You're weird

Has anyone ever said this to you? For some reason, this assertion typically carries negative connotations. But why? Why is the knee-jerk reaction to being called 'weird' negative? Let's explore this in greater depth. My last two ex-girlfriends saw a friendship blossom out of the severe emotional trauma I inevitably inflict upon all women who try to get close to me. They are now BFF's. Since a few years have passed and the wounds have healed, I enjoy spending the occasional evening at their domicile, smoking marijuana. I find it profoundly ironic that I am in a room with two women who have both spent years of their life being my girlfriend. Of course, having been intimate with both of them, in the back of my mind, I'm hoping that one thing will lead to another and we can all truly enjoy each other in all our carnal glory. But that would just be icing on the cake; it's almost as fun sitting with them and hearing all about the unnecessary drama they create in their lives. Both women, over time, have changed. Enthralled with pop culture, they lack patience and wisdom, which is typical amongst my generation, but perhaps it is unfair to say they lack wisdom, for they are only in their mid to late twenties. Then again, after a quarter century on this Earth, you better have a little fucking perspective. But alas, they do not. They think they know it all. They react in the moment, with emotion and without thought. They succumb to all the current trends and move in circles with like-minded individuals. Let me hit you with a term: "Reactionary Existence". I just made that shit up, just now. What does it mean? It means I'm awesome. No. It means not thinking for yourself. Actions are a response to what others have already done. If you listen to the radio, you are hearing what others' want you to hear. By working a 9-5, you are playing it safe. No child wishes to be a menial worker for an accounting firm when they grow up. Statements such as, "I will never work for anyone again," "I want to live in another country," or "I would rather be dead than work 9-5 for thirty years," are bold. You don't hear stuff like too often. Statements like that reside outside of the status quo. I can't tell you how many times I've been in a public place and a girl has told me I'm weird after 10 minutes of conversation. I'm weird means I'm different, which means I'm unique. Blending into the masses is something I have no desire for. I don't want to be famous, I don't care if I'm rich. I care about being happy. That's it. I just want to have a good time and take life as it comes. I don't wan't to be rigid rock, standing still in a stream as the water flows past and away from me. I'd rather float in the water and see where the stream goes.

Baster Mater

Why can't I masturbate at work? Surely such an activity should be saved for the privacy of one's own bedroom. But I assert that sometimes, there are extraordinary circumstances. I try to drop loads AT LEAST once a day, but shit happens. Maybe I've been busy and I can't get that apple bottom out of my mind. What if my ability to perform my tasks in a productive manner is hindered by these urges? I think it should be permissible for me to relieve myself of this tension in a discreet fashion somewhere in the workplace. I often frequent a bathroom in an area of my building that's rarely occupied. I attain complete solace in this place. What if I've had a few busy days, see the marketing coordinator who happens to have a shelf for an ass, and I haven't had the time to drop a load? I should be allowed to relieve myself. Men are visual creatures. It's simple biology; we become aroused through visual imagery. The onus is on the company when they employ women who wear figure fitting clothing so it's not my fault I have a tent pole in my pants because I saw my colleague's thong when she was bending over to replenish the copier with paper. That's bullshit. Bill Clinton know what I'm saying. And at the end of the day, it really is for the company's benefit: I go back to work, rosy-cheeked, focused, productive, and no one has to know. Instead, I feel shame. Imagine that? Shame when I masturbate in the cold, dark bathroom. Where have we come to as a society when it is considered a shameful act to furiously masturbate (privately) in the workplace? I'm not making unsolicited advances or harassing female employees. I make sure I clean up real good. What's the problem? Why is this frowned upon? If someone came in, I would stop. Or at least keep my groans to a minimum. I always wash my hands. I go dry, so I'm not wasting soap. I'm in the stall. . . I'm really having trouble understanding why this is an issue. I work from my mind so there's no possibility of errant pornography offending other visitors. I challenge anyone to convince me that loving myself in private, at work, is salacious behavior. Anyone who would is obviously sexually repressed. In order to maintain positive sexual mental health, all of this must be brought to the forefront. These desires cannot be contained. It's natural and beautiful. I'm not going to think of my dog getting run over the next time I pop wood at work any longer. THAT's offensive. And I won't seduce a coworker to satisfy my lust when I feel overwhelmingly amorous. Workplace pumping sounds great in theory, but in practice, a terrible idea. It would be awesome for like two days, and then it would be awkward (For her, obviously, I don't care about her feelings). I would have to tell her:

