With great not giving fucks comes great responsibility. Sometimes I become so obsessed with not giving fucks that I forget to give fucks for those people closest to me - or even worse, myself.
From a young age I was showing signs of NGF; I was aloof, clumsy and awesome. As I got older, the symptoms matured and multiplied and ultimately turned me into this remnant of a human being. My insides are now filled with arrogant disapproval for everything around me and my outside is just a cage preventing me from punching everything in their souls. It's not that I hate the world or I'm unhappy, I'm just uncomfortable with everything - 'cause everything is bullshit - and when I realized this, NGF consumed my life.
NGF has worked out pretty well for me up until recently, it finally caught up. The first people to be affected by my affliction were my family. Once the Holidays rolled around, I shopped for the essential family members (read: the people who fucked to make me) and that was about it. I sent holiday wishes to the aforementioned parties and I unintentionally told everyone to suck a gigantically fat cock.
See, NGF's most common symptom is forgetting to express appreciation. I don't text anyone, I don't call anyone, I barely call my mother - it's a terrible habit, but I really don't give a fuck. See the problem? Any time it comes down to showing some sort of care or appreciation, I just blatantly forget because NGF has become so engrained in my life.
I kinda just wade through life, focused on keeping afloat more than anything else. I'm doing pretty terrible with that as is (that'll be for another post) and the addition of my family giving me shit for being shitty isn't helping. I'd call this a cry for help - but if you lend a hand, I won't really give a fuck.
And that's the shittiest part, there are people lending me a hand! But I'm just so self-absorbed and focused on fixing my broken brain that I just kinda accept the help and blow them off - it's kinda fucked up.
Oh well, I'm a charming fuck so it don't matter.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Retroactive Rewrite: Kids.
I absolutely hate all the attention kids get... Especially when they're hit by drunk drivers.
Sure, it's a tragedy - but what about the reason that driver was drinking in the first place? Probably more tragic.
Case and point; let's rewind a bit to the day before... Little Phillip of twelve years old just got a C on his report card, to battle the depression he goes to the bathroom to jerk off - it is therapeutic - but gets caught. His mother thinks he's an atrocity, she cries to his father, "Why God, oh why would does our son have to be a retarded piece of shit?!" Father replies, "I hate him too, is it too late to abort?"
Then you have this other fella. He just got laid off, so he's coming home early. He walks in on his wife banging six black guys - they don't have to be black, but their cartoonishly large dicks makes this funny - there's an awkward queef, one of the black guys chimes in, "Yeah, pussy speaks fo' itself, bitch." Boom. He just had a bad day despite an excellent pun.
Next night, Little Phillip is playing ball by himself because he has no friends - because he's stupid - and Other Fella is coming back from a long night of depressed drinking... WHAM. He hits the little shit because playing with a black ball at night is idiotic. Now my man is gunna face vehicular manslaughter and driving while under the influence. Two days and this dude's life is ruined.
But still, the parents will come out with their crocodile tears and talk about how Little Phillip could've been a doctor. The masturbating C student could've been a doctor now? I'm sure the kid could get a PhD in eating shit - but that's about as impressive as a degree in Sociology.
Put it this way, becoming a doctor is tough when you're alive - but when you're dead, you can be anything! Who gives a shit, Little Phillip could've been a hymen-breaker on Mount Olympus now that he's gone!
Man, kids are so shitty. I feel like I'm part of a dying breed of decent individuals - and I'm one of the worst of that dying breed. Kids are smelly, self-indulgent pricks who want nothing more than to stay absorbed in their pretty little world. The parents should be glad the kid's out of the running early, you can try again for next year - maybe he'll be more frugal when putting viruses on Daddy's computer.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
An Open Letter to my Friend(s).
To my Good Friend,
I realize this is an open letter that will reveal some dark, very personal details of our friendship. Because of this I've chosen to exclude your name. However, in excluding your name, I realize that many other friends reading this letter may believe it is intended for them - this is planned. You see, friend, I just don't have the balls to confess this secret to your face; therefore I ask any friend reading this to believe it is directed at you until you believe otherwise.
We've been friends for a period of time some people would consider long, others would consider short. But regardless of what others may label our friendship as, I am sure we both know it is a strong bond, one which could withstand the brutal impact of, say, me having sex with your mother. Now, before you assume that I had sex with your mother, let me just clarify that I did - it's just a terrible habit to assume, I've been meaning to tell you that it's very ugly. Please don't stop reading this just yet, it is the only form of confession I will offer and I want you know all the details (and hopefully forget all this ever happened).
You've never noticed the sexual tension between your mother and I, hell I never noticed either. But a few weekends ago I was around and you were off doing something related to work, or in the bathroom or something, and I found myself sharing a deep conversation with her. We got to talking about you - by the way, you should really call your mother more often - and how you've been putting a lot of stress on her with your habits. While I realize that I happen to indulge in some of these habits with you, my presence as a strong, established, more successful young man than you outweighs this point. After I came forward about some of the drugs you do and your pre-marital affairs, she was in a raw emotional state; that's where I knew I had to provide comfort.
I scooted a bit closer and took off my pants, although she was startled at first - she found comfort in seeing that I was fully aroused by her. And if you asked me any other time, I don't think I could say I was attracted to your mother, but something about seeing her sob about how terrible of a son you are really got me. When it finally happened, she took to me hungrily, as if all the stress you've put on her drove her into my arms. And I don't want to blame you, but we'd both be kidding ourselves if we didn't admit that this is all pretty much your fault.
I was merely a pawn in this game between you and your mother, I've been used as an escape from the bigger picture - you two have a lot of sorting out to do. I can only provide so much support for the both of you - seriously, she's like a rabbit - and it's not healthy to ignore this looming problem in your life. Think of my penis as a bridge between you and your mother, one that you both need to meet halfway on - yeah... Meet halfway on my meat. Let's make that the motto for then next few, healing weeks, shall we? Ah, I'm glad I got this off my chest. It's been therapeutic.
Sincerely, Moose.
I realize this is an open letter that will reveal some dark, very personal details of our friendship. Because of this I've chosen to exclude your name. However, in excluding your name, I realize that many other friends reading this letter may believe it is intended for them - this is planned. You see, friend, I just don't have the balls to confess this secret to your face; therefore I ask any friend reading this to believe it is directed at you until you believe otherwise.
We've been friends for a period of time some people would consider long, others would consider short. But regardless of what others may label our friendship as, I am sure we both know it is a strong bond, one which could withstand the brutal impact of, say, me having sex with your mother. Now, before you assume that I had sex with your mother, let me just clarify that I did - it's just a terrible habit to assume, I've been meaning to tell you that it's very ugly. Please don't stop reading this just yet, it is the only form of confession I will offer and I want you know all the details (and hopefully forget all this ever happened).
You've never noticed the sexual tension between your mother and I, hell I never noticed either. But a few weekends ago I was around and you were off doing something related to work, or in the bathroom or something, and I found myself sharing a deep conversation with her. We got to talking about you - by the way, you should really call your mother more often - and how you've been putting a lot of stress on her with your habits. While I realize that I happen to indulge in some of these habits with you, my presence as a strong, established, more successful young man than you outweighs this point. After I came forward about some of the drugs you do and your pre-marital affairs, she was in a raw emotional state; that's where I knew I had to provide comfort.
I scooted a bit closer and took off my pants, although she was startled at first - she found comfort in seeing that I was fully aroused by her. And if you asked me any other time, I don't think I could say I was attracted to your mother, but something about seeing her sob about how terrible of a son you are really got me. When it finally happened, she took to me hungrily, as if all the stress you've put on her drove her into my arms. And I don't want to blame you, but we'd both be kidding ourselves if we didn't admit that this is all pretty much your fault.
I was merely a pawn in this game between you and your mother, I've been used as an escape from the bigger picture - you two have a lot of sorting out to do. I can only provide so much support for the both of you - seriously, she's like a rabbit - and it's not healthy to ignore this looming problem in your life. Think of my penis as a bridge between you and your mother, one that you both need to meet halfway on - yeah... Meet halfway on my meat. Let's make that the motto for then next few, healing weeks, shall we? Ah, I'm glad I got this off my chest. It's been therapeutic.
Sincerely, Moose.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
3 Popular Facebook Activities of Young Mothers
My friend list can be mistaken for the roster at a maternity ward 'cause I got prego bitches fo' dayz. Out of 350 some-odd friends, twelve of them are pregnant, nine have a kid and four of them have more than two shitheads. That's a lot of kids, especially because these statistics are taken from my "under 21 crowd." More importantly, that's a lot of boning.
I don't have a kid (that I care about) and I definitely have no experience as a parent - but I do have a backlog of facebook bullshit to criticize.
3. No More Slutty Photos.
When you're a young, vibrant girl on the internet your body is pretty much a tool you can use for both good and evil. Facebook has made it very clear that whatever you post on their site instantly becomes immortalized on the internet - it will spread without your knowing - and the sluttier it is, the higher the chances are it'll be posted somewhere else and the higher the chances your kid will probably come across it in the future.
So, after you've had a child, you really gotta stop that shit. Facebook isn't a trend, Facebook is going to integrate even further into our society than it already is. So when your kid first realizes that he can jerk off to the internet and he's browsing through some sluttly gallery of photos, there is a chance your slutty bathroom picture will be burned into his mind for the rest of eternity. Or even worse, you'll be on IsAnyoneUp?
Before digital cameras slutty photos were limited; you would never spend a few hours in the bathroom with a disposable camera trying to get the right angle on your mamaloogas. And if you did, chances are you kept that photo in a shoebox buried in the deep recesses of your closet. I'm sure my mother took tons of slutty photos - but I'm never gunna know and I'm really fucking happy.
The case isn't the same for your kids. That photo of you sucking on a piece of candy like a fat old kielbasa will likely get meme'd and become a chain letter that will, inevitably, end up on your kid's phone.
2. A boyfriend is probably a terrible idea.
Now I totally understand how young love works, how we need it as people and all. But you pretty much lose the right to love once you decide to care for the child of your last love, or love before that... Or whatever depending on how slutty you are.
And it's not that I think you're a careless lover (because I do), I just think you have a fucking baby, dude! Not only that, you think some guy is going to be able to comprehend a situation you can barely comprehend yourself?
Seeing that on me feed makes me want to impregnate you again just so I can punch our newborn child in the face. Now, I'm sure McFagturd is one cool dude but chances are he will have no clue how to empathize with your situation - so when shit gets thick in babyland, I'm giving McFagturd about a week to realize that holy shit, this broad has a baby... I can't get that puss ALL the time?
And you might even argue back that you were never giving puss ALL the time in the first place... Well, not to discount your character - but you gave it out enough to have a baby and I guarantee whatever sex you were having before the baby will get cut drastically, making it utterly impossible to satisfy a hormonal young man.
But what if the guy is understanding and he wants to be a part of the kid's life?
Well great-fucking-Scott, we got a winner! Right? Wrong. If a young man ever says he wants to be part of a kids life he a) has about as much a clue as you when it comes to kids or b) is batshit crazy. In other words, Niceguy McFagturd is so unconditionally loving that he's actually unconditionally retarded.
So think twice before searching for a new relationship, 'cause you got yourself a whole lot of relationship to fucks with already. But totally get some dick, you'll need it for those long weeks.
1. When a child goes to sleep, the child is still alive.
Now, this goes without saying, right? Not really. It seems becoming a mother is a lot easier than being a mother. What's even harder is not broadcasting how terrible you are at being a mother. Which leads me to the following comment by a mother named Jessica:
This comment and various incarnations of it pop up on my feed at least four times a week. Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday all around 3:00 p.m. If I were, say, a molester or perhaps a baby cannibal I have found the perfect candidate to molest or eat - or both. I have a time to be there and a window to get my business done without any pesky parents bothering me.
