IMMORTALIZED STILLICIDE or the frozen spit whose shape induced an epiphany like Kekulé’s.

As one of the most social orthodontists in Valencia, I can say with acuity that this voluble blog, whose dilating domain of discourse reflects the author's uncanny cultivation, will warm--like the vortex of a Brazilian whore against my pulsing member--the hearts of all who shall espy it. My vocation, lest you forget, is to perfect the human smile.

Monday, November 28, 2005

I have some extraordinary news on this unseasonably warm near-December morn. I am to be married again! I don't think you readers can begin to understand how well, how uncannily well Esperanza is suited for me. Sure, she may not be high society, but she is in tune with my every whim. My favorite kind of food? Vietnamese. Hers? Vietnamese. She loves the New York Giants. I'm their number one fan. She is a skiing enthusiast. So am I. We share the same birthday! Her dad killed himself just like mine! She even said that having braces was one of the most important parts of her life! And all of this came pouring out of her before I could even tell her anything about myself. So it all has to be completely genuine. She is my soul mate. We will be wed in Las Vegas tonight! My lawyer has already drawn up the pre-nup. The only way Esperanza could possibly get my money is if we have a child, but my tubes have been tied for years!

In other news, my exploratory heart surgery at Yale/New Haven yesterday went extremely well. I thought I saw Lester near the E.R. But, alas, it must have been the morphine.

This website, I must say, has doubled in popularity since Lester's dismissal. It just goes to show the kind of material people really want. No one has time for the pseudo-literary pretentious ramblings of a house slave. They want sex. They want young. They want quick. They want cool. And they're getting it! And it ain't ever gonna stop! Have a great day, my friends! Work HARD! MAKE MONEY! LOVE LIFE!!!!

Saturday, November 26, 2005

u know, i wasjust thinking how i love the softness of a beautiful woman and the power and strength of a good man (the men have to be educated with a respectable career)!! PS I get especially HOTT for music industry guyz,professional athletes,models,etc.COME ON GUYZ YOU KNOW PEOPLE WHO ARE ABOUT SHIT,OR JUST LOOK LIKE THEY ARE ...LOL...SEXSTATIC27@AOL.COM tHE HOTTEST WOMEN... THE RICHEST MOST DELIcIOUS MEN ...MAINLY AND MOST IMPORTANT kEWL PEOPLE

the new king kong movie preview is online now! go to apple. they're the one's who make ipods. It's on their website.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Hola! OMG, I am so excited! So I'm Esperanza Vilchis. So I am from Rio. I'm like a model. I met Dr. Kinbote in this bathroom stall (it was snoing!) at CLub Element in Hollywood. Well, guess who lived in his guesthouse now! And he's leting me help him blog! I so won the contest. I'm like the new...what was that losers name...Lester! Yay! I'm suposed to add "humor." Okay, cool, every1 says I'm funny. Dr. K said you all really liked Lester, so I know I have to work extra extra hard! I'm gonna work it. Work it dirty. JK. So oh my god, did everyone eat thanksgivinfg dinner yesterday!? Okay, honestly, I ate so much I'm going to still be full by XMAS! LOL! K boys, time for me 2 go. Call me if u wanna talk. I'll come over 4 a little donation!

k bye.



P.S. Tell me what you think of hair in the picture. I just died it black!!!!

Game Over, folks. I kicked Lester out of the guesthouse today. When I told him it was all over, he bit his own tongue until he began bleeding profusely. He proceeded to write in blood and on my white walls: "The most devastating part of writing "Jason Congdon" with my own blood is that it's not like I'm actually obsessed with him. I'm really just obsessed with the idea that someone could actually be as fixated on him as I pretend to b." He ran out of blood for the final "e," and declared he was content with the typo lest he lose consciousness from more blood loss.

