Don’t Tell Me I Can’t End My Life!

“I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn't know I could commit suicide at any time.” ― Hunter S. Thompson


Don't Tell Me I Can't End My Life!


Check fraud Jason Quinlan

Don't Tell Me I Can't End My Life!Just when you think life can't kick you in the teeth any worse, it does.

Quick recap…

1. I was completely screwed over by my piece of shit partners. That was three years ago and the beginning of my descent.

2. 2015 happened.

3. I lost my dream house, and now I'm living homeless after moving back to Atlanta.

4. The day I returned I couldn't feel any sensation in my left fingers; they were weak, and I have lost all motor skills. It winds up I came down with “cubital tunnel syndrome“, most likely caused by having my arm resting on the driver's side door on the three day trip across the country. Despite what all the trolls and the haters are saying in the comments of the blog my three favorite things to do in life is going to the gym, mountain biking and playing guitar. I haven't been able to do any of this stuff in two months, and it's likely I never will again.

5. Today I found out that I have been the victim of check fraud (see above) and what little money I had left is completely gone.

In the meantime, Charlie Sheen, who is easily 1000 times more evil of a person than I ever thought of being is slowly becoming a hero and an AIDS activist and that makes me vomit.


What About The Rest Of The Book?


I still have so many more stories to tell of my “glory days,” Some of them are funny, and I probably should stick around long enough to re-account them, but at this point, I don't even feel like I'm living for pretending like there were any “good old days.”

I'm just existing.

I can exist anywhere. Right now I would prefer to be 6 feet below the ground.

If there is anyone out there, please remove the albatross from my neck or just let me die. I am beyond taking it anymore.

As a caveat, I have a bunch of stupid motherfucking trolls that ride my nuts in the comments of this blog. I am sure they will try to blame this on drugs or alcohol. The fact is, I've been basically sober for over a year now (for the most part). I suppose you are going to blame the cubital tunnel syndrome and the check fraud on the drugs?

Before you start doing that, I've made up a nice batch of blue Kool-Aid for you.

Drink it.

If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

jason quinlan paypal


Fuck Tucker Max! I Hope Plagiarism Sells In Hell!

Fuck Tucker Max! I Hope Plagiarism Sells In Hell!

Somebody told me I should model my career after Tucker Max. It may sound crazy, but it's 100% correct. Tucker Max is from Atlanta, and so am I. I was writing the homepages for Consumption Junction back in the late 1990s. When that guy's book came out, a lot of the things he did from the storytelling to the unorthodox style of “timeline” writing (because I don't know how to write) plagiarized from me and the other writers there (especially Paul).

paul and i halloween

I tried to read “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” which didn't come out to 2009 and read about two chapters before I almost threw up all over myself. #Truthsoup

I am going to search around my computer or for those old posts, and you will see what I'm saying.

I know that book made a grip of money.

Shouldn't there have been a follow-up by now?


If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

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I Got My DEATH Threat from Dwight Cunningham (aka “Dave From The Luxury Companion”)

A death threat is a threat, often made anonymously, by one person or a group of people to kill another person or groups of people. These threats are often designed to intimidate victims to manipulate their behavior, and thus a death threat can be a form of coercion. –

dark picture of Jason Quinlan

DEATH Threat from Dwight Cunningham form “Dave From The Luxury Companion”)

I'm so excited! I got my first death threat from this blog today; I was going to leave names out of would fuck it – I Got My DEATH Threat from Dwight Cunningham (aka “Dave From The Luxury Companion”)! I don't fabricate stories to try to get attention, and unlike Mike South, I don't take down posts and deny they existed. I dish out bowls of 100% #truthsoup! I do have every reason to take this threat seriously, but to be quite honest: If you kill me, it takes the pressure off me to do something I haven't had the courage to do myself. I think about suicide every day anyways. If I kill you trying to defend myself, that is a win-win. It has always been a fantasy of mine to take someone else's life.

Dwight Cunningham Is A Police Informant (A NARC)

I'm not going to say who was the one who made the death threat but I should've kept them on speaker phone longer instead of hanging up so I could capture some of his sadistic rants. I will entrust someone with the name of that person, so if I'm killed, they are likely to spend the rest of their miserable life getting ass-raped in prison.

Oh yeah, when you want to start making death threats, it's probably a good idea to block your caller ID. I'm sure was done from a burner phone, but the number is (213) 379-0075. Check on Spokeo if you want:


So if you want to have do some fun, bring it. I'm not hiding where I am or my phone number.

If you want to try to guess who it is, just leave their name in the comments.

I haven't lied to you yet, and I won't start now.

If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

jason quinlan paypal



Tuberculosis and Me

What do Nelson Mandela, George Orwell, Tom Jones, Cat Stevens, Desmond Tutu, Florence Nightingale, Edgar Allan Poe and Jason Quinlan all have in common? – We Are All Tuberculosis Survivors!

jason quinlan in the hospital

Tuberculosis and Me


In March 2008, I had my official “Off Probation” party! I was free — finally free from rednecks cops in South Georgia.

Or was I?

During that time I was in an on-again-off-again relationship with a girl named Yvette. If there is one regret in this book/blog, I should've stayed with Yvette. At the time I was making money hand over fist, I had a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, a condo on the Vegas strip, a Mercedes, was relatively young, in porn, and had bitches on my dick like they had scurvy and I could cum orange juice.


picture of yvette garcia and jason quinlan

It was a lot of temptation: Being young, rich and having lots of shiny objects. I wanted to live that lifestyle for a minute, or that's what I thought. Now, in this late hour, I can tell you none of it means a goddamn thing.

I admit, I went a bit crazy drinking and partying when the whole probation debacle had ended. I would selfishly break up with my girlfriend, so I could go out and go nuts, and then we would always wind up back together.

But just a month later, in April 2009 I started to wake up late at night drenched in mysterious pools of sweat. At first, I thought it was just my nerves or maybe just partying. As the weeks went on, my condition worsened.

Nights Sweats?