"Look, we only had sex because I felt a severe compulsion to masturbate in the middle of the day. But I realized it's more socially acceptable to defile another human being instead of myself because of my anti-workplace-masturbation acculturation, so it was just some immediate physical gratification. You were really just a substitute for my hand and I probably won't want to do this again for at least 5 months. I hope you don't get too emotional because it wasn't personal. Don't tell anyone because I don't want people in the office thinking you're a slut. It would also make things easier if you could avoid making eye contact with me when we pass in the hall. . . Oh! And if could you remember to turn in those invoices from last month, that would be terrific. Thanks!"

Boomerang Bang

In five years, I'm going to fuck your wife.

My apologies if that statement offends, but I feel an obligation to brace you for reality. You really shouldn't be upset over it because the overwhelming odds are by then, you'll be divorced and have another woman. See, my generation has grown up in an age of unprecedented technology, communication, and media. Everything is reported in real time. Whatever we could possibly want to know is one search engine away. We use credit cards to spend money we don't have. TV show plot lines have been reduced to 3 second soundbites because our attention spans are shorter than a mouse's dick. With the meteoric rise of reality television, it's ridiculous to believe my generation can sustain a marriage past five years (and I'm probably being generous with my estimation). There's a reason we don't produce students who can't compete with the rest of the world; they're too busy being enthralled by the "Jersey Shore". I would bet a million dollars no one on that show has ever read a book. No one reads books anymore. College students these days can't even be bothered to study. If they can find out who invented carpet in less than sixty seconds, why would anyone bother putting time into a marriage? Because you think you love each other? Just because you lived with each other for two years doesn't mean you're in love. In your case, it was more convenient and cheaper if you shared a domicile, cause one of you was always at the others' house. My generation doesn't know what love is. Love is the shit that makes you want to poison someone. Romeo and Juliet, that was fucking love, and it wasn't even real. But no one would know unless they hadn't made a movie about it. If I had a dollar for every person who hasn't read Shakespeare, I'd wipe my ass with Bill Gates. That's why in five years, you will divorce your wife. Neither of you will have the patience or fortitude to put in the work a quality marriage requires. You're soft. You're used to the easy way, and the easy way is walking away. That's when your ex-wife is gonna start whoring it up, with me. After a few years of marriage go by, the passion goes away. The routine sets in, the excitement vanishes. It's clinically proven that a man's testosterone wanes in a long term, monogamous relationship. When sex is available 24/7 , you will begin to take it for granted. There are no more surprises in bed, you've done everything there is to do. You will worry more about your fantasy sports league or whatever non-creative interests you have. By the time you guys finally split up she will have felt neglected by you, and now craves the attention of other men. A LOT of of other men. She will long to be desired. Inside every woman is a freak, desperate to get out. So in five years, she will get what I call, "The Boomerang Bang." Women will hit their mid to late twenties, feel the biological clock speed up, and pressure their current boyfriends into marriage. Then she'll depart upon a journey of wedded bliss. In her head, because she doesn't realize, as you do, that we are in a new age. "Till Death Do Us Part" is obsolete. This is a message of hope to men who believe their chances to land a marlin have come and gone because of a silly little band on her finger. Patience is a virtue, my friends. We'll catch them on the flip side.

