Drunk Cat here. I know its been a bit. Last time I was here, it was 2022 and I was Christmas shopping.
I see what you've done to the place, so maybe you should settle your shit back into your lawn chair and be happy I came back at all.
BURP!
I'm here because I just found out that Alex Karp, billionaire brillo pad, has a picture of every one of your dicks. Every one of them. You got two? He's got one of both, dude.
How do I know, you ask? Like a child, you doubt me. Let me roll the tape from my last meeting with him.
First of all, yeah I meet with all sorts of interesting people. I met Steve Jobs before he even got asshole cancer. Met all the time. He loved eating at the McDonalds up the road. He'd chew on those plastic straws and suck the meat sweat out of the cardboard packaging.
Of course he died from cancer. Like, fuck, man, how gross could you get?
And I used to hang out with this one famous guy down in the Caribbean but he kept throwing bad parties with monied people. It really harshed the buzz, you know.
Anyway, Karp. We were having a little company get-together. I think his bouffant was getting engaged to a magnet. We were all standing around in that fuck-for-shit office he has out in Miami. He picked the place 'cause it overlooked an elementary school. I don't fuckin' know man, I just worked there.
And he's got this 90" television up and running some powerpoint about how we're gonna make so much god damn money we won't even need to shave our gross little dirt beards or brush our weird-ass rounded teeth.
He pulled this slide up that had circles around things he'd stolen from the internet or whatever. A couple of bullshit cryptocurrencies and confessions from Howard Lutnick about biting the heads off Hispanic babies or something.
And he clicks his little slide clicker cause he ain't got no one waiting for him at home. The next slide fucks all kinds of up and it dumps us to his computer desktop and it's there. Right there on his desktop is a folder. "Everyone's Dicks".
And yeah, maybe you could say "It's his shitty black-pill poetry DC. He's saying 'Everyone is Dicks'."
Well, then that dumbshit clicked it.
That fuckin' rube popped open a folder that slowly loaded pictures of every person's dick. They just fell outta that giant screen like an open dryer full of dildoes. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick...
It caught me mid-sip and I almost spit my Coors on Scooter. He'd had a whole hand up the skirt of someone's leftover cake, his mouth agape, buttercream dribbling out all over the Turkish rug. I thought he might've died.
Inquisitive Carl couldn't stop staring. Something flew past that looked like Picasso's personalized pornography. He probably pulled out a sketchbook.
And they just kept on coming. Karp is up there, clicking his little clicker stick. No apologies — nothing. Didn't even say "uh" like a kid whose grade-school project just ejaculated baking soda all over the gym floor. He could as well be in the middle of a highway merge with how much shit he didn't fucking give.
Orange dicks, brown dicks, hairy dicks, Gary's dick. The filename was right there. It said 'Garys-Dick.png'.
"Who the fuck is Gary?" I flicked my cigarette into one of the White Rhino ivory ashtrays Karp had gotten us all for a 'really stellar job' when we made him a report of 'women of specific shapes and sizes' who lived near his house. I asked him why he needed this. He didn't answer then and he didn't answer now.
Who the fuck is Gary?
I flicked my cigarette into one of the White Rhino ivory ashtrays Karp had gotten us all for a 'really stellar job' when we made him a report of 'women of specific shapes and sizes' who lived near his house. I asked him why he needed this. He didn't answer then and he didn't answer now.
Click, click. There was no stopping. That fucked up little Windows window popped-up to announce that it was busy trying to deal with 8 billion pecker pictures that were just scrolling past. Like a belt-sander covered in pink cactuses — hairy, hoary, and not. It was absurd. It was floppy-cock.
The belabored A/V tech tried wresting the clicker from a man who refused to be out of control. He tried turning off the tv, but it was one of those fucking situations where you had to run your hand around the frame to figure out where they hid the little Samsung clitoris. And that meant his face was just getting peppered by shot after shot of someone's gangly shit.
It was like that gif where the lady is hit with all those hotdogs. But those dogs were all self selected by the man who paid for all our dalliances with the end of a smoke or a bottle or a barrel.
What were we gonna do? Ted and Theodore still had that horrific AirBNB they were paying off. Scooter had a GED for fucks sake. We were living in an apartment in Homestead the size of a two-door Datsun and the rent was the abhorrent. It was work for this filthy cretin or live in an open-air sewer drain and Theodore spent most of his nights just repeating 'it'll be fine' after the last time.
Eventually one of the sharper images from marketing just yanked the cord from the back of Karp's ThinkPad. The screen splashed with 'Looking for Source' and we all hoped it never found it again.
From there he just gave up. Said 'Strategy is motion in action' or whatever fucking word-salad phrase he'd picked up at the airport and wandered slowly from the room, laptop and a dirty handful of loose-leaf cake in tow.
We were left there to just pick up the pieces of our newfound clarity in the wake of a man who would threaten to decimate human knowledge forever.
Misery loves company, so, I just thought I would feel better if you knew.
