An Excerpt From Who Is Montezuma And Why Does He Take Revenge On My Asshole?

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I’m standing in line, waiting, on my way home from the bar, subtly swaying back and forth with my feet planted like cinder blocks at the bottom of the lake. It could be a minor pee-pee dance or just something to keep me distracted from the spins – I’m not entirely sure at this point. I’m just trying to maintain my composure. It’s almost my turn to order. I’m watching the couple in front of me, their arms intertwined with each other’s bodies as they order their food by numbers. They complete the transaction and move aside. It’s my turn.

 I step up. I watch the hair on the cashier’s upper lip dace as he moves his mouth, but I can’t make out the words he’s forming. “Chalupas,” I say, leaning on the counter, jamming my first in my pocket to scrounge up the loose change.

 He rings me up and I step aside. Transaction completed. I’m next to the Siamese couple, the one interlocked by tentacles of appendages. They’re laughing, talking, kissing. Hissing in each other’s ears like writhing snakes in a hotel bar. They’re in love; I envy them. They get their food and just like that they’re gone.

The cashier tells me my order is up and I take the bag. I sit down and eat immediately because if I don’t I’d probably pass out. What Taco Bell has so cleverly dubbed “fourth meal” is my first meal of the day. Food, if anything is hardly a convenience. They say it’s a necessity of life, but I’ve found you can get by without it. I’ve adopted an alternative list of life’s necessities. Then, if I can afford, it’s hard to make room in the budget for the human desideratum.

 The tacos go down as smoothly as spoiled milk. With every bite, I think about that story of the lady who hatched a herd of cockroaches in her mouth after eating Taco Bell. I swallow the last of the poor-grade meat and sour cream squeezed from a tube and play basketball with my wrappers and the trashcan shouting “Kobe” upon release, missing entirely.

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Terrible Fucking Advice With Murdock St. James

Sexual intellectual, Murdock St. James is back with his semi-monthly offering of sex tips, cunnilingus concepts, and anal advice. Instead of sitting down for an interview like he promised, the author of An Evening With You and Your Genitals and Murdock St. James was kind enough to send Kill Pretty a text message with 10 sex tips that he thought our readers would appreciate.

  1. Only use the terms “mommy” and “daddy” sparingly, specifically when you’re fucking your mommy or your daddy.

  2. Refer to your underwear as “the place where boners sleep.”

  3. The TSA can’t get mad at you for fucking in airport if you do it in the X-Ray scanner.

  4. It’s technically cyber sex if you leave your laptop on your bed while you get weird.

  5. Put your girlfriend in a rubber mask. Then put yourself in a rubber mask. Then put your mother in a rubber mask. And then have sex I guess.

  6. Refer to your bedroom as the “fuck palace” or “boner world” if you never want to have sex again.

  7. Twisting your penis up with three or more penises is what’s known as a “Vine Compilation.”

  8. Twisting your penis up with three or more penises belonging to guys named Vince is what’s known as a “Vince Compilation.”

  9. If their SAT scores are below 700 then don’t fuck them. Is that low? High? I actually haven’t taken the SATs.

  10. Eat a peach after sex if you want to get covered in even more juice.

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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