Alpha Male

Basically, I'm superior in every quantifiable measure of what makes a man, a "man." My dick is 17 inches long. I can suck that shit. And it's not gay because that would make jerking off gay, and jerking off is awesome. I fuck a different bitch everyday, ever since I was six years old, which was when I lost my virginity. You want to fight? HA HA! Bad idea, buddy. I have quintuple black belt in Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, which is the best way to fight in the world. I was at a bar one time and this dude looked at me. I told him, "Hey! Don't fucking look at me!" even though I knew he couldn't help it because I was so much better than looking than him. I used to model. Then I punched him the face and knocked him out, because I know exactly where in your face to punch so you immediately lose consciousness. He had, like, 15 of his boys with him, but I used my Jiu-Jitsu skills and fucked them up, one at a time. They ended up apologizing for not recognizing my awesomeness and bought me drinks. Let's see how many push ups you can do. 1, 2, 3, 4 . . . 73? Wow, that's not bad. I actually have the world record for most push ups in row, which is 1,023 so you wouldn't want to have a push up contest with me. Want to arm wrestle? Big mistake. Look at these forearms. They're bigger than Mark McGwire's forearms. They wanted to use me in that arm wrestling movie but Stallone did it instead because he was willing to lose. I never lose. Not even if it's pretend. I'm so fucking manly that if I were chick, I'd use strap-on's to fuck other bitches. I'm also a fucking genius. My IQ is 162. When I was twelve, I had the vocabulary of a thirty seven year-old. You know I'm smart because I make more money than you; I make a shit load of money. Last fall, I outbid Bill Gates on a Basquiat painting at a Sotheby's auction. You're going to Europe this summer? That's pretty sweet. Weather permitting, I'll be summiting Everest at the end of August. I saved the biggest for last. I did K2 last year; while technically more difficult, it lacked the accomplishment one experiences from conquering the tallest mountain in the world. I had to step it up after Kilimanjaro. I barely broke a sweat, in Africa no less, ahuhuhuh!

Summary:

I make more money than you, I'm smarter, I'm stronger, I can beat you up, I fuck more girls than you, and my dick is bigger. You should probably just kill yourself now because happiness is obviously completely out of the question.

Boston Market

I'm on my way home after completing my Black Politics in Conservative America midterm faster than anticipated. Too fast. Last fall, I took Dr. ____ 's Black Experience class and, for personal reasons, had to reschedule my final, so I was already on his radar. I was, "one of those."

You know, one of those students the professor is always talking to because they believe (in my case erroneously) in their potential. I arrived at 6:15 Post Meridian, five minutes prior to the start time of class. Dr. ____ exclaimed at my presence,"Welcome, Timmy! You're late, I thought scholars arrived to class early!" My head, swimming with thoughts of Black Power and why coalition building is an ineffective means of affecting change, was unable to form a witty, let alone coherent response. My brain, soaked with marijuana, can only retort, "I. .am. . .early."

Brilliant.

I turned my exam in early, too. I was the first to finish. Took sixty five minutes to answer 7 essay questions. I filled every page and even wrote on the back of a couple.

"If you managed to complete my exam so expeditiously it must not have been too difficult was it, Timmy?"

I detected a tad of patronization in his voice, so with my instinctual arrogance, I replied, "Maybe I have a superior grasp of the material."

He glances over my essays and after a few seconds, raises an eyebrow, looks up and winks, and says he'll see me next week.

I banked my Minute Maid apple juice bottle off the wall into the trash as I walked out, and murmured to myself, "I can't wait."

I plopped down in my car and packed up a bowl of some Cali Orange Kush, which had been curing for three months. I inhaled quickly, feeling the sharp bite of smoke flowing into my lungs, eager to feel the herb's soothing effects. I held my breath for a few seconds and exhale, the relief washing over me in an awesome wave. The stone consumes me and I put on some Metallica, James Hetfield's growling vocals alleviated the leftover anxiety I felt before taking the exam.

Cause we hunt you down without mercy!

Hunt you down all nightmare long!

Yeah!

Knowing a week of scholastic brutality was behind me, my body allowed the pangs of hunger to hit with a vengeance. But tonite, I just wasn't emotionally capable of creating a dish from scratch. I felt the onset of panic, and then I saw it.

Boston Market.

Yes. This will be the shit. I calm myself, and pull in, immediately noticing a long line in the drive-thru. That was out. I never wait in lines; it is for lesser evolved beings who aren't capable of coming up with a more sufficient alternative than waiting their turn. I park, and almost get hit by some dude with a van that's obviously doubling as his home. It had curtains and a Lazy Boy. I walk into the establishment and am immediately, but pleasantly, overwhelmed with all the delicious possibility that is Boston Market. Four cars in the drive-thru and one fat, redneck between me and marshmallow- topped sweet-potato.