Well, I am sorry you had to endure this peculiar faggotry that was Lester's blogging. This website was supposed to be about orthodontia. And the life of an incredibly social, well-heeled orthodontist. I envisioned writing about new procedures I'd pioneered, and the cars and women such pioneering enabled me to afford. I have as many Corvettes as limbs, in case any of you wondered. I've sampled women throughout the world, and I can say with authority that Brazilian pussy is the finest. It has a buttery aftertaste with a fine hint of syrupy cucumber. My life, of course, is the story of personal success, and this blog was supposed to chronicle that. Let me adjust my hand, here. My Rolex was banging against the keyboard. I gotta write a note about something. I'm going to write on the back of my Vail 2006 Skiing Season Pass. Actually, maybe I'll use that envelope my Laker Season Tickets came in. Or I could just write on that $50 bill on the floor. Well, there is no note, but you get the point, right? I'm 6"2". There's something to be said for being sized like that. Really forces you to look at the world anthropologically and realize what an alpha male you are. Anyway, I know Lester somehow linked this blog up with some Yalies. Way to pick a school only based on name, people.! I went to the University of Illinois and make $897,000 a year. Education means nothing. The only thing that matters is how high you end up. From what I hear, Yale girls are ugly as shit. But I do like my women young (though legal), so if anyone here knows a girl who's really into sex and rich men, please direct them my way. Tell them I'm a very tall example of natural selection at work with a shitload of money. I'd take them out to eat, show them a good time. The number of my brand new Motorola Razor is 310-788-9098.

Lester was supposed to be updating the site with news on my latest headgear patent application. I got the patent, but of course you didn't hear that from Lester. What a snake. Funny thing how a man walks into your life an African American and leaves a nigger. Needless to say, there will be some huge changes here at immortalized stillicide, whose name, by the way, refers to the concave liquid nitrogen based saliva modeling machine I thought up while staring at a patient's crystallizing spit during a Doctors Without Borders mission to straighten Eskimo teeth. My first patent. I was 28.

So I want this site to be more mainstream. I want more video, more pictures, less weird humor, more genuine fun. Anyone got any ideas, let me know. As long as it involves orthodonture and me, anything goes. I will be looking for a new partner, so those interested should apply. Lester unfortunately knows my username and password, so we might just start a new blog altogether if he begins hijacking. Anyway, it's a proud day in the Kinbote household. Daughter's got a brand new life ahead of her. Lester's a distant memory hitchhiking his way to Vegas last I heard. I appreciated this introduction. It was a pleasure to meet you, readers. And at such a momentous time in my life. It's not everyday you get to jettison a treemonkey.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Dear Duane Munson Kinbote,

As you know, your daughter left me last night. Do you realize just what kind of a snakecunt that privileged little princess-bitch is? She left me even though I'm at my lowest point in my entire life. I can't get a job no matter how many interviews you line up with your contacts. I spend literally 7 hours a day perusing shemale pornography. And I've become horribly depressed after that hack you recommended not only botched my gum surgery but insinuated that my "claim" of infection was "entirely fabricated." Yeah, world class periodontist my ass. And I feel distressed, because I've put on about 70 pounds since college. By the way, I think shemales are underrated and anyone who says you can't be heterosexual and attracted to them is spewing forth calumny. So here I am, failing so disastrously at life, and Jenny picks this moment, this hellish moment when I've never been more pathetic, to drop the "I don't want to spend the rest of my life with you" bomb? Wow. Classy dame you spawned, Kinbote.

Don't think this isn't hard. I know we've become great friends over the years. You converted a garage for me to live in and you generously paid for that retainer that I know cost more than retainers should cost. Incidentally, Jenny's claim that I spent your $900 all on coke is hogwash. That retainer was a veritable art-piece. A potential collector's item down the line, and you and I know it. We've always had a special bond, though. I remember how, the first time we met, before you had a good read on me, you showered me with the most charismatic, charming, engaging stories all about your life and life itself. After that night, I noticed how our entire communication consisted of maybe seventeen mostly monosyllabic sentences. And obviously that's what true friendship's really about. Not about fake gregarious posturing, but about that place where you get comfortable enough to be silent. We kind of had this cool unspoken connection, and I hope that can continue. Also, thanks for not inviting me to that Thanksgiving meal thing today. I heard about the guests. Mostly "friends" you've met in like the last year. It would have been awkward to have been lumped in with those pseudo-friends, so I appreciate that.