I started to Google “night sweats” on Web MD and saw there were three conditions commonly associated with night sweats:

1. Menopause – I could rule that one out!

2. Tuberculosis – Nobody gets that disease anymore!!

3. AIDS – I knew it, I had the monster: The High Five. All those women. All that unprotected sex. I went down to the AIM clinic (the old porn clinic) to get checked for HIV. You'd get your results in 24 hours. That endless night, I mentally Rolodexed every shady piece of pussy I've banged. I narrowed down to 2 or 3 girls that gave me the bug. Fortunately, of the tests came back negative. For a short time, the symptoms abated. I chalked it all up to being psychosomatic.

It wasn't long before the symptoms came back except a worse. I would start sweating the bed so profusely that I would have to change my clothes and sheets two or three times almost every night, during the day I began to feel weak, but oddly enough I never coughed up blood or did anything like your typical tuberculosis patient.

By the end of May, I couldn't ignore the sickness anymore. I was starting to feel run down and losing weight, but still wasn't convinced that it was anything serious, so I went to see a doctor and told him, “I think I have the flu.” He checked my breathing. My left lung obstructed. The doctor said I should go directly to the emergency room and get a chest x-ray. It didn't seem like my left lung, was inflating.


How I Lived For 2 Months On One Lung


I was so sick that one of my lungs had already collapsed. The funny thing was, the doctors said my lung had been collapsed for about two weeks. Even stranger, I was still able to workout and go on 20-mile-bike rides. I had no clue I was doing it on one lung!

I got to the emergency room and admitted immediately; I still didn't think I was that sick. The medics start running all kinds of tests, X-rays, TB, HIV, bloodwork, immune response, and everything checked out normal, but I keep getting sicker and sicker. That is the thing with TB, once the virus goes “active” it doesn't show up anymore on those pinprick tests like you used to get school. What they are doing is injecting a small amount of tuberculosis to see if your body will resist it. Of course, when your body is loaded with TB the test turned out negative.

Once I have a negative TB and HIV test they began treating me for rare diseases such as Valley Fever. They put me on antibiotics so hard-core it wasn't used in humans anymore. That just made me sicker.



X-rays show that I have a massive effusion in my pleural cavity. They drain the liquid out of me by sticking some spikes in my back. I was awake for this, and it was terrifying, but the infection it still keeps coming. The doctors think it might be TB and order a second round of test that proves inconclusive.

Halfway through my stay, I have to get a major operation (a thoracostomy) to remove the infection from my lungs. The operation is a success, but the infection still keeps coming. If the source of the infection still couldn't identify, so if this didn't stop I was going to go through all of this again

After being in the hospital for 18 days, they think that I way have had and am released. The day after I get home, a blood test used to screen for TB came back positive. To find out if I had TB, I would have to wait six weeks for the results of my biopsy. To be safe, I was placed on a regimen of anti-TB meds.

The odd thing is withing 3-4 days of taking them I felt as if nothing had happened.


Tuberculosis Positive


In July, the results of my biopsy came back: I had tuberculosis. Worse yet, I've left the hospital with an active case of it. To this very day they quarantine TB patients.

I probably had contracted TB somewhere overseas in my travels or (even more ironically) in prison. TB an airborne disease that anyone can get, one-out-of-3 persons in the world ARE exposed to it; it just requires something to wear you body down (in my case it was alcohol) enough to become active. I also had atypical pleural TB, which isn't in your lungs, so I could't cough and spread it. If you hung out with me in that period you are fine “I wasn't contagious”.

I spent the whole summer of 2009 sober. I wasn't even smoking weed. Honestly, once the TB meds had taken effect, I felt pretty much normal, aside from the pain from the surgery.



If you have been reading this far, you probably realize: I like to drink. I can't help it. I suffer from a form of social anxiety. I am a silent and shy person naturally; it takes some alcohol< to bring be out of my shell. When I am sober, even the most mundane of social scenarios make me nervous and fidgety. If you know me, that may seem ridiculous, but it's true.

One of the cruel tricks TB meds play on you is they completely cure the disease (if taken correctly) but destroy your liver at the same time. The state also assigns the health department on you. It's a total pain in the balls, and ironically it was just like probation!

The last 6 months of 2009, I have been getting complete blood workups done once a month and as of December 17, 2009, I was completely cured, and my liver survived. I would always ask the doctor “Are you sure you have the right chart?” when he said everything as OK.

So, I am free to live my life again, right?

Not Really!


If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

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A Frightened City Of Atlanta Sleeps Safe Tonight!

Atlanta Sleeps Sleeeps Safe!

This one goes back to the tail end of my first stint in Atlanta. The only time Dick Delicious “broke up” was Shortly after our appearance on the Howard Stern show. My new band was called “Operation Asparagus” (operation embarrassment) where I tried to play every single instrument at once surrounded by an army of kung fu hamsters and Singing Fish. I was leaving “practice” on my bike and peddling up North Avenue around 12 AM. I could see that a quarter mile up the hill the cops had a DUI checkpoint. I didn’t have any drugs on me, and I was sober, so I figured rather than getting cased-up scurrying off on one of the side streets where the police always hid for people trying to avoid the roadblocks, it would be better to go through it. They probably won’t even mess with me – I’M SOBER ON A BIKE — RIGHT?

bike in venice

Don't Cops In Atlanta Have Better Things To Do?


“Let me see your ID and get off the bike.” One of the officers working the roadblock asks me.

So I put the bike down and sit on the curb while he runs my ID.

Once he's finished, in an extremely thick southern drawl, states, “Did you know that you need to have a light when you ride a bike at night?”

“No, I didn’t know that, sir.”

He gets back in his car and starts writing me a ticket.

“Are you writing me a ticket ?” I ask.

“Yes, I am. You’re lucky – I could haul you in for this. You’re lucky bud; you’re going home tonight.”

In the meantime, I would estimate 50 drunk drivers passed through the intersection.


The Next Night?


The next night, I decided to ride my bike to grab a slice of pizza. Being the rebel I am, I still hadn’t got my light. I peddle into the parking lot of the pizza place, and there's a cop car sitting there.

From out of it, I hear, “Hey boy; you know that you need to have a light when you ride at night, right?”

I was half way through saying “No officer; I didn’t know that was a law…” when I realized that it was the same cop from the previous night.