Yeah, I made the right decision.

The fat redneck was in the process of ordering. After he finished placing his order, the employee asks him sweetly, "Anything else?" He proceeded to place a whole separate order, except the way he did it sounded like it was on a whim.

Employee: "Your sides?"

Fat Redneck: " Corn! Uhhhh. . . masht pertaters. . . stuffin'."

It appeared as though he were ordering someone else's food, yet randomly selecting all their sides. All the bad sides. None of those things were healthy; everything was a starch, he totally ignored the green stuff.

"Anything else?"

"How much is the Turkey Carver?!?"

"Five dollars."

"Gimme one o' those, too."

As she started making his Carver, I turn him and say, "None of those things are healthy."

"Huh?" He whirls around.

"I said, 'None of those things are healthy'. You didn't order one healthy thing; everything you got is garbage." I see creases in the fat redneck's brow as he processes my observation.

"Excuse me? I can order whatever I want!"

"Of course you can, but you're fat as fuck and you're just eating more shit. Your small intestine must hate you."

Now his face starts turning red, but before the hamster running the wheel inside his head can produce his primal response, I interrupt him:

"Did you vote for John McCain?"

"Huh? What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"I asked if you voted for John McCain."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did, so fucking what?"

"Well, you're obviously intelligent enough to barely have survived as long as you have, and you're ordering the least nutritious items possible on the menu because you have no regard for your long-term health, which means you only care about your immediate gratification, and being this fat at your age, five years from now you will be one of the people benefitting from an overhaul of the healthcare system because you will want someone other than yourself to pay for your gluttonous lifestyle." I have no doubt if he possessed a firearm, now is the time he would use it. I started to feel sorry for him, but I'm not sure why. My ability to empathize is constantly under attack by the Machiavelli in me. Sometimes, it's easier just to mind my own business. I turned back to the counter and asked the employee,

"Can I have a cookie?"

The fuck is wrong with people?

The following is an actual email that was sent to a friend from a dude who works out at our gym.


-----Original Message-----
From: C____
Sent: Tuesday, October 13, 2009 1:41 PM
To: Darwin, Timmy
Subject:

C___, I know your not interested in me, but I am curious as to why everyone has been alienating me at the gym(Lifesyles)? I am guessing competition. I feel as though everyone has made me a freak, without even knowing me..
I don't mean to brag, and I can't believe I am telling you this, but I have slept with around 17 or 18 women. I have been in a long term relationship of 3 years in college.. The two long term relationships I lost due to work, I work alot!! I enjoy my job even though being a contractor is cut throat.
I know I don't know you, and this is strange.. What are the people saying about me, Take off the gloves and please don't hold back. I am an adult I can take it.. PLEASE let me know what seams to be MY MALFUNCTION..
PLEASE RESPOND BECAUSE I AM CURIOUS.!

