Posts Tagged ‘Los Angeles’

No, I Did Not Fuck Andy Dick

Allegations have recently resurfaced regarding my relationship with one Andy Dick of Los Angeles, California. I just want to set the record straight right here and right now. Once and for all.


Sometime in 2006, or possibly 2007 (I don’t even remember – nor care), I traveled to LA with my esteemed colleague Bartholomeu Pleskotch and his band “We Are Handsome” to appear on Andy Dick’s (then) radio show “Andy Dick’s Shit Show”, on Sirius satellite radio.

His studio was approximately 4×3 (12 square feet), so I did not join the band during the taping of the program. I instead chose to drink free beer outside the studio with some bitches.

After the show ended (approximately 10pm), Andy and his driver/assistant (some hot, blonde cougar) told me to get into the car with them. So I followed orders. I sat in the backseat of Andy’s Jaguar (or possibly Porsche… I don’t even remember) convertible with Andy. The broad drove. Andy then proceeded to give me six (6) footballs of xanax, which rendered my mind and body completely useless. Alarmed at my comatose state, Andy made the friendly gesture of giving me cocaine. He poured it on the outside of his hand between his index finger and thumb, and had me snort it off. It was fucking amazing cocaine. What can I say? I was now awake. And in the car snorting cocaine on Sunset Blvd. I thought it was marginally cool, despite who I was chillin’ with.

The band was behind us in what I believe to be a ’98 Saturn, but I can’t be sure. I also, to this day, have no idea why Andy had me drive with him and his assistant (I assume it’s because he wanted to rape me.)

We entered several bars in the Hollywood area, eventually getting kicked out of each and every one for reasons varying from: Andy getting into a physical altercation with John Lovitz over the death of Phil Hartman, Andy picking up a random patron’s wine at a swank restaurant, drinking it, setting it down, telling the man and his date to “suck my faggot cock, fucker!”, as well as Andy attempting to steal a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, as the bartender watched.

We eventually ended up at some shithole in Los Feliz that apparently enjoyed Andy’s presence. He was welcome here, so I didn’t ask questions. It was here that I met Ron Jeremy for the first time. He was shorter than me, but his cock was bigger, so he won. We took a picture together on my blackberry (it didn’t come out.) I should mention that I ran into Ron the following weekend at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas. He did not remember me. Nor did he remember me when I bought him a shot of Kessler whiskey at the Rainbow Room in April of 2008. I do not blame him.

Anyway, I skipped a lot of shit, but that’s because I want to get to the point. The “action.” Around 2am, I was the walking dead. I had at least 10-12 drinks in me, a teener of cocaine, 6 footballs of xanax and could barely stand. I attempted to pull my dick out in a bathroom stall of the barto urinate, when Andy decided to join me. The interaction went something like this:

(Andy grabs my cock while I’m pissing)

Me: “Wwwwhaaat the ffffuck are are arrree youuu doiing?” (I will only type that one line of dialogue in drunken stupor for effect. All other sentences of dialogue will be in plain English.)

Andy: “Let’s fuck.”

Me: “Go to hell. Let go of my penis, fag.”

Andy: “Don’t call me a fag! I’m not gay!”

Me: “Then why are you trying to fuck me?”

Andy: “Because I like pretty things. C’mon, let’s fuck!”

Me: “Are you fucking kidding me? I am NOT going to fuck you. Get your hand off my cock.”

(At this point Andy attempted to French kiss me, with his hand still tightly grasped around my cock.)

Losing consciousness and barely aware of the severity of the situation at hand, I somehow simultaneously pulled Andy’s hand off my cock, and his tongue off my face, open-hand punched him, and told him to “Go fuck Mike, asshole!”

(I should note that “Mike” was a member of the band I was hanging out with that night, who Andy had casually made out with whilst rubbing his abs earlier in the evening.)

Andy then tried kissing me again, at which point I said, “Stop trying to fucking fuck me, you fucking queer!”

Andy: “Come on! Just a taste.. Let’s fuck! FINE! If we’re not going to fuck, can I at least suck you off?”