It seems ditching the burden when he/she is asleep is a trend amongst mothers 'cuz Jessica ain't the only one:
I'm going to go ahead and assume these people eat a bowl of Stupid Fucks for breakfast every morning. Now while some of these updates may seem harmless (they gathered about 100 likes collectively), these parents are openly admitting to neglecting infants and getting praised!
But all is forgiven, you're young and stupid - but morally obligated to care for a human child, instead of letting someone more qualified (and probably not as obsessed with self-image) take care of it. I'll do these young mothers a favor and give them a piece of advice:
Babies need to be watched when they're sleeping, asshole.
Aside from internet predators, little Cody is less than a year old; this makes him a perfect candidate for "Crib Death" - which may sound like an awesome all-infant Metallica coverband but in reality it's a very serious condition where infants under twelve months old randomly die due to overlooked medical conditions. Now while we can blame doctors for missing a diagnosis, we should actually blame the mother's doctor for not diagnosing her with dumbass. But the world isn't perfect and that's why you need to watch the little fuck and make sure he's sleeping without problems - you can't ditch the shithead to work on shedding your disgusting stomach (that comment probably didn't help to keep you out of the gym). For some reason, there are a handful of young mothers who believe that parenting involves giving a child everything they want until they sleep - then the party starts, maybe you can get pregnant again!
Again, I'm no mother, but I don't think I need to be one to tell you that your kid is pretty much all you're allowed to think about from now on, idiot.
I don't have a kid (that I care about) and I definitely have no experience as a parent - but I do have a backlog of facebook bullshit to criticize.
3. No More Slutty Photos.
When you're a young, vibrant girl on the internet your body is pretty much a tool you can use for both good and evil. Facebook has made it very clear that whatever you post on their site instantly becomes immortalized on the internet - it will spread without your knowing - and the sluttier it is, the higher the chances are it'll be posted somewhere else and the higher the chances your kid will probably come across it in the future.
So, after you've had a child, you really gotta stop that shit. Facebook isn't a trend, Facebook is going to integrate even further into our society than it already is. So when your kid first realizes that he can jerk off to the internet and he's browsing through some sluttly gallery of photos, there is a chance your slutty bathroom picture will be burned into his mind for the rest of eternity. Or even worse, you'll be on IsAnyoneUp?
Before digital cameras slutty photos were limited; you would never spend a few hours in the bathroom with a disposable camera trying to get the right angle on your mamaloogas. And if you did, chances are you kept that photo in a shoebox buried in the deep recesses of your closet. I'm sure my mother took tons of slutty photos - but I'm never gunna know and I'm really fucking happy.
The case isn't the same for your kids. That photo of you sucking on a piece of candy like a fat old kielbasa will likely get meme'd and become a chain letter that will, inevitably, end up on your kid's phone.
2. A boyfriend is probably a terrible idea.
Now I totally understand how young love works, how we need it as people and all. But you pretty much lose the right to love once you decide to care for the child of your last love, or love before that... Or whatever depending on how slutty you are.
And it's not that I think you're a careless lover (because I do), I just think you have a fucking baby, dude! Not only that, you think some guy is going to be able to comprehend a situation you can barely comprehend yourself?
Flora is now in a relationship with Douche McFagturd.
Seeing that on me feed makes me want to impregnate you again just so I can punch our newborn child in the face. Now, I'm sure McFagturd is one cool dude but chances are he will have no clue how to empathize with your situation - so when shit gets thick in babyland, I'm giving McFagturd about a week to realize that holy shit, this broad has a baby... I can't get that puss ALL the time?
And you might even argue back that you were never giving puss ALL the time in the first place... Well, not to discount your character - but you gave it out enough to have a baby and I guarantee whatever sex you were having before the baby will get cut drastically, making it utterly impossible to satisfy a hormonal young man.
But what if the guy is understanding and he wants to be a part of the kid's life?
Well great-fucking-Scott, we got a winner! Right? Wrong. If a young man ever says he wants to be part of a kids life he a) has about as much a clue as you when it comes to kids or b) is batshit crazy. In other words, Niceguy McFagturd is so unconditionally loving that he's actually unconditionally retarded.
So think twice before searching for a new relationship, 'cause you got yourself a whole lot of relationship to fucks with already. But totally get some dick, you'll need it for those long weeks.
1. When a child goes to sleep, the child is still alive.
Now, this goes without saying, right? Not really. It seems becoming a mother is a lot easier than being a mother. What's even harder is not broadcasting how terrible you are at being a mother. Which leads me to the following comment by a mother named Jessica:
"Cody is asleep, stepping out to the gym for 20 minutes! <33"
This comment and various incarnations of it pop up on my feed at least four times a week. Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday all around 3:00 p.m. If I were, say, a molester or perhaps a baby cannibal I have found the perfect candidate to molest or eat - or both. I have a time to be there and a window to get my business done without any pesky parents bothering me.
It seems ditching the burden when he/she is asleep is a trend amongst mothers 'cuz Jessica ain't the only one:
"salon while my angel rests inside" - 3 months old.
"Trish is out like a light sneaking out to the deli, shh lol" - 68 days old.
I'm going to go ahead and assume these people eat a bowl of Stupid Fucks for breakfast every morning. Now while some of these updates may seem harmless (they gathered about 100 likes collectively), these parents are openly admitting to neglecting infants and getting praised!
But all is forgiven, you're young and stupid - but morally obligated to care for a human child, instead of letting someone more qualified (and probably not as obsessed with self-image) take care of it. I'll do these young mothers a favor and give them a piece of advice:
Babies need to be watched when they're sleeping, asshole.
Aside from internet predators, little Cody is less than a year old; this makes him a perfect candidate for "Crib Death" - which may sound like an awesome all-infant Metallica coverband but in reality it's a very serious condition where infants under twelve months old randomly die due to overlooked medical conditions. Now while we can blame doctors for missing a diagnosis, we should actually blame the mother's doctor for not diagnosing her with dumbass. But the world isn't perfect and that's why you need to watch the little fuck and make sure he's sleeping without problems - you can't ditch the shithead to work on shedding your disgusting stomach (that comment probably didn't help to keep you out of the gym). For some reason, there are a handful of young mothers who believe that parenting involves giving a child everything they want until they sleep - then the party starts, maybe you can get pregnant again!
Again, I'm no mother, but I don't think I need to be one to tell you that your kid is pretty much all you're allowed to think about from now on, idiot.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Mind the Moose I.
Mind the Moose - a journalistic entry lightly seasoned with comedic breading.
It's hard to find a good woman to make your wifey these days - oh, by the way, I use a lot of ebonic expressions because fuck you (I won't ever stop using that either). I've been living in New York for a year and I haven't bagged a wifey, it's frustrating. And it's not like I'm picky, I only ask for three things. And if you have them, den I'mma have to wife dat.
It's your duty as a human being to know how to cook. I didn't say you have to cook well, I'm just saying you're taking a big old shit on nature if you can't prepare sustenance for yourself. There will be nights where we're stoned out of our minds and I want a grilled cheese. If you can't grill a cheese for your stoned boyfriend, you are not wifey material. I mean fuck. If you expect the Moose to consistently bring you to Babylon and back, the Moose is going to need some grilled muthafuckin' cheese.
I would be lying if I didn't say that I can fuck exactly like Antonio Banderas in Original Sin. But I'm going to need a bad bitch who can Angelina Jolie my kielbasa, too. If you can't be a bad bitch who will Angelina Jolie my kielbasa, too, you are not wifey material. I'm not asking for it all the time, I just want the security of knowing every time I do get it - I'm gunna sexing a female Brock Lesnar.
It's not too much to ask for and it's nothing new, these two things. I mean, I wouldn't have tattooed "Bad Bitches Only" on my cock if I didn't think it was a realistic request. However, I think the requirement that women have the hardest time meeting is the third - the wild card. Fearlessness.
Yes, yes. Women are the most gullible skeptics I know. They'll trust a man who can deliver velvet-wrapped turds but dismiss the guy who is honest, because they're terrified of real opinions. There's an old saying, "Women hate being told 'No'," - which can be extended into, "Women hate being contradicted."
It is my belief that fear stirs up in a woman when she loses control of a situation. She fears loss, she fears loathing and she fears disappointment. So, she'll choose the guy who tells her he's happy and that he can keep her happy and everyone is happy - rather than choosing the guy who is willing to open up and tell the bitch she's doin' it wrong.
This is precisely why a lady needs to be fearless. She needs to be willing to flirt with danger, take a step out and actually embrace an organic relationship. I want a lady willing to grow, rather than a lady who wants to maintain just one dimension in a relationship.
It's hard to find a good woman to make your wifey these days - oh, by the way, I use a lot of ebonic expressions because fuck you (I won't ever stop using that either). I've been living in New York for a year and I haven't bagged a wifey, it's frustrating. And it's not like I'm picky, I only ask for three things. And if you have them, den I'mma have to wife dat.
It's your duty as a human being to know how to cook. I didn't say you have to cook well, I'm just saying you're taking a big old shit on nature if you can't prepare sustenance for yourself. There will be nights where we're stoned out of our minds and I want a grilled cheese. If you can't grill a cheese for your stoned boyfriend, you are not wifey material. I mean fuck. If you expect the Moose to consistently bring you to Babylon and back, the Moose is going to need some grilled muthafuckin' cheese.
 |
| It's no Mother Mary, but it sends the right message. |
I would be lying if I didn't say that I can fuck exactly like Antonio Banderas in Original Sin. But I'm going to need a bad bitch who can Angelina Jolie my kielbasa, too. If you can't be a bad bitch who will Angelina Jolie my kielbasa, too, you are not wifey material. I'm not asking for it all the time, I just want the security of knowing every time I do get it - I'm gunna sexing a female Brock Lesnar.
 |
| PUT IT IN MY MOUTH MOOSE! |
Yes, yes. Women are the most gullible skeptics I know. They'll trust a man who can deliver velvet-wrapped turds but dismiss the guy who is honest, because they're terrified of real opinions. There's an old saying, "Women hate being told 'No'," - which can be extended into, "Women hate being contradicted."
It is my belief that fear stirs up in a woman when she loses control of a situation. She fears loss, she fears loathing and she fears disappointment. So, she'll choose the guy who tells her he's happy and that he can keep her happy and everyone is happy - rather than choosing the guy who is willing to open up and tell the bitch she's doin' it wrong.
This is precisely why a lady needs to be fearless. She needs to be willing to flirt with danger, take a step out and actually embrace an organic relationship. I want a lady willing to grow, rather than a lady who wants to maintain just one dimension in a relationship.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
The past, presently.
When I was fifteen, I knew a girl named Holly. Holly was an object of boys' desire back in that day (and may I confess she still is). And lucky for me Holly was my neighbor and she was also my friend! All the more relevant, I totally wanted to throw my kielbasa in her (but failed countless times). Now, what made Holly so appealing was a) straight up ass and b) she knew how to hang with the boys. And let's face it, women are pretty much fucking lunatics at any age - but at the tender age of fifteen they're like cornered rodents; so having a gal who knows how to be like a boy did wonders for everything ever (this follows my I'd Be Gay For You If You Had A Pussy, John Theory). The following story takes place in a brief period of time where my chubby, pubescent self fell into a spout of funky love with Holly and emotionally scarred me for rest of my life.
But before I start the story I want to speculate a bit. Presently, I'm at odds with my past. I've concluded there are two ways to look the dumb shit we do as kids - and when I say "dumb shit" I don't mean setting fire to a treehouse or trying to do a backflip into huge shrub, I mean weird things that we try to repress the memories of in adulthood. So we can either look at that time you let the dog give you a half-job as something deeply disturbing about yourself that you prefer to take to the grave or you can view it as your innocence unknowingly conflicting with taboos. As adults, we gain the ability to think decisions through and decide if society would view it as batshit crazy whereas kids, we just tend to go with the flow until there's an unbearable feeling of shame within our cores.
