NEWSLETTER

Bikini Coinkydink
When I broke up with my boyfriend I was left tenderhearted and frail. He cheated on me with some fat bitch and it seemed as though our relationship had run its course. On the upside, I had lost so much weight that my favorite bikini now fit me. I had gotten it on ebay and it was a 1970s dead-stock, low-waisted, faded, flowery showstopper. Seriously, it was like God’s bikini, sent down to me by eBay angels all for the delightful price of $9.99. However, I hadn’t just lost a few pounds, but a significant amount of weight. I really loved this guy, you know? I took my bikini to my favorite tailor and asked him to put new elastic around the waist. He told me to wait a fortnight and it would be done and that would be that.

So two weeks later or whatever a fortnight is, I went back to the tailor, who told me, “Uh, oh. The piece was so small we thought it was garbage. I’m so sorry. We threw it away.” WHAT? They threw my bathing suit away, which is a story in itself, but not THE story. I know a lot of people out there reading this don’t give a shit about vintage 70s bikinis, but for a fashionable lady such as myself, it’s pretty major. I didn’t cry that day in the shop, but clearly you can understand how this was a tears-worthy situation. In all my sadness and grief I went about blaming the fat bitch whom my ex had fucked and cursed her for starting this whole mess in the first place.

So I turned back to my beloved, trustworthy companion eBay, checking relentlessly every day for another 70s dead-stock bikini. Weirdly enough, I found one! It was just like my old one and with one day left, I was the only bidder. I won that bitch and again, it only cost me $9.99. I paid for it and got an invoice from the seller who had written in the email, “I see that you live in New York. If you want to save on shipping, I would gladly meet up with you.” That worked for me so I decided to meet up with the seller on a Friday, right across the street from my apartment.

All presenter photos by Patrick O’Dell. Styling by Sara McCormack. Raul: Sacque suit, Pierre Cardin shirt.

The fateful day came and the seller was late. I was waiting and waiting and decided to run back into my apartment to get a cigarette. As soon as I crossed the street, I saw the whore who had fucked my ex walking towards me. I squinted at her, acknowledging her presence but not offering a hello by any means, when to my surprise, she waved.

Dumbstruck, I looked behind me to make sure it was actually me she was waving at. She approached me with confidence and I didn’t exactly know how to respond. She was smiling. Then she goes, “Are you buying a bathing suit from me?”

“You?” I said. I couldn’t believe it. She was the seller of the perfect 70s dead-stock bikini I had so sought after. “Yup.”

After a few minutes of meaningless chitchat, I ran upstairs to try on the suit. It was exactly like the old one, but this time it wasn’t too big. It fit me perfectly. I called my ex immediately, I had to tell him. It was the OMG heard round the world.  

LESLEY ARFIN


I Told My Friend He Had AIDS
I make my living being a total fucking asshole. It makes me feel bad sometimes but it sure beats the shit out of selling wheelchairs to old people on the phone. I live with my roommate and we have a show in Canada where we compete against each other. Some of you may have heard of it. It’s called Kenny vs. Spenny.

Basically the show is me and my idiot roommate, who looks like Jar Jar Binks with Down syndrome, competing in fucked-up competitions. Shit like: Who can gain the most weight in a week? Who can make out with the most chicks and drink the most beer before puking?

One of the shows that we did last season was hailed in Canada as the meanest, biggest asshole prank ever blitzkrieged on a loved one. My pal Spencer (Spenny) and I wanted to see, once and for all, who was funnier. So we decided that we were both going to take a week to practice for a stand-up comedy competition and perform in front of a huge comedy guru and let him decide who is the funniest stand-up comedian (like it’s any fucking contest).
I follow the tenets of Sun Tzu’s Art of War, i.e. “Totally crush and destroy your enemy from within.” In Canada, it is mandatory for the Ministry of Health to inform you if you have had sex with a person who has tested positive for the HIV virus. They actually mail out these letters. Could you imagine getting one of these letters? Spenny can.

It’s so easy to forge high-quality counterfeit documentation. I went to the Ministry of Health website, popped their logo on the top of a Word document, and then wrote a letter to Mr. Spencer Nolan Rice informing him that he was going to die of AIDS. I made sure he got it right in the middle of his preparation for the competition. After he got it in the mail, he actually puked.

Forgetting about the competition, Spenny tearfully confided in me that there was a chance he had AIDS (I didn’t know, remember? He got this letter from the government). Being the wonderful friend that I am, I pretended to drop everything and arranged for grief counseling, blood tests, insurance plans, the writing of his will, and all the other shit that most people would do if they thought they were dying.

Spenny’s week prior to the competition consisted of many golden moments. Casually calling girls he’d fucked trying to find out if they were the one with HIV. He gave me a few of his favorite belongings and paid me back some of the cash he’s owed me over the years.

The good news is a blood test takes seven to ten days to come back—in this case well after the competition ended. One of the AIDS counselors I set him up with, whose name was actually Gaylord (I swear to God), told Spenny that the best thing he could do would be to go on with his life, so Spenny decided to go on with the competition.

I actually got scared for a minute because nothing is funnier than a totally depressed, pathetic comedian, but then I remembered we’re dealing with fucking Spenny over here.

We get to the comedy club and Spenny goes first, gets onstage, and starts his bit. A few jokes in, it appeared like the whole depression thing was working for him. But all of a sudden he fucking freezes and tells the audience about the letter that says he might have AIDS and walks off the stage. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. Pure platinum. He broke down and almost started crying.

I ended up giving the judge a copy of the letter I sent Spenny and he gave me the win for unleashing such a devious plan on my best friend.

I did feel a little bad for doing it because I had to be with him on suicide watch and it’s a lot of effort to take care of a pal with pretend AIDS. His mother almost had a fucking coronary, but she’s a bit of a bitch anyways. The funny thing is, when he found out I totally faked the whole thing, he was so happy that he didn’t have HIV that to this day there’s been no retribution.

KENNY HOTZ


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