Me (losing consciousness): “FUCK NO ASSHOLE!”

I then pushed him off me, put my dick back in my pants, and walked out of the bathroom. I heard a very drunken and dejected Mr. Dick whimpering something along the lines of “Why do all of the good ones always get away?” as I walked off.

I think I blacked out at the bar shortly thereafter. Andy didn’t try to fuck me again that night. I woke up around 5am at Andy’s apartment. All I can recall were Andy’s two children wide awake on MySpace and X-Box, respectively, with Steve-O from MTV’s Jackass sitting next to me shooting heroin into his penis.

I hate Los Angeles for a lot of reasons, and this is certainly one of them.

I understand why my friends tell people that I “fucked” Andy Dick (they think it’s fucking hilarious.) It is not. The only “good” that came from that evening is that Andy slipped his phone number into the back pocket of my jeans, and I would routinely call Andy every couple of months to check up on him and his career. Our conversations usually went like this:


Ring… Ring…

Andy: “Hello?”

Me: “What’s up Andy?”

Andy: “Who’s this?”

Me: “It’s Matt’s friend. Why haven’t I seen you on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew yet?”

Andy: “Fuck off, prick!”


I should note that the one time he didn’t hang up on me immediately, was because he wanted to explain that, and I quote, “The only reason I haven’t done ‘The Surreal Life’ is because I still have a fucking career. I have projects in development right now you prick. I am making a comeback!”

Several days after that conversation, Andy was arrested in Columbus, Ohio for molesting several male students from the Ohio State University after a long night of cocaine, xanax and boozing.

From what I hear, he entered rehab and is now “clean.” Bullshit.

Andy Dick is a bi-sexual asshole. He is probably also a pedophile. He’s probably not the type of pederast that fucks small children, though. Just the type that fucks 17 year old Hollister models.

I hope I have cleared up any confusion. Thank you.



It doesn’t suck when it’s coming to your blog.

But anyway.

The purpose of this post is to illustrate one of my favorite new restaurants. I was introduced to Wurstküche this weekend by my girlfriend. Situated in the Artist’s District of Los Angeles, this Belgian style eatery is the perfect place to enjoy two of man’s greatest vices: Beer and meat (specifically, Belgian Ale and sausage.)

I had no idea what to expect when my girlfriend took me here. She basically just said, “Get in the car, we’re going out to dinner at this place in LA.” In I went.

When I walked in, there was quite a line; and after taking a look at the selection, I know why:


As you can tell, they don’t fuck around.

M’lady ordered the rattlesnake, rabbit and jalapeno sausage. I wasn’t as brave. I kept it real and got a familiar favorite (Bratwurst.) Although I was enticed by the Spicy Louisiana, and the Alligator & Pork. Some recommendations I got from the locals were the Bacon and Duck with Jalapeno and the Buffalo, Veal and Pork. Also, this place has a pretty awesome vegetarian selection for those who are against “cruelty to animals” or whatever.

As you can tell, it’s exotic and incredible.

What’s better, is the Klein or Groot (small Belgian fries or large Belgian fries.) They’re basically thick-cut skin-on french fries with sea salt, but what makes them amazing is that you’re eating them with a choice selection of incredible German, Belgian and American lagers and ales… And they come with your choice of any two (2) dipping sauces. Some favorites of mine include: Bleu Cheese Walnut & Bacon, Curry Ketchup, Pesto Mayo and Chipotle Aoili (they also have Thai Peanut, Tzatziki, Sundried Tomato Mayo and Sweet and Sassy BBQ.) Fucking amazing.

Wurstküche FTW

They also have a live DJ spinning til midnight. The whole place closes around 1am, so you still have time to hit the liquor store afterward for some beer if you wish to continue the party. I should also mention that the sausages are covered in caramelized onions, sauerkraut (duh), and sweet or spicy peppers (go sweet.) Also, if you’re mustard connoisseur like myself, they have: Spicy, Whole grain, Dijon, Spicy Brown, Honey Mustard or American Yellow (American Yellow… I usually go Spicy Brown, but I just wasn’t feeling it.)