Which brings me to fifteen years old, stripped down to my socks in Holly's bathroom with a buddy of mine. And despite a pretty picture I may be painting of a teenage threesome, there was absolutely no reason to be stripping down into our socks. Holly was fully clothed, Holly was watching television, Holly had no clue what we were doing in there. But regardless of the various factors telling me and my buddy to not get fucking naked we got fucking naked, baby. Now this buddy of mine, we'll call Gordon, was (and probably still is) better endowed than I was, he could also grow a better 'stache and had more pubes than I did, but who was counting? (I'll take Gordon with a tweezer for $200.)
So the grand scheme, from what my memory allows me to remember, was to get naked and bumrush Holly with our floppity dicks for the lulz.
We'll stop here for a moment to evaluate the situation. Two naked teenage boys, one clothed female, potential bumrush, in HER home - and it was a surprise nonetheless.
If I were to do this today, it'd be sexual assault but back when I was fifteen it was just plain ol' dumb shit.
So we totally bumrush the broad, who I'm TOTALLY digging right at the time, kielbasas waving in the wind of innocence. First Gordon went in, his modestly sized fifteen year old cock goin' in gunzablazin'. Then comes me, the second - Wait, why the fuck is blushing so hard... And laughing? AND pointing?
Why because I had child's dick at the time. And the moment I realized that she was having a hearty laugh at my not-so-hearty acorn, I bolted back into the bathroom trembling with embarrassment. When I went home I contemplated all the excuses I could give, I tried for weeks to make my kielbasa longer with various stretching techniques and the lot (all it did was hurt my dick!) but to no surprise, nothing could take away the shame. It took me about two years to shed those inhibitions and finally lose my virginity - but since then my relationship with my cock has never been the same, I've really grown closer to him and trained him to overcome any sort of embarrassment he'd ever face again. Now, my dick will simply laugh back at his hecklers before showing them the greatest night of their lives.
But still, even to this day, I'll look in the mirror and see a naked fifteen year old boy staring back at me with an acorn dick. My memories reminding me that dumb shit will never go away, dumb shit is what defines us.
But before I start the story I want to speculate a bit. Presently, I'm at odds with my past. I've concluded there are two ways to look the dumb shit we do as kids - and when I say "dumb shit" I don't mean setting fire to a treehouse or trying to do a backflip into huge shrub, I mean weird things that we try to repress the memories of in adulthood. So we can either look at that time you let the dog give you a half-job as something deeply disturbing about yourself that you prefer to take to the grave or you can view it as your innocence unknowingly conflicting with taboos. As adults, we gain the ability to think decisions through and decide if society would view it as batshit crazy whereas kids, we just tend to go with the flow until there's an unbearable feeling of shame within our cores.
Which brings me to fifteen years old, stripped down to my socks in Holly's bathroom with a buddy of mine. And despite a pretty picture I may be painting of a teenage threesome, there was absolutely no reason to be stripping down into our socks. Holly was fully clothed, Holly was watching television, Holly had no clue what we were doing in there. But regardless of the various factors telling me and my buddy to not get fucking naked we got fucking naked, baby. Now this buddy of mine, we'll call Gordon, was (and probably still is) better endowed than I was, he could also grow a better 'stache and had more pubes than I did, but who was counting? (I'll take Gordon with a tweezer for $200.)
So the grand scheme, from what my memory allows me to remember, was to get naked and bumrush Holly with our floppity dicks for the lulz.
We'll stop here for a moment to evaluate the situation. Two naked teenage boys, one clothed female, potential bumrush, in HER home - and it was a surprise nonetheless.
If I were to do this today, it'd be sexual assault but back when I was fifteen it was just plain ol' dumb shit.
So we totally bumrush the broad, who I'm TOTALLY digging right at the time, kielbasas waving in the wind of innocence. First Gordon went in, his modestly sized fifteen year old cock goin' in gunzablazin'. Then comes me, the second - Wait, why the fuck is blushing so hard... And laughing? AND pointing?
Why because I had child's dick at the time. And the moment I realized that she was having a hearty laugh at my not-so-hearty acorn, I bolted back into the bathroom trembling with embarrassment. When I went home I contemplated all the excuses I could give, I tried for weeks to make my kielbasa longer with various stretching techniques and the lot (all it did was hurt my dick!) but to no surprise, nothing could take away the shame. It took me about two years to shed those inhibitions and finally lose my virginity - but since then my relationship with my cock has never been the same, I've really grown closer to him and trained him to overcome any sort of embarrassment he'd ever face again. Now, my dick will simply laugh back at his hecklers before showing them the greatest night of their lives.
But still, even to this day, I'll look in the mirror and see a naked fifteen year old boy staring back at me with an acorn dick. My memories reminding me that dumb shit will never go away, dumb shit is what defines us.
High School Musical Part 4: The College Years.
For the entirety of teenage institutionalization I was a productive member of the Drama Club. Coincidentally, the revival of thespianic arts came about around the same time. With the annual releases of High School Musical, the premiere of Glee, Broadway going on strike, the hipster movement starting and other homoerotic reasons, being in DC was the cool thing to do. And while a good percentage of "players" were already over-enthusiastic assholes trying to emulate their favorite Drama Club series, there was a sudden influx of carbon-copy drama students who wanted nothing more than to prance around and do improv with dildos.
This was primarily the reason most of my cast-mates hated me. I became pretty enraged at the whole ordeal and turned myself into the Drama Club badass - which is a way to say, I was the best so eat a dick. I adopted an obsession with "anti-players" like Steve McQueen, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, and Gregory Peck - men who all share one thing in common; an over-sized pair of nuts capable of Haitianesque seismic activity. Needless to say, I could not WAIT to get the hell out of teenage institutionalization so I could tackle the real world of theatrical artistry where my take on the craft could be appreciated.
After taking a year on the stand-up circuit, I decided to focus back on theater for 2012. To ease myself back into the scene, I chose to hunker down at the People's Improv Theater (the PIT) and participate in some of the bullshit they got.
For those of you unfamiliar with New York, the PIT is literally a block away from one of the most hipster CUNY (City University Of New York) schools in the state - Baruch College. Baruch is not only responsible for being a leader in organizing OWS, it's also a spawning pool of opinionated hipsters just waiting to get their shitty facial hair in the spotlight.
All these factors accounted for, the PIT acts like a beacon for people I hate - especially on a free night. But I had hope, this was NYC and I'm sure I'd be meeting some real talented performers...
HOWEVER.
When I arrived, I was immediately transported back to the first day of theater class. You had the flamboyant gay guy that all the girls wanted to fuck, there was the handful of ugly people in the corner who never acted well but always gave good ideas and last, but certainly not least, the bitch everyone wants to fuck - the over-acting diva, Vanessa Hudgens incarnate minus the Disney masturbatory fantasy. Even worse, they were all just as loud and annoying as before, taking pictures to show that HEY I'M HERE PERFORMING, PEOPLE MUST KNOW ON FACEBOOK. Let's hope they weren't as talentless as I remember.
Upon further research, I realized the inevitable... Every single dude I met tonight was going to be dressed like the biggest faggot. And I don't mean to sound like a real ninja, when I say shit like that - but come on... The appropriate amount of scarves for a straight man indoors is somewhere around don't fucking do it. I barely let that shit slide outdoors. (There's nothing wrong with being gay, unless you're straight.)
So I join the "drama club" in the basement and get situated. Now, I don't know if anyone is familiar with improv warmups, but they usually resemble the first day of first grade. In this event, we were playing a game where, "we will transfer our energy to another player in the form of a funny face and a loud noise, then that player who receives the energy will transfer it to ANOTHER player!"
HOW FUN! I can scream like a retard at someone else to "warm up" for freestyle improv - that's the only way, right? Wrong.
This is precisely what I find wrong with theater, now-a-days. There's so much time spent on being yourself and losing all your stiffness and let's work with levels and let's do yoga and let's wear scarves and shut the fuck up, it's getting to the point where every single person is becoming the same shit because we're idolizing the idea of being an artsy-fartsy sonnamabitch instead of just being one. A proper warm up for any sort of performance should be pretty clear:
Glass of whiskey
Cigarette
Stretch body/jaw
Tongue twisters (quietly to yourself)
More whiskey
Cigarette
Performance
So that's what I did at the PIT to the dismay of the others, but it worked (more on that).
Once the event started, performances were shit. I mean, what do you expect from people who use the talent of the current cast of SNL as a standard? All the guys did characters reminiscent of one another, nothing special or surprising - all the lines were predictable and all the laughs were given. Maybe after facing the rough-n-tough world of stand-up comedy, bombing a few times here and there I'm a firm believer that a laugh should be earned - not rewarded for standing on a stage and being terrible (unless you're in a freakshow, then it's totally hilarious).
I won't even get into my performance because I kicked ass - although I will mention that I created the bastard son of Robert DeNiro and Steven Seagal - because I want to arrive at my finaly point (if there were even points before this).
Whatever this fun-loving Occupy generation is up to, it's making me sick to my stomach for some reason. There's this relentless system of cheerful support and forced niceness everywhere - all I hear is "good for you" and "that's great" and "let's see how many dudes we can get on this ass-train, daddy." As this new bullshit leaks into my world of performance, it makes it more and more cynical. My peers are sheltering each other and prolonging High School as long as they can into their 20's.
That's not good, folks. This is how people grow up completely oblivious to utter and dispicable failure. But we're just getting so soft, we just need to realize that we need failure. If you don't have that shit - you're gunna be 26 and having a breakdown I had a year ago.
You got that kind of time? Fail a bunch now and get comfortable with that sting, makes shit easier later.
 |
| Not |
This was primarily the reason most of my cast-mates hated me. I became pretty enraged at the whole ordeal and turned myself into the Drama Club badass - which is a way to say, I was the best so eat a dick. I adopted an obsession with "anti-players" like Steve McQueen, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, and Gregory Peck - men who all share one thing in common; an over-sized pair of nuts capable of Haitianesque seismic activity. Needless to say, I could not WAIT to get the hell out of teenage institutionalization so I could tackle the real world of theatrical artistry where my take on the craft could be appreciated.
After taking a year on the stand-up circuit, I decided to focus back on theater for 2012. To ease myself back into the scene, I chose to hunker down at the People's Improv Theater (the PIT) and participate in some of the bullshit they got.
For those of you unfamiliar with New York, the PIT is literally a block away from one of the most hipster CUNY (City University Of New York) schools in the state - Baruch College. Baruch is not only responsible for being a leader in organizing OWS, it's also a spawning pool of opinionated hipsters just waiting to get their shitty facial hair in the spotlight.
All these factors accounted for, the PIT acts like a beacon for people I hate - especially on a free night. But I had hope, this was NYC and I'm sure I'd be meeting some real talented performers...
 |
| I don't consider myself an actor, I consider myself a BECOMER... Wanna make out? |
HOWEVER.
When I arrived, I was immediately transported back to the first day of theater class. You had the flamboyant gay guy that all the girls wanted to fuck, there was the handful of ugly people in the corner who never acted well but always gave good ideas and last, but certainly not least, the bitch everyone wants to fuck - the over-acting diva, Vanessa Hudgens incarnate minus the Disney masturbatory fantasy. Even worse, they were all just as loud and annoying as before, taking pictures to show that HEY I'M HERE PERFORMING, PEOPLE MUST KNOW ON FACEBOOK. Let's hope they weren't as talentless as I remember.