D____
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T


I know what your malfunction is. You're fucking crazy. Cuckoo for Coco Puffs. A good old-fashioned psycho. Competition? At the GYM? That's fucking INSANE. What on Earth are people competing for? Natural resources? Is there a fucking untapped lake of oil under that incline bench press? Or do you just consider every workout to be a Mr. Olympia contest? If so, I'd hit the juice if I were you. You seriously believe people, who you've admittedly never spoken to, are trying to freeze you out? "I don't mean to brag but. . ." Dude, you're twenty seven. Sleeping with eighteen girls (I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt) at your age is not a high number, so I guess you really are not bragging. If started banging girls at age seventeen, and averaged two girls a year for ten years, you'd have fucked twenty girls by now, so you're a little behind pace, but kudos for your honesty. And if you disengage from the minutiae in this bullshit and look at it from afar, it almost sounds as though it were written by someone whose first language is not English. And on drugs. It's like you inadvertently let your inner-most thoughts fall out of your head andl land onto an email. And what do you want to hear? "Yes D____, you're right. You've uncovered the massive conspiracy and everyone at the gym hates you. We all secretly hangout together, talk shit about you, and wish you'd cancel your membership, because we are overwhelmed by your intimidating physique, now kill yourself" (but if you don't, a little advice: try to hit the legs more often). Or did you want C___ to pump you up, and say, "No, D____, I think you're a really, really cool guy with excellent genetics, and you're just misunderstood. Don't be upset, because I'm the one person who can see you for who you really are, which is a deep, introspective, kind, selfless, and loving soul. I want you to sire my offspring." I hate going to the gym. Not the working out part, I enjoy that, but the whole "gym experience" is what disgusts me. Everyone is pretty much like this dude: sizing people up, staring them down, comparing themselves, judging. . . there's a palpable feeling of desperation that adds 25 lbs. to everything I'm trying to lift. I can't speak for all gyms, but at this one, I feel like everyone is there for the wrong reason. It's like happy hour. Women all wear makeup and guys wear faggoty workout gear, and eye-fuck the shit out of the women. I told my C____ she can borrow my .45 semi-automatic. You never know. Remember the fucking crazy who shot up that gym in Shittsburgh? He was the same kind of guy: isolated, reaching out, yet constantly rebuffed. He blogged incessantly about his social ostracizing until he couldn't take anymore. Then he took matters into his own hands and opened fire on a Body Pump class. At least he saved taxpayers the inconvenience of a trial and blew his brains out. It's scary to think that we are surrounded by so many defective human beings. In this day and age, anything can happen. We must be aware of the signs. Constructing a message like this is utterly inconceivable to me, and you. This can hopefully only arise from the bowels of a deviant mind, because God help us if this is what the average man is thinking. . .

A Duel

Goddamn, I had to piss. I raced to the bathroom and stood at the urinal, unzipping my pants, when I heard the door open. I felt another man's presence beside me. Our gaze never met. Direct eye contact was consciously avoided. But it was understood. It was I who issued the tacit challenge, putting our respective manhood's on the line. Both of us knew, without speaking, what was about to go down. A Duel.
"Ready. . . Set. . Piss!"
I began before he did to let him know right off the top I was not scared. Giving another man a head start in a duel of the piss is a bold move; one that should only be attempted by a true alpha male. About five seconds into my piss, he started. It was on. Sometimes, a piss can feel almost as good as busting a nut. That's about where I was at. I had recently consumed 32 ounces of purified water approximately 45 minutes prior to the contest. My bladder was bursting. I had parked far away, and after a five minute walk, this was the first opportunity I'd had to piss. The piss released endorphins which spawned a euphoria that washed over me in an awesome wave. This man stood no chance. Who the fuck does he think is to think he can piss longer than me? This was confirmed when I heard his flow winding down, but mine was still going strong. He finished, shook, zipped, and stepped away, defeated. My stream continued in triumph. He washed his hands and left, a loser. My flow began to slow up after my piss bitch left. He had come and gone in the span of my micturition. My eyes never left the wall in front of me. . . eyes of a champion.

My pipes do not need cleaning

Conventional "man wisdom" states that before going out with a new chick, you should rub one out to "clean the pipes." The theory is if we drop a load beforehand, we'll be able to hold out longer if we fuck that night*. And when I was a young buck, this was sage advice. But now, as I age gracefully into my late-twenties, I no longer feel a need for such preemption. Now, I'm all for a good jerk session, don't get me wrong. I must get the poison out on a daily basis. But I'm older now, I have more control. There are no surprises here. It's just some pussy. My dick's been wet before. I got experience. I like to save my load for the girl now. If I clean my pipes, the volume is diminished. I'd much rather load up on some zinc**, and slap a girl with a big 'ol eight roper load on the first time out. It's really quite a compliment. I'm going out of my way to give you this huge load because nothing says, "I had a great time, we should do this again" like making a girl's teeth look like they're melting. Have a nice day and don't forget your towel.


*I understand now there is no such thing as premature ejaculation.
**Zinc gives you Peter North-sized loads.

