Category Archives: Lame Cunts

I wanna be this guy.

Look at how great he looks at age 40 here. I saw him in 1981, or yesterday, at the Palladium in Los Angeles. I’d been drinking, smoking dope and sniffing coke, and I was high as a fucking kite. There were beautiful women and young chicks everywhere, real friendly too.

The concert opened rather suddenly. I was with a friend of mine, or my worst enemy, or someone…

I was working as an editor of a magazine at the time. I told some of the girls in the office that I was going to see Iggy Pop, and one girl wanted to go with me. She asked if she could go with me.

Then she took it back, “No way. My boyfriend will kill me.” He was a redneck macho fucker with a great big truck. The office girl was hot, 24, big tits, nice looking. Her best friend was screwing the magazine artist, F. They would go out for two-hour lunches every day and come back with big smiles on their faces.

My boss was a faggot who kept trying to fuck me. He kept buying me lunches all the time. I got my paycheck and tried to pay him back, and he flipped out and started screaming and yelling. “I didn’t buy you those lunches so you could pay me back!” I guess he wanted me to pay him back on my knees or something. The perverted asshole eventually fired me because I wouldn’t suck his dick or whatever he wanted me to do to.

He was sure I was queer for some stupid reason. It was sort of my fault for doing the Mick Jagger (No wait! Iggy Pop-androgynous) thing I guess. If he had eyes, he could have figured out I wasn’t.

Fags don’t look at women. This is the dead giveaway for queers everywhere. There were all these beautiful women in the office hanging coming around my cubicle all the time for this and that. The queer acted like they were part of the walls or the floor or the furniture. They may as well have not even been there. Furthermore, the fag looked at me like I was a Filet Mignon medium rare.

There was another guy in the office, from Europe, macho but sort of faggy in some weird way. He acted like he would screw anything if he was loaded enough. He was dating some Black chick. Sometimes he was my best friend, sometimes he was tearing me up and insulting me to my face. In other words, a typical hyper-competitive super-aggressive young male weenie. He used to trash-talk me for being a pothead. Then he would come buy pot off me. What an ass.

One time in the lunchroom he took me aside and told me the best high of all was speed, injected directly into your arm, preferably after 9 or 10 drinks. This guy wore a jacket and tie to work in an office every time. I tell ya, dopers are everywhere. This guy shoots fucking speed after drinking himself under the table, but I’m a loser for smoking dope.

As you can see, young males are sort of hopeless, so, assuming chicks like you, just shine on the Y chromosomes and hang with the ladies.

After a while, I quit eating with the fag and the other idiot males in the office and just ate lunch with the office girls every day. Back in those days, I was said to be very good looking (male model type). Now I’m old and ugly, but it was fun at the time.

If you’re a guy and you look that good, and if you’re very pretty, most people just assume you’re a fag anyway. You can try to screw your way out of your public image, but even after scores of hot chicks, it’s kind of useless. Usually you get this wonderful consolation prize called, “Wow! Now we know you’re bisexual and we really love you for that!” Damn. I will return that prize, thank you.

Back in those days, a lot of guys always seemed like they either wanted to have sex with me or kick my ass, or a lot of times, oddly enough, both at the same time. I’m telling you, we’re Cavemen. Strip off the Calvin Kleins, give us a bearskin and a club, and we’re the same.

If you’re like that, you may as well learn to love women (They’re not that bad after all) and just hang around chicks all the time. Young men are idiots anyway. All they want to do is fight and fuck, and they often aren’t getting enough. Just hang around chicks all the time, and pretty soon, the less idiotic of the guys will try to make friends with you just so they can join you hanging with the chicks.

What could go wrong hanging around with chicks all the time? Nothing really.

Only a couple of things you need to know. One, make the ground rules clear. No woman, not one, is ever safe with you, not even for one minute. You’re a million times better than her faggot friends who she loves for their harmlessness. In order to differentiate yourself from them, you must be dangerous. Sexually dangerous. At all times. And don’t ever let em forget it.