Upon further research, I realized the inevitable... Every single dude I met tonight was going to be dressed like the biggest faggot. And I don't mean to sound like a real ninja, when I say shit like that - but come on... The appropriate amount of scarves for a straight man indoors is somewhere around don't fucking do it. I barely let that shit slide outdoors. (There's nothing wrong with being gay, unless you're straight.)
So I join the "drama club" in the basement and get situated. Now, I don't know if anyone is familiar with improv warmups, but they usually resemble the first day of first grade. In this event, we were playing a game where, "we will transfer our energy to another player in the form of a funny face and a loud noise, then that player who receives the energy will transfer it to ANOTHER player!"
HOW FUN! I can scream like a retard at someone else to "warm up" for freestyle improv - that's the only way, right? Wrong.
This is precisely what I find wrong with theater, now-a-days. There's so much time spent on being yourself and losing all your stiffness and let's work with levels and let's do yoga and let's wear scarves and shut the fuck up, it's getting to the point where every single person is becoming the same shit because we're idolizing the idea of being an artsy-fartsy sonnamabitch instead of just being one. A proper warm up for any sort of performance should be pretty clear:
Glass of whiskey
Cigarette
Stretch body/jaw
Tongue twisters (quietly to yourself)
More whiskey
Cigarette
Performance
 | |
| Yeah, I'm a fucking actor, what do you do? |
Once the event started, performances were shit. I mean, what do you expect from people who use the talent of the current cast of SNL as a standard? All the guys did characters reminiscent of one another, nothing special or surprising - all the lines were predictable and all the laughs were given. Maybe after facing the rough-n-tough world of stand-up comedy, bombing a few times here and there I'm a firm believer that a laugh should be earned - not rewarded for standing on a stage and being terrible (unless you're in a freakshow, then it's totally hilarious).
I won't even get into my performance because I kicked ass - although I will mention that I created the bastard son of Robert DeNiro and Steven Seagal - because I want to arrive at my finaly point (if there were even points before this).
Whatever this fun-loving Occupy generation is up to, it's making me sick to my stomach for some reason. There's this relentless system of cheerful support and forced niceness everywhere - all I hear is "good for you" and "that's great" and "let's see how many dudes we can get on this ass-train, daddy." As this new bullshit leaks into my world of performance, it makes it more and more cynical. My peers are sheltering each other and prolonging High School as long as they can into their 20's.
That's not good, folks. This is how people grow up completely oblivious to utter and dispicable failure. But we're just getting so soft, we just need to realize that we need failure. If you don't have that shit - you're gunna be 26 and having a breakdown I had a year ago.
 |
| Wait... I CAN'T have a horse with a Prince Albert piercing? |
Monday, December 12, 2011
5 Songs from the 70's the 80's Overshadowed.
My taste in music can promptly be dismissed upon my mention of "ska," but despite this I just know I have good taste in music. This applys specifically for classic rock. My father, the proud drummer of a KISS cover band, is responsible for showing me the legends like Jethro Tull, Rush, The Police, Rainbow and a shitton more
That being said, I'd like to comment on how the 80's absolutely ruined all of these bands. Not one rock 'n' roll band persisted through the 80's and came out on the other side a better band. The kicker is, some of our favorite bands released their most popular tunes in the 80's - at the cost of the masses forgetting their much better music in the 70's.
#5. Lights Ruined By Don't Stop Believin' - Journey.
When most people hear "Journey" they immediately jump onto the hood of a car and shout to the heavens, "DON'T STOP BELIEVIN'!" Every so often, Journey gets a random spike in fame that draws millions into their safe, arena-protected rock 'n' roll. Whether it be the assassination of the Sopranos, the addition of a Filipino Steve Perry or the more recent homage from Glee, it is safe to say that very few people are strangers to the sound of Journey.
Setting aside the fact that "Wheel in the Sky" is Journey's best song, "Lights" is a song that keeps the pace of "Don't Stop Believin'" while delivering a boatload more musicality, soul and imagery than the latter could ever hope to. What sets "Lights" apart from DSB is the light-as-a-feather riffage behind each verse courtesy of Neal Schon, the only permanent member of Journey. And let's face it, Steve Perry's performance on DSB is textbook at best - whereas in "Lights" he seems to draw you in with a more theatric, romantic comedy sound. Lights' usage of alliteration ("I wanna get back to my city by the bay") makes listening to this song a pleasant and smile-enforcing four minutes guaranteed to drop a pair of panties on "Lover's Row."
But why was "Lights" overshadowed by the staggering success of DSB? Well, when Steve Perry and his big-fat-nose joined Journey, the first album they released was Infinity. Infinity was such a kickass album, "Lights" simply couldn't hold its weight against "Wheel in the Sky," "Patiently," "Feeling that Way," and other badass tracks. Infinity was Journey's biggest success on the charts - beating Escape (the home of DSB).
The only reason people are so ready to jump on DSB's pole? It's simple. This is a classic story of simplicity being preferred over genuine goodness. Because DSB can be tossed into any movie, any show, any commercial, etc, make it so easy to violently rape your ears with it.
#4. Double Vision Ruined By Jukebox Hero - Foreigner.
Foreigner is a strange band. Despite over 20 line-up changes, the GOD awful (but critical) release of Jukebox Hero and allowing the media to tear their music to shreds, Foreigner has a lot of kickass work as well. No song displays their kickassery better than "Double Vision." The song changes its tune a few times while keeping to a memorable pattern, each part has a distinct sound and a pair of balls that any listener could appreciate.
So why is this song leagues above Jukebox Hero? Between 1976-1980, Ian McDonald (of King Crimson) was the driving force behind Foreigner. He is mostly responsible for not only "Double Vision," but also "Hot Blooded," "Cold as Ice," "Feels like the First Time," and "Spellbinder."
All the aforementioned songs all have one thing in common, they aren't "Jukebox Hero."
Once Ian McDonald left the band in 1980, subsequent albums were just fucked. But that didn't stop Jukebox from being their most recognizable single and 4 from being their only #1 album. I chalk this up to the 80's. 4 was released in a year desperately starved of good music, so the masses were ready to listen to anything... Even Jukebox Hero. That screechy piece of shit song will continue to exist, endure and persist for all of time. This song will plague our radios until Kingdom Come.
But, we'll always have Foreigner's first three albums to listen to. Albums made in a better time, undaunted by the inescapable void of the 1980's.
#3. Free Will Ruined By Tom Sawyer.
Rush is probably my favorite band for obvious reasons; they're fuckin' Rush. A three-piece outfit that can make better music than most symphonies, Rush has solidified their spot as the most under-appreciated group in the United States - mainly because they rarely did press here - but still almost everyone knows Tom Sawyer. I will testify on behalf of myself, Tom Sawyer is one kickass tune. But should it be the end-all be-all of Rushdom?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Free Will. There is no song that better displays the talents of these Canadian fucks. I mean, you could listen to their extensive progressive catalogue - but who has four days to listen to one song?
Free Will is concise, it's ballsy and it also takes anything Tom Sawyer can do and does it times boner. Right off the bat, you have a catchy rock song capable of radio play on the daily. Then you hit the bridge, which is essentially like crossing into the New World on the back of Odin's cock. You enter a place where musicians will just straight up fuck shit up, no matter who the fuck is listening. Geddy Lee sets the tone with a filthy bassline that's so dense it God thought he had a kidney stone, then Lifeson draws in with a solo that can only be described as shit yes, fuck me harder. All the while, these bastards sit upon a Middle-Earthean foundation of tight drumwork by percussionist legend, Neil Peart. Once the bridge finishes, Lee simply adds a cherry on the sundae by singing at the highest end of his already ludicrous range.
All that being said, why is "Tom Sawyer" the more-loved single by Rush? Well, Tom Sawyer came out in 1981 on the album Moving Pictures, which is Rush's largest commercial success. Each song was a reasonable length and all of the songs took on a more crowd-friendly sound. The album featured synthesizers more heavily than their last and also - the drum fill. Often mistaken as a drum solo, "Tom Sawyer" is blessed with a sick drum fill that got all of the world readying their mouths for Neil Peart's gargantuan schlong.
And to think, just a year earlier, "Free Will" came out on January 1st, 1980 (technically a 70's song because it was recorded in '79) and not only did it kick more ass, it had a message everyone could relate to.
#2. American Girl Ruined By Anything in the 1980's - Tom Petty.
By the time the 90's came around, Tom Petty was being played on the pussiest of radio stations and worse yet - he became a "Superbowl" performer. FAG.
That being said, I'd like to comment on how the 80's absolutely ruined all of these bands. Not one rock 'n' roll band persisted through the 80's and came out on the other side a better band. The kicker is, some of our favorite bands released their most popular tunes in the 80's - at the cost of the masses forgetting their much better music in the 70's.
#5. Lights Ruined By Don't Stop Believin' - Journey.
When most people hear "Journey" they immediately jump onto the hood of a car and shout to the heavens, "DON'T STOP BELIEVIN'!" Every so often, Journey gets a random spike in fame that draws millions into their safe, arena-protected rock 'n' roll. Whether it be the assassination of the Sopranos, the addition of a Filipino Steve Perry or the more recent homage from Glee, it is safe to say that very few people are strangers to the sound of Journey.
Setting aside the fact that "Wheel in the Sky" is Journey's best song, "Lights" is a song that keeps the pace of "Don't Stop Believin'" while delivering a boatload more musicality, soul and imagery than the latter could ever hope to. What sets "Lights" apart from DSB is the light-as-a-feather riffage behind each verse courtesy of Neal Schon, the only permanent member of Journey. And let's face it, Steve Perry's performance on DSB is textbook at best - whereas in "Lights" he seems to draw you in with a more theatric, romantic comedy sound. Lights' usage of alliteration ("I wanna get back to my city by the bay") makes listening to this song a pleasant and smile-enforcing four minutes guaranteed to drop a pair of panties on "Lover's Row."
But why was "Lights" overshadowed by the staggering success of DSB? Well, when Steve Perry and his big-fat-nose joined Journey, the first album they released was Infinity. Infinity was such a kickass album, "Lights" simply couldn't hold its weight against "Wheel in the Sky," "Patiently," "Feeling that Way," and other badass tracks. Infinity was Journey's biggest success on the charts - beating Escape (the home of DSB).
The only reason people are so ready to jump on DSB's pole? It's simple. This is a classic story of simplicity being preferred over genuine goodness. Because DSB can be tossed into any movie, any show, any commercial, etc, make it so easy to violently rape your ears with it.
#4. Double Vision Ruined By Jukebox Hero - Foreigner.
Foreigner is a strange band. Despite over 20 line-up changes, the GOD awful (but critical) release of Jukebox Hero and allowing the media to tear their music to shreds, Foreigner has a lot of kickass work as well. No song displays their kickassery better than "Double Vision." The song changes its tune a few times while keeping to a memorable pattern, each part has a distinct sound and a pair of balls that any listener could appreciate.
So why is this song leagues above Jukebox Hero? Between 1976-1980, Ian McDonald (of King Crimson) was the driving force behind Foreigner. He is mostly responsible for not only "Double Vision," but also "Hot Blooded," "Cold as Ice," "Feels like the First Time," and "Spellbinder."
All the aforementioned songs all have one thing in common, they aren't "Jukebox Hero."
Once Ian McDonald left the band in 1980, subsequent albums were just fucked. But that didn't stop Jukebox from being their most recognizable single and 4 from being their only #1 album. I chalk this up to the 80's. 4 was released in a year desperately starved of good music, so the masses were ready to listen to anything... Even Jukebox Hero. That screechy piece of shit song will continue to exist, endure and persist for all of time. This song will plague our radios until Kingdom Come.
But, we'll always have Foreigner's first three albums to listen to. Albums made in a better time, undaunted by the inescapable void of the 1980's.
#3. Free Will Ruined By Tom Sawyer.
