The ultimate dad joke compilation
he has a neanderthal ass head. and i would let him headbutt me into unconsciousness while he hits it from the side. i would let him pop my knees out the joint and break my elbows then sling me across the room so i can hit the corners and fly in slow motion like the dvd logo when you put a movie on pause for too long. i would let him literally eat me out. he could just stick a fork in my right pussy lip and i would giggle like it’s some mild foreplay. i would walk around with bites of my body missing like them damn chocolate filled krave cereals just so everyone know i’m his fuckin boo.
… There’s a very important conversation to be had there.
If this is being brought up shouldn’t we also addressing the age of the politicians in places of power tho?
Later today, I’ll be leaving New York City. After spending the last three days here, the city has changed so much that it’s nearly unrecognizable to long-time natives like myself. While eating an egg sandwich in bed yesterday morning after a booze-filled romp with the luxurious daughter of a Prime Minister from a former USSR nation, I kept lamenting to her on what a strange and luxurious world I was now in. When did everything start being about the money? Where did the heart of this city go, and was it gone forever? Where were the fun people I danced with two nights ago? Why was there arugula on my egg sandwich? Mostly, I wondered: What happened to the New York I remembered?
Over steak frites at Balthazar, I expressed my frustration to my dining companions: Cage, a cagey heroin dealer to the stars, Glenn O’Brien’s cousin Tyjuan, Ernest Baker, a friendly pile of old towels that we thought was Cat Marnell and a extradited Senegalese warlord that I befriended in a dice game after he tried to cut my finger off when I tried to pay in Bitcoin. They assured me, the only constant in this city was change itself. Is that truth? Could it be that the city that made me who I am over the last 72 hours couldn’t ever love me the way I grew to love it?
I’m leaving tonight at 5 p.m. Flying to Chicago, a cheese-stuffed, bacon-wrapped monolith where I’ll attempt to ply my trade as a writer. Seeing as I’m doing my new city a favor by living in New York then moving, I’ll be sure to loudly compare the two cities in every possible way, even when it doesn’t make sense to do so. I owe it to the bathroom in Baby’s All Right I threw up in. I owe it to that long line I waited in down in Chinatown that I thought was for a secret show but just ended up being a fruit market. I owe it to the guy on the Soho House roof deck who asked me if I had the time. I owe it to my New York.
Ernest Wilkins is a writer who’s leaving New York. Mostly because his flight leaves at 5.