These are the essays that first drew me the attention of the Internet.
I’m embarrassed by many of them.
Thing is, I wrote most of these over a decade ago – back when my intent was to shock and to revulse. I’m not ashamed of them, for I believe in revealing myself honestly, warts and all – but in transferring these entries into WordPress, it struck me how childish many of these were written, how attention-seeking. Some are still quite good, but those tend to be the more personal entries about my life – or the stories I genuinely lived, as opposed to op-eds written to appeal to raunchy college students.
I’m not taking them down. But I am posting them in order of quality – the further down this page, the worse they get.
So. Enter at your own risk, my friends. These are offensive entries; if you choose to read them, you do so at your own risk.
And yes: all of these stories are true.
The Night I Hired A Hooker (and its corollary article How To Hire A Hooker (Or Prostitute, Or Masseuse, Or Whatever))
Proving that there is nothing simple that The Ferrett cannot fuck up, witness the day that The Ferrett tries to get a massage from an Oriental masseuse… And discovers she really likes his hair. What the fuck?
The most cockamamie scheme for catching a shit-smearing criminal that any New Yorker could ever have come up with.
Shit is worn out, fuck is played… Is “Rapist” the curse of the future?
The street corner was cold; not bitterly, bone-freezing cold, but a frosty chill still crept under my threadbare jean jacket. My hand shivered erratically as I thrust it out at passing strangers, asking for change, desperately trying to scrape up five bucks for a nickel bag of stem-choked pot. And I thought: Jeez, this is a hell of a way to pick up a homeless chick.
In which I tell the saga of Lee Larchevik, a terminal failure in biology class but a raging success at stand-up performance art involving dead animals. You could say that he was a real cut-up! Ah ha ha!
I couldn’t play the grownup long enough to draw a distinction between “That’s acceptable, if worrisome, behavior” and “That is right out.” I needed something to calm down and establish authority. Some kind of tool…And Paxil was it. But it wasn’t the only tool, and I would have destroyed myself if I’d let it stop at that.
The day I had to kill my son.
This was originally posted as some help to the sadly departed EchoStation.com, but I decided to immortalize it because, well…. It’s all true. You can debate this as much as you like, but I am actually positive that if you follow these nineteen rules, you’ll be a lot happier.
I twirled my toy lightsaber and whacked the ceiling by mistake. I fought with my uncle, who leaned on his cane… And with one leg and one blade, he beat the living crap out of me. So I asked myself: How could Darth Maul have been such a badass with this awkward thing? What kind of weapon was this?
In my LiveJournals, I have written deep and meaningful paeans to my wife. So why not give you an in-depth analysis of why I can’t pee on my wife?
Why The Ferrett thinks that J.R.R. Tolkien, the writer, absolutely sucks ass chunks.
One of the more bizarre articles I’ve ever written, this is nevertheless absolutely true. Well, mostly true. I tell you about the one thing I lied about, okay? Includes the classic line: “When JFK died, he had both tragedies; a whole Presidency before him and a whole brain behind him, all over his wife’s dress.”
Untalented performers. Twisted ankles. Football teams that never won. Until now, this story was only told in hushed rumors at parties where I was getting drunk and everyone else was too wasted to tell me they’d heard it before. But now – through the magic of Intarwebz technology – you can know the terror of Southern Connecticut and the Beach Boys!
The carpet in our apartment was a complete mystery to us, shielded by the layer of garbage that had drifted down over it, like a new-fallen snow composed of magazines and old clothing. We walked from bed to bathroom without ever touching shag, adopting a rolling gait to accommodate the way the capricious layers of the impromptu “floor” might slip out from under us. I lived in hell.
The first stage is realizing; understanding gradually that someone is seeking us. We’ve blinded ourself to a certain extent; if we guys were going to be dead honest about other people’s motivations all the way through, we wouldn’t have any fun. So we’ll take the backrubs and the smiles.
An in-depth (uh huh huh, Beavis) discussion on the gentler parts of the female anatomy.
Genital piercings are a great reason to get women to look at your dick. After all, you can’t talk about your penis unless it’s a fourteen-incher – and if you do, what the hell are you doing here reading this? Go out and fuck something, for Christ’s sake.
Sometimes it’s a sad lament, as she discusses how things used to be good, but now he’s so different and she doesn’t know what happened to them. Sometimes it’s just pure anger mainlined straight from the heart, an acidic stream of vitriol as she catalogues this guy’s many flaws, most of which concern his sexual inadequacy. Her complaints all have one thing in common, though: If you were a stranger eavesdropping on the conversation, you’d swear that they were talking about an ex-boyfriend. They’re so distressed and angry about this guy that you would not think that they were still together.
I tell you what languages you should be speaking – English. But you can’t get a college degree without yammering on for at least a year in some heathen tongue. Possibly one of my finest moments ever, and certainly the only one to be censored.
I am such a monstrously egotistic moron that the fact I won’t get to tell anyone what it’s like is far more distressing than death itself. This should tell you something about me.
It’s been fourteen years and the wound still seeps occasionally, like a cigarette burn on my heart. I still miss her. Occasionally, I type her name into search engines, the only name I can type as quickly as my own.
Hunter Thompson I ain’t, folks. He would have gotten a babe. Me, I got drunk and went home lonely. And yet you can laugh about it through the transubstantiation of humiliation into anecdotes!
Includes the now-classic line, “Sinks full of dishes. Dishwashers. Houseplants. People’ shoes. Bowls of potato chips. Aquariums. These are all places you shouldn’t throw up in. But you probably have.”
My wedding vows. Very powerful in context, but I’ve written better things about my wife since then. Who is the best thing to ever happen to me.
I’m sure Softkiss has a face, but in my mind’s eye she is nothing but a pair of sagging breasts. I’ve chatted with Thickandsexy’s surprisingly witty vagina any number of times, and TJRawks is as engaging as a speaking penis gets. Faces are rare in swinger chat rooms.
On a whim, I placed an ad on a swingers’ site – well, I had to. They wouldn’t let me look at dirty pictures otherwise. But the results I got from wifeswappers everywhere were amazing….
In an ideal world, my awareness of tampons would be tangential. I’d know that they existed, of course, and that served some useful Glo-Mop service, but I’d never be privy to the full details. But thanks to the wonders of Madison Avenue, the tampon commercials have been ramping up in intensity, broadcasting TMFI straight into my brain. Please stop that.
Another classic involving all-true, all-humiliating stories. Witness The Ferrett forgetting how to eat when he gets stoned! See the Ferrett paying twenty dollars for a single candy bar… Over the course of forty minutes! Gasp as the Ferrett blows his chance at the Supreme Court!
Much like this particular web page, I’m bloated. But whereas this page is bloated with an excess of words, I am stuffed full of Pop Tarts. What the fuck is wrong with me? Film at eleven.