Sunday, May 31, 2015

So it just worked out that way, him killing a black man.

So the Neo-Nazi Girlfriend who Is Not My Girlfriend invites me to come along when she visits her mother. I realize that this is probably not a great idea -- it giving the appearance of this being a Relationship and all -- but I decide to go along, because I know we will have sex afterward.

It turns out her Mother is a sweet, sweet soul who wears a plaid apron,  likes to bake chocolate-chip cookies, and is fine to be around as long as you don't bring up Black People. Or ask about the tattoo on her neck.

The tattoo on her neck: it is the name of her husband in a flowing script, followed by the year 2016. Being that it is not 2016 yet I realize it isn't a commemoration of his death; it turns out that 2016 is the year he will be released from prison. And now I am already invited to the 'Welcome Home' Party. There will be a stupendous cake, I am told.

I really don't want to know why her husband is in prison, but she tells me anyway: there was a misunderstanding, see, so her husband beat a man to death with a crowbar. It turns out it wasn't racist in intent: it was dark, and her husband didn't realize the victim was black until after he started beating him; so it just worked out that way, him killing a black man.

Anyway, this happened when the Neo-Nazi Girlfriend who Is Not My Girlfriend was only two, so all her memories of him are from prison visits, and the letters and cards she would receive from him and her 'Prison Uncles'. It seems that she has quite the support system of men who have promised to kill anyone that harms 'their little girl' once they are out of prison.

As we get ready to leave her mother brings me a plate of fresh-baked cookies to take home, and thanks me for being such a Polite Young White Gentleman. Then the Neo-Nazi Girlfriend who Is Not My Girlfriend and I go back to her place and have sex.

As I lay on her futon I realize that not only do I have to get out of this situation, I have to get out before 2016. And maybe move to a new town.

It is good to have a deadline, sometimes.

I am Laslo.

Friday, May 29, 2015

"Well, between Bad Angel and Good Angel here, I would have to go along with Good Angel on this one."

We do not know what happened in the moments before his leap.

Maybe the Bad Angel was hounding him to go on a spree of rape and murder JUST DO IT JUST DO IT and the Good Angel said 'That would be a BAD THING, you should not kill and harm others just because of BAD THINGS in your head."

"Ignore him," the Bad Angel said, "Live Life like a God where you alone hold the Powers of Sex and Death. There are a lot of beautiful girls out there, a lot of beautiful girls JUST DO IT JUST DO IT.

So the Good Angel said "Well, maybe you should just jump out the window Right Now before you begin to harm others."

Then Jesus appeared and the room became very quiet.

After several moments of silence He spoke:

"Well, between Bad Angel and Good Angel here, I would have to go along with Good Angel on this one."

It could've happened this way, we don't know.

I am Laslo.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

The cool thing about being a mortician is that young hot women die sometimes, too.

The cool thing about being a mortician is that young hot women die sometimes, too.

C'mon: if they wheeled in Taylor Swift's naked, if also dead, body -- and it wasn't like she was mangled in a horrific car accident or had her head blown off with a shotgun or anything* -- the thought of 'spending a little extra time' with her wouldn't cross your mind?

I mean, it doesn't have to be invasive or anything: you could just guide her through a hand-job with her delicate fingers and then ejaculate on her pert, if also dead, breasts.

*Regarding "...blew her head off with a shotgun or anything*: we know Taylor would never do such a thing to herself -- obviously -- but there are sometimes disgruntled ex-boyfriends. It was just an example, anyway: no need to think about it that much.

I am Laslo.
Also: dead women don't have a gag reflex.

Just an observation.

I am Laslo.

Monday, May 25, 2015

The correct course of action seems obvious, but the problem is compounded when the Neo-Nazi is hot.

There is a line you cross when you move from the second date to the third: at two dates you just happened to date a Neo-Nazi, at three you basically have a Neo-Nazi Girlfriend. 

The correct course of action seems obvious, but the problem is compounded when the Neo-Nazi is hot. Hot, and she'll massage your balls under the table at Denny's with her feet.

Still, you would eventually have to introduce her to your friends -- friends that have not had their balls massaged under the table at Denny's by her feet -- and you are forced to realize: this is probably not going to work.

And the problem will not go away by itself: not when your inbox is filling with emails from "WhitePowerGirl0069". And yes: there are cute cat pictures. A Neo-Nazi Girl is still a girl, after all. Meaning also: emoticons.

But breaking up with a Neo-Nazi has its own special challenges, one of which is the fear of her Neo-Nazi room-mate F-Ready beating the hell out of you.

So we went to Denny's and had a Meaningful Discussion, very civilized and adult. Then -- after she massaged my balls under the table with her feet -- we went back to her place and had sex. 

That night I wake feverish from a dream where the Neo-Nazi and I are about to marry, and F-Ready is my Best Man. With WITE HATE tattooed on his knuckles.

I am Laslo.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

"What a coincidence," I say: girls love happy coincidences.

If I happened to be her Stalker i would examine her photographs and comments for details of her whereabouts: they always tell too much, eventually.