Rush is probably my favorite band for obvious reasons; they're fuckin' Rush. A three-piece outfit that can make better music than most symphonies, Rush has solidified their spot as the most under-appreciated group in the United States - mainly because they rarely did press here - but still almost everyone knows Tom Sawyer. I will testify on behalf of myself, Tom Sawyer is one kickass tune. But should it be the end-all be-all of Rushdom?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Free Will. There is no song that better displays the talents of these Canadian fucks. I mean, you could listen to their extensive progressive catalogue - but who has four days to listen to one song?
Free Will is concise, it's ballsy and it also takes anything Tom Sawyer can do and does it times boner. Right off the bat, you have a catchy rock song capable of radio play on the daily. Then you hit the bridge, which is essentially like crossing into the New World on the back of Odin's cock. You enter a place where musicians will just straight up fuck shit up, no matter who the fuck is listening. Geddy Lee sets the tone with a filthy bassline that's so dense it God thought he had a kidney stone, then Lifeson draws in with a solo that can only be described as shit yes, fuck me harder. All the while, these bastards sit upon a Middle-Earthean foundation of tight drumwork by percussionist legend, Neil Peart. Once the bridge finishes, Lee simply adds a cherry on the sundae by singing at the highest end of his already ludicrous range.
All that being said, why is "Tom Sawyer" the more-loved single by Rush? Well, Tom Sawyer came out in 1981 on the album Moving Pictures, which is Rush's largest commercial success. Each song was a reasonable length and all of the songs took on a more crowd-friendly sound. The album featured synthesizers more heavily than their last and also - the drum fill. Often mistaken as a drum solo, "Tom Sawyer" is blessed with a sick drum fill that got all of the world readying their mouths for Neil Peart's gargantuan schlong.
And to think, just a year earlier, "Free Will" came out on January 1st, 1980 (technically a 70's song because it was recorded in '79) and not only did it kick more ass, it had a message everyone could relate to.
#2. American Girl Ruined By Anything in the 1980's - Tom Petty.
If you know anything about Tom Petty, he's more angry at music than anyone else in the entire world. From his front porch he's been yelling at the direction of music for the past two decades - being quite vocal about all this trash we're listening to. It is my proposed theory that Petty still holds a grudge against the 1980's, a time that seems to be making it's grand return as we speak. And as Petty has seen it once before, he'll be damned if it happens again. You see, in the 1970's Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers released a few albums that were pure gold. Among this gold was a diamond-studded babe, "American Girl." Although this bitch gets her share of radioplay, there was something about Tom Petty the 80's loved. Between the duets and the working-class bar rock Petty was pumping out, 70's Heartbreakers were being forgotten in the abyss.
"American Girl" is a quintessential rock song overshadowed by a huge catalog of rom-com soundtracks. Songs like "I Won't Back Down" and "Free Fallin'" and "Don't Come Around Here No More."
By the time the 90's came around, Tom Petty was being played on the pussiest of radio stations and worse yet - he became a "Superbowl" performer. FAG.
#1. London Calling Ruined By Should I Stay Or Should I Go Now - The Clash
There's no band more fucked by themselves in the 80's than The Clash. Whatever you want to call this band (punk, reggae, or otherwise), The Clash was simply the Only Band That Mattered to the teens growing up in the late 70's. The Clash had a sound both rebels and rock enthusiasts could get on. With the monumental release of London Calling, it seemed the Clash were ready for global domination... That was until the 80's came along to make everything pretty. If there's one thing we know about rock 'n' roll, pretty is synonymous with shitty.
London Calling (the song) is one sick fucking tune. It's low down, it's dirty and it makes you want to punch the air over your head - I'd call it fist-pumping, but for punks it's more of a fuck air dance. So when the 80's came about a year later, The Clash had some choices... They could do whatever the fuck they wanted. The could a) give a nudge to reggae/two-tone music and create a cult following (check) b) release some of the pussiest songs in their career (check). Now I got nothing wrong with 80's Clash, I just feel like they get way too much recognition in comparison to themselves from the 70's (the Pure Clash).
So, not three years later, both Rock the Casbah and the sleeping giant Should I Stay or Should I Go Now were released. Due to the dancey style, mixed with easily-learned riffs, combined with the sing-a-long vocals and the MTV ejaculation of this song all over your face; Should I Stay or Should I Go Now has become a staple in "Ooo, that's fun!" rock - instead of, I want to strangle a rhino between my thighs rock.
The Clash didn't make it out of the 80's alive thanks to the suffocation of media (at least that's who I blame).
All it really comes down to is this: Media. In the 1980's, the media had a revolution of sorts. Readily-available cable, cheaper albums and MTV all made it easier to force songs into your subconscious and ultimately engrain into pop culture as the "popular" songs - not the better songs.
The Clash didn't make it out of the 80's alive thanks to the suffocation of media (at least that's who I blame).
All it really comes down to is this: Media. In the 1980's, the media had a revolution of sorts. Readily-available cable, cheaper albums and MTV all made it easier to force songs into your subconscious and ultimately engrain into pop culture as the "popular" songs - not the better songs.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
H( o )( o )TERS is E\/IL.
Maybe I don't take criticism well. Maybe I like singling acquaintances out for the sake of laughs. Maybe I'm just an asshole. Whatever you want to chalk it up to, the following post has been written because someone didn't like my post about Florida (her home) and she was quite vocal about it. So I did a little research (looked at one picture of her) and it turns out she works/worked at Hooters.
That's right, Hooters. The end all, be all of sluttress chains. A restaurant where you can feast upon real American food, watch sports, get hammered and stare at sluttresses all night.
A sluttress is a waitress who is purposefully hired for her assets (those being her tits and ass). For those of you who disagree that Hooters is a sluttress chain, I will kindly ask you to teabag/vag-pound an electrical fence. Hooters was named Hooters specifically because fuck yes, tits. And if you disagree with THAT, then I ask you to read the following:
No, no, I jest. Any waitress who agrees to put on a refrigerated shirt for a wet T-shirt contest shouldn't be called a sluttress... EYEAHRIGH.
In the Hooters handbook they refer to their breastaurant as "showbusiness," that women should embody glamour and there shouldn't be any unique qualities on the women shown (tattoos, stylized hair, colored hair, etc.). In other words, "Welcome to Hooters, T&A #1035a1! Please stuff yourself into these tiny clothes and let these men torment you because we're America."
Butt, whatever, right? If a gal has the mamaloogas to stuff in a white shirt and the cheeks to wedge orange shorts between for a living, let her! It's her own dignity to do with it what she pleases. Fine, I agree. Ass, don't come preaching about how fantastic Hooters is as an employer because they are not. Boobers is a place you go to set genders back decades at a time (not that I have ANY problem with that).
I just find it escruciatingly hard to trust a company that makes a requirement out of measuring your bust during the interview process. Is that so bad? No, it ain't! And Hooters does do a lot for the community, I mean they donate to various charities, fight breast cancer (because that's the only sickness that'll cut into profits) and even support the troops... By sending pictures of sluttresses. The calendars might as well come with a jar of vasoline. All this giving back Hooters does really makes you forget that their own CEO ignored sexual harrassment or that their airline is completely fucked up or how they encourage sluttresses to be prostitutresses. But what do you expect from a franchise that was built on two, perfect mounds? Ethical decisions?
And, let's face it, at the end of the day, you aren't really selling food - you're selling tittays, Hooters. No one goes to a bikini bar just to drink, no one goes to a Hooters just to eat. Hooters makes out like a bandit, too, because these waitresses are selling their tits at less than a Hooters burger per hour. Bikini bar babes make a wee bit more than that. And for those of you who might argue that a bikini bar is different from a Hooters, I kindly ask you to refrain - because I thought of that already. Duh.
The only difference between a bikini bar and a Hooters is the lighting. Both serve alcohol, both have sexy women serving you, both do not allow nudity or public fondling (like strip clubs). Sure, bikini bars have bikinis - but Hooters has televisions and teenage girls working there. So you weigh the options.
Coincidentally, the birthplace of the bikini bar and Hooters can be traced back to western Florida.
Fuck Florida.
That's right, Hooters. The end all, be all of sluttress chains. A restaurant where you can feast upon real American food, watch sports, get hammered and stare at sluttresses all night.
A sluttress is a waitress who is purposefully hired for her assets (those being her tits and ass). For those of you who disagree that Hooters is a sluttress chain, I will kindly ask you to teabag/vag-pound an electrical fence. Hooters was named Hooters specifically because fuck yes, tits. And if you disagree with THAT, then I ask you to read the following:
- My job duties require I wear the designated Hooters Girl uniform.
- My job duties require that I interact with and entertain the customers.
- The Hooters concept is based on female sex appeal and the work environment is one in which joking and entertaining conversations are commonplace.
- I do not find my job duties, uniform requirements, or work environment to be offensive, intimidating, hostile, or unwelcome.
No, no, I jest. Any waitress who agrees to put on a refrigerated shirt for a wet T-shirt contest shouldn't be called a sluttress... EYEAHRIGH.
In the Hooters handbook they refer to their breastaurant as "showbusiness," that women should embody glamour and there shouldn't be any unique qualities on the women shown (tattoos, stylized hair, colored hair, etc.). In other words, "Welcome to Hooters, T&A #1035a1! Please stuff yourself into these tiny clothes and let these men torment you because we're America."
Butt, whatever, right? If a gal has the mamaloogas to stuff in a white shirt and the cheeks to wedge orange shorts between for a living, let her! It's her own dignity to do with it what she pleases. Fine, I agree. Ass, don't come preaching about how fantastic Hooters is as an employer because they are not. Boobers is a place you go to set genders back decades at a time (not that I have ANY problem with that).
I just find it escruciatingly hard to trust a company that makes a requirement out of measuring your bust during the interview process. Is that so bad? No, it ain't! And Hooters does do a lot for the community, I mean they donate to various charities, fight breast cancer (because that's the only sickness that'll cut into profits) and even support the troops... By sending pictures of sluttresses. The calendars might as well come with a jar of vasoline. All this giving back Hooters does really makes you forget that their own CEO ignored sexual harrassment or that their airline is completely fucked up or how they encourage sluttresses to be prostitutresses. But what do you expect from a franchise that was built on two, perfect mounds? Ethical decisions?
And, let's face it, at the end of the day, you aren't really selling food - you're selling tittays, Hooters. No one goes to a bikini bar just to drink, no one goes to a Hooters just to eat. Hooters makes out like a bandit, too, because these waitresses are selling their tits at less than a Hooters burger per hour. Bikini bar babes make a wee bit more than that. And for those of you who might argue that a bikini bar is different from a Hooters, I kindly ask you to refrain - because I thought of that already. Duh.
The only difference between a bikini bar and a Hooters is the lighting. Both serve alcohol, both have sexy women serving you, both do not allow nudity or public fondling (like strip clubs). Sure, bikini bars have bikinis - but Hooters has televisions and teenage girls working there. So you weigh the options.
Coincidentally, the birthplace of the bikini bar and Hooters can be traced back to western Florida.
Fuck Florida.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Let's Go To Florida!
I find it extremely hard to believe that people like Florida. How could you possibly want to live somewhere that God hates?
Florida is a dumbass. It hangs off of America like a floppy, idiotic dong getting smacked around by hurricanes all year and it doesn't really do much good for the rest of the country. How do I know this? To up the ante on Jersey Shore they decided to go to Florida. How low can they go? Florida low.
First of all, you have the weather. If you like being clenched in the grip of the Devil's humid rectum then you're in luck. Florida has its days, don't get me wrong. There are absolutely gorgeous days that make you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside... Then the Spring and Summer come and make it unsafe to even go outside. If the place you live has conditions that flirt with the term "dangerous" then it's probably not a good place to live. Between scalding rays of sunlight and monstrous hurricanes, Florida can easily be the setting for a contemporary epic.