Rick Pitino is a monkey

Rick Pitino is the head basketball coach at Louisville. He was recently the target of an extortion scheme, concocted by a waitress he banged and impregnated at a restaurant in 2003. This man is married, with five kids, makes millions of dollars a year, yet he raw dogged a waitress the day he met her. Not only is Rick Pitino a fucking G, he's a monkey. What on Earth would possess a man in his position to blow a load inside a bitch he met that day? Only a monkey would do such things. Monkeys don't care where their load ends up. They just drop that shit; it betters their chances at propagating the species. I mean, I understand the desire to cheat on a spouse; shit gets old after a while. But putting your naked dick inside some stranger and blowing your load? That's insane! You have to not give FUCK to do something like that. No fear of disease, no fear of pregnancy; I'm just gonna jerk off real quick with this bitch's pussy, who I just met today, and deposit my load in there. Only a woman who is completely out of her gourd would allow such a thing. He even gave her 3 g's for an abortion. Goddamn, I can't get over the fact that the man walks into a restaurant, sees a semi-attractive woman (monkeys are not picky, I.E. Ben Roethlesberger), hits on her, convinces her to sex him right there in the restaurant bathroom, and then blows an unencumbered load inside her. Wow. Those are some bold fucking moves. It would almost be impressive if this shit hadn't gone public. Whatever, anyway, Rick Pitino: Your genetics are so fucking bad, it's a good thing you have five kids because with each additional child, your chances of producing successful offspring increase exponentially. May God have mercy on your soul.

Why can't we be friends?

Because I'll fuck you. Or you'll fuck me. Either way, one of us wants a piece. I laugh my ass off when a girl tells me she has tons of guy friends. Yeah, you have tons of guys who want to fuck you. They are not your friend. And if none of them want to fuck you and you all still hangout anyway, it means you're cool, but ugly, and secretly in love with one of them. That's sad and pathetic. But if one of those guys gets really wasted and you catch him in the right moment, he'll take you down. That's why we all can't be friends. Sex is always on the table. One will always feel a little bit more towards the other. This creates an imbalance and platonic friendships cannot flourish in such an environment. Let's take this one step further. Say your girlfriend has a really good guy friend. . . .Exactly. You're not an idiot, he wants to fuck her. She doesn't want to fuck him because she has you, and women are biologically engineered to settle with the one they're putting out for. This dude is utilizing the "Wear Down" game. This is the strategy utilized by tools and losers who are nice enough to reach friend status, but don't have what it takes to make the slay. This game is executed by always being in the background, hovering like a vulture, waiting for the lion to abandon his kill so they can swoop in and pick the carcass. These types have endless patience and won't go anywhere unless you make your bitch get rid of him. If she doesn't want to get rid of him, it means she's one of those who experiences chronic insecurity and always needs a man around for validation. That unfortunately means she's just using you, so save your emotion and get rid of her. There's like 200 million other women it the country. Grab 'em by the ankles, turn 'em upside down and they all look the same. . . Questions?