If there's any way you can make Jenny come back to me, please help. Her reasons for leaving make no sense. One big thing was my "obsession" with Jason Congdon and Daniel Munz. She claimed I "embarrassed her to death" at her CBS office party when I, a little tipsy, walked up to her boss and said, "I dream a world where girls memorize the provenance of every hair on Congdon's sack." It's called humor. Take a look at my blog. It's not an obsession but a comedic device. Jenny had the nerve to accuse me of doing Congdon impressions when we were picking out her cousin Ramona's casket, and that is absolutely false. Jenny's claim that I traced the letters M U N Z on her clitoris during cunilingus does possess veracity. Notwithstanding, I don't know how she could have possibly determined that, and even if she somehow knew at the time, it was just a nervous tick thing anyway.

Can you not see that this is all an absurd game? I don't demand that we never eat at non Fresh-Mex places because I'm insane. I do it because I'm funny. And artistic. I didn't sell our plasma and buy that 15 incher from Costco because I actually wanted it. I'm a technophile, mind you. And I'm black. What kind of nigris africanis willingly gives up something flashy for something that looks less expensive? An experimental artist one. It's all part of my thing. Just like when I got that Serbian drifter to come over and paid her money to say, for literally 9 hours straight that day Jenny's cousin Ramona died: "Hi, I'm Dan Berger. I'm a New York Jew-bastard." She said it like one of those dolls you pull the string on, and it was exquisite. Jenny's claim that said Serbian drifter stole her sapphire earrings that day is totally unjust, by the way, as there is no way of proving that beyond a reasonable doubt. No eye witnesses. No fingerprints. Nothing.

So here I am. Begging for your assistance. I've never dated a girl as attractive as Jenny. I've never dated another girl I've been intimate with. I only like white girls, but most white girls with predilections for black men make exceptions when it comes to me. I need to hold onto her. And how could she do better than someone as brilliant as me? You know how I've been occasionally guest posting on that blog you made? Well, some Yale undergraduates linked me to their blog group, and one of my posts was recently listed as one of the top 20 Yale blogosphere posts of all time. Top twenty. Indeed. Out of every post ever. I've read that post about me on Death/Media around 150 times. It's really well written and is itself deserving of the top 20 honor. I told all of this to Jenny. She replied that one Arlo Harshenstein deemed my work limply one-dimensional. I have reason to believe Jenny herself posted under that name.

Forgive me for my rambling. Forgive me for my thousand thoughts of melancholy too, for I am alone in the world now. Alone in your converted garage. A fake Congdon I.D. on the bare mattress. Copies of my Munz books planted in the old oak bookcase. On the floor, fake blonde pubic hairs I wove out of wool in underpants whose band I wrote "J.C." on. Immortalized Stillicide on my monitor always and forevermore. Just me here. Lester, here. Just staring out my window at the stars, thinking about the nature of reality and myself. Hmm, a quivering nebula over here. Oh, a darting comet over there. Ahh, a treacherous girl over yon. In my head. Once in my heart. I wonder, Kinbote, how a world as profound as ours has room for a creature as base as the homo sapien whore.




I received my credit card statement today, and I was wondering if you were going to continue to supplement its payment a little even if Jenny doesn't come back to me. If you do intend to help, let VISA know that I dispute the November 11th $50 charge from Despite casual proof to the contrary within this very letter, I never made any such purchase.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Them three kinds of tears in life. Them tears cunts cry. Tears a man sheds upon reck'non the one thing more assfucked than this terrestrial horrorshow's how brief she is. And them tears that pour out a man's bloodshot eye that's been gouged by the nail of a squealing whore during that holy moment of kniferaping when time itself seems to standstill and bivouac a bit.

This is as far as I can get. I have this vision of my own great Cormac McCarthyesque American novel about a kind of Patrick Bateman--circa 1870 minus all the metrosexual shit--character raping and killing women on the Texas/Mexico border. I don't know why I'm attracted to characters who rape and kill women. It's probably because I hate women. What eats me up inside is that I can only get this far. I can only begin to set the table in the dining room that is this fictional world before it's all infiltrated by the streaming consciousness of one...

Jason Edward Congdon?

No, my trigger-happy friends. It's infiltrated by Munz.

Thing is this. I've only written one published work in my life. It was the ghostwritten Munz biography. Second I get into that bookwriting zone, it's like I can't shake off my foundation, my birth. Sometimes it's subtle. I'll say a "bullet ball tunneled through the apache nigger queen's esophagus like a log of shit exitin' a corpulent politico's orifice."

Doesn't quite hit the mark, huh? I bet you're thinking the unnecessary "politico" part of the simile's liable to detract from the whole whore getting ripped a fucking part thing. But all in all, it isn't horrendous, right? Well as I try to keep writing, things get worse. A reference here. An anachronism there. Next thing I know, shit starts mushrooming. And it looks like this:

Electric daggers split the seams of the sky and the skull of a young white who laughed, right before his brain boiled, bout how he'd tricked himself into reckoning he was some thing distinct from the rocks, the dead locked in the dirt, the still flapping shitbirds swirling in the wind. The dead man too flapped around a little, all caught up in a tumbleweed more sentient than he. Only thing more bent on survival than life is death. The bottomless appetite of death. Starving. Like a belly that can't be filled. So hungry. Food. Cibus in Latin. So Munz took it. Latin. In high school. Fuck, Lester, get a grip on your shit. Which was a horrendous experience. High school, that is.

Masturbating every second you're not working your ass off to get into Yale. YALE. I know I'm not happy, I know my arteries are not in ship fucking shape, mom. I'm not gay! Girl's don't like me. Trust me, I fucking like them! Or at least the thought of my sperm fucking slaughtering them.

Wolf Blitzer is my friend. John King? White House correspondent? More like the talking head I most like to hear when I jizz all over my floor and pretend the floor's Miranda Jones' face. You cum sucking slut. I NEED to facialize you. You popular fucking semen swallower. I don't care if this is you at your peak and it's all downhill for you and I'm going to Yale and I'm going to be a lawyer and the only thing that'll ever change about you is your aging skin cells won't quite absorb jizz the way they once did. I still hate that I can't fucking infiltrate your clique. Your world. Or anything at all that doesn't involve a monitor and inputs and wires and pixels. FUCK, I HATE THAT GIRLS DON'T LIKE ME. At least Wolf Blitzer likes me. And John King would bone my ass if he were a bitch.

And I don't fucking care if I'm self-aware enough to realize that Wolf is not really my friend, and that John would probably ignore me if I went up to him and said, politely, as I always do, politely and kindly and warmly and bubbly even though I FUCKING HATE THE WORLD...if I said to him, in my fucked-in-the-head impression of how "professional, normal" people talk: "Hi John. I'm Daniel Munz. Politics is my passion. It's an honor to meet you." Having a girl scream in joy at the sight of my cock is my passion. Making so much money and getting so much power that all you faggots who think I'm anything but a dominant force of fucking ironball charisma--making you bitches kneel before me, your GOD....that is my passion. FOOOOOOOOOOOD is my passion. Imagine eating a scrumptious tamale and telling a girl who's licking your sack that she's a real doll at the same time. A real doll. A real fucking card this one is. But then like that I turn it all off, all the passion just slips away like a lover in the night, and on comes the sugary mask...

I think Bush is a liar. L I A R. He reminds me of a dim John Adams bent upon an unimaginable executive buildup. China's a really important region politically and economically. I think politics and economics are inevitably intertwined. Like Republicans and corruption! I support Kerry then and now. Mom, did the cable guy turn C-SPAN back on? Dukakis had a golden retriever when he was in college. Named Lucky! I should get one! I wonder if the roomates would mind?! What's for dinner, mom? Chili Dogs!!!! And the inebriate swallowed the plasma of his own homo sapien blood, gutting beneath him a heathen whore whose entrails the inhospitable starheat soldered to the crust of this Northern Hemisphere. And the man reckoned there'n four things in thiseer life liable to rend a man's heart asunder. Woman, Rage, Rotgut, and Time.