Volume 1, Episode 2

JUNE 1, 2002

Today is the first day I'm taking Zyban, the "non-smoking cure" in a pill. It was first marketed as an anti-depressant, Wellbutrin. It never worked. Depressed teens still executed Christian kids in cafeterias, depressed soccer moms continued to drown their babies, and depressed epileptics were having more seizures than ever (a wonderful side effect of Wellbutrin). To make a long story short, doctors noticed that their patients continued to be depressed, however, most smokers taking the shit had quit their filthy habit... and low and behold, through pure marketing genius, it was no longer Wellbutrin, the cure for depression, but Zyban, the non-smoking aide! So I'm the sucker that actually bought the shit for $135 for a month's supply. Why? Well for one, I really need to quit since I've been smoking for half my life (I'm 24, you do the math) and two, Sarah Jessica Parker is a smoker... have you seen the lines on her face! Hideous! Plus I hear it causes cancer or some shit.

On with the story... so I down a Zyban and within half an hour I am in a fucking coma. The same shit happened to me while on Prozac in which my 6'2" body was so susceptible to the meds that I end up with acute narcolepsy for the time of my treatment. I should have known that every fucking possible symptom listed on the box would affect me twice as much as a normal person. So being the smart guy that I am, I end up going to a party, mind you that I had planned to attend way in advance so I had to show up. So I get there with a friend of mine, and the place is littered with people we don't know but in my sober state of mind I decide, "Hey, a few beers can't hurt." (Blatantly ignoring the fact that I had just read, "Do Not Take With Alcohol OR Consume Alcohol While Taking This Medication," in the drug's instructional pamphlet) So I down a few and by two beers I'm pretty much drunk (natural light weight + meds = FUCKED UP!) and then I get into that invincible phase of drinking where I think I can drink like a fish. So I'm pounding them back as the night progresses. The party dies and my friend and I head to a bar for more alcoholic fervor and by 1 in the morning, I'm pretty much swaying back and forth, seeing double, red as a monkey's backside... you know, the usual weekend ensemble. So I decide to walk my ass home about 25 blocks away. At this point I'm getting extremely tired, not naturally tired, but profusely tired. My limbs want to give in and my eyes are succumbing to the weight. Luckily I now have a cell phone, so I call my dad to keep me alert and awake. Ring. "Hey Boy." "Hey, Dad... (laugh) I'm so fucked up..." So for 30 minutes I torment my father about how fucked up I am and how I'm just going to pass out on the sidewalk, reassuring him that everyone does it and that I'd be fine. Fortunately for me, I finally reach my apartment, get off the phone with my dad, who by this time is already used to my drunken calls at odd hours of the night, and open my front gate. I'm barely conscious at this point. I open the second door leading to the stairs... and all goes black... I woke up to the distant ringing of the phone. It's usually louder than this. I open my eyes and realize that I have passed out in front of my apartment in plain sight of my neighbor who usually rides her bike on Sunday mornings, her bike, by the way, is kept where I am now curled up. What a fucking mess! Not only do I look like a drunken loser, but I have witness that knows me personally! And what have I learned from all this? I need to start taking cabs more.

MAY 18, 2002

I am fucking addicted to TV. I come home from work, turn it on to some syndicated bullshit show that I've seen a million times and watch watch watch. Granted at the time, it is a wonderfully stimulating experience-much more fun than my own life, but after a five-hour marathon session, I'm a fucking lazy, lethargic zombie. But thank God for Fitness Made Simple with John Basedow! Now I can workout from the privacy of my own home to a third-rate video instructed by yet another meathead/physical trainer selling the rest of the world another diet secret they've magically uncovered in those pea-sized brains. Have you seen that fucking Fitness Made Simple commercial? It comes on USA, CNN, TBS (the Superstation!), Comedy Central, A&E, Bravo and every other fucking station in the world. How can you miss it? I've seen it so many times, I often feel that John and I have this intimate connection... he often catches me devouring pizza, raiding my fridge, or nonchalantly playing with myself while watching Law and Order reruns (ohhhh, Christopher Meloni). One thing that does irritate me is how he flaunts his so-called "modeling" career considering the bastard is so fucking ugly with the bad style sensibilities you can only find in a gym these days-feathered hair, dove shorts, white tennis shoes (oh yuck!), jams, and fake tans! John, you and I are cosmically connected but who the fuck are you fooling. You head is too big for your body, you look like a leper, and so what if your body is toned and ripped... have you recently looked at your face? What are you a foot model or something cause the rest of the shit (meaning neck up) is out of control! Talk about stretching the truth. You can't fool a faggot, remember, we are the bitches that revolutionized the internet with our obsession with sucking cock and getting as much as action as possible, and sometimes you are forced to stretch the truth in order to get a rod shoved down your throat. Don't think for a second we weren't on to you. And John, if you continue to pull this bullshit on me, one day I might just pull the plug on my TV and you'll never see me again.

You can bother me with gossip and shit talk at:
newpornographer@hotmail.com