The Man

Nothing gets my dick harder than my job. I love the shit out of it. I see you before you see me. I creep where you least expect it. I love how you slam on your breaks when you see me cruising the streets. I love seeing the fear in your eyes when I pull you over. The sheer trepidation eminating from your body is palpable, and it makes my dick hard. So hard, I'm gonna have to stroke it. I think I'm going to sit in front of your house and rub one out real quick. Oh yeah, I'm thinking about you scared shitless inside your own home, wondering why I'm parked out front. Oooh, watching you peek through your shades is going to make me come. UNNNHHHHH YEEAAAHHHHH!!! I put my car in drive and bounce. I see a black person in a Mercedes. He's probably a criminal. I'm going to follow him. I ride him real hard. So hard I can see the whites of his eyes in the rearview. It's giving me a chub. You signal before you turn because you want to ensure you are in absolute compliance with the law. It doesn't matter. I bump my semi-erection with my elbow when I turn on the siren, causing it become a boner so strong, you could do chin-ups on it. Oh gawd, I have to get this nut before I ask for your license and registration. Oh yeah, thinking about you sitting in your car, scared stiff makes me even stiffer. Ahhh, I'm running your plates. Unnhh, it feels so good. I can put handcuffs on your anytime I want. I can put you in my backseat and make you sit there for two hours. . .UNNNHHHHH, YEAHHHH!!! I just came again. Your plates came up clean but I'm going to fuck with you anyway. Because I can. "License and registration, please." Your hand shakes as you hand me the requested items . I feel my cock twitching. "Thank you, sir. Just a moment." My computer says you have no priors or warrants so I have to let you go. Fucking nigger. I am angered by the computer turning up nothing, so I peel out looking for someone else. I find a nice spot around a curve under a bridge and turn on my radar gun. I fall asleep but am awakened by my radar telling me someone is going 90 in a 60. Feeling my cock straining against my pants, I floor it and turn on the sirens. Traffic parts for me, all of you motherfuckers praying I'm not after you. My cock is throbbing. I don't really know which car was speeding, so I look for a hot bitch. I see one driving a gray Honda Accord. Daddy's little slut. My dick is so hard you could hang a wet towel on it. I ask her if she knows why I pulled her over. She says because she was speeding. AHAHAHAHA, YOU DUMB FUCKING BITCH! I didn't know you were speeding! I tell her she's looking at a big fine and points on her license. She asks if there's anything she can do. I tell her there is. Get on your knees and suck it. She drops down and I bust a nut on her face. I'm back on the road. The radio says all officers in the area are needed for backup. There was a robbery. Three spic fucks. I pull a u-turn across the highway and flip the siren. Gawd, the sound is so sexy. I'm switching lanes at a buck twenty when I see a car that doesn't resemble the suspects in anyway, but there are spic niggers in it, so I get right behind them. They run. UNNHHHHH YEEAHHH!!!!!!!!!! A chase! Oh yeah, I'm gonna drop a big 'ol load this time! Stupid spic niggers think you can run from me! I'm the fucking MAN! I call for backup and I feel my dick pushing up against my pants. I take it out and give it a few pumps while I wait for the monkeys to crash. . . . . .haha, there it is! I tuck my massive erection in my belt and chase after the slowest, a chubby little cuban with a white beater and jailhouse tattoos. I catch this little shitbag and tase him. His scream almost makes me come in my pants. I drop a knee on his head and handcuff him. "Yeah! You like that, you little spic piece of shit? You can't fuck with me, nigger!" I throw him in the backseat. "I'm Johnny Fucking Law, motherfucker!" My boys grabbed the other ones and we drop them off at the jail. To celebrate, we go to the projects and blow lines off a CD case. I get in the backseat and let my captain fuck me up the ass. "YEAH! How do you like getting fucked by The Man, boy!"

Music is life, life is music

A family member of mine, who has spent the better part of the past decade perfecting his craft, has finally released his projects. What he's accomplished is so intense, I can't put it into words. Simply put, the shit is real and raw. Old school meets new school. He has put his soul into this work. I'm too close to be able to review it objectively; but the shit speaks for itself. It is staggering. Show him some love.

