Pinkerton's Weblog

Five Reasons Hilary Duff Probably Digs Me

Reason Hillary Duff Probably Digs Me #1:
I've heard nothing to the contrary

This much is true—I have yet to hear a single thing about Hillary Duff not being completely into me. And of course I find that flattering. Not that I'm attracted to Hillary Duff in the least, of course. After all, Hillary Duff is only sixteen, and in many states technically a minor; and because I believe in nothing else if not justice, I find Hillary Duff as approximately sexually charged as a pile of ham. Those disgusting pert breasts of hers, that tight little sixteen-year-old bottom? Please. you couldn't pay me enough to to bounce a quarter off that flat, smooth, tanned stomach of hers.

Not that this has stopped Hillary. Because, as mentioned earlier, I've been given no reason to presume that Hillary Duff doesn't want me, I am left with no other conclusion that, in fact, she most likely wants me pretty bad. Otherwise why keep it such a secret?

The poor girl's got a crush in a bad way. And while of course I lust after her not even slightly, ripe, nubile young sixteen-year-old that she is, I'm nonetheless flattered that she holds me in such high regard. No doubt she's practicing writing "Hillary Pinkerton" over and over again in her diary, with big swirly loops and hearts over the i's. And someday, when she's perfectly ocmpletely legal in every state, we'll have a drink, and I'll show her my diary with "Jay Duff" written over and over again with big swirly loops and hearts over the d's, and oh, the laughs we'll have. Oh, the drinks we'll also have. Oh, how drunk she'll get. But mostly the laughter.

Until then, consider me forbidden fruit, Ms. Duff. All the hearted i's in the world won't change that, even ten million hearted i's. Do well to remember that.

 

Reason Hillary Duff Probably Digs Me #2:
Chicks dig suave, mysterious guys

And let me tell you, I've got suaveness and mystery coming out my goddamn ass. Mysterious? How many guys keep smoke capsules on their belt? If you said "no guys," you'd be wrong by precisely one stud: me.

Orginally I did it because I wanted to turn my boring regular belt into Batman's utility belt — but it turns out drugstores won't sell you industrial-grade chemical solvents once they find you you plan to pour them into old prescription bottles and duct tape them to a big cool belt. Then they tend to ask you why you're duct taping anything to your belt. And not nicely. Accusingly. And eventually they get really accusing and mean, and you cry a little, and you tell them you were only going to throw it at people for the purposes of administering justice.

They won't listen.

Anyway, even though I had to scrap 90% of my original utility belt plans, I still managed to get a miniature flashlight and some smoke capsules. Well, blood capsules. Even so, these items still rocket the belt up to 10% utility; by my calculations that works out to 100% capsule-belted mysteriousness. Ask the weather-ladies and they'll tell you: 100% mystery equals warm fronts with a 100% chance of sex.

I will be completely frank with you: I can't actually conceive that Hillary Duff wouldn't be pretty turned on by all that. Plus, if she loses her keys — miniature flashlight. And if conversation slows down, I can always break the ice with some blood capsules to the eyes and light to medium-strength limb thrashing.

 

Reason Hillary Duff Probably Digs Me #3:
I'm pretty sure I heard her say she digs me

At least I think I heard her say she dug something—I connected the dots myself on that one. It was at a party a Hollywood producer was throwing in celebration of some movie or another. I think it starred Richard Gere, but then, so do a lot of movies, and you don't see any parties for them. Anyway, it starred some idiot.

I don't know what Hillary Duff was doing there, exactly, except for "looking radiant" and "digging me, most likely," two things I was completely positive of. I'd been breaking into the producer's house at the time, but all the noise from the living room kept distracting me from emptying out the contents of the den into a sack, so I decided to mingle a little. The second Hillary laid eyes on me, she turned to some idiot and whispered something. I'm a bit of a lip reader, and I'm almost certain she either said "I dig that guy" or "Eye-gag, thought gay," which kind of looks the same lipwise, even if it doesn't make a damn bit of sense. So either Hillary Duff totally digs me, or she's a blathering idiot. This syncs up with most of my theories on women to date, actually.

Sadly I was unable to chat the foxy, bosom-having Ms. Duff up and get to the bottom of things, as through no fault of my own I was drunk and got into a fistfight with some idiot. I most likely would have been arrested, except I managed to break the ice with some ollll' blood capsules to the eyes, and made my escape in a cloud of lawyers offering me business cards, like Batman, except with cards instead of bats.

 

Reason Hillary Duff Probably Digs Me #4:
Science agrees with my penis

I crunched a couple of numbers on this, and it turns out science backs my Duff-digging hypothesis 100%. Check it out:

Note the above scientific facts only point to the possibility of sex, not actual sex with a minor. That's an important distinction (see point #1).

