bedframe, or a futon you found on the street.
Huge loft in Willamsburg. Preferably near Bedford Ave. $3000	Great. You’re near some more bars that sell Pabst Blue Ribbon and of course, even more drug dealers. Williamsburg is an artist community, which means that no one is actually employed: you’ll fit in well.
Reasonably priced and sized 2 bedroom in Astoria, Queens. $1200.	Horrible. You can’t find Pabst anywhere, and don’t even ask about the drug dealers. Astoria is like 20 MINUTES outside the Manhattan. No, if your parents can’t afford to pay for you to live in Manhattan or Brooklyn, you don’t deserve to be a hipster. Go find a job or something, loser.

Next, you must find music to talk about. This forms the basis of every conversation and social event that you will have for the rest of your mid-20s. Sure, you may “enjoy” the Beatles or REM, but these are bands you listen to-not talk about.

Seek out bands that have two word titles, where the first word is “the”. This is generally the way to go. If you can’t think of any bands, just make up one: “The Somethings” or “The Fake” are just as believable as any other band name out there. Tell people they have an EP out. They’ll believe it, and some will even claim to have heard them before, or even own the album. Also, remember to sneer at people who don’t like your music. They don’t understand you, or your movement.

It’s also important to KNOW people in a band. Even if they only know you as “the guy who stands next to us at the bar all the time”. Constantly say to people, “I’ve got to go, my friend’s playing a gig”, or “hey, you should come with me to see my friend’s gig”. Sure, that “gig” is in someone’s basement or a Mexican restaurant, but who cares? You KNOW someone in a BAND!

If you really want some hipster cache, start a band. What’s that? You don’t know how to play an instrument? Who cares. It’s all about the look, which you have already. Anyway, if you're able to pick up a ukulele and strum tunelessly, you're 90% towards "having a jam session in my friend's living room. He's got Vinyl; Bring some pot!"

That way, when people ask you what you do, instead of saying “Drink alone while crying” or “throw rocks out the window to watch people bleed”, you can say “I’m in a band”, which will invariably lead to you getting sexy-hot action, or at least a venereal disease.

As for other forms of music: you’re allowed to like rap, but only for it’s irony value. Remember to use the word "crunk" a lot. Call your ghostly pale friends “niggas” and adorn your neck with gold-plated chains. Continue to cross the street at night when you see black people approaching.

Speaking of booty shakin’- how do hipsters get some arse? It’s hard, because it’s so yesterday to be honest with someone and tell them you want to buy them a drink. It’s just…unironic.

Solution: The INTERNET! Yes, the internet, once thought of as merely a device to acquire music and illicit underage pornography, it is now home to a growing community of dating sites that masquerade as places where “friends can connect”.

Putting up a singles profile is not as easy as you think. The specifics are key. Never say you are actually interested in sex or a relationship. Make it seem like someone put you up to it, or that you’re doing it for a laugh.

Say things like “Reading books is sexy, bathing myself in mayonnaise is sexier”. Make sure to play down the deadening loneliness that eats you from within, and say something like “Celebrity I resemble most: "HAL 9000 from 2001.” Always make sure that your personal ad is a long, winding parody of other personal ads. You don’t actually want to be with someone, do you? Nah, that would be pathetic.

Remember, you’re just doing this for fun, and after no one responds to the first 100 emails you send out, you’re just doing it between the time you cry and the time you masturbate.

Well, you’re dressed to the hilt, you listen to the right music, you live in a cool neighborhood and you cry daily. Congratulations: You’re a hipster. Join us next week when we examine “Genital Warts: Acne’s Wacky Cousin!”.

For more on hipsters, check out my hipster count!

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Frenchies

Something oddly appealing about French synth pop at 5am - Don't you think?