In addition, I would be mysterious. If you’re out of luck, don’t ever let them know you aren’t getting any. Just be Mr. Mystery With a History. As soon as they find out you aren’t getting any, none of them will want you. If they ask, say, “None of your Goddamned business,” and laugh at them. Say, “Well, I’m not a virgin,” “There’s usually a woman or two in my life. Sometimes one, sometimes more than one, sometimes none. Life is interesting.”

If they ask why you don’t talk about your dates, say, “I’m a secretive guy. I don’t talk about that stuff.” Then when you start dating someone, don’t tell them. Just act the same as ever. If you have a good history of good game, talk about it in the past tense, as if you are talking about drinking water or something, very calm and non-bragging, as if you are embarrassed.

You just need to learn how to act around chicks. You can even talk dirty to them, touch them, grab them. But you need to learn to read body language. Know when the lights are red, yellow, green and changing, and act accordingly.

…It was November 1981, or long ago in another world, and I was wasted at the Palladium. There were all these hot, barely legal rock and roll chickies in Spandex and not wearing a lot of anything. It wasn’t exactly a punk crowd. It was more of a Runaways crowd.

Suddenly there was movement on the stage. Spiderman! Spiderman was running around the stage with a mike, singing something. Who the fuck was that? No one knew.

“That’s him!” I shouted to my friend, who was way more wasted than I was, and was also just starting to recover from the throes of a violent manic-depressive psychosis…

…A few months earlier, he had burned holes in his arm with a cigarette.

“Don’t do that!” I had screamed.

“I can’t feel pain. I feel no pain,.” he had shrugged, shaking the shaggy, puppy-dog hair out of his eyes.

I had accompanied my buddy to a meeting with his psychiatrist. He wanted some moral support.

“I live off hate,” I said. It was the punk era, and that was a cool thing to say. “I love hate. It gives me energy. It makes me live. Makes me get up in the morning. Gets me right out of bed. Gimme some of that hate! It’s life juice!” I almost leaped up in the shrink’s office. The shrink was looking at me like I was seriously disturbed.

My friend jumped up. “See? Even my friends are sick! Look at how sick they are! And they call me sick!” He pointed to me: “He worships the Devil!” Then he jumped out off the couch and ran out of the mental health center and across six lanes of heavy traffic at 3 PM, dodging cars all the way.

The shink looked at me with these eyes, like wells, with thousands of years of sadness in them. Neither of us knew what to say.

I told the shrink I had a Kabbalah Tree of Life on my wall and black candles on the shelves. Weirdest thing about that Tree of Life. Everyone who walked into the room stopped in their tracks and stared at it.

I got my buddies together and chanted evil curses against my enemies and carried magic talismans, like amulets, ankhs and crosses, in my pocket. I rubbed them all the time, took them out and flashed them in chicks’ eyes to freak them out and spellbind them, to spread the magick around, brainwash chicks and try to get laid.

“I’m not nuts. I’m just into magick. Is that ok?” The shrink nodded his head solemnly.

The diagnosis of my friend was “manic depression with schizophrenic overtones.” This was the era of “Family Systems Therapy,” and the family was making my friend nuts. Really the guy’s brain was having some sort of a brownout or hard drive crash. Either that or there was spaghetti code in his brain that needed a serious rewrite.

A month earlier my buddy had smashed a bathroom window at his parent’s house and climbed in the window. He was bleeding and wrote Helter Skelter on the mirror as a joke to freak out his folks.

His folks called me, alarmed. I told them  it was a joke. They didn’t believe me. Cops were getting called all the time. There were wild fights in the living room. Hell, it must have been a barrel of laughs at that place!…

…”No way! That’s Spiderman!”

“That’s him! That’s Iggy Pop! Iggy Pop is Spiderman!” I was laughing so hard I almost fell over.

Indeed, the maniac was running around the stage, dressed in a Goddamned Spiderman suit. It was Iggy Pop! This was the Party tour, and Iggy was 34 years old. I don’t remember much else about it, but the show was great.

Back then, Iggy Pop was still extremely underground. No one had really heard of him all that much. He was pretty subversive, underground, druggy and forbidden.