You would think in a town with more than its share of murders, rapes, robberies, burglaries, aggravated assaults, arsons, carjacking, and aggravated-aggravation by repeat aggravators that the cops would have more to do.


This shit was retarded.


I fancy myself as a bit of an armchair lawyer, so I knew if I took this to court, I could either get it reduced or thrown out entirely. Both tickets from my crime spree were so close together that my court date for both was the same day.

Someday I will write “Jay’s Big Book of Lies” and I've already got my top contenders.

1. The check is in the mail.
2. Let's go out for “a drink”. (notice the singular expression)
3. I won't cum in your mouth.
4. I always use condoms with other girls.


#1 The Big Book Of Lies


I was coerced into going out for “a drink” by a friend who would only be in town for the night. One drink turned into another drink, then beer turned into liquor, and 100 bucks changed into a bag of low-quality bar cocaine. The next thing I know I am sitting yapping and drinking beer over a pile of weasel dust at my coffee table. My court is at 8:30 AM, so around 7:45, I decided that I’d take a quick nap. I set my alarm, put one foot in bed, and am about to put the other leg in bed when the alarm goes off. I walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth – just as soon as the toothpaste hits my mouth, I find myself doing the technicolor yawn into the sink.

Then, it dawned on me: I WAS TOO DRUNK TO DRIVE TO COURT!

Instinctively, perhaps, I grabbed my bike light off the handlebars.

So, I called a cab; it got me to court just in time because my case was the first one called. Now, keep in mind that I am still as blasted as Robert Downey Jr. on New Year's Eve with puke on my shirt, coke buggers dangling from my nose, and slurring my words as I approach the bench.

The judge asks, “Mr. Quinlan, looks like we have two riding a bicycle at night without a headlight violations.”

I held up my light for the bike and turned it on the middle of the courtroom as I slur, “Your honor, I bought a light. The neighborhood is safe now.”

Despite my buffoonery, he dismissed both tickets.

Either way, the neighborhood could sleep safely that night.


If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

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At Least I’m Not Mike South

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not seek revenge? – William Shakespeare

lemmy xxxjay

At Least I'm Not Mike South


In my last post, I initially made the mistake of linking to a blog written by Mike South.

Who is Mike South you might ask?

Don't worry about it; he's a nobody.

When I have the sporadic thought of suicide, I just remind myself that I could have been born Mike South, and I go on to live another day.

The post was regarding “Dave” from the Luxury Companion. Guess who I got a call from last night?

Dave from TLC.

Dave was very cordial, and we cleared the air about past misunderstandings. There was no discussion of his “legal troubles” (which have been widely misreported by Mr. South) and we mostly bonding discussion over our mutual hatred of Sandra McCarthy and the rest of The Gay Mafia currently controlling the mortally wounded porn business.

Mike South's post correct. I would link you over to his blog, but I don't want your IQ to drop. Last night, I buried the hatchet with Dave, and we both realized we would've made better friends than “enemies,” had the cards played out differently.

It doesn't matter to me if he was or wasn't pimping out girls behind my back that isn't his problem.

According to Mike South, that's his vocation.

My problem is unknowingly being the head of a Rico-sized prostitution empire run by Sandra McCarthy.


Sandra McCarthy Prostitution


Sandra McCarthy: Human Sex Trafficer


They say don't do the crime if you can't do the time. It's also said crime pays, but if you are not receiving any of that delicious tax-free human trafficking money, this slogan isn't true either.

When I write, people pay attention. I don't need to spam GFY with links to set traps for the trolls. That's all I was using GFY for anyways, until they banned me. That is going to hurt thier Alexa rank for sure, which is already pretty bad. Unlike, Mike South, I don't put a robots.TXT file to block my posts from being indexed in to deny I posted something.

I speak my mind, and I own what I say. I don't take posts down.

A picture of xxxjay and lemmy from GFY
Mike South has the unmitigated audacity to call himself a “blogger,” plagiarize my posts and then go on to criticize me public forums as he did with Lemmy post. I never said Lemmy was my best friend. I merely shared stories from the last two decades I've known Lem.

Here is a screenshot of Mike's post, do you notice any similarities to mine:

Screen Shot 2016-07-15 at 3.35.31 PM
My 2-hour conversation with Dave and / GeneRossIsBack / “Seo Guy”(LOL) Internet Terrorist Donny Long was rather entertaining. Apparently, Sandra McCarthy was supposedly trying to make use of Dave's “political connections” with judges to obtain a search warrant for the police to raid my house because I was “dealing cocaine”. With certainty, if she had been telling Dave to drop dime on me, there is no doubt in my mind she was doing it herself and having others do it.

That is how much of a CUNT Sandra McCarthy is. Since we are on the topic, let's get a few facts straight.

1. The mass exodus of porn girls from 101 talent was main reason Sandra wanted to squeeze me out. She saw the opportunity to double roster. Why split twice the money three people instead of 2?

2. Sandra falsely alleged that I was a Coke dealer. Was I a big cocaine dealer? No. Would the cops have found cocaine at my house, had they decided to raid it? Maybe. There might have been some baggies in the “drug pockets” of jeans I washed or half empty bag sitting in a drawer somewhere I'd forgotten about. That was three years ago. In a community with a median age of 60 and a very active neighborhood watch, they would have nailed me by now. The cops never came to call. Do you know why? Simple, because I wasn't selling cocaine!

Here's the catch: Let's say the police had found a minuscule amount of devils dandruff I'd forgotten? That would be enough to force me out of the partnership, rather than buy me out. If I was the big cocaine dealer that she claimed, wouldn't I still be living up in that beautiful house in the Hollywood hills, instead of homeless in Atlanta? Which brings me to my next point of contention….

3. Sandra McCarthy told everyone in the porn business I was bought out for $250,000. That is an out-and-out lie. I will swallow my pride and tell you the exact amount I was “bought out” of OC Modeling for $32,000. Yes, you read that right, that wasn't a typo: $32,000. You can get on food stamps and make more. Let's remember; the agency didn't earn money for the first three years. While Sandra bungled her way through the first original partnerships and just clung on like a dingleberry in the part of your asshole that you can't wipe, and trashed talked people out of their jobs which grew the business like Phil Mac; Sanda usurped the throne by attrition. If you did the math, technically I lost money. And that doesn't include checks never mailed to me for falsely endorsed and deposited in other bank accounts via Katie's creative accounting process.

