Thursday, April 29, 2010

I'm not singing to an imaginary girl.

Last night I dropped Acid. I wrote this on a cocktail napkin....

He fell down slack-jawed, trembling madly at the sparkling waves as she appeared. Her footprints were breadcrumbs. Her eyes were careless and had the protracted luster of someone sucking on a lemon. They meet deep in a dance between the forest and moon.

Her name was Angel, he knew her as Svetlana. She was too young to be old. From childhood she wore the body of a woman whose skin never knew the desperate triumph of the sun. And she could perceive events in other worlds and in the deepest reaches of his inner mind.

She drowned him in her body as the fragrance of their slowly decaying bodies filled the forest like the boom of a gun.
His mother’s words echoed loudly, in the violent reaches of the cellar he knew to be his mind: “We all go through life asleep until eventually we sleep forever, so wake up beautiful.” His childhood was killed in that instant as his clumsy fingers tore through her crimson-kissed locks like tiny pretentious soldiers.

Together they ruled the Kingdom of Dawn in an intense visitation of energy. They fashioned reality from Camus and defended Nietzsche from Jesus, until she became nothing more than a fleshy shadow and the moon became her face.

…The Rest of his life accrued in several short, sweet seconds as he awoke to his gaze in the reflection of his murky, mahogany colored cocktail in the goneness of the flickering bar light where the bartender beckons “Last Call.”


Wednesday, February 10, 2010

I keep feeling like I'm being undercut

New York City, a veritable wasteland of promiscuity and pestilence made home to millions of hipsters and homosexuals alike. And sometimes in this magical city, it tends to dump more powder than the blockage from my ex-girlfriend’s deviated septum. In fact I’m held up pretty tight in my Brooklyn batcave and as anyone living in Williamsburg can surely tell you, there are two things one can do to pass the time in a blizzard: masturbate or blog. Seeing as the suicide girl’s server has crashed due to an overabundance of hipsters home from their jobs at the Fred Perry, I chose the latter.

From Brooklyn to the Bowery, it’s safe to say that aside from the girls living in the east village, not too many things in New York are cheap. I’ve only been resident of Gotham for going on a few short weeks now but I don’t want to give you the impression that I’ve wasted any time getting to know this fair city I now call home. So, in between my constant philandering, I’ve managed to compile a list cheap yet chic things to do while in the big apple and I’ve most affectionately titled it The Budget List.

Now this idea did not just bloom in my fantastical mind all its own. Neigh, I actually got the idea from a blog an old friend of mine does in called This Fish Bowl which gives you insight to some cool things to do in Los Angeles that won’t rape your wallet. You can get to it here Uncostly Yet Steezy Things To Do In L.A. I pretty much gave no thought to the idea of making this list seeing as it’s already been done until I thought, “ Wait a minute, L.A. sucks fucking dick, It’s full of hippies and hairstylists.” So for my people willing to brave the frigid northeast tundra to boast the most coveted title of “New Yorker,” I made this list for dear.

It’s a fair assessment to say there’s a lot of truth behind the statement, “good drinks aren’t cheap and cheap drinks aren’t good.” If you don’t believe me walk into any hole in the wall on St. Marks and fork over a couple of bucks for 10 shots of Listerine. But for those of us who do not enjoy partying like a Navajo, unfortunately I have yet to find anyplace worth the time, so I have only a suggestion. Find yourself a club promoter. It’s very easy to do thanks to Facebook and leather jackets and best of all you get results. Yes, these soldiers of swank can get you past the most impenetrable of gatekeepers with a flick of their handsomely adorned wrist and once past the huddled masses, the vodka will fall from the heavens…for about 50 to 60 seconds. Don’t get me wrong, once you get your hands on a drink and you get past the sweaty, vinegary taste of the promoters balls, the Svedka actually tastes pretty good. Find one of these bad boys and suckle at the tit like a burgeoning calf covered in afterbirth.

Now some of you might say, “TP it’s just not that easy if you’re a guy.” Do not fret my frugal minded friends because I’ve covered all the bases. If you can’t get first name with a promoter do the next best thing, find a thirsty hipster girl. We all know the type dressed in so much lace she looks like a Victorian nightshade. Takes enough pictures at the club to fill a Chinese yearbook. Drinks ambient light like a Capri sun. We’ve all seen this before. Follow her tweets and her BBM will be your boulevard to the booze my friends.

Although it may be cheap, discount designers are destroying fashion with unconventional matchups, mixing contemporary high-end fashion with low price spin-offs. Like Jimmy Choo for H&M or Jean-Paul Gaultier for Targ├ęt. So in attempt to keep my clothes prohibitively expensive, I resist the temptation to step foot in these places. You might be asking, "TP how do you manage to pull off geek chic intertwined with funky sensuousness and topped off with plenty of emotive braggadocio?" Good question, better adjectives. Good, cheap clothes are hard to come by here in New York and I won’t take the easy way out here and suggest you go into American Apparel and buy a $30 dress that can also be worn as a scrunchie. Though I can’t lie and say I’ve never bought from there. Yes, even Tyler Peters has on occasion been seen dropping a couple Hamiltons on a black double-breasted t-shirt cardigan (no homo.) What can I say, I like the girls there, I’m an ass man myself. I digress; shopping in the big city has become increasingly pricier with the reemergence of “now-necessities” like dr. martens. You live in Kings County, then figure on dropping a few on a pair of these. In fact I intend to buy a few. Hell, I’d personally fix that drafty window of Clarissa’s if she’d explain where she got those shoes of hers.