So why do people think the weather is great? Beaches. 'Nuff said. You slap a beach anywhere and it'll become a desired location regardless of how terrible the rest of the environment is. It's like convincing yourself to become Forrest Gump's friend. Sure, he may seem awesome, but in reality he's a dumbass who is probably unbearable in real life because of his social disorder.
But that's just the weather, right? If we can handle the constant pounding of God's dick, we'll be all right... Right?
Fucking wrong.
Let's break it down neatly... You come to a new area, there's a few things you might looking for: a job, a home, education, safety and (maybe) entertainment.
So you choose Florida for the great weather, amusement parks and titties (let's all just admit the only reason to go to Florida is so you can have more sex). First thing you're gunna wanna do before having the most sex in your life is get a job because, while Florida bitches is easy, Florida bitches like money - and you like Florida bitches. Florida ranks 43/50 in unemployment, where approximately one out of every ten people is unemployed. And that's not just some statistic, my friends living down there will agree that finding a job in Florida is like finding a good ovum between the Olsen twins. Im-fucking-possible.
But you manage to find yourself a job fluffing dicks in the internet porn capital. So you've got some security, congratulations Big Baller. Now it's time to start fuckin' that stripper you met, right? Wrong. Unless you plan on convincing a classy stripper to bang on your moped, you're in desperate need of your own place. If you're going for a house, just remember that while the real estate is improving - Florida is still a shitty place for a homeowner. You'll be spending nearly 50% of your annual income on your home (3rd highest rate in the country) each year and that's because (on average) a one floor, two bedroom home will run you somewhere in the mid 100k's.
So you decide to go with an apartment, they're cheaper than homes and you refuse to settle for anything less - I mean you're fondling dicks all day, you deserved it. So the time comes to stock your house up and - WHAT THE FUCK? WHY IS EVERYTHING SO EXPENSIVE? Welcome to Florida, asshole, you're about to get sodomized. As Florida is somehow iconized as a desirable place to be and formed the reputation as a tourist cesspool, retail prices for the regular people are ridiculous. Florida is a snowbird state wherein most of its income comes from the tourist seasons; so to stay afloat, they need to strategically place their dicks in your mouth to keep warm in the Winter.
But still, Florida has a vibrancy to it! You gotta pay for the environment! Party 'til your socks come off and have some good, harmless fun. That's what Florida is all about! Who cares if life is expensive, it pays off when you hit the party scene.
But it's not all unicorns and creampies, folks. Florida is a dream people have. A place where people are immune to the endless hours of partying. But the reality is much sadder.
Remember that show Intervention? Well, Florida is the most filmed at state for this television show... Why? Because Florida has a pill problem. No. Florida has a drug problem. As a toker myself, I feel I might seem a little hypocritical by berating a state that abuses drugs - but Florida prescribes and sells TEN TIMES the amount of oxycodone than the entire fucking country. Merry fuckin' Christmas, bitches.
Florida is dealing out loads of pills to the Southeast because that shit's as regulated as masturbation.
So let's look at the whole picture. We have a state full of broke, sunburnt Lindsay Lohans who are committing crimes because the heat is driving them fucking crazy. Not to mention man-eating lizards chill in your backyard. Sounds like the place I want go to.
Fuck Florida.
 |
| "GTFO FLORIDA." -God |
First of all, you have the weather. If you like being clenched in the grip of the Devil's humid rectum then you're in luck. Florida has its days, don't get me wrong. There are absolutely gorgeous days that make you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside... Then the Spring and Summer come and make it unsafe to even go outside. If the place you live has conditions that flirt with the term "dangerous" then it's probably not a good place to live. Between scalding rays of sunlight and monstrous hurricanes, Florida can easily be the setting for a contemporary epic.
So why do people think the weather is great? Beaches. 'Nuff said. You slap a beach anywhere and it'll become a desired location regardless of how terrible the rest of the environment is. It's like convincing yourself to become Forrest Gump's friend. Sure, he may seem awesome, but in reality he's a dumbass who is probably unbearable in real life because of his social disorder.
But that's just the weather, right? If we can handle the constant pounding of God's dick, we'll be all right... Right?
Fucking wrong.
Let's break it down neatly... You come to a new area, there's a few things you might looking for: a job, a home, education, safety and (maybe) entertainment.
So you choose Florida for the great weather, amusement parks and titties (let's all just admit the only reason to go to Florida is so you can have more sex). First thing you're gunna wanna do before having the most sex in your life is get a job because, while Florida bitches is easy, Florida bitches like money - and you like Florida bitches. Florida ranks 43/50 in unemployment, where approximately one out of every ten people is unemployed. And that's not just some statistic, my friends living down there will agree that finding a job in Florida is like finding a good ovum between the Olsen twins. Im-fucking-possible.
But you manage to find yourself a job fluffing dicks in the internet porn capital. So you've got some security, congratulations Big Baller. Now it's time to start fuckin' that stripper you met, right? Wrong. Unless you plan on convincing a classy stripper to bang on your moped, you're in desperate need of your own place. If you're going for a house, just remember that while the real estate is improving - Florida is still a shitty place for a homeowner. You'll be spending nearly 50% of your annual income on your home (3rd highest rate in the country) each year and that's because (on average) a one floor, two bedroom home will run you somewhere in the mid 100k's.
So you decide to go with an apartment, they're cheaper than homes and you refuse to settle for anything less - I mean you're fondling dicks all day, you deserved it. So the time comes to stock your house up and - WHAT THE FUCK? WHY IS EVERYTHING SO EXPENSIVE? Welcome to Florida, asshole, you're about to get sodomized. As Florida is somehow iconized as a desirable place to be and formed the reputation as a tourist cesspool, retail prices for the regular people are ridiculous. Florida is a snowbird state wherein most of its income comes from the tourist seasons; so to stay afloat, they need to strategically place their dicks in your mouth to keep warm in the Winter.
But still, Florida has a vibrancy to it! You gotta pay for the environment! Party 'til your socks come off and have some good, harmless fun. That's what Florida is all about! Who cares if life is expensive, it pays off when you hit the party scene.
But it's not all unicorns and creampies, folks. Florida is a dream people have. A place where people are immune to the endless hours of partying. But the reality is much sadder.
Remember that show Intervention? Well, Florida is the most filmed at state for this television show... Why? Because Florida has a pill problem. No. Florida has a drug problem. As a toker myself, I feel I might seem a little hypocritical by berating a state that abuses drugs - but Florida prescribes and sells TEN TIMES the amount of oxycodone than the entire fucking country. Merry fuckin' Christmas, bitches.
Florida is dealing out loads of pills to the Southeast because that shit's as regulated as masturbation.
So let's look at the whole picture. We have a state full of broke, sunburnt Lindsay Lohans who are committing crimes because the heat is driving them fucking crazy. Not to mention man-eating lizards chill in your backyard. Sounds like the place I want go to.
Fuck Florida.
Monday, December 5, 2011
IsAnyoneUp?
Don't get used to me posting - this is a post fueled by a phallic rage (and not my own phallus).
Is Anyone Up? is a website where a bunch of shitty hardcore musicians/listeners band together and trade pictures of their sexual conquests. And while that sentence does justice to make it seem, perhaps, tolerable; I warn you now, IAU is a website where the very worst kind of counterculture youth lurk. Boys and girls alike sign up to this site, post pictures of either themselves or their victims and the community leaves hilarious (read: assheaded) comments about said pictures.
Not only this, they've popularized a hashtag #nbhnc (no butthole, no care) which is liberally added to every sentence (or often seen in photos, drawn on asscheeks in lipstick).
The community, comprised of scene kids, is malicious all around - constantly cutting down any shred of good will that might try to pass through it. But don't be surprised, this is exactly what you should expect from a community who iconizes a genre of music as talentedly defunct as Carrot Top if he had super polio.
But that's the internet, so I shouldn't care. Hell, I won't lie and say I haven't jerked off to that website a few times in my day.
HOWEVER.
IAU has a new trend going on wherein random people grab random telephone numbers and post them on the site, asking to trade nudes. Somehow, my number made it to one of these posts and for the past three days I've been receiving an extremely high volume of dicks on my phone. As I am a good sport, a lover of practical AND dick jokes - this kind of thing was right up my alley. It was most certainly not the dicks being sent to me which bothered me, it was the infuriated backlash when they didn't receive the picture of tits they so obviously earned.
So, fair shitheads of IAU, I will drop a little knowledge on you:
There's a little phrase you need to familiarize yourselves with. It's, "too good to be true." 90% of the pictures posted on this site are a) fake or b) posted by a musician. A touring musician. A fit musician. A musician who can actually have sex with slutty girls willing to pose for smut.
As far as you are concerned, you're just a piece of smelly traffic putting money in IAU's pocket, jerking off to the realities of someone else's life. So when an offer like "tits for dicks" pulls through (and I know you're jumping at it), chances are you're sending a picture of your dick to a totally random (hopefully legal) person like a few hundred other people. #nbhnc
Put a lid on it. If you're fluffing your dick for a well-lit picture to send to a mysterious phone number assume the best part of you slithered down your mother's leg.
And if you're wondering why I haven't brought attention to the sizeable community of females on IAU, it's quite simple. Only two types of girls would dare be on that site and coincidentally, they are the same types of girls who listen to hardcore music.
1. You are an "attractive" (a term I use relatively, considering the IAU standard for attractive is horrifically skinny and bearing the marks of a former heroine addiction) girl who won't look twice at anyone unless they're in a band - to which you will sell your pussy for the cheap price of your rape-laden childhood.
2. You're a beast looking for a weak, helpless young man to lure in with promises of free pussy; prolonging the inevitable obligation to send a picture of your terrifying body. Yes, you're fucking fat, too. #nbhnc
All this being said. I kindly ask, keep sending pictures of your dicks - for they are now MY property. And I will MS Paint the fuck out of them. And yes, I will be posting them on the internet again with your phone numbers. #nbhnc
Is Anyone Up? is a website where a bunch of shitty hardcore musicians/listeners band together and trade pictures of their sexual conquests. And while that sentence does justice to make it seem, perhaps, tolerable; I warn you now, IAU is a website where the very worst kind of counterculture youth lurk. Boys and girls alike sign up to this site, post pictures of either themselves or their victims and the community leaves hilarious (read: assheaded) comments about said pictures.
Not only this, they've popularized a hashtag #nbhnc (no butthole, no care) which is liberally added to every sentence (or often seen in photos, drawn on asscheeks in lipstick).
The community, comprised of scene kids, is malicious all around - constantly cutting down any shred of good will that might try to pass through it. But don't be surprised, this is exactly what you should expect from a community who iconizes a genre of music as talentedly defunct as Carrot Top if he had super polio.
But that's the internet, so I shouldn't care. Hell, I won't lie and say I haven't jerked off to that website a few times in my day.
HOWEVER.
IAU has a new trend going on wherein random people grab random telephone numbers and post them on the site, asking to trade nudes. Somehow, my number made it to one of these posts and for the past three days I've been receiving an extremely high volume of dicks on my phone. As I am a good sport, a lover of practical AND dick jokes - this kind of thing was right up my alley. It was most certainly not the dicks being sent to me which bothered me, it was the infuriated backlash when they didn't receive the picture of tits they so obviously earned.
So, fair shitheads of IAU, I will drop a little knowledge on you:
There's a little phrase you need to familiarize yourselves with. It's, "too good to be true." 90% of the pictures posted on this site are a) fake or b) posted by a musician. A touring musician. A fit musician. A musician who can actually have sex with slutty girls willing to pose for smut.