4. Sandra McCarthy claims to have come into the porn business through her experience as a “mainstream talent agent.” That is another lie. When she left her job working in a custom closet company and continued to fail miserably at running a porn agency until Phil Mack got things into full swing, I covered her rent, expenses and supported her family while patiently waiting for the business to turn a profit. Her name was not on the bond, nor was John Baumgardner. That was me.

5. Anything you email to [email protected] or from that email address is BCC'ed to John Baumgartner. Yes, that's right. Sandra McCarthy isn't even the real owner of OC Modeling. She is nothing more than a patsy for JC, who is the real president.

Okay Sandra, since you like to have fun getting the attention of the police: Two can play that game. This blog has a lot of loyal readers, and they are growing every day.

Let's have a little bit of fun.

If anyone would like to report an illegal prostitution ring run in Chatsworth California this is the address of the offices:

OC Modeling Los Angeles Main Office:
22024 Lassen Street
Suite 114
Chatsworth, Ca. 91311
(818) 626-9550

Here are some links to law enforcement would take an interest in Sandra McCarthy's prostitution empire:

Chatsworth Police Department
810 G I Maddox Pkwy,
Chatsworth, GA 30705
Phone:(706) 695-9667

Los Angeles County resources:

Human Trafficking Section

Gaming, Bookmaking, Pornography, Prostitution
251 E. 6th St, Rm 332
Los Angeles, CA. 90014


Kelly Mulldorfer
Detective Support and Vice Division
Email: [email protected]

Vice Division (VD) is responsible for collecting, recording, maintaining, and disseminating intelligence data a major organized criminal enterprise within and affecting the City of Los Angeles. The Vice section concentrates on the enforcement of vice activities such as gaming, bookmaking, pornography, and prostitution. –

I've thought about it, but I have never reported any of Sandra McCarthy's illegal activities to the police. I don't believe in getting law-enforcement involved with anything. My new daily goal is to make her spend her life inside the confines of a State penitentiary.

In the event, the police are paid off, which I have often believed that they are. With companies like LADirect and Oc Modeling flagrantly operating out in the open for so many years you'd think they would've eventually gotten the attention of law enforcement? You never know, we might get lucky, this is an election year. The office located within proximity to public schools and other areas that wouldn't want this kind of activity.

If the are police paid off, I would happily pass the baton over to the criminals.

Prostitution is a cash business. Though it has been some years since I was in that office, Sandra would always stash the cash in the file cabinets on the left side of the main room. Of course, that was three years ago. Surely, she can't be stupid enough to be still stashing the cash in a rental office with minimal or no security, but this is Sandra McCarthy we are talking about. If no money can be found there, Your next best bet would be to jack one of the model houses or catch one of their employees in the parking lot when they usually leave the office between 8 PM and 11 PM. She perjured herself in court, saying, “Jason Quinlan has a gun and is dangerous.” Which couldn't be further from the truth, as I've stated in previous blogs I am an advocate of gun control. So I'm assuming she isn't packing, but I can't confirm that.

I am not going to cross the line and post personal information, but if the police don't want to handle it, use Search anybody by name, e-mail address, phone number, online username or even friends in your address book and instantly return lots of info.

In case you haven't noticed, this blog was originally supposed to be a re-accounting of my glory days. I haven't even gotten to the good stuff like why I have Jeff Hanneman's guitar, the incident with Oliver Stone, and how I tried to shut the ocean off.

I have only been able to post a few of those stories from the 200-page manuscript I already have written, and have opted to use this blog as a platform to dish out massive bowls of truth-soup against my enemies.

I am homeless, have a pinched nerve which makes it likely I can't play guitar ever again without surgery I cannot afford.

I have chosen to go out with guns blazing. No justice, no peace, no quarter from my enemies.

In case you haven't noticed: I don't give a fuck about anything.

I'm not drinking to excess or on drugs.

That makes me more of a threat and hopefully a better writer.

Thank you for your time.

If you would like to help me keep writing so I don't have to keep sneaking into Starbucks for WIFI and can actually order of Mocha Frapuccino, donations are always appreciated!

jason quinlan paypal


How I Got Into Porn Part 2: The OCCash Debacle

Screen Shot 2016-06-30 at 11.35.47 AM

Continued from Part 1

I met JC, at a Webmaster gathering in San Diego, California. We hit it off right away. He suggested we skip the rest of the show to go up to LA for some porn star's birthday party. I said, “Fuck it, why not.” I checked out of the hotel and drove with him in his SUV. We started getting twisted at the club in Hollywood and went to an afterparty. I walked around the corner in the kitchen, and I ran into this guy Tony, who I'd hung out with in Atlanta, and we had roots that went all the way back to Connecticut. It's a small fucking world.

Tony asked, “Do you want to do some blow?”

“Hell yeah.”, I responded.

We went to the bathroom and snorted some lines; I asked him if I could buy some; he pulled out a Pablo Escobar sized sack of booger sugar. I purchased an 8-ball. JC was impressed at how quickly I could score drugs. He asked me if he could get some. The sun was already coming up, so I just handed him my bag and told him to “have at it.”

Screen Shot 2016-06-30 at 11.38.40 AM
I've been doing cocaine since I was 16, my honeymoon days with blow were long past. I'm not a big fan of it other than as a tool to drink longer.

I wound up giving JC my whole bag, but he still insisted on buying another one, so I got it. By 10 in the morning, I was getting tired and bored, but JC just wanted to keep snorting. So I went to sleep in JC's truck while they kept partying. At around noon, he wakes me up and says they are going to ANOTHER party in a limo. I had my fill of partying for the night and was jetlagged as fuck. I was in my late 20s by then; three-day benders didn't interest me like the used to.