I’m off topic again. Once again I don’t have a solution, merely a clever suggestion. I call it “The Coat Check.” As most kids are too cheap to use the coat check, they usually place all their coats in a pile on a seat. Big mistake. Casually rifle through the pile when no one’s looking (this is generally between Mike Snow’s Animal or any Empire of the Sun song) being especially careful not to pick up a Mexican’s poncho some girl thought she’d look cute wearing or one of those retarded circle scarves big enough to be Lou Ferrigno’s hammock. Once you got the goods, you’re out like a male high school cheerleader. It’s a pyrrhic victory really, because most of the coats smell like cigarettes and random men’s cologne. It’s like they all belonged to Lindsay Lohan. You get caught, don’t blame it on me. I’m merely your gateway to all things demented and depraved. Follow my lead and you’ll end up with enough friends to fit in the back seat of a smart car.
That’s it for this week’s issue of TP just ain’t to be flexed with. Tune in next week when I be going over cheap places for food and movies.

Oh and as to not disappoint my loyal fans waiting for some sort of unbridled dickheadedness, I leave you with something that really pisses me off: Girls who use the word pussy during sex. Stop it, it makes me think of Courtney Love.


Wednesday, November 11, 2009

To the G.I. Joes & Janes

True to most, the meaning of Veterans Day has been reduced to merely a " fall holiday off from school" or an "excuse for stores to have a closeout sale," but I see the true meaning of this extraordinary holiday. Today, I give thanks to brave men who fought for the freedoms I take for granted each day. Freedoms like: The ability to wear pants that clearly delineate the position of my dick in my pants, and amass great knowledge from good ole’ fashioned American websites full Christian moral values and a sense of propriety that could only be found in the cyber-pages of the American Internet. Revered web pages like: “Munchkins giving Blumpkins” or who could forget the ever-brilliant “8-Dudes, 1-Overweight transgender hooker.”

Yes, today is a solemn day for gratefulness and great remembrance but my fellow Americans, do not weep for these brave men, neigh, that would only serve to tarnish their valiant memories. Instead, live like the Americans they so courageously fought to protect. Boys, be on the wrong side of twenty and still try to “make it” in the music business. Girls, the same goes for you, only encourage these “saviors of senselessness” for they, are the true Veterans. As each day they wake up at the crack of noon just to get to the campus Starbucks on time for the mid-afternoon rush of unsuspecting girls clad in American Apparel who will spread their legs to a couple nautical stars on the arm and a MacBook. But I digress…

The true meaning of this holiday is to give thanks. So, to the men who fight tirelessly on the front lines of Afghanistan and GarageBand, I give my foremost gratitude. Thank you and the happiest of Veterans Days.

You may have realized I left out the servicewomen in this brief diatribe but never could I finish this important blog on a most important holiday without recognizing the true bravery, you ladies display. You carry the most important weight in keeping this great nation of ours from harm, preparing the meals and providing the services of your great breasts to ease the minds of our brothers in arms. Thank you ladies for putting the war on soap scum on hold long enough to fight the horizontal-war. You show true bravery in the face of protein-projectiles. I’m just foolin’ ladies you too are a very valued member of this great country and do much to better as well as protect it each day. I extend my deepest thanks to you, the servicewomen.

Besides, I love a woman in uniform. Just ask my girlfriend; on occasion I’ll have her dress up as a hooters girl when I feel she isn’t being enough of an easily-degradable whore.

TP – Always outnumbered, Never Outgunned…Happy Veterans Day.


Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Oh You Pretty Things, the name speaks volumes, a collaborative effort amongst the scorned & belittled to enact faceless revenge on their trespasser. Oh you pretty things. Let us set aside any argument of scale I can suffice to discredit these scribes of injustice, or vanguard threats on my behalf. What we have, plain and simple, is a website who’s primary function is to bolster claims of smut and slander with less than flattering pictures. Brilliant. You post a couple of paragraphs and a picture of a slut to a website who’s job is post pictures of other sluts. That’s like posting a picture of John Travolta’s son to It’s too easy. Do you think IP user 128.13.568 from Omaha cares about the girl from Boca squatting on a dildo for 311 tickets? No, they’re probably saying, ” Wouldn’t want to be that girl behind the pink stars.” Well that’s where me and Omaha go our separates.
Someone had to sit there, at their computer chair, and rack their brain for the perfect words of discordance to get their revenge, but you ultimately fail. It is them, those standing scantly clad in a portrait of dishonor who get to feel those words as you will never. You, Soldiers of their infinite notoriety lovingly post Testaments to their withstanding existence, because of an impact so meaningful, so profound upon you, that they brought forward emotions inside you likened to a Jew writing about Hitler, hated, but not soon forgotten. Unlike yourself who will come and go like Peewee Herman in a porn theater .You cried because of them. You felt insecure because of their actions. You are pawn. Merchants of your own un-doing because as the assaulted, smirks and smiles at your work, you feel empty knowing that no amount of words, embarrassing photos or subsequent laughter will fill that part of you that they took away and you’ll never get back.
It’s obvious that this rant isn’t out of pure happenstance, nor is it in rebuttal to any scandal of my own, though it makes me sad that it’s not. This is disclaimer that using a website like as your weapon of mass-humiliation makes you a particular individual devoid of any comical wit or cognitive capacity. May you continue to exploit your own insecurities to the world, hopefully soon you'll immortalize me. Fuck it I’ll write the damn thing you just post it. Anything you want to write derogatory about me you can already find on MY FACEBOOK. Even still, I feel compelled to detract from your little victories with this, my clever lampoon:

Willy Wanker & The Fudge Factory
Dear Nik,
I first saw this overly cocky little fairy, at an English pub pretending he was British. He goes out dressed like a little pixie with pants he probably bought at the baby gap that leave very little to the imagination. He walks around Boca with an undeserved sense of accomplishment and tries to pick fights wherever he goes even though Dakota Fanning outweighs him by an eighth-grader. He talks like Stewie Griffin but looks more like Kathy. Oh and he steals peoples girlfriends, have I left anything out? Email question & concerns to : bloodyhellit’sfeckintpcupo’


Wednesday, May 20, 2009


Yesterday I went to the florida mall to master the flow-rider. The gayness ensued as soon as I walked in the door. I was visually asualted with ed hardy shirts and belts on sale in a mother-lickin skate shop. Epic. Simply amazing. The line has been crossed, Ed Hardy has now injected his grubby little dodgy tattoo soaked fingers into surfing and skate culture. Fuck You Hardy, stick to what you do best, clad the metrosexual "badboy" Italians. Last time I checked, the last time a surfer spent $60 on anything, it was on radical buds.

I digress, So I do the damn thing and in my normal fashion I master it in a matter of minutes. So now I'm impressing all the lil ladies that frequent the mall. Then as if in a pure coincidental stroke of cock-blockery they close the contraption so, get this, their sponsored flo-rida can practice for nationals. NATIONALS! Dear me, I must of forgot that the flow riding championships generate more of a crowd than winona ryder shooting ping pong balls out of her Sargent pepper. This is comical, I wonder if he picks up girls like this..."Hey.. oh yea I'm a pro flo-rida..wanna go back to my pad. My friend used to be a flo-rida.. yea he used to bang his girlfriend whilst on the rag. Now that is a real sport. You're just a pussy on a boogie-board my son.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Lucifer's Friend- The Band For Any Zeppelin Fan

This German hard rock machine, with British belter John Lawton, (later of Uriah Heep) gave birth to one of the best heavy rock albums of the early 70's. From the screaming vocals of "Ride In The Sky" (with its brass opening reminiscent of Zeppelin's "The Immigrant Song" and an almost "thrash metal" riff) to the progressive/hard R&B of "Toxic Shadows", to the lumbering, Sabbathish doom of "Keep Goin", this album never lets up for a second. Fans of Black Sabbath, Uriah Heep, Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin must have this in their collection! Lawton is one of the best singers in hard rock, and the musicianship of the group is tremendous. Very heavy indeed for a 1970 release.Photobucket

Monday, April 6, 2009


It has come time for me to address an issue plaguing both myself personally and more importantly the world. Often I find myself in South Beach or in another location of an Avant-garde scene where I will see a woman so starved for attention she starves herself. Please explain this fad to me. Yes it is true I love myself but not enough to want to engage in relations with my mirror image.

Now before I rant I must disclaim the following: In no way am I prejudiced against small breasts. Anyone who knows me could peer into my track record of past lovers to find all of them were pushing “A” cups if the stuffed midgets in their bras. I assure you my detestation does not spawn from this. It is the fact that said girls are so hell bent on being thin girls they end up looking like boys. Only closet homosexuals’ posses the wear-with-all to find such a girl attractive. In fact I know such a “protector of his sexuality” who dates one of these monsters of malnourishment, for this particular example he will be referred to as “Dane.” Dane finds it attractive to starve his girlfriend to the point of undernourishment as to make her look like his perfect male concubine. One question, where are the parents.

Any self-respecting parent would sit their beloved down and force-feed her a Big-Mac. I know mine would. This continuance in trend leads me to believe it must stem from daddy issues. Listen up sweetheart, keep making yourself thinner and people will continue to ridicule you. Which means only a matter time before you take their critiques as an excuse to skip a few meals. Come to think of it keep starving yourself, hopefully you will eventually cause your own demise and natural selection will carry on, business as usual. A tip of my hat to you anorexic, bulimic, or whatever you go by “twelve year old boy” looking girl. Continue to make your statement however small it may be.