Pants on Fire By Sean Conforti

Pants on Fire By Sean Conforti

I was sitting on the shitter the other day with my boxers around my knees, cell phone snugly resting in the crotch playing my Jurassic Park Builder app.  It was all going fine, I was fairly sure I was going to get the right amount of poo particles on my phone screen to give myself a healthy dose of pink-eye (makes me look like a pirate, pirates are fucking cool.)  Normally, I’d get my pink-eye via anal sex and eating ass, but it’s been a slow few months.

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Never Again - An Edible Marijuana Horror Story

Never Again - An Edible Marijuana Horror Story

“Never again” is a phrase that you should utter with decreasing frequency as you mature: You should learn from your mistakes.  When you’re a kid, the world is full of sparkly phenomena, and you have not yet accrued enough disappointments to employ skepticism in investigating the seemingly endless sources of sparkle.  When you’re nine-years-old, for instance, you may not have yet learned that candied apples are detestable pieces of shit.

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The Los Angeles Food & Wine Festival by Jacob Shelton

The Los Angeles Food & Wine Festival by Jacob Shelton

Everyone in the pork tent is dressed to the nines, or rather, their version of being dressed to the nines. From my vantage point near a slowly revolving al pastor cyclone I try to count the number of salmon bow ties, tweed suit jackets, and cool linen suits topped off with tennis shoes, but it’s a futile endeavor. Everyone is whispering about Alton Brown’s egg tutorial that’s taking place later in the evening. “He’s coming,” they say. When I was given a free ticket to cover the Los Angeles Food & Wine Festival I assumed it would be an easy in and out gig where I could cobble together a free dinner made up of slightly upscale street cart food, get drunk, and walk home, but instead I’m standing by a spinning tower of meat, and trying to find the clearest path to an exit. I’ll make something up once I get home. It’s not like I didn’t try to cover the festival. This just isn’t the place for me, and I’ve already used up my two drink tickets. None of the other writers covering the event seem to know where the gratis tent for journalists is hidden, and there are rumors floating around about someone from the LA Times being sent out on a stretcher after they were tasered within an inch of their life for bringing in a flask.

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10 Rules for Being Trash By Sean Conforti

10 Rules for Being Trash By Sean Conforti

10.  Make sure that your car is an ecosystem.  Coffee cups, moldy mason jars, sun-bleached parking passes, a small beetle infestation.  The beetles, or something like them, are key.  You want shit crawling on people who enter your car, because then they are also trash, and you are not alone.  One of us, one of us, one of us.

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A Joke by Nick Murray

A Joke by Nick Murray

A struggling trio group of musicians decide to self-inflict a handicap to heighten their other senses and improve their playing. The first member gouges out his eyeballs. The second member cuts off his ears. The third member slices off his ball sack. The first two members get mad at number three for not following the instructions correctly. However, after having attempted to play music upon their first set as a maimed trio, it appears that player three is the only one to have progressed...and not just by a little, tenfold.

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When you're not the Popular Roomate Anymore By Brian Thompson

When you're not the Popular Roomate Anymore By Brian Thompson

I’ve lost the reign of “King Swinging Dick” in my household. We all live in a huge house together and I was once the golden child of my 14 roommates lives when I came home. They were like hungry little puppies yearning for attention and lapping up every stupid story I would bring home. What was work like? Who was that girl you brought over last week? Can you drive me to the pharmacy to get my prescription filled?

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Floating Eyes Under Los Angeles

Floating Eyes Under Los Angeles

I paint graffiti. I paint graffiti but not in a way you’d expect. Instead of hitting the streets, tagging my name on walls and billboards I go underground. Many people don’t know this but Los Angeles, as well as every city, has tunnels running under it. No, these aren’t sewers carrying LA citizens precious excrement away from their toilets, these are the tunnels that take rain water from the mountains and bring it to the sea. So I go into these tunnels, underground, and I paint.

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