Once located I would show up at the coffee bar she frequents and sit across from her, then casually remove my Laslo Doll from my pocket and set it on the table, turned slightly away from her to sufficiently pique her curiosity. Then: our eyes connect.

"Wow," she says, "You have a doll that looks just like you."

"Oh? This thing?" I say, turning it to face her. "A lesbian friend of mine made it for me. She is big into anime, make-up and dolls."

Lesbian = understanding of diversity: check. Anime, make-up and dolls = understanding of Cute Precious Culture: check.

"That's so funny! I have a doll of my own that looks just like me!"

"What a coincidence," I say: girls love happy coincidences.

"That's great! I'd love to see it!"

"Oh, dang: it is at home, sleeping."

(OK: don't let the 'doll sleeping' thing throw you...)

"Wouldn't it be funny to introduce our dolls to each other?" I say, smiling innocently.

"That would be adorable!" she says, her voice reaching a child-like register.

"It would!" I agree, "Does your doll like have its nipples kissed with feathery little kisses?"


"I think my doll is really good at that; very gentlemanly."

"I'm not sure.." she replies, a bit uncomfortable.

"You shouldn't let your doll be closed off to new experiences," I say warmly. "My Laslo Doll is very sensitive to a woman's needs."

"My doll likes sensitive men."

"We should get them together and see what happens. We can have English Tea and chaperone."

"That sounds delightful," she says; I'm not positive, but I believe I can see a stiffening of her nipples beneath her starched shirt. I won't ask if her doll likes anal until later...

I am Laslo.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

There: a firm stance on the side of righteousness. I felt better already.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, hidden swastika tattoo, Daddy issues, neo-Nazi, blow-job: why not go out on a second date?

Well, I picked her up at her place, and got to meet her downstairs roommate. His name was Freddy, but he informed me that this meant "F-Ready', as in: when the racial wars come he'll be Fuckin' Ready. So you know: small talk.

We left to go to Denny's again -- besides most cultural cuisine, she also thought The International House of Pancakes was too ethnically diverse -- and so she had pancakes again.

It was a strange sensation as we sat there: I knew she was nuts, and that she had a swastika tattoo hidden below her low-rise jeans, yet it somehow felt dangerous. Plus she had slipped off her Doc Martens and was adroitly massaging my balls with her feet under the table.

"So," I said, trying to make any kind of conversation, "Freddy certainly seems to think bad things are coming to this country, racially."

"That's 'F-Ready,' she corrected me, then said "Of course the blacks are going to try to fuck things up and then want the white man's shit, silly: it's all they can do."

"You can't seriously mean that," I said, knowing that she very much indeed meant that seriously: when we lie to ourselves to have sex we try to insert a weak token of resistance.

"Oh, silly," she said, shaking her head sweetly. "We don't have anything more against a black man than we do against a well-meaning white retard, except for the color of his skin."

"Isn't that a little harsh?" I asked.

"To white retards or black people?" she answered. She got me there, so I stirred my coffee. noticing it was black-with-copious-milk; she drank sweet iced tea.

"I have to know: you don't call black people the 'N'-word, do you? Because that is kind of a red line for me, usually." There: a firm stance on the side of righteousness. I felt better already.

"Oh, silly," she said, sipping her sweet tea: "We don't ever call black people niggers anymore. That just isn't done nowadays, in public."

"That's good, I guess..."

"Now if they get uppity we might call them a coon, but that is perfectly respectable, being that the raccoon is one of God's creatures. Like the monkey and the gorilla."

So after dinner we had anal sex. Somehow, the tattoo on the small of her back that read "Heil Hilter" made it seem okay, that it didn't say "Hitler," after all: maybe this was all just a quirky game, I thought, as she then made me ejaculate on her face.

"You shoot your load like a REAL American," she said, wiping her chin.

"Have you ever seen an 'unreal' American shoot his load?" I asked.

"They got videos of that on the internet, silly," she said, lighting a cigarette. "Them coons have some big dicks, though, I can tell you that..."

I am Laslo.

Friday, May 22, 2015

She was half-Japanese and her father was an architect.

I dated a girl in college who always wore pink.

Not pink everything: just a pink men's Oxford shirt, always, collar popped, with pants of varying color, and shoes of varying color yet.

She was half-Japanese and her father was an architect.

We had sex a lot.

Sorry. Not much else to the story.

I am Laslo.

"It says "Heil Hitler," silly," she said, heading towards the bedroom.

I once unknowingly went on a date with a Neo-Nazi in college.

She had close-cropped blonde hair and amazing blue eyes; I asked her out for some Thai food, and she agreed to go out to dinner with me, but didn't like Thai food. She also disliked Chinese food, Mexican food, Italian food, and anything that swam in the ocean because Japan was in the ocean; I took that as quirky at the time. I don't know, I think I had a thing for quirky girls at the time, not yet realizing that quirky was often just a bus stop away from crazy.

So we ended up at a Denny's and she had pancakes and discussed the problems of white civilization in today's society. Frankly, I thought she was just really commited to playing Devil's Advocate. And I have to admit: I had never heard anyone take the position that James Earl Ray was black before.

We then finished dinner and drank coffee when she hinted that I might get to see her 'special' tattoos; what guy wouldn't want to see a girl's 'special' tattoos?