As far as you are concerned, you're just a piece of smelly traffic putting money in IAU's pocket, jerking off to the realities of someone else's life. So when an offer like "tits for dicks" pulls through (and I know you're jumping at it), chances are you're sending a picture of your dick to a totally random (hopefully legal) person like a few hundred other people. #nbhnc
Put a lid on it. If you're fluffing your dick for a well-lit picture to send to a mysterious phone number assume the best part of you slithered down your mother's leg.
And if you're wondering why I haven't brought attention to the sizeable community of females on IAU, it's quite simple. Only two types of girls would dare be on that site and coincidentally, they are the same types of girls who listen to hardcore music.
1. You are an "attractive" (a term I use relatively, considering the IAU standard for attractive is horrifically skinny and bearing the marks of a former heroine addiction) girl who won't look twice at anyone unless they're in a band - to which you will sell your pussy for the cheap price of your rape-laden childhood.
2. You're a beast looking for a weak, helpless young man to lure in with promises of free pussy; prolonging the inevitable obligation to send a picture of your terrifying body. Yes, you're fucking fat, too. #nbhnc
All this being said. I kindly ask, keep sending pictures of your dicks - for they are now MY property. And I will MS Paint the fuck out of them. And yes, I will be posting them on the internet again with your phone numbers. #nbhnc
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Collegian's Shel Silverstein
As it is his Birthday this week, I will be dedicating this post to Shel Silverstein. He is somewhat of an inspiration to me. Taking the most simple elements of language and turning them into boundless ideas and inspiration for kids everywhere. Before his death, Shel was working on a college-level poetry book. It was to be his magnum opus. To commemorate his birthday, I have decided to post up a few of the poems from the unfinished project.
I present, The Collegian's Shel Silverstein.
If I’m drunk too…
If I ‘m drunk too,
Pukey Pat
One drink, two drinks, three drinks, four!
Whiskey, vodka, beer galore!
Five drinks, six drinks, seven drinks, eight!
If I miss the toilet, it is me they will hate!
I present, The Collegian's Shel Silverstein.
The Used Condom
If I’ve been thrown aside,
If I’ve been thrown aside,
Filled with seed, his gooey pride.
I know I’ve helped a lifelong pursuit,
To sully the legions of virgin coot.
And if his friend is drunk enough,
I may have use, to save his stuff.
From sloppy seconds, the finest meal
And STD’s, the one’s that don’t heal.
So humpity hump that tender blossom,
So humpity hump that tender blossom,
Then thank me once, the used condom.
If I’m drunk too…
If I ‘m drunk too,
Then my penis is game.
To thrust here and there,
To thrust here and there,
For Frat House fame.
And if I’m drunk too,
The 360 will break,
“Why is it out, hm?”
“Why is it out, hm?”
I ask for Rum’s sake.
And if I’m drunk too,
And if I’m drunk too,
A douche I will be.
Not for fun or for laughs,
But for douchey glory.
Pukey Pat
One drink, two drinks, three drinks, four!
Whiskey, vodka, beer galore!
I say I’m the champ then there is no other!
But here comes the vomit, oh my brother!
But here comes the vomit, oh my brother!
Blaaaghahghahshhubbleboo,
I think I farted with a little poo!
Five drinks, six drinks, seven drinks, eight!
If I miss the toilet, it is me they will hate!
So I dash and I run to the porcelain throne,
But I trip and I fall and I vomit while prone!
Blagakakagahubbalug,
Blagakakagahubbalug,
Sorry, my friend, I stained your rug!
Nine drinks, ten drinks, eleven drinks, twelve…
I knocked all your bottles off the shelves.
So I stumble and bumble and pass out black,
Nine drinks, ten drinks, eleven drinks, twelve…
I knocked all your bottles off the shelves.
So I stumble and bumble and pass out black,
Before the team can even rerack!
Hublablashablahgukat!
This is the legend of Pukey Pat!
Hublablashablahgukat!
This is the legend of Pukey Pat!
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Appearance of Age in the Age of Appearance.
Lately, I've fallen into a slump... A slump I blame entirely on the awkwardness of being a teenager who looks like he's in his mid-20's.
I’ll be the first to admit I don’t look my nubile age of nineteen, nor do I really fit the demographic of someone my age either. My facial hair has body, I don’t attend a secondary school, I’m good at communicating verbally and I don’t let my naivety blind me into hating myself and everything else around me. I let realism do that for me.
Because of this, I’ve found myself dating women in an age bracket slightly above my own. Now we all have fantasies about bagging a woman who is a bit older than us, men, but when it becomes the only barrel you can fish out of it makes you want to go dive into the Dead Sea with a bloody dick.
There are two downfalls to dating older women: The superiority complex and man-hate.
Let’s face it. The entire reason a woman her age is even bothering with someone my age is shallow. They desperately cling onto the innocence of my youth while taking advantage of my matured body; I’m the best of both worlds for a woman who is having an identity crisis. They’ll tell you things like, “Age is just a number.” That is until they’re complaining about something and, “You’ll understand in a few years.”
Such a condescending phrase, it makes me want to rip her overly-menstruating vagina out. Eventually the relationship becomes a game of getting as much sex before she has the depressing realization that I was born in the 90’s.
There are two downfalls to dating older women: The superiority complex and man-hate.
Let’s face it. The entire reason a woman her age is even bothering with someone my age is shallow. They desperately cling onto the innocence of my youth while taking advantage of my matured body; I’m the best of both worlds for a woman who is having an identity crisis. They’ll tell you things like, “Age is just a number.” That is until they’re complaining about something and, “You’ll understand in a few years.”
Such a condescending phrase, it makes me want to rip her overly-menstruating vagina out. Eventually the relationship becomes a game of getting as much sex before she has the depressing realization that I was born in the 90’s.
A woman will be the first to tell you when you’ve done something wrong and if you’re younger than her? Then everything you do is wrong and she’ll be behind you explaining how grown-ups do things.
And if the Gods so happen to give you a day where she isn’t nitpicking at your life, she decides to complain about men her age and offer you advice on how to not grow up into the monsters she’s encountered. The irony, however, is that the man becomes a monster because she’s self-righteous woman on the brink of having her 30-something unable to grasp the concept of self-improvement.
And if the Gods so happen to give you a day where she isn’t nitpicking at your life, she decides to complain about men her age and offer you advice on how to not grow up into the monsters she’s encountered. The irony, however, is that the man becomes a monster because she’s self-righteous woman on the brink of having her 30-something unable to grasp the concept of self-improvement.
So why don’t I date girls my age? The same body and mind that makes me slightly attractive to older women makes me repulsive and terrifying to girls my age. The fear is so real that even I feel like a pedophile when I’m hitting on them. Just because I grew a beard and I don’t dress like I can play FLIPCUP LIKE A BEAST doesn’t mean I’m trying to molest you.
I have no clue how to not seem creepy either. I’m good at communicating with people; I ask questions and stimulate conversation. But to girls my age, this just comes off as a rapey vibe. “Why is he asking all these questions about me?” She’ll ask herself, “Is he trying to molest me? What a creeper!”
No, you dumbass, I’m trying to be a decent human being by exercising the basic skill of communication.
Even on facebook, I can’t so much as make a joke about how attractive a girl is without the vicious backlash of creeper comments. But if my profile picture had me wearing a snapback with a plastic cup, I’d be more-than-okay to talk about your ass.
It’s unfair, quite frankly. I’m a teenager! I like teenage girls! I’m not a pedophile. I just look like one. Christ.
It’s unfair, quite frankly. I’m a teenager! I like teenage girls! I’m not a pedophile. I just look like one. Christ.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Thursday Bonus: I am woman, hear me slut.
I’ve been dating my current girlfriend on and off for about six months now. Being as I’m attracted to fucking lunatics, she and I are always arguing about the most nonsensical bullshit. When I say arguing, I don’t mean debating or having little whiney tit-for-tat discussions… I mean we’re storming around, screaming at the tops of our lungs, going on the internet to find factual support and smashing shit over each other’s head.
Just the other night, we were having a screaming match about whose life is harder… Men or women? I don’t think men have harder lives by any means; but the fact that she wanted to give women the benefit of the doubt was pissing me off. So I did what any man would do, I stubbornly disagreed because fuck you, I won’t let you win, I have a penis and you suck. It got bad, real bad. Then it got weird, really weird.
At some point in the night we both shouted, “If you were a man/woman, you’d understand,” in unison. The skies darkened, lightning stuck the house and then out of no where we both blacked out. The next day, I woke up with a surprise…
Holy shit, I was a woman. I was initially terrified, but then I realized I could really learn from this experience and maybe even exploit the opportunity to understand the female psyche better. Oh, and my girlfriend did turn into a man… But there wasn’t much to be learned, she knew all she had to do was stick her dick in things (including me) and she’d survive. Though my research got cut off early - you'll learn why - I did manage to learn a lot in a few hours...
Here are my findings:
As I am a fairly attractive woman, I decided a good place to start would be in public. I wanted to exercise my toned ass and see how differently women were treated than men. I decided to wear something conservatively slutty; I went with a turtleneck and an extremely short shirt that my pussycheeks would poke out from when I bent over. I figured getting the best of both worlds would be most beneficial.
On my way to the mall, I noticed how easy it was to hail a cab. Instead of raising my hand, I decided to rub my boobs together and blow kisses at the passing taxis. Almost immediately, a driver kicked his fare out to pick me up. “Awesome,” I thought, “This would be one of the greatest days ever.”
In the cab, I had some free time to explore my body. The bumps in the road were setting off mild sensations in my panties and it was thrilling… Here I thought dicks were sensitive, my muffins were getting moist just riding in a cab. Score.
Just the other night, we were having a screaming match about whose life is harder… Men or women? I don’t think men have harder lives by any means; but the fact that she wanted to give women the benefit of the doubt was pissing me off. So I did what any man would do, I stubbornly disagreed because fuck you, I won’t let you win, I have a penis and you suck. It got bad, real bad. Then it got weird, really weird.
At some point in the night we both shouted, “If you were a man/woman, you’d understand,” in unison. The skies darkened, lightning stuck the house and then out of no where we both blacked out. The next day, I woke up with a surprise…
Holy shit, I was a woman. I was initially terrified, but then I realized I could really learn from this experience and maybe even exploit the opportunity to understand the female psyche better. Oh, and my girlfriend did turn into a man… But there wasn’t much to be learned, she knew all she had to do was stick her dick in things (including me) and she’d survive. Though my research got cut off early - you'll learn why - I did manage to learn a lot in a few hours...
Here are my findings:
As I am a fairly attractive woman, I decided a good place to start would be in public. I wanted to exercise my toned ass and see how differently women were treated than men. I decided to wear something conservatively slutty; I went with a turtleneck and an extremely short shirt that my pussycheeks would poke out from when I bent over. I figured getting the best of both worlds would be most beneficial.
On my way to the mall, I noticed how easy it was to hail a cab. Instead of raising my hand, I decided to rub my boobs together and blow kisses at the passing taxis. Almost immediately, a driver kicked his fare out to pick me up. “Awesome,” I thought, “This would be one of the greatest days ever.”
In the cab, I had some free time to explore my body. The bumps in the road were setting off mild sensations in my panties and it was thrilling… Here I thought dicks were sensitive, my muffins were getting moist just riding in a cab. Score.
I finally reached the mall and completely ignored my fare, I just rubbed my tits together again and he happily drove off. Apparently rubbing tits = female currency.
In the mall, I was receiving a lot of great attention. I was thrilled to have men feasting on my goodies with their eyes, but it seemed the other women in the mall were so jealous. Dressing like a slut felt good, why should I be subject to ridicule? Is it like cheating at the game? Do I have to dress boring to even the playing field or something? I wanted to explore this, so I decided I needed to hit the food court.
In the mall, I was receiving a lot of great attention. I was thrilled to have men feasting on my goodies with their eyes, but it seemed the other women in the mall were so jealous. Dressing like a slut felt good, why should I be subject to ridicule? Is it like cheating at the game? Do I have to dress boring to even the playing field or something? I wanted to explore this, so I decided I needed to hit the food court.
