No-Pro, Page 21.

It's easy to love, or for that matter hate, somebody in their absence.

. . .

No-Pro, Page 19.

I always like to get the fuck away from the club when I finish, the social equivalent of having a good bath.

The bar fits the bill, an Ikea-bland monument to our lack of imagination.

No-Pro, Page 15.

Sometimes cruelty comes by instinct.

No-Pro, Page 4.

I put the cunt wise to the ways of the world, not because it'll do him any good, but simply to stop nonsense like that filtering into the culture unchallenged.

. . .

Nostalgia As Super-Pointless Emotion Reunion.

Kill All Cretins Chicken

3 half-chicken breasts, boned, skinned
1 cup red chile marinade
2 tsp rosemary
1/3 cup cranberries
2/3 tsp lemon
1 garlic, clove
3 1/4 cups carrots, rinsed
2 green peppers
12 oz. bottle of vodka

Directions:
Marinate oven in a large garbage bag at 450 degrees. Tenderize bowl of cranberries with fist of either hand twelve times, careful not to get juice on the rosemary, which you should expose to old pictures of the last girlfriend that you shouldn't have ordered from Japan. On a large cutting board, chop lemon, garlic, carrots, green peppers, and chicken. Throw salt and pepper at it like you're Rip Taylor. Stop. Shut off the oven. Place everything in trash. Leave bottle of vodka for UPS pickup and stare at the wall for twenty minutes before crippling into a pit of worry, mistrust, and self-loathing.

. . .

Hate Is A Jealousy.

For not liking something.