Anyway, we get to my place, the clothes come off, and there, indeed, are her 'special' tattoos: she had a swastika on her pubic area and what appeared to be "Heil Hitler" in Gothic lettering across the small of her back. My penis didn't know what to think. 

Upon closer inspection I realized that the latter tattoo read "Heil Hilter," so I asked her why she had "Heil Hilter" tattooed on her back.

"It says "Heil Hitler," silly," she said, heading towards the bedroom.

"Uh, no it doesn't," I replied. "H - I - L - T - E - R: it says Heil Hilter. I think they crossed the 'L' instead of the 'T'."

"Damn!" she said, hands on her hips, fruitlessly trying to look back over her shoulder. "I THOUGHT that tattoo guy looked Jewish."

Coincidentally, this is probably the moment when I first made the quirky/crazy connection.

"I don't think this is going to happen," I said, to which she replied "Don't be that way," and that she would pretend to be Jewish if I wanted to play WWII German Camp Commander in the shower.

"That doesn't sound like a good idea," I said.

"You probably think I hate all Jews, don't you?"

"I haven't had much time to process that particular thought."

"I don't hate ALL Jews, just the real Jewish-y ones."

"Good to know."

"Like my Dad: he's a Jewish-y Jew. But he pays my tuition, so I wouldn't have my friends beat him or anything."

NOW I realized that "quirky" was often synonymous with "Daddy Issues."

Needless to say, I couldn't have sex with a woman with a swastika tattooed above her vagina, so I accepted a blow-job and drove her home.

Our second date didn't go any better.

I am Laslo.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Chicks notice these things, and I notice them noticing them.

I've been told that a woman can tell a lot about a man by how he parallel parks.

Does he ease past the spot with a confident, assured manner, before sliding gracefully back into the awaiting space with a sensuous turn of the wheel? Are his wheels parked in that perfect space in relation to the curb? Does he let the car idle a moment before turning off the engine, secure in putting it in the right place in all the right ways?

Or does he white-knuckle a fit of jerking actions into an awkward angle while cluelessly bumping into the curb? Does he get out of the car to inspect his results, hoping that it will suffice?

Chicks notice these things, and I notice them noticing them.

I am Laslo.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

It seems like it never will end, nor will lunch-time ever arrive.

The problem with Chelsea isn't "unpleasantness," it is the forced sex with lower-level employees.

You go to the coffee room to just get some coffee and there is Chelsea, banging some poor guy who is paid to read Twitter for negative comments about the Clintons, his pants at his ankles.

You go to the conference room and there is Chelsea, bent over the table with her skirt at her waist, getting banged by an 'accountant' with shame and resignation upon his face, wondering if he can ever look someone in the eye again now that he is Chelsea's bitch.

Even the sanctity of privacy that is the bathroom is violated: there is Chelsea at the sink, banging the man unfortunate enough to have walked in there to take a shit. The stall is RIGHT there, but No -- now he can't take a shit AND he has to bang Chelsea, and then wipe up the counter with paper towels and humiliation.

And Chelsea: Chelsea is LOUD. You can be at your cubicle, droning away with earphones on, and you can still hear her from the other side of the Office screaming "Harder! Harder!" and "Call me Princess!" It seems like it never will end, nor will lunch-time ever arrive.

Thank God she is only in the Office two days a week, max.

Privilege has its privileges.

I am Laslo.

"The problem with Chelsea isn't "unpleasantness," it is the forced sex with lower-level employees"

Then there is The Envelope.

The day after banging Chelsea a manila envelope is on your desk, waiting for your arrival.

Inside: Chelsea's panties from the previous day's 'event' and a signed photograph of her, smiling.

Everyone knows what The Envelope means.

I am Laslo.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

"It's funny: I trust my kids at day-care to a woman I'm not sure I would trust with my car."

"Sometimes I think I would've been better off if I was a stay-at-home mom."

"You know, I feel that too, sometimes. But us working women -- we need to stick together."

"It's funny: I trust my kids at day-care to a woman I'm not sure I would trust with my car."

"Well, you do have a nice car."

"You as well. Can't go wrong with a BMW."

"That's so true. Still: just the other day I picked up my Johnny from day-care and he had a black-eye. The day-care woman said he ran into a door-knob, but I have my doubts..."

"You think that's bad? I came home to find out that my son Samuel
traded his bicycle to another kid for a gun and then shot our neighbor's dog."

"That's horrible! What did your husband do?"

"Well, unfortunately Samuel shot HIM, too."

"Oh God! Is he okay?"

"Yeah, it was just a shot to his leg -- he only missed one day at work."



"So -- how is Samuel?"

"He's grounded. No TV or video games."

"I mean -- how is he coping? I'm sure it was traumatic for him."

"His psychiatrist says he was just acting out -- it's pretty common at that age."

"Pretty common?"

"Well, not the gun part. We just need to make sure that Samuel takes his Ritalin."

"That's amazing: you have gone through all of this and you haven't missed a day's work."

"The Office would go to Hell if I wasn't there."

"If only more people understood that..."

I am Laslo.