Stranded Somewhere in Canoga Park


He had the limo driver drop me back at his condo, which was in Canoga Park. I had no idea where the fuck that was, and I crashed out on the floor. I caught about five or six hours of sleep and noticed he hadn't returned, and his phone was off. I didn't know a lot of people in LA, so I called my surfer friend Scott in Huntington Beach. I told him I went out to a party but now was trapped somewhere up in the valley with no idea where the fuck I was. He suggested that I grab a piece of mail and look at the address which confirmed I was situated directly in the epicenter of “Porn Valley.” I asked him if he could come pick me up, he didn't want to drive all the way from Orange County, so I called a cab company to see how much a cab to Huntington Beach would be. They quoted me $400. I called him back, and he begrudgingly agreed to grab me.


jc and xxxjay occash

I've spent the rest of that day in Huntington Beach, and I was sitting out on the pier when JC finally calls me back and asked me if I want to go to another party. By this time he's three days deep and probably should consider sleeping.

Despite the chaotic introduction, my mind was made up; I was going to move to California and become one of those Big-Baller program owners.

Screen Shot 2016-06-30 at 11.49.18 AM
I had multiple conundrums I needed to deal with first:

1. I still had six years left on probation out of Georgia. Technically I wasn't supposed to be leaving the state. In my last few weeks in Atlanta, I set up a very elaborate series of fake voicemail boxes, bogus addresses, fake IDs, and phony employers — just in case probation came to call.

2. I had a girlfriend I lived with, to whom I hadn't mentioned any of my plans. We had a decent relationship, and she looked like Carmen Electra in her prime. As much as I would've liked to take her with me, I didn't feel like I could start a new life in California dragging my old life behind. I was a real douche bag because I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I didn't even tell her I was leaving until two days before the movers showed up. I guess I was chickenshit. Sorry about that Krissy.

3. So I got back to Atlanta only to find my girlfriend suspected she was pregnant. For a moment I was terrified. She was a cool chick, “Hell no, if I'm pregnant I want this thing out of my body is fast as possible.” She took a pregnancy test, it came up positive, and we were at the abortion clinic two days later.


yvette and jay


Even in a big city like Atlanta, Georgia, it's still the Buckle of the Bible Belt; we were met outside by protesters that had babies covered with fake blood, signs indicating we were all on a path to eternal damnation. The protesters screaming “Don't do it for this man don't do it for this man.” I picked up all loose piece both the asphalt on the curb and threw it into the crowd which disbursed them a bit. We shoved our way into the clinic. The infirmary was a long room with glass windows on the back. The protesters moved from the front of the hospital to the glass windows and started reciting the Lord's Prayer over and over, each time louder. Someone from the clinic shut the blinds, but they still praying increased volumes. I found a piece of paper and wrote “Jesus knocked up my girlfriend” and shoved it between the screens and that seems to shut them up for a bit.


John “JC” Baumgartner


Business Partners Are The Root Of All Evil


Before my move, I got the lowdown on OCcash. It was three partners JC was the “president”, Morgan did graphic design (yet didn't know CSS), and there was a “money guy” named Rich, but he wasn't coming up with any cash. They wanted to replace him with me. I thought they had excellent content which was provided by TTboy and we would re-brand his DVDs and make them into porn sites. So, that was technically a fourth partner, even though nothing was in writing. I did an analysis of the program, and could see that there was a lot of room for improvement. So as long as this “money” guy agreed to step aside, it all made sense on paper.

My developer, Ryan, encouraged me to start up my affiliate program. However, I didn't see the need when you were making $3000 a day, but he said we should take the opportunity, and he would continue helping out with both companies to make the transition smoother.

Two weeks later June 15th, 2003, I am out in California full time, I had lived in urban areas for so long that I wanted to live by the beach. I picked Huntington because I had been there a lot before and I love skimboarding and surfing. All I took with me to California was 2 suitcases with two unconscious cats inside.

If I had been more aware of “Orange County Culture“, or lack thereof. I would've never moved there. I was out of place, but I thought it was best so we could all work together in an office.

But that wasn't even the case, in the two weeks, I hastily planned my exodus from Georgia. JC had already moved to Vegas a few days before. He didn't tell me he was thinking about it; didn't say he might, the prick just did it. He already had a house in escrow, so this was not just an impulsive move. What a selfish asshole!

Now, what is the fucking point of moving halfway across the country to make some worthless motherfucker rich? When they're just going to move out of State and go on to what they would later describe their first year of being in Vegas as “they can't remember any of it”? An extreme douche move in my opinion! Especially after I risked my freedom to be in LA to work as a company. I could've just stayed in Atlanta and saved myself a lot of trouble if I had to even an inkling that was the case.


Way to go, asshole!


I took up surfing and going to the beach, but I was not feeling the vibe.  At least I would be able to work right next to Morgan, who lived in Newport Beach, and we'd be able to collaborate. But that didn't wind up happening either because Morgan was more distracted by his constant intake of marijuana, pills, his needy fiancé, and his dog Walter (who easily had the highest IQ in the house)

On top of that, I was yet to sign anything legally binding with them. So after about a month of being out there, and still working on a handshake deal, JC comes back from Vegas storming in a steroid rage about how the company would now be structured. They wanted a 10k buy-in, which I had no problem with, that was chump change at the time. We had a meeting at Morgan's house to replace Rich (who still have contributed a dime) and make me the new partner. JC also went on and on about how bankrupt the company was. By that time, I was already locked out of the bank accounts, and I'm sure that $1700 VIP bottle service in Vegas had been one of the many JC-sponsored. I gave them the $10,000 and rather than reinvesting in the company, they just split it amongst themselves. Smart business!

When Morgan and I expressed, our concerns about the fact that we were doing all of the work, JC just exploded into another steroid induced rage, screaming and yelling and threatening to beat Morgan and I. I seriously considered saying, “Fuck it, I’m going back to Atlanta.”, but I was pretty committed by that point.

It was also very early on I could see chinks in the armor. We had a gay reality site we owned 100% of (a big money maker at the time). Morgan was so high he accidentally told the host to delete the site and didn't have a backup. Not even locally.

With some help from my developer Ryan, I did exactly what I promised them I’d do. I blew it up from a small and struggling affiliate program to a major player in the porn game within a matter of three or four months. I already had enough leverage as an affiliate, that people would trust me, and I was the “face” of the program. Hence my reason for being so pissed off at their creative accounting.