He’s always been one of the best. Party was a great album. So is The Idiot and Lust For Life. The Stooges, Fun House and Raw Power are all great albums. Raw Power is one of the best albums ever made.

Metallic K.O. is insane; it’s a total mess. You can hear beer bottles flying and all sorts of insane stuff. It’s pretty cool though in a bizarre way. The Stooges were extremely underground, even in the early 1980’s. They were always one of those love em or hate em bands. Most people had just never heard of em.

At 60, Pop has several injuries in his body. He dislocated his shoulder and has lost a lot of cartilage in his hip. Both knees are near shot. He was cramped on economy air flights all the time, and then he took a fall dancing on a fucking amplifier. Now his spine is twisted.

The drug days are in the past. When the Stooges were being formed, around 1969, the 22 year old Pop and the rest of the band was frying on acid all the time. It was the era, you know. Later, in the mid-Seventies, Pop was on heroin, as was the rest of the band. So he spent much of his 20’s on heroin, from 1970-1975 at least.

The drug days mostly ended 20 years ago, around age 40. By age 51, in 1998, he had snorted his last line of coke and smoked his last jay. The heroin was over by age 36, in 1983.

He has an exotic light-skinned Black model babe for girlfriend like his old friend David Bowie. She’s half his age of course. He lives in Miami Beach where he tools around in a Rolls Royce. He’s got life dicked, as my surfer-stoner friends used to say, growing up on the beach.

In an interview at age 56, his model-babe girlfriend was 31, and he was fucking her 10 times a week. Hell with this “dirty old man” shit! Down with Viagra jokes. You tell em, Iggy!

Iggy met his girlfriend 12 years ago in Miami Beach, in 1998. He was tooling along, and he saw her with a friend, both knockouts. The went into a pizza joint and Iggy went into the joint next door to look at them. Iggy admits he has no game when it comes to picking up chicks. He can only get them once they figure out who he is, then they all line and take numbers up to fuck the big hot shot rock star.

Iggy was in his car and they came out of the pizza joint, and he asked them if they wanted a ride. They’ve been together ever since.

He was 48 and she was 23. You see, if an ordinary 48 year old guy makes a play for a 23 year old woman, United Cunts of America, millions of cunts strong, stands up and screams that he’s a pervert, a creep, a weirdo and a dirty old man.

But if Iggy Pop does it, it’s suddenly ok because he’s a millionaire. In which case, I guess a lot of the legions of United Cunts of America seamlessly morphs into United Whores of America and lines up to screw the Ig.

Iggy has a great big huge dick, not that I’m interested. It was legendary. He wore pants that showed off the boa constrictor as part of his image. He used to whip it out on stage for various reasons and non-reasons. Once he laid it on top of an amplifier and let the amp vibrate it. Another time a fan leaped up on stage during a show and gave him a blowjob. The stories never end.

Back in the day, Iggy needed a stick to fight them off. After a typical show, Iggy would have five girls with him heading back to his place. He would call women up, give them a time to come over. They would show up, he would have sex with them, and he would tell them to leave. They would leave, smiling. Some guys have it tough.

The Pedophile Mass Hysteria Losers may be interested to know that of course Iggy is a Pedo too, like many fine upstanding citizens. At age 21, he married a 14 year old girl. Then he knocked her up and had a kid with her. Nowadays, that qualifies for Pedophile.

A bit before that, maybe around age 18-19, he had a 13 year old girlfriend, and yes it was consummated. Now he’s a fucking Pedo for sure! Iggy gets the Roman Polanski Seal of Approval for that starring role.

Despite what you think of rock stars, Iggy was frequently Impotent during much of the 1980’s and 1990’s. He doesn’t give a reason. Interesting that even famous guys often Can’t get it up.

Pop has published an article in a journal of classical scholarship, Classics Ireland (1995). I always knew he was a brain. Just like Mick Jagger and David Bowie, you just know those guys have high IQ’s.

One more thing! Anti-Semites, this means you! Iggy Pop is not Jewish. Old legend, due to his name, James Osterberg. He’s actually Norwegian.