Luv Doc: Vice Without the Ad

Existentially speaking, it’s probably best not to go apeshit with the featherduster

Luv Doc: Vice Without the Ad

Happy new year, gentle reader, and welcome to the first Chronicle issue of 2017, "The Vice Issue." Being as this column resides in what we journo-types like to call the "back of the book," I can only assume that you've voraciously pored through all the lascivious and scandalous content in the preceding pages and are sufficiently appalled. Good on you. Everyone needs to get their junk wet every now and then.

Although readers are routinely confused about the content of this column (hey, my bad: I'm a bit of a rambler), I have been doing my best to offer advice. I will be the first to admit that a lot of that advice has been deplorably shitty, but in my defense, we all die anyway, right? Existentially speaking, it's probably best not to go apeshit with the feather duster. To put it more simply: Don't sweat the dust. It's what we're made of.

So this week, instead of offering advice, I am going to remove all the commercial appeal and simply offer vice. I am going to give you the seamy underbelly of human existence as I see it. Sure, we like to piss and moan about sex workers (who will do both for a price) and dubious, dangerous drug dealers (I'm looking at you, Pfizer), but the most deplorable aspects of human behavior stare us in the face every day like a prolapsed rectum on a Google image search gone horribly wrong. What do we do about them? Same as the prolapsed rectum. We look away. And then maybe we sneak another look because … dear GOD … we can't help ourselves. That in itself is a bit of a vice, but I digress.

Here's a vice: when an unknown co-worker leaves a half-full bowl of soggy cereal in the break room sink for someone else to clean up. Personally I would feel more comfortable if said co-worker would stop eating soggy cereal altogether and start injecting cocaine into his penis. I will concede that you might be morally confused about which is worse, but I can assure you it's the former.

Coprophagia gets a bad rap, but I would rather watch the entirety of "Two Girls, One Cup" than endure some insufferable douche berating a minimum wage-earning waitperson for not getting his order straight. It … just … turns … my … stomach. Seriously. Eat shit, motherfucker. We will all be less disgusted.

I don't have room for much more vice, but to the reprehensible woman in the black Lexus who tried to make a right turn from the left lane yesterday on Lamar in rush hour traffic and expected everyone else to wait, namaste. I will try not to be too judgmental, but I would much prefer it if you would instead experiment with autoerotic asphyxiation. Don't just do it for me, do it for yourself … and pretty much everyone else in Austin.

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