To make matters worse, my developer Ryan couldn't stand JC or Morgan. JC in particular. He labeled them as being “clueless” and I couldn't say I disagreed. After a little bit more verbal abuse at the hands of JC, Ryan quit and said, “He would never work for us again no matter how much we paid him.”

And to be honest, I don't blame him.

Fact of the matter, having Ryan quit hurt my core business, which always made me a lot more money than the chump change OCCash produced.

If anyone would care to contribute, I don't make Donald Trump money writing this blog.

jason quinlan paypalDonations are appreciated 🙂

Just like him one of my last blogs, if you lay down with dogs you wake up with fleas.


The Decline Part 2: Atlanta

First off, let me say, I am not some greedy motherfucker. In 2002 I was living in Atlanta in a $700/mo rat-hole apartment making $700,000 a year as an affiliate and happy as a clam. Moving to California to be part of some “big affiliate program” was a pay cut for me and an all-around disaster.

The Decline Part 2: Atlanta


Suffice it to say the people I chose to get in business with are worthless, talentless, dishonest, lazy pieces of shit who if they died today; I'd gladly piss on their graves tomorrow. Yes, that includes John “JC” Baumgartner, you are the biggest scammer I've ever met. Morgan Mcnerny, an actual case study that a steady diet of weed and pills causes severe brain damage. Morgan could be replaced by a $50/mo Filipino outsourcer, and nobody would know the difference. Sandra McCarthy, you look like a cross between a Motley Crue groupie and the siege at Waco, plus you run an illegal escort agency. Nick Melillo, don't forget, you were the one who asked me to save your failing program, and I succeeded. You and Sandra should look up the definition of the word “perjury” in the dictionary because you both did a lot of lying on the stand the five times I had to face you In court. I won both cases BTW. In case you are wondering, Sandra and Nick, filed a restraining order because I dropped a cocktail napkin folded like a paper airplane on my shoes. Chris Klimasz, I'm not sure what you do, but I hope you're happy with the outcome of the contract your partners forged your signature on.

A map of the US showing the drive from Los Angeles to Atlanta

Oh yeah, and there's “Kenny“. The guy who “brought me out” for a fraction of what the shares of my business were worth. I can't be that mad. I don't know you, so you are just some dumbass who fucked some strangers girlfriend, got her pregnant, and got stuck with her.

How is that working out?

These statistics are publicly available at I remember when I was pushing 250k a day through this site. What happened?

filthfreaks-traffic-after-xxxjayAn excellent graph on this one! I'm so happy you found someone who can market to your crowd better than I can! LOLpornstar-platinum-after-xxxjay

I was forced from a partnership that generated millions of dollars (primarily from my contributions) because I was”too crazy” for porn. In truth, they thought they could do better with this “Kenny” joke. Just how do you get too crazy for porn anyway? That's like getting kicked out of Cypress Hill for smoking too much weed. You knew who I was before your decision to get in business with me. I was the same person for a whole decade and all of those millions of dollars we cut up. What you see is what you get! Now, all of a sudden I'm a problem? Add to that; I worked my ass off, while you tried to start side-project after side-project leaving me with the bulk of the work.

In this blog, I will spare the gory details. I have barely scratched the surface of their deceit. I messed up by being too trusting and not standing up for myself when I should have! I already know what you're thinking, this is idiotic you could get sued for this. Sue me, go ahead have at it. Before you do that, remembered you were the ones who salted my name to everyone in the industry for months. Then you made me sign papers to keep my mouth shut. Plus, I am getting sick of explaining the bullshit that went down in LA over the last 13 years.

The point is, I don't give a fuck. I left a lot of the juicy details out of this blog. If I were you, I would just take your lumps and leave me alone. I held a lot back on this post. If you want to fuck with me, I've got some GREAT dirt to spill and proof to back it up!

My only goal is to remind you that there is an actual human being, WHO USED TO BE YOUR FRIEND, who lost everything he's worked his whole life for you to succeed. YOUR GREED left me in a worse place than I've ever been in my life. I'm not a saint, and I'm not saying I didn't bring some of this on myself. But with that even being said, all of you motherfuckers we're doing the same exact things I was — in fact WORSE!


Fucking hypocrites!


I like to believe that karma exists, but it must be overbooked worse than the airlines. In any event, I hope by the time it catches up to you; it removes your reproductive organs so that your sub-human species can no longer pollute the human race with your lack of moral turpitude.

If anyone would care to contribute, I don't make Donald Trump money writing this blog.

jason quinlan paypalDonations are appreciated 🙂

Thank you for letting me vent,

The Dothan, Alabama Incident

dick delicious and super x-13

File Under DIY Tour Madness 1995: With Dick Delicious and Super X-13

If you've been a musician and booked your own tour, you already know they can be a string of catastrophes waiting to happen. We scheduled 3 shows with our longtime buddies Super X-13 in Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and Panama City Beach (where Spring Break was that weekend). Knowing our debaucherous behavior at the time, I thought we'd be lucky to make it back to Atlanta outside of State or Federal confinement.

To lower expenses, both bands piled into my Ford Econoline with a trailer in tow. Astonishingly, this didn't wind up to be another crappy indie tour, this was some real Rockstar shit. Three nights in a row we had massive crowds, great shows, were overpaid, plus got free beer and random groupies!

On the last day of our glorious mini-tour. I awoke on Sunday morning on the floor of some chick’s house in Panama City to the sound of “Oh, fuck! It’s not going to start!” from outside the window.

metal bands that should have been bigger

My van had a ghetto starter switch. You needed to flip it quickly or the starter would keep running till it burned out. Scott (Hugh G. Rection) and Shane Morton, apparently went on an early morning quest for water-slides (water-slides?!) and forgot how to operate the switch correctly. The van was toast. One of our friends gave us a ride to the auto parts store. In the brutal heat of the Florida's sun. I crawled on the 120 degrees asphalt toiling to change the part. I am far from being mechanically inclined, so the repair took forever. I wrangle the new starter on, try to crank the van up: Nothing. Maybe the new starter could be defective? We go back to the auto shop, get another and after many hours of aggravation the 2nd starter actually worked. By late afternoon, we were finally on the road back to Atlanta.