The naysayers among you might be able to refute the rest of my arguments, but you can't beat stone-cold science. That's why it's called science. Refuting scientific logic is like pissing in Isaac Newton's face — it's simply not logical to do it. Who'd piss in Isaac Newton's face? That's fucking ridiculous. Anyway, that's you.

Still not convinced? Postulate this on for size:

Yeah, that's right.

 

Reason Hillary Duff Probably Digs Me #5:
Check out this goddamn handstand

Hup!

[flawless handstand]

A Sensible Proposal

So.

Let's kill the homeless.

And please — don't misunderstand me. I don't mean to throw around a line like "we should kill the homeless" loosely. No, I wouldn't suggest for a second that we should "kill the homeless" as some kind of trite, tongue-in-cheek Swiftian homage. You, the reader, are above that. I'm above that. Even if you're not above that — well, I am.

So, no — I don't say "we should kill the homeless" satirically, but rather as a means to say that we should quite seriously eradicate them off the face of the earth, leaving nothing but silence and a thin cartoonish wisp of smoke.

Not kill them to eat them. Not kill them as part of some grand despotic sociological design. Not kill them for entertainment purposes, even though it would be funny. No. Kill them simply so they'd be dead and never come back.

Now, before you jump all over me for this, please allow me the opportunity to explain. I think you'll find my rational sound, my reasoning as unblemished as buffed porcelain. First and foremost among my reasons, I should state clearly, is that I like my change. I enjoy change. I find it useful — for buying things and whatnot. Owning no washer/dryer combo, I find I'm constantly in need of it to wash my shirts and pants.

Following this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, we should kill the homeless. When faced with the embarrassment and aggravation I would most certainly suffer in denying the homeless my laundry change when they ask for it, I propose that just getting rid of them altogether would make a lot more sense. Were they utterly dead, I could walk down a street without having to listen to them shriek like crazy people when I try to soberly explain that I can't give them money to eat because I need to wash pants.

Bringing us to the second point: all that shrieking. Man. They shriek a lot, loudly, often about Jesus, and make no sense at all. One might begin to suspect, in fact, that they're crazy — to which I put forward that this might very well be the case.

After all, they do live on streets. Chew on that for a minute, because it's pretty odd when you think about it. Streets are for walking and driving, not for sitting and shrieking. If you and I were walking down the street, for instance, going to a book store for the sake of argument, though really we could be doing pretty much anything, I'm fairly easy-going, and if you had some errands or something to maybe run and you just wanted some company, and I'd be up for that — but either way we're walking, and suddenly I say "Excuse me" or something, sit down on the street, and start shrieking about Jesus.

"Whoa," you might think. "This guy's crazy." Maybe you're even rethinking the whole day, piecing together an excuse in your head to do your errands alone. And the whole time I'm breaking your concentration by yelling at the high threshold of human hearing that Jesus is the savior of all mankind, and what do you mean you have to do laundry, give me money.

I'd bet safe money you'd think I was at the very least odd. Moreover, you'd be right. Well then, let me lay this on you — homeless people do that kind of thing all the time. They don't even have errands. Or if they do, then all that yelling and begging probably is the errand.

This callous and wanton disregard for the mores of society would, I can safely assure you, stop very very suddenly if we were to really roll up our sleeves and kill all of them. Dead men tell no tales, after all. More to the point, they don't shriek when you prop them up on street corners and put change cups in their stiff fingers. They're actually soothingly quiet and unobtrusive. Like a jet of wafting summer air off the ocean. Except dead, and with a tin cup.

Thirdly: homeless people are probably evil. One only has to use a modicum of common sense to figure out that anyone sitting and shrieking on streets when they should be mowing their lawns and watching real-life castaway shows is no doubt a shifty and suspicious villain of mystery. While everyone else sleeps honestly in their store-bought beds, foul-smelling men are stalking our good streets and maliciously sitting on them.

Sitting for good? No. Sitting for change. Sitting the decency out of America. I once saw a homeless guy crap in a mailbox, you know. Tell me that's not evil.

"Well," you're probably thinking, "why doesn't someone just kill the homeless." And that's fantastic, because I was thinking the exact same thing.

Fourthly: perhaps I didn't actually see a homeless guy crap in a mailbox. But that's beside the point, because you know anyone willing to rob an innocent victim (me) of clean laundry (mine) is capable of absolutely anything. Murdering the President, even. I mean, they don't have guns, true, but I don't think this an adequate yardstick of measuring character. Homeless people can't afford guns. Think for a moment, though — what if you could buy guns with change? Then every homeless person would have a gun. No laundry would ever get done. Society would topple, not from the anarchy, but from the stench. It would just sort of keel over. Now, call me wrong, but I find that kind of idea pretty depraved.

The solution? You guessed it, friend. Kill them all.

Finally: as if all of that shrieking and sitting and government official slaughter wasn't enough grounds for a prompt and expedient country-wide eradication of the homeless, they're also all very ugly. The homeless have passed far from what society would deem conventionally unattractive and landed miles further into a dark carnival of Streisandesque deformity. Yes, your bleeding hearts will moan about their human rights, but I think they're missing an important point, which is that the homeless are profoundly unfuckable.

Coming at the situation from a purely fuck-based perspective, the homeless are so useless it's obscene. Besides, even if you wanted to fuck the homeless — and might I add that I can't imagine a scenario in which this would sound enticing — you'd have to do it in the middle of the street while they pounded on your back and yelled about Jesus. I propose that this scenario would entice only the most daring fuck-enthusiasts. For every other Joe and Jane Meat-and-Potatoes Fuckscene out there though, the homeless are about as useless as sand.

In summation: we have everything to gain by killing the homeless. And even if this ends up not being true, and in fact we gain nothing from it, at least we don't lose much. It's not like they were saving our seats in the theater or anything. If they were doing that, there might be a few stragglers to my proposal. As it stands, however, we seem to be in the clear. The only problem I can see is the irrational outrage of a small faction of whiny crybabies.

Bringing me to my addendum: we should probably kill said crybabies before we kill the homeless, so they won't give us all headaches when we shoot every homeless person in the back. After that, we should probably also kill all the people the homeless people used to hang out with, so they won't be bringing us down at otherwise-fun parties. And after that, we should probably stop killing people altogether, leaving merely the threat of killing more people if any sass about the homeless killing was forthcoming. But probably no more killing, because at this point we'd have an awful lot of bodies lying around everywhere, so everything would stink pretty bad for a while. I'd guess we would have to institute at least a six-month grace period before we killed any more people, at which point further suggestions could be submitted for my approval.

Clearly my reasoning is flawless, my methods precise. Grab your weapon of choice, my brothers and sisters, and let's go kill the homeless! Then the crybabies, the people who hung out with them, then rounding it all off with follow-up reprimands to kill anyone giving us sass! Then a six-month no-kill grace period! Then a write-in suggestion campaign for further killings!

To the streets!

Jay Pinkerton's Baad-asssss Song

Funny thing about race. A new guy was hired in our department last month. Now, he was a negro gentleman. But being a new millenium kind of sensitive guy, I don't notice that kind of thing. I see people in shades of grey. Just a bunch of grey people. I cry in the shower too, which means I'm both sensitive and complex. Sometimes I cry on the toilet too. Sometimes I cry while I'm going to the bathroom in the shower. Very complex. I wouldn't expect you to understand.

I do my best to make the new guy feel welcome. I refuse to oppress his black sensibilities with white welcomes. "Hi, motherfucker," I'll yell from across the hall. "How's my motherfucking nigga, fucking motherfuck?" I'll ask, while pounding on my chest with one hand and making a series of complex gestures with the other. To make sure I'm up to date with his language, I make it a point to listen to all the new Jay-Z albums, so I can talk as he talks. Think as he thinks. Feel as he feels. Motherfuck as he motherfucks. Jump up on him suddenly and spray him in malt liquor, then pelt his retreating back with chicken wings.

"Jay, I think you've gotten the wrong impression of black people," says Alice the black secretary. "Jamal wanted me to have a talk with you before he files a formal complaint."

"Nonsense, bitch," I dismiss, carefully laying out cardboard from Jamal's study to the break room, should he feel the need to breakdance on his way to get coffee. "I watch BET. I tape Da Mix. I've got it worked out. Y'all best check yoself," I caution, "fo' y'all wreck yoself."

"Jay, that isn't a fair representation of black people any more than any other show on Muchmusic. Would you say you're like Rancid, just because they're white?"

"Which one?" I ask, silently hoping she'll say the drummer with the nose ring who's easy on the eyes.

"Any of them, Jay. The point is it's all fiction. It's just smoke and mirrors." She clutches my lapels, I suspect because of my strong sexual magnetism. "It's — not — real."

I'm obviously driving her wild with desire.

"Forget it. God, you're such a retard, Jay."

"I told you. Don't call me Jay. My name is Youngblood Priest." I hand her my new business card for handy reference. "Your problem is that you're racist, bitch."

She leaves. I understand black women. I know that they'll get all up freak in my face and shit, as is their custom. So long as I show her the back of my hand occasionally, she'll give me the respect I deserve.

Jamal walks by. "Hey, motherfucker! Motherfucking mondays, huh, motherfucker? I fucked your fucking mother!" I flash him the westside sign. Yeah. Youngblood Priest knows the score.

I moonwalk to the breakroom for a well-deserved coffee. It's not easy being a sensitive mellenium man. Somehow I manage to do it exactly right, however, and make it look effortless to boot. While in the breakroom, I cry while taking a crap in the sink.

I'm so motherfucking complex it's ridiculous.