The best part of the meal is this right here:


Yeah, there’s a lot on tap. The more modern man (see: the baller) might opt for a limited release Schneider Brooklyner Hopfen Weisse (8.2% ABV 500mL) for $11, or the frugal college guy (see: myself) can get down with a good, old fashioned PBR for $2.50. No matter what it is you order – you win.

Write it down.

Take your girl. Take your boys.

It’s legitimate awesome.

Wurstküche. Purveyor’s of Exotic Grilled Sausages. 800 EAST 3RD STREET LOS ANGELES CA 90013.

I should also mention: I don’t do food reviews on this blog. Unless, of course, it’s bizarre or obscure (see: Rolled Pig’s Face; Meat Hand.) But I made an exception for this place because it was so fucking awesome. Go there. Now. Enjoy it. Thank yourself.

I’m Plagiarizing This Because I Agree With It

This originally appeared on on September 25th, 2009 and was titled “10 Things I Won’t Miss About L.A.”It was authored by a young woman from New York.

Let me preface this with the following statement: I despise Los Angeles. All I like about LA are the Lakers, The Rose Bowl, The Galaxy (soccer club), Griffith Park Observatory, The Miracle Mile, Certain parts of Long Beach, and on rare occasions (and in very small doses): Hollywood and Silverlake/Echo Park.

Let’s begin.

1. Vapid, self-promoting actors. This is an actual conversation I overheard last night at Aroma Cafe in Studio City: “Are you going to come see my one-woman show next week?” “I can’t, I have a relationship workshop in Malibu.” “Bummer.” “How was your audition?” “Oh I don’t know, I’m too young to be playing a mom.” Uh, no you’re not. You’re actually the exact right age to be playing a mom. You could be MY mom for God’s sake. Shake the Botox out of your brain and wake the eff up, ladies

Well, that’s not exactly the angle I’d take to express my disgust with the thousands upon thousands of no-name wannabee actors and actresses in Los Angeles, but I suppose it will suffice. What I would have said is: Go back to Ohio, you fucking kook. We don’t need you, nor do we want you here. You pretentious piece of shit and your clown friends make this city unbearable for the people who grew up here. I wish nothing upon you but bad luck and misfortune. Actors bring out my misanthropic side. Oh, how I hate them.

2. Drunk driving. It seems like drunk driving is totally acceptable in Los Angeles. I can’t tell you how many times a friend has told me “I don’t even know how I got home last night.” Or, “Oh my God, I got home and the left rear-view mirror of my car is gone! I don’t remember hitting anything!” People in Los Angeles don’t believe in public transportation (this includes taxis), and on any given night the roads are peppered with wasted people driving cars home from bars, or to bars, or wherever drunk drivers go when they’re not getting arrested or killing people.

Can’t argue with facts. I completely agree.

3. Sober driving. There’s no two ways about it. Driving in Los Angeles sucks ass. It’s ALWAYS rush hour. You think getting up at 6 a.m. will help you beat the rush? Wrong. Think it’ll only take you a second to jump over the hill to Santa Monica on a Sunday afternoon? Wrong! More like a two-hour drive through fire-scorched mountainsides in 108-degree temperatures without air conditioning because your car might overheat from going up the big hill.

I’ll second that. What you forgot to mention, however, is the harrowing trek across the 91 East for those of us who live in Orange County and wish to a.) gamble at Indian Casinos, or b.) gamble in Las Vegas. Yep, a 3-lane highway is all that separates the 3.1 million inhabitants of Orange County from the 4 million inhabitants of the Inland Empire. Oh yeah, and there’s a train that runs M-F between 9 and 5. Makes perfect sense, right?

4. Earthquakes! All right, I may miss the small ones (they’re actually kinda fun), but I will not miss the big ones. I was very close to the epicenter of the Northridge quake and it was frigging horrifying. I’m not going to miss sitting around wondering when I’m going to need to bust into my earthquake kit. Oh yes, I have one: backup dog food, water, human food, flashlights, batteries … If you live in California, you have a disaster kit because, there’s always some kind of disaster coming your way.