Once You Are Outside Of Atlanta You Are In Georgia

The roads from Panama City to Atlanta are a mixed bag – consisting of backcountry roads that wind through Florida, Alabama, and South Georgia. Kelly Sanford (drummer of Super X-13) is driving and most of the other guys were passed out from roofies a fan gave us (yes, we roofied ourselves). In the cabin of the van were just the 6 of us, a giant stack of porno mags, and an axe handle inscribed with some racially insensitive remarks in sharpie we kept “for protection”. We mostly used it to bust open pinball machines to get quarters for gas money after some promoter screwed us, which frequently happened at the time.

Florida I think

We were driving through Dotham, Alabama when we run out of rolling papers, so we stopped at a convenience store. The redneck clerk sold us Zig Zags and then dropped dime to the police. As soon as we leave the parking lot a cop gets behind us with blue lights flashing. Our drummer, Dave (Phil A. Cunt), takes the weed and stuffs it down his pants. Shane and I try to wake up Scott and Timmy, who are thoroughly unconscious from the Rohiphinal.

Two precariously inbred redneck cops come up to the doors on either side of the van with guns drawn and transport Kelly into the back of the cop car. Scott finally comes to, but Timmy (guitarist for Super X-13) stays down for the count and we can't wake him up.

Next, we are asked to step out of the van, one by one.


shae morton super x-3 atlanta

Shane Morton got out first, with green hair and wearing a “Bitch Goddess” t-shirt. The chief redneck cop informs him, “Boy, you’ve already broken the obscenity laws here in Alabama by wearing that shirt. Why don’t you tell me where the acid is at!”

Next out is Scott, despite the beer gut, is told he fits the profile of an IV drug user.

Next in line is me, “Hey are you the guy who owns this van?’, the cop asks.

“Yes”, I say.

“When we find that dope you are hiding, we are going to confiscate your vehicle.”

Next was our drummer Dave, who was the most clean-cut looking, had the least number of tattoos, but was also the guy holding the drugs! They pull him aside and say, “Boy, you look like the straight shooter of this bunch. Why don’t you just tell us where the dope is?”

Timmy was so roofied out of his skull, we had to drag him out.

Guess what the cops say to the guy who is so passed out on narcotics that he can’t even walk or talk?


Once they have us all in a group, they tell us that the driver (Kelly Sandford) was already under arrest for DUI. We all knew Kelly hadn’t been drinking, that’s why he'd been chosen to drive.

Soon after, more police cars pull up. We are standing in a circle – this other dweeby looking cop is fidgeting nervously with a flashlight and a semi-automatic pistol drawn. The doughnut-bloated redneck Sergeant sends one of the cops to search the van.

Mind you that there was nothing in the van except a giant stack of porno and an axe handle. All of our gear, luggage, and any drugs that had survived that trip we're surely in the trailer, but they never even asked to search it!

The trailer could have been loaded with dead bodies stuffed with cocaine for all they knew.

The redneck sergeant starts his tirade, “Hey why are you boys so shifty? I bet you wanna beat me? Don’t you?”


We stand silently.


He continues, “I don’t like musicians. My best friend was killed by musicians.”

More silence follows from our group.

“Why don’t you boys just tell us where the fuckin’ dope is? We’ve already called for dogs to come out here. Tell us where the dope is?”

Florida again

The cop repeats this mantra for the next forty-five minutes, acting like he was talking to the Manson family. Meanwhile, we haven’t heard a peep out of the other cop who is still in the van with the flashlight rummaging through all of the nothing.

Finally after the umpteenth “You boys wanna’ hurt me” comment, I finally break down, “Hey man, you are the only one talking about hurting anyone, we are just trying to make it home.”

My comment created some levity, the cop started to settle down a bit and asks “Which one of you is the lead singer? The lead singer gets all the girls.”

The respective singers raise their hands.

“You boys know any Molly Hatchet? If you are going to be playing down in Panama City, you had better know some Hatchet!”

“Sure, we know a little Molly Hatchet.”

“Well hell, yeah…ten four good buddies!”

An hour later, the other cop finally emerges from searching the van – his shirt is completely soaked in sweat, with a giant ring of wetness around his collar and dripping off his head.

“Hey Sarge, I checked the whole van – they’re clean…”

He could have finished the search in five minutes, but judging by the hour that had elapsed and the ring of sweat on his uniform. I’m about 99% certain he was in there doing the five knuckle shuffle to our collection of Hustler magazines.

“How do you boys ride in there? It must be damn hot.”, The Sargent says as he shines his flashlight into the empty van for the first time. He picks up the “racially insensitive ax handle” and looks at it with curiosity, smiles, and puts it back.

“Well hell yeah! You just some good old boys!”

After two hours on the side of the road, they finally let us go, and escort is out of town like the Beatles had just rolled through Dothan, Alabama.

By this time it is 3 AM and we still have four hours of travel ahead of us and day jobs in a few hours. We make it seventy miles outside of the ATL when the van’s engine cuts out and we are stranded on the side of the road: AGAIN!

We walked to the Waffle House off the next exit, get the van towed, and call our girlfriends to pick us up as the sun is coming up: How had such a glorious “tour” gone straight to hell?

That was just one of 1 million crazy and fun times we've had with those guys, but that story always sticks out for some reason.

That was the Dothan, Alabama incident with Super X-13.

Peace out,
Jason Quinlan

The Springer Incident


Don't Tell Me How To Ruin The Springers Show

In 1998, while I was out on bond from the Treutlen County debacle, it was the height of Springer-mania. Drummer #11 of Dick Delicious (Rick aka “Hardon Long”) helped book Jerry Springer guests on the side. When he played his first show with the band, we had never even met him in person. He was our booking agent. After the previous drummer quit, he said he knew the material good enough to play it, we took him at his word, he met us at a club in North Carolina and did a solid job considering we didn't have one rehearsal.

After a while, Rick moved from Raleigh to Atlanta, and made the suggestion “Jay, you are a ham – you should go on the Springer Show.” I said, “Sure.” Truth told I'm not a Jerry Springer fan. I just thought it would be a funny story to tell later and guess what? You're reading this blog.

You Better Fax Somebody!