http://thecypherrecords.blogspot.com/

Why I'm invincible

Anytime you narrowly escape bodily harm, you get more awesome. One of my motto's is: "The more brushes with death, the more awesome you get." That is why scars are so awesome. It means something fucked you up but you're still here, which means you won, and only winners are awesome. Even if the fuck up was self-inflicted, that's still awesome. I stabbed myself in the leg with a knife once. You may call it stupid, but I call it awesome. The knife was sticking out of my leg, in to the hilt. I pulled it out, the friction of the blade caused my innerds to pop out of the hole. Anytime you can see the inside of your body, so long as it's not through your asshole, it's awesome. I had to get stiches. Everyone knows stitches are awesome. What would you say if someone got shot in the face and survived? I would say that's pretty goddamned fucking awesome. What if you went skydiving, the parachute didn't open, and you survived? Fucking right that's awesome. And I'm not making that up, that shit really happens too. "JAT stewardess Vesna Vulović survived a fall of 33,000 feet (over 10,000 meters) on January 26, 1972 when she was thrown from JAT Flight 364, after the plane exploded over Srbská Kamenice in former Czechoslovakia (now Czech Republic). She broke several bones and was in a coma for 27 days." And guess what? She woke up, and is now more awesome than ever. You know what else I think would be incredibly awesome? Getting struck by lightning. I always wish when someone says, "you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than _______", I could just say, "I got struck by lightning." Wow. Just typing, "I got struck by lightning" made me feel awesome. Say that out loud. It's awesome. One thousand people get struck by lightning each year. Only one hundred, or 10%, die. That means nine hundred people survive lightning strikes each year. That's awesome. Another awesome move is getting hit by a car. While you're crossing the street. That happened to me. That's how I know I'm awesome. I was fifteen and a buddy and I were crossing a ten lane super-highway. We were not in the crosswalks. All traffic in every lane was bumper to bumper. Except the bus lane. We crossed nine lanes and my buddy crossed the last one. A van was obstructing my view of oncoming traffic, but since my buddy made it and the bus lane had no buses in sight, I crossed. Stepped right in front of a state trooper en route to an accident. She did not have her sirens on. I was told later she was going about 45 miles per hour. Much to the car's chagrin, (it was out to get to me) I possess puma-like reflexes and I managed to hop up slightly and turn, so my calves hit the bumper and my ass hit the hood. Upon impact the cop slammed on the breaks and I went flying. I landed on the street a few yards ahead of the car. I got up and tried to run away, because that's what I do when I see cops. I am always up to no good (I never understood what would possess a human being to become an enforcer of the law.* They must have all been asshole raped as children). My legs weren't working due to shock. I fell down and the cop screamed at me to not move. I tried to gather my wits while I was sitting on the grass. Inspite of the situation, I found it amusing that the police noticed the "bad cop, no doughnut" sticker on the bottom of my buddy's skateboard. I surveyed the scene: I smashed her windshield, dented the shit out of her hood, and broke lights off the bumper. I kicked the shit out of that car. But I was underage and could not refuse medical attention, so an ambulance took me to the hospital. I was looked over, but there was nothing wrong. As I was leaving, the doctor told me how lucky I was and how I must have guardian angels looking after me. I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned to him and said, "There are no angels motherfucker, I'm fucking invincible."

*Before I was allowed to leave the hospital, the troopers gave me a ticket for jaywalking. Dicks.

The essence of man

I close my office door with the Tupperware clenched tightly in my fist. My mouth is salivating and my mandibles are quivering with anticipation. I sit down at my desk and clear it of all important work-related documents. I lay out the necessary accoutrements. . . a plate. Today, I have no use for napkins or cutlery. Behind closed doors I am a savage. When dining solo, I refuse to adhere to what I consider a rigid dining etiquette. Fuck the knife, fuck the fork, and fuck you spoon. I am going to devour this dish with my bare hands. And the dish I'm about to engage lends itself to this Neanderthal-style of consumption. That's right, I'm talking about ribs.

I cooked the ribs last night over a charcoal grill. Thick, juicy meat of swine; lambasted with sweet and tangy barbecue sauce, smoked to perfection. I grab one end of the rack and tear off my first section. It did not tear easy. It required a man's effort. I sprayed barbecue sauce all over the place when the sinewy flesh finally ripped apart. Tendon getting stuck between my teeth. I made sure I got every last succulent bite, leaving nothing behind but bone. I stared at this piece of bone; the ribs are what protect the heart, whose beat fuels the fire of life. This rib protected a pig's heart and now that rib was on my desk, the meat in my belly. This realization fueled my already ravenous appetite. I grab the next section with my hands, eating continuously until there was nothing but a pile of clean, white, bones at my desk. Bone. In a morbidly curious fascination, I lay the bones out, making a faux hog skeleton. I try to imagine the pig who gave his life to satisfy my mid-day feeding. I name the rib bones Wilbur, after the valiant little piglet in Charlotte's Web. Feeling it would be wrong to haphazardly abandon Wilbur's life force in the trashcan, I place the bones carefully in my drawer. In a moment of waning testosterone I shall suck on them for a boost, rejuvenating my manhood.

My dick is bigger than yours

No matter how great you are at something, there will always be someone better at it than you. Always. Everyone is replaceable. You are not the best stockbroker, writer, real-estate agent, accountant, bartender, entrepreneur, programmer, drug-dealer, loan shark, