I would like to take back everything I said before

(CHAD, sitting at home in the middle of the day with MADDY at his side, picks up the phone and dials.)


NATALIE: Hello?

CHAD: Hi, Natalie?

NATALIE: Who’s this?

CHAD: Chad.

NATALIE: I’m sorry?

CHAD: Chad—the really funny, good-looking guy you met in the bar the other night.

NATALIE: Oh, right. Chad. Um, I’m sorry—but did you just quote a line from Good Will Hunting?

CHAD: I did, as a matter of fact! That’s funny. You saw that movie too? Weird!

NATALIE: I think everyone saw that movie. It made like a hundred million dollars. Plus I was dating Matt Damon for a few weeks in 2004.

CHAD: That's cool. I saw it with my mom and aunt Kathy when I was 16 at the Showcase Cinema in Norwood.

NATALIE: Oh.

CHAD: Then I saw it again with my sister on a Friday night at the AMC in Newport.

NATALIE: Mmm.

CHAD: I guess you could say I didn't do a lot of the "dating" in high school.

NATALIE: I went to a high school in Dubai at a seminary run by Tibetan monks.

CHAD: Seminary? That's a funny word!

NATALIE: I guess.

CHAD: I set the record for longest continuous in-school suspension at my high school.

NATALIE: Really? I'm an honorary spokesperson for the United Nations Council on Humanitarian Relief.

CHAD: One time when I was 18 I let my friends give me an enema.

NATALIE: Are you serious?

CHAD: Yep. Easiest seven dollars I ever made.

NATALIE: How did you get this number?

CHAD: How indeed. Listen, Natty, I wanted to talk to you about something. When we were talking the other night, I may have misunderestimated your interest in me.

NATALIE: Really.

CHAD: See, I thought that you, being incredibly hot and smart and disease-free, would scoff at the advances of a plebian like me. Then today I'm browsing the Internet.com and find that I was clearly mistaken.

NATALIE: What are you talking about? Are you talking about my relationship with Stefano?

CHAD: Oh God, it gets better. His name is Stefano?

NATALIE: Yes, that's his name. And he happens to be a very bril—

CHAD: WAIT! Don't tell me. I know. "He happens to be a very brilliant director." Is he a director? It's either director or writer. God I hope he's not a writer, because I was going to use that schtick myself.

NATALIE: Stefano is a cinematographer, not a writer.

CHAD: Or much of a dresser. Nice culottes, Vanessa.

NATALIE: Chad, why are you calling me?

CHAD: I've made a mistake, Natalie. I made a mistake in not boning you. And I want to make good of that mistake.

NATALIE: How? By boning me?

CHAD: That's right, Natalie.

NATALIE: I don't know what to say.

CHAD: If religion is an issue, I'm willing to negotiate becoming a Jew. Also, anal.

NATALIE: What?

CHAD: Nothing.

NATALIE: I have to go.

CHAD: Will you sing me the happy birthday song?

NATALIE: No.

CHAD: BUT IT'S OUR ANNIVERSARY.

NATALIE: Goodbye, Chad.

(Click.)

HOLY SHIT IT'S NATALIE PORTMAN

Alex had a birthday party at Tom and Jerry's on Sunday. For reasons unrelated to me or Alex, Natalie Portman showed up. Cognizant of the fact that I had no chance of fucking her, I elected to do the next best thing: annoy the shit out of her. And it went a little sumpin like this:



CHAD: Hi Natalie.

NATALIE: Hi.

CHAD: My name’s Chad.

NATALIE: Nice to meet you.

CHAD: I saw on TMZ that you only bang Jews. Is that true?

NATALIE: Excuse me?

CHAD: It’s fine if you do. Most people assume I’m Jewish because I’m circumcised and kind of want to have sex with my mother. You ever read Portnoy’s Complaint? It’s like an excerpt from my diary.

NATALIE: Yes. I was an English major at Yale. I really like Philip Roth.

CHAD: Not that I keep a diary. More of a dream journal.

NATALIE: That’s nice.

CHAD: But back to you and the Jews. Notice that I didn’t specify Jewish guys. It’s because I also saw on TMZ that my little NatPo don’t discriminate on gender.

(Silence.)

CHAD: So I guess I’ll just ask the obvious question here: do the chicks have to be Jewish too?

(NATALIE looks at her watch, then realizes she’s not wearing one.)

CHAD: Because let’s be honest, Natty: they’re pretty high maintenance girlfriends. I mean, they’re no Pakistanis—talk about funless lying cunts—but they’re pretty rough. By the third date they’re all, “So would you ever consider converting?” And I’m all like, “Whoa, easy, Finkelstein! Is this Hebrew camp?” God, don’t get me started on those Jewish breeding camps they send their teenagers to.

NATALIE: I’m actually Jewish, you know. I was born in Israel.

CHAD: That’s cool! I’m totally fine with that! I’m incredibly cheap!

NATALIE: I see.

CHAD: One good thing—hell, one great thing—about Jewish girls: they like the rough stuff in bed.

NATALIE: Really.

CHAD: I swear to God—sorry, I mean G-d—there was this one girl named Amanda who asked me to bring a Duraflame to bed. A fucking DURAFLAME. Like for the fireplace.

NATALIE: Yes, we Jews love Duraflames.

CHAD: And then of course I’m the cheap asshole because I show up with a book of matches and some newspaper.

NATALIE: I can’t imagine she was happy with that.

CHAD: It’s like, a burn is a fucking burn. Why be a label whore about it?

NATALIE: Yep.

CHAD: Boy, you're quite the conversationalist, Natalie. That Yale education really shines through in social settings like these.

NATALIE: Thank you.

CHAD: Speaking of Yale, I went to the University of Cincinnati. They use a clipboard and a sign-up sheet rather than a formal application process. So looks like we have something in common.

NATALIE: My grandmother lives in Cincinnati. I visit her there sometimes.

CHAD: Yeah. Well, it's a pretty Jewy town. I actually met you once while you were visiting there. True story: I was working at a coffee place in Hyde Park Square and you came in with your grandma. Everyone started making a big deal about the fact that Natalie Portman was there, so I turned to your grandma and said, "Wow, ma'am. Are you famous?" You giggled, then you ordered a latte.

NATALIE: Sure, I remember you.

CHAD: Don't bullshit me, Nat. It belittles us both. My point is this: I gave you that latte for free even though you and I both know you and your Grandma Weinstein could sure as fuck afford it. Now it's time to pay the piper and buy me a drink.

NATALIE: Excuse me?

CHAD: I would like a Jameson on ice in a glass, please. Plus whatever you want. Then I want you to pose for a picture on my camera phone so I can tell my coworkers that I fucked you in the bathroom.

(Silence.)

CHAD: THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FREE LATTE, NATALIE.

NATALIE: Fine.

(NATALIE puts ten dollars on the bar.)

CHAD: Thanks. I'll be honest: I would totally have done you in Beautiful Girls.



NATALIE: I was 15 when I made that movie.

CHAD: 15 like a fox.

NATALIE: It was nice meeting you, Chad.

CHAD: I'm single, you know. Just in case you were wondering.

NATALIE: Thanks.

CHAD: WILL YOU SING ME THE HAPPY BIRTHDAY SONG?

NATALIE: No.

(NATALIE exits.)

Episode II, in which Nadeer Khan retaliate against white devil for restore honor of Muslim wife so Mohammad can beat it out of her later

CHAD, unemployed and home alone while EMILY is at work, watches "The Departed" for the 74th time this month and wonders whether masturbating to a Matt Damon movie (again) is gay puts down his copy of James Joyce's Ulysses and pets MADDY lovingly.

(cell phone rings)

CHAD: Hello?

NADEER: DEATH TO THE INFIDEL!



CHAD: I'm sorry?

NADEER: GOD IS GREAT!

CHAD: Tommy?

NADEER: GOD IS GREAT!

CHAD: I think you have the wrong number. I'm hanging up now.

NADEER: No, no, don't! It's Nadeer Khan!

CHAD: Nadeer Khan, the future husband of my sexual-conquest-turned-cunt-of-an-ex-girlfriend?

NADEER: Speaking.

CHAD: Oh. Hi. How are you?

NADEER: Fine thanks. Listen, sorry about all that "God is great" stuff a second ago. They make us do that anytime we talk to white people.

CHAD: Ain't no thang. Just let me know if you have to do it again and I'll turn down my handset.

NADEER: Will do.

CHAD: So what up dog?

NADEER: Nothing really. Got engaged.

CHAD: I heard that. I think I might know the girl. Or at least I think I may have been fucking her from 2005 to 2006.

NADEER: Yeah, she's cool.

CHAD: Yeah, great. Listen, I just moved and I haven't had my mail forwarded yet, so let me give you my new address and you can get my invite on its way.

NADEER: Chad --

CHAD: In fact I just put my burka in the dryer on de-wrinkle, so I'm ready to rock this shit proper.

NADEER: Chad --

CHAD: And is it cool if I wear a big Catholic crucifix over top of it, Flavor Flav-style? I'm not religious, but still, players gots to represent! Hey-ohhh!

NADEER: Chad --

CHAD: HEY-OHHH!

NADEER: CHAD, YOU'RE NOT COMING TO THE WEDDING.

CHAD: Excuse me?

NADEER: I'm sorry.

CHAD: Is this because I'm Catholic?

NADEER: No, not entirely.

CHAD: What is it then, Nadeem?

NADEER: Nadeer.

CHAD: Right. Shoot me straight on this, Kazaam: Is this because I fucked your wife?

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: Is it because I fucked her in a variety of ways in variety of locations while wearing a variety of masks?

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: Is it because I have eczema?

NADEER: No.

CHAD: Is it because I could sketch, with police artist-precision, your wife's somewhat overgrown vagina?

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: Is it because you're afraid I'll tell the story of the time your wife and I were having dirty drunk sex and she puked all over the bed?

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: ...And how later that night, after I had changed the sheets, she peed all over herself, and the bed, and me?

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: Funny ending to that story: I had already changed the sheets once before she peed, and since I only had two sets of sheets I had to cover the bed in old t-shirts so we wouldn't be sleeping in puddles of your wife's piss and vomit.

NADEER: Yes, that is certainly a humorous image.

CHAD: Not to mention a whole lot of vaginal fluid. I mean she was really getting into things before she passed out, not to mention the fact that I was bringing my A-game that night. For me the key to drunk fucking is to drink beer, not bourbon, on nights when I know I'm getting sex -- or, on nights like that one, dirty fuckfest sex.

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: I mean the only thing that I didn't see coming out of your wife that night was poop, and knowing her she was about one cranberry vodka away from boarding that train.

NADEER: Certainly.

CHAD: Speaking of which, her preference for cranberry vodkas made it pretty, pretty hard to get her puke stains out of my clothes.

NADEER: I'm sure.

CHAD: And you know how cranberry juice is supposed to keep girls from getting UTIs? Well it doesn't do shit in the way of preventing yeast infections. Because your dumb bitch of a wife gets yeast infections like I get boners.

NADEER: I was not aware of that.

CHAD: WHAT?! How could you miss it?! Did you not see the half-empty tube of Vagisil standing front-and-center in her medicine cabinet? Hell, that thing is probably completely empty by now. Maybe that's how you missed it.

NADEER: Perhaps.

CHAD: Yeah, except she's certainly not shy about telling people about it. At least not me. Whenever she got a yeast infection she was all, "Don't even bother drinking tonight or giving me that 'let's-fuck' look, because I can't." Like I wanted to fuck an ointment-caked vagina anyway.

NADEER: No.

CHAD: I mean, I would, but it wouldn't be something I would like call people to brag about.

NADEER: Sure.

CHAD: And plus, it's not like I only drink so that I can fuck.

NADEER: Certainly not.

CHAD: I drink to black out -- or as I call it, "time travel."

NADEER: I've heard that.

CHAD: Believe me, if I fucked every time I drank, I'd be a lucky, lucky man.

NADEER: Yes.

CHAD: Can you imagine? I bet that's what it's like to be Matt Damon. Speaking of which, have you seen "The Departed" read Ulysses?

NADEER: No.

CHAD: Two words: Fuck-ing awe-some.

NADEER: Chad, listen --

CHAD: I mean, just the first twenty minutes pages of that movie book make me want to shoot my wad. And then the part where the Dropkick Murphys song dramatic foreshadowing kicks in? Fucking rockin'.

NADEER: I have to go.

CHAD: I would suck Matt Damon's cock. James Joyce is good at writing books.

NADEER: Chad, please refrain from calling my wife in the future. Yesterday's conversation really upset her.

CHAD: Whatever. I'll call when I want. Like when I'm drunk. Or fucking. Plus, if she really wanted to be rid of me she'd change her phone number.

NADEER: She has. Twice.

CHAD: Yeah, well I'm fucking awesome at Googling shit.

NADEER: Please stop, Chad.

CHAD: Of course, this isn't the first time I've Googled your wife, if you know what I mean. HEY-OHHH!

NADEER: Goodbye, sir.

CHAD: Hey, brain surgeon, next time call from a private number. Now I'm gonna call you every time I jerk off to thoughts of your wife.

NADEER: GOD IS GREAT!

CHAD: Fuck you, Ahmed.

(click)

An imagined drunken telephone conversation between me and a whore I used to date and for whom I once moved to a new city like a faggot

CHAD dials a phone number.

WHORE: (like a whore) Hello?

CHAD: Are you getting married?

WHORE: What?

CHAD: Who is Nadeer Khan?

WHORE: Chaddy?

CHAD: Chad's dead. Nevermind who this is. This is Nadeer Khan.

WHORE: No it's not.

CHAD: Are you fucking Nadeer Khan right now? Are you guys fucking in his Sebring?

WHORE: Chad, have you been talking to Dave?

CHAD: Dave's dead. Fuck Dave. Or did you already do that? Did you fuck Dave until he died?

WHORE: What?

CHAD: You fucking heard me.

WHORE: Chad, you're not making any sense.

CHAD: Not making any sense like a fox.

WHORE: Chad, stop.

CHAD: Because if you and Nazeem are fucking then I fucking hope he can get it up right away. Because God fucking forbid that one time -- ONE FUCKING TIME -- a guy can't get it up after he'd had a lot to drink and has a lot on his mind. God fucking forbid a guy need ten seconds to work up a good boner before you start yelling at him and texting your fucking friends about how your boyfriend is fucking impotent.

WHORE: Chad, I never --

CHAD: Because it's only called impotence when it's a chronic problem, okay? A guy is impotent when he can never get it up. When it happens one time after a night of drinking bourbon, that's called just fucking nature. What about all those other times when I made it fucking rain orgasms? Where were the text messages to your slut friends those times?

WHORE: Chad, I'm going to hang up.

CHAD: Good, I fucking wish you would. And after that stop calling me, because I'm fucking sick of it. I've fucking moved on. I'm with a white girl now, a fucking hot-ass white girl with a normal fucking name and a normal amount of body hair who listens to normal fucking white people music.

WHORE: Chad, I saw you at the Walkmen concert two months ago. Isn't that white people music?

CHAD: I FUCKING TOLD YOU ABOUT THE WALKMEN! I FUCKING INTRODUCED YOU TO THEM! THE WALKMEN ARE MINE! GIVE ME BACK MY FUCKING WALKMEN!

WHORE: Fine, you can have the Walkmen.

CHAD: Damn right I can. No more Walkmen shows for you. Stay home and fuck Nadeem.

WHORE: Nadeer.

CHAD: Who?

WHORE: His name is Nadeer.

CHAD: Great. Congratulations. Hope you don't ever catch Miguel jerking off in your bed, because God knows that's against the fucking rules.

WHORE: Chad, that was disgusting.

CHAD: YOU WERE ON YOUR PERIOD!

WHORE: I don't want to talk about this. I'm hanging up now.

CHAD: Wait. What about my t-shirt?

WHORE: What t-shirt?

CHAD: MY FUCKING WILCO T-SHIRT, THE ONE YOU STOLE LIKE A FUCKING GYPSY!

WHORE: I'll look for it. Look, I really have to go now.

CHAD: Yeah, well if you find it, swing by my mom's house and drop it off. I'm sure my family has some shit they'd like to say to you. So does my dog.

WHORE: I'll do that.

CHAD: Are you going to wear white at your wedding? Man I sure hope not.

WHORE: It's a Muslim wedding, Chad. I'm going to wear red.

CHAD: Fucking backwards Chinamen. There was one of your kind speaking at Columbia this week. I won't tell you how that went.

WHORE: Goodbye, Chad.

CHAD: Don't forget: t-shirt.

(click)

My ex-girlfriend is a real cunt

I just found out from my friend Cool Dave that my ex-girlfriend is getting married in two months to some brown-like-me cocktorian named Nadeer Khan. This puts her wedding less than one year after we broke up, which if you do the math leads to a pretty obvious conclusion:

MY EX-GIRLFRIEND IS A DIRTY, GODLESS WHORE.


I think my last car insurance agent was named Nadeer Khan. He probably sells pharmaceuticals and drives a Chrysler Sebring and makes $75,000 a year. Maybe now that she's getting married I can get back my Wilco t-shirt and Stephen Malkmus CDs. Bitch.

Maddy is throwing up yellow shit all over the carpet. I have to go.

Fuckhole Manhattanites Can Suck My Cock

When Alex recommended that I fire up the old blog machine again, he described its theme as "country mouse's adventures in the big city" or some bullshit like that. I told him he was a fucking asshole for referring to me as a "country mouse," then he apologized and I disregarded the whole conversation the way I do all conversations conducted on IM. (It is hands-down the gayest communication medium in the entire universe -- gayer than text messaging, and text messaging is so fucking gay it makes me want to lynch.)

(Maddy just farted. I shouldn't have let her eat that Caesar salad yesterday. Man, that's fucking gross. Hang on while I berate her. There. Back to the story.)

The other night I was at a bar. It's Alex's neighborhood bar, and it's a very good one. The bartenders are nice, PBR is $3, and it's not the sort of place where you generally find any jerkholes or assfaces. I had already had a lot to drink and was on the fast train to Vomitburg, PA, which is not my favorite destination this or any time of year. I was standing at the bar preparing to place a beverage order when a cockfuck in a dress shirt and Elvis Costello glasses put his hand on my shoulder.

"Where are you from?" he said, fucking pretentious as shit.

"What?"

"Where are you from?"

(Even though I was drunk, I knew where this was going. And I didn't like it one fucking bit. So yes, my voice may taken on an edge of sarcastic condescension at this point.)

"I'm from Ohio," I said.

He chuckled, fucklike. "Figures. Look, when you're here in the City, you don't do shit like that."

"Do what?"

"You just bumped into me. We don't do that around here."

(At this point I am already fucking insensed. He's already done several things that qualify him for douche status in my book: he spoke ill of my home state, he assumed he was smarter than me, and he implied that his long-term residence in a large, expensive city somehow made him more socially erudite than anyone from anywhere else, in this case me. Wrong, Fagnum.)

"I didn't bump into you." (Maybe I did, but after the way he approached me there was no fucking way I was going to admit it.)

"Yes you did, and around here we don't do that."

"And who are you? Kid Manhattan?"

"What?"

"Look, I'm sorry if I jostled your Eurotrash glasses. I'm sure if you take them back to Chelsea they'll be more than happy to do a free adjustment for you."

At this point someone stepped in and apologized to the guy or just told me to shut up -- Alex, I think. And he was probably doing me a huge favor, because I was drunk and this guy, like most people, could probably beat me in a fight. But that's not the point. That's never the point. I've had my ass kicked by plenty of barroom fuckholes, and this guy wouldn't have even cracked the top five. I woke up the next morning angry that I hadn't hit him when I had the chance, or at least been more abusively sarcastic with him to the point that he wanted to hit me. ("Yeah, I was wondering who was playing all that Maroon 5 on the jukebox.") I would've derived real satisfaction from that. But I also probably would've had facial bruising for my interview the following Monday, and that would have been bad. So on that level Alex did me a very big favor. And Emilly, too -- she also told me I was being stupid. But next time someone in a bar has something to say about me or Ohio, I'm going to straight cap a bitch.

Jamba Juice Can Suck My Cock

I had a pretty shitty day yesterday, so I decided to make it a little worse by having my first-ever Jamba Juice. For those of you who are lucky enough to have never had the Jamba Juice, heed me well: Jamba Juice is a fucking billion-dollar pyramid scheme perpetrated on young people with disposable income. I don't really have disposable income, so I get doubly fucked for dropping my six bucks on what amounts to a styrofoam cup full of frozen orange juice. What a fucking crock of shit.

On top of it all, each Jamba Juice (which, by the way, is a fittingly faggoty name for a company that peddles such a bullshit product) comes with what's called a "boost" -- some bullshit scoop of powder that purports to give you whatever combination of amino acids will supposedly help make your cock work better these days. Anyway, I had my choice of several bullshit "boosts": fiber, energy, prostate, ecstacy, lithium, lead, cocaine, iPod, etc. On the advice of my hot friend Lindsay (more on her later, if you're lucky), I went with the femme boost, which I guess is supposed to help support a healthy vagina or put milk in your boobs or something. It's been 24 hours since my femme boost and I haven't seen shit in the results department. In hindsight I should've gotten the fiber boost, because at least then I would've gotten a good poop out of it. Jamba Juice can shave my taint.