Jerry Springer's people called and asked if I wanted to be a jealous boyfriend of a girl posing for Playboy. Since I had already been in the porn industry for a while, I explained I was the wrong guy, but if they wanted a pimp, a drug dealer, or any other kind of scumbag — I was their man. They asked me to send a headshot, so I faxed one (yes, I said “fax”) and they agreed I was indeed a despicable curmudgeon and booked me immediately.

10 minutes later, after an extensive plot writing session, Jerry's producers called me with a new show premise and asked if I wanted to be a pimp who will not let his hoes out of servitude “come rain, sleet, or snow” unless they coughed up the cash they owed. This role, I happily accepted. A few weeks later, I’m in a Motel 6 in downtown Chicago preparing to film the show with my friend Scott from the Spo-its, who agreed to play the part of the jealous boyfriend. Everyone else was people we didn’t know who were other characters in the episode.

Are The Jerry Sringer Fights Real? Questions Are Answered

These were the years when Jerry was still showing all of the fights. Scott and I agreed that we would try to kick each other’s asses because we knew neither one of us would get many swings in before security stormed us. The show taped on Monday, and we were in Chicago from Thursday till then rehearsing for a few short hours per day in the hotel room with a producer. In truth, myself and the ensemble spent most of that time in Wicker Park getting hammered at hipster bars.

When Monday came around, we had to be at the studio at 9 AM. The previous night, we all drank until 5 AM and hadn’t slept. I think I had sex with one of the strippers who was one of my “prostitutes.” 7 AM the head producer shows up and the entire cast was still drunk. I recognized the producer as “Bud Green“, who was a fake marijuana advocate who's big schtick was smoking joints on talk shows and getting thrown off set.

He asked me, “Where Is Your Suit?”

I told him, “I don't have one. I thought you guys did.”

I didn't bring any decent clothes, so they rushed me to and bought me an Armani suit. The suit was supposed to be custom tailored, but in the green room, they managed to make it fit me via scotch tape, thumbtacks, and bobby pins.

jerry spinger with jason quinlan

Despite the disorganization, I looked pretty legit.

In the green room, reality kicked in: I’m not an actor, I’m not a pimp. What the fuck am I doing here? Here I am, 10 minutes away from going on the biggest show on daytime television and I knew I was a total sham.

To say the least, I was nervous.

As the show began, I sat backstage and watched from the monitor as “my prostitute” explained her tribulations to Jerry. A thunderous “boo” resounded from the audience. In real life Jerry recently lost his bid to be Governor because he was busted with hookers, in part for trying to pay one with a personal check. I asked if I could bring this up and was warned not even to try.

When Jerry was interviewing her, she started crying: She was great! After watching, I felt slightly emboldened. I was still quite anxious, but I went out and acted like the biggest bastard I could. When I saw the horrified reaction from the audience, I fed off of it, and this pushed me to be an even greater slimeball. Scott came out in the next segment, we exchanged a few blows, talked about slapping hoes, insulted the entire restaurant industry, and Scott expressed his displeasure about his girlfriend coming home “smelling like an open can of cat food,” just before proposing. The show culminated with my epic Shakespearean-like improvised monolog about “how pimping ain’t easy”.

The Episode Was The Highest Rated Spriger Episode Ever, Surpassing Opera

The show aired on Friday the 13th 1998. When the ratings hit the following Monday, it was the first time Jerry had ever surpassed Oprah. Springer was now the #1 talk show on television. By Monday afternoon, I was getting calls to come back and film a follow-up. Two weeks later, Scott and I were back in Chicago playing the same parts.

On the second show, I had to be escorted through the back entrance because there was a huge line of people around the Studio. The producers explained, “We got a lot of mail based on your appearance. 50% of it was from outraged viewers that want to kill you, and the other half was from girls that want your number.”

I found this quite amusing.

The second Springer appearance was good, but the cast wasn't as strong as the first. I took a few good shots in the jaw that day, but nothing I couldn't handle. Even though I didn't feel it was as solid as the first episode, it still exploded in the ratings. Before I even left Chicago, they were making arrangements for a third appearance.

After filming, they shuffled us to the airport within ten minutes after wrapping. I remember one of the strippers was on the same flight as me, still dressed in her outfit from the show and we recognized Senator Paul Simon at our gate. She ran up and hung on him long enough so people could snap a bunch of pictures. To this day, I'm surprised they never surfaced.

While the third show was coming together, the producers cut out Rick and started calling me to recruit guests. In the next few months, half of my scumbag Atlanta friends had been on the show. Meanwhile, I was getting stalked 24/7 by news media from New York and undercover reporters trying to be the first to break the “Jerry Springer is fake story”. It was surreal. I had producers from various networks showing up at Dick Delicious shows trying to say they would feature the band if I would talk about the episode. Another time, the cheesy “undercover reporter” with the camera clearly hidden in his bowtie was waiting for me in my parking lot. I told him there's no way I'm going to talk to the guy whose claim to fame as he caught people pissing in coffee makers. I never went on record to them regarding the show, my Italian side would never allow me to “snitch”, plus I'd signed a contract with the Jerry Springer show holding me responsible for 40k production costs if “my story was not authentic”, which I found ironic.

Jerry Spring Is Fake,And There Is No Easter Bunny

Two weeks later, 20/20 broke the big story with another group of “fake” Springer guests. In a statement from the show, Bud Green became the “one rogue producer” and was fired. Everyone on the Springer staff, including Jerry, knew it was bogus! On the second show, in lieu of purchasing a second Armani suit, they lent me one of Jerry's! The guy was looking at me wearing his own clothes for Christ sake!

When I returned to Georgia, I was a low-rent George Clooney for two weeks. The day the show aired some of the guys from the band and I made the cultural misstep of going to a monster truck pull. The entire audience recognized me, and I remember wrapping a towel around my head, so I looked more like the Taliban and drew less attention. I got into a scuffle on the Marta train with a redneck who is trying to look tough for his girlfriend. I ended it by stepping outside of the train, waiting for the door to close, and hitting him with a solid right to the jaw, then then giving him the middle finger the train pulled away.

About a year later “The Best of Jerry Springer DVD” came out and I was the first scene on it.

There were my 15 minutes of fame.

Or so I thought.