There, I scouted the tables for an attractive couple. I came across two very attractive college students draped in Hollister apparel. The guy was something to truly behold, he was like if Taylor Lautner and Taylor Lautner had sex to make a more perfect Taylor Lautner.
The experiment was simple: In order to understand the strength of sluttiness, I would invite the man to have sex with me in the bathroom. I figured I needed a control so I was gunna ask with the girl there. If I successfully fuck this guy, I would then realize the hostility towards sluttiness. It’s overpowered as a technique and likely forbidden in the female community.
I approached the couple and went right at it. I grabbed him by his dick and balls and calmly asked, “Want to go fuck in the bathroom?” He looked horrified in the best possible way. I remember being a guy and this look means, “I’m gunna say yes, but I need to collect my blown mind first.”
Success. Sluttiness was cheating and that’s why women hate it. It’s super effective.
Having sex was crazy, too. It was like going from driving a car to operating a helicopter. My pussygina was tough to calculate and this guy wasn’t helping. Sure he had a big dick but I learned that big dicks don’t mean anything, anything I tell you. Having a clit and the G-spot made it so you need to have some sort of formula to level out the right amount of pleasure. Too much of one spoiled it for the other. I gained a new respect for women in sex; I realized it’s a lot of work and not just about getting slammed by a fat stick of meat. It requires finesse.
I approached the couple and went right at it. I grabbed him by his dick and balls and calmly asked, “Want to go fuck in the bathroom?” He looked horrified in the best possible way. I remember being a guy and this look means, “I’m gunna say yes, but I need to collect my blown mind first.”
Success. Sluttiness was cheating and that’s why women hate it. It’s super effective.
Having sex was crazy, too. It was like going from driving a car to operating a helicopter. My pussygina was tough to calculate and this guy wasn’t helping. Sure he had a big dick but I learned that big dicks don’t mean anything, anything I tell you. Having a clit and the G-spot made it so you need to have some sort of formula to level out the right amount of pleasure. Too much of one spoiled it for the other. I gained a new respect for women in sex; I realized it’s a lot of work and not just about getting slammed by a fat stick of meat. It requires finesse.
I couldn’t stand this feeling, it was too much for my first day. I screamed out into the
Even if it were a dream, it seems being a woman requires a different mind set. You have to constantly think about what other people are thinking about you. You have to worry about the things going in you, rather than the things you’re going in. The most important thing I learned is that women have a sort of daily quota of sluttiness they can’t surpass, but have to meet in order to keep their self-esteems up. And that’s what men need to learn. We have to learn how to coax a woman into meeting her quota with us, rather than spreading herself thin and us getting short-sticked because she showed a little leg to her boss earlier.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Harlem Style.
Flyteclub is a budding media company/social movement headquartered in
There are BBQ’s, there are cookouts and there are pool parties. Then there are parties which grab all three of those by the throat and say, “fuck you, I’m gunna rape a young white boy.”
Imagine this: A caravan of a dozen quality cars lined up in
We showed up like a hip hop music video! We had coolers of alcohol, we had greenery ripe for the schmokin’ and there were scantily clad women already there. Not to mention the house? Oh lawd the house was gorgeous. An Olympic-sized pool in the backyard, huge courtyard decorated with the aforementioned women. It was Christmas inside my pants. The entire time the Flyteclub army kept repeating, “Doin’ it
Now, see at first I didn’t know what
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| Reverse the colors on Diddy and that's exactly what I looked like at the party. |
And this little Mountain Boy’s mind was being blown by the Harlem-style antics (specifically the booty); I had to take some measures to keep a calm exterior. In order to do so, I figured a bottle of Honey Jack Daniels would suffice. I consumed about half of the bottle before getting comfortable enough to mingle with women.
I was strutting around as the only white guy and it was magnificent. No one had to know my name and I didn’t have to introduce myself, I was known only as “Whiteboy.” And Whiteboy was the most exotic thing in the world, apparently. If you take a white person out of their element and suddenly introduce him to an all-black party, he becomes a diamond. And diamonds are forever. I was hilarious no matter what I said! Adorable no matter where I puked. And best part? The ladies were after me like an iPod in a claw machine filled with shit.
I was bopped. Absolutely bopped. I was higher than a bald eagle’s pussy and pretty extremely drunk. In other words, I was the most confident whiteboy in the world that Saturday… That was until I got raped. Oh yeah? I wasn’t lying when I said this party was going to rape a young white boy.
I was bopped. Absolutely bopped. I was higher than a bald eagle’s pussy and pretty extremely drunk. In other words, I was the most confident whiteboy in the world that Saturday… That was until I got raped. Oh yeah? I wasn’t lying when I said this party was going to rape a young white boy.
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| "Uncle Phil... I am FUCKED UP!" |
So there I was, standing around looking all cool and white. Then boom. A whole lotta woman came up and smiled at me. She was a beautiful ebony gal and if I weren’t the way I was… I would’ve likely prematurely creamed my panties. Whiskey dick saved my life.
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| I'll never look at bread the same... |
But as I was in another dimension, I just smiled back. This was likely the best and worst decision of my life because she took that as an invitation to take my by my waistband and drag me away…
To her car to rape me. I was manhandled by a woman… It was terrible. I was thrown into the back seat of her car, stripped of my clothing and - Wait… Wait now, this is feeling kinda good… In fact, this the greatest experience I’ve ever experienced! I was rapedHarlem style.
She was throwing me around, twisting me like a pretzel, slapping my ass, tossing me like a ragdoll and I couldn’t help but smile the entire time. And not to mention… Booty.
BOOTY. The greatest invention. Butts are butts. Booty is booty. And it’s the first time I ever had booty… Or booty had me? Regardless, her ass alone swallowed my entire body up, chewed on me, spit me out and repeated this several times over until my smile became foaming “O” face.
One day, my grandchildren will be gathered around my feet asking me to tell a story. When I tell this story then they will truly know, I was one cool motherfucker.
To her car to rape me. I was manhandled by a woman… It was terrible. I was thrown into the back seat of her car, stripped of my clothing and - Wait… Wait now, this is feeling kinda good… In fact, this the greatest experience I’ve ever experienced! I was raped
She was throwing me around, twisting me like a pretzel, slapping my ass, tossing me like a ragdoll and I couldn’t help but smile the entire time. And not to mention… Booty.
BOOTY. The greatest invention. Butts are butts. Booty is booty. And it’s the first time I ever had booty… Or booty had me? Regardless, her ass alone swallowed my entire body up, chewed on me, spit me out and repeated this several times over until my smile became foaming “O” face.
One day, my grandchildren will be gathered around my feet asking me to tell a story. When I tell this story then they will truly know, I was one cool motherfucker.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Old Man Strength.
There’s a point in a man’s life where his blood becomes toxic, his brow drops to Neanderthalian levels and he becomes physically stronger regardless of silly things like exercise or steroids. Now, I haven’t attained this natural upgrade yet… But I know damn well it exists.
Case and point…
My father isn’t a fat man. He isn’t very skinny either. He’s a bulbous mass of rage and Hellenic genetics. So in other words, my father may look fat but were you to challenge this appearance with a slight prod of your finger pon his belly… You’d feel the density of a dying sun.
He’s a wrecking ball. And he hates it when I call him that, but it’s true. It’s not an insult. Wrecking balls are the most dreaded spheres known to man, God fuckin’ forbid you come between a wrecking ball and its wreck, you’ll be wrecked. Some people argue that a cannonball is scarier; what the fuck is a wrecking ball? It’s a cannonball with a chain attached to it, making it a thousand times scarier because you know it’s coming back around in a red rage.
Case and point…
My father isn’t a fat man. He isn’t very skinny either. He’s a bulbous mass of rage and Hellenic genetics. So in other words, my father may look fat but were you to challenge this appearance with a slight prod of your finger pon his belly… You’d feel the density of a dying sun.
He’s a wrecking ball. And he hates it when I call him that, but it’s true. It’s not an insult. Wrecking balls are the most dreaded spheres known to man, God fuckin’ forbid you come between a wrecking ball and its wreck, you’ll be wrecked. Some people argue that a cannonball is scarier; what the fuck is a wrecking ball? It’s a cannonball with a chain attached to it, making it a thousand times scarier because you know it’s coming back around in a red rage.
Contrary to popular belief, the large spherical bulge emerging from my father’s torso is not a belly, it’s a container. Within this container are years of rage pent up from life experiences that he may or may not choose to release, but Gods be damned the day he releases it.
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| From the elbow to his fingertips, pure unsaturated manliness. |
My father is short, that is a fact undeniable by anyone. However, he is proportioned like that of a military-issue tank. Stout legs, thick neck, big head and forearms that put Mel Gibson’s to shame, my father looks like someone who could easily come from the Misty Mountains of Middle Earth… Only beardless.
I’ve never seen my father lift a weight in his entire life; I’ve never heard stories of him tearing a head off or anything like that. I have seen him watch a Steven Seagal marathon with a shit-eating grin on his face, though. And I’ve also never seen him lose an arm wrasslin’ match… And let me tell you something, I’ve seen him in a lot of arm wrasslin’ matches. Professional body builders, wrestlers, cops and even marines have all been defeated at the calloused hands of this restaurant proprietor. So all that’s left to ask is, “How the hell does he do it?”
My father has old man strength. And that shit is 100% real, fo’ real. Old man strength is achieved right around the time you have your first child and in the words of Marsellus Wallace, “that’s pride fuckin’ with you.” When a man lays his eyes on his first child for the first time, pride triggers and turns a man into a murder machine. He realizes that in order to be a successful father, he mustn’t show a shred of weakness or that’ll ultimately ruin everything. In doing so every stubbed toe, hour of work, argument, fuck up, death or plain negativity must be swallowed down into his stomach and converted into pure old man strength. When the day comes a sorry son-of-a-bitch comes around and fucks with Daddy’s family, all that built up rage will be released and then there will be no one to stop the utter genocide after it.
I’ve never seen my father lift a weight in his entire life; I’ve never heard stories of him tearing a head off or anything like that. I have seen him watch a Steven Seagal marathon with a shit-eating grin on his face, though. And I’ve also never seen him lose an arm wrasslin’ match… And let me tell you something, I’ve seen him in a lot of arm wrasslin’ matches. Professional body builders, wrestlers, cops and even marines have all been defeated at the calloused hands of this restaurant proprietor. So all that’s left to ask is, “How the hell does he do it?”
My father has old man strength. And that shit is 100% real, fo’ real. Old man strength is achieved right around the time you have your first child and in the words of Marsellus Wallace, “that’s pride fuckin’ with you.” When a man lays his eyes on his first child for the first time, pride triggers and turns a man into a murder machine. He realizes that in order to be a successful father, he mustn’t show a shred of weakness or that’ll ultimately ruin everything. In doing so every stubbed toe, hour of work, argument, fuck up, death or plain negativity must be swallowed down into his stomach and converted into pure old man strength. When the day comes a sorry son-of-a-bitch comes around and fucks with Daddy’s family, all that built up rage will be released and then there will be no one to stop the utter genocide after it.
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| "FUCK GRAVITY." |
It's the true story of will power or in the case of these old men, stubbornness. His will to dead lift heaps of heavy lumber is stronger than the gravity pulling it down. It has nothing to do with method after that point. His experience, his infinite wisdom, his battered body doesn't have time to fuck around with gravity and all that bullshit and makes science yield to his anger.
That crazy look in an older man’s eye? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Years of suppressed anger, ignored boiling points, trying to play the foundation for your family in an unstable world will turn you into a Viking. It's the only reason why you'll never be able to beat your dad in anything.
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