Going to have to disagree here. The last major earthquake in LA (The Northridge Quake) occurred in 1994. Fifteen years ago. Get over it. It’s not like it’s an annual occurrence like hurricanes in Florida.

5. Raging fires. The Station Fire (as it is now called) that started this summer has been burning for weeks. Last night I was driving around and the ash was raining down like snow. All I can think about is all the poor little animals that can’t escape, and the fires are always started by humans. Natural fires are extremely rare. Arsonists suck.

Well, your facts were wrong here. Forest fires are a natural annual occurrence in areas with hot, arid climates and tons of dry brush (like Southern California.) But hey, arsonists don’t help matters.

6. Rage, period. Sorry, dude in the “Bad Boyz” gas guzzler with the “piss on Ford” decal in your window who won’t let me get over even though I’m driving a safe speed, leaving a proper following distance between me and the cars around me, and have been signaling for seven minutes. That’s cool. Don’t let me and my hybrid get over into your lane. I respect your totally unexplainable territorial dominance of the left lane. You go Alpha Male!

From what I understand, driving is just as bad in New York. Plus I hear cabbies are fucking insane and drive worse than Indiana Jones on his Disney Adventure. I will, however, agree on your assessment that bros fucking suck.

7. Hortense Alley. Hortense Alley is my own personal L.A. nemesis. It’s an alley behind my apartment complex. Sometimes I brave the dark alley at night when walking my dog and have come across two guys giving each other blowjobs, old used panties, condoms, empty bags of drugs, stolen cars, and the like. They even found a dead body in the trunk of a car back there. I will not miss your charms, Hortense Alley.

I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. I do, however, know about “Crack Alley.” Yes, Crack Alley was a neighborhood in South San Clemente (near Trestles) that I once I lived in that was notable for its dive bars, drug dealing (see: crack), underage whores, liquor stores and great surf. All in all, I liked it. We would snort speedballs (oxycontin and cocaine) and drink Latin American lager whilst listening to gangster rap with the local sluts, and then stay up til 5am and surf a dawn patrol at Lowers until our bodies could no longer function. It was tits, brah.

8. Valet parking. I will not tip valets who get in my car, steal the change from my change holder, mess with my radio, readjust the seats and make me wait 20 minutes while they try to figure out where they parked my car, usually in a space that I could have parked it in myself.

I hate valets. But again, like a lot of your complaints, they’re not exclusive to Los Angeles. Let’s complain about something that is: $100 parking to sporting events. What the fuck!? Lakers games? $50-$150. Ducks playoffs? $25 for the cheap parking. USC games $100. Fuck that noise.

9. Pee-covered street sofas. I don’t know if it’s just here, but Los Angeles is littered with old sofas that people have thrown out onto the sidewalk that smell like pee. I’m not sure if the sofa has been thrown out because it smells like pee, or if someone or something pees on it the minute it hits the street, but it seems to be a requirement that if you are throwing out a sofa or chair it must get covered in pee immediately. And no one ever calls the city (a free service) to come pick the sofa up so it sits there for weeks and weeks and weeks while more and more and more people pee on it.


10. The Lakers. I hate the Lakers. I hate people who love the Lakers and have Laker flags on their cars and worst of all when they have multiple Laker flags flying high on their cars. I wish the Lakers would lose every game. The only thing more annoying than the Lakers is a Lakers fan. I have news for you Laker fans: Kobe doesn’t give a sh-t about you.

Ok. Cool? No need to argue about nonsense. The Lakers are a great franchise. They’ve won more championships than 26 other NBA teams combined. They’re competitive every season, and Dr. Jerry Buss makes sure that the product on the floor always includes superstars and marquee names. Gotta love ownership who is committed to winning and keeping the fans satisfied decade after decade. But I can understand why a Knicks fan would say that. As for Kobe, I guarantee that the “haters” would jizz in their pants were he to sign with your team, so stfu.

She finishes with:

But seriously — suck it, Lakers.

Lmao. You should have been telling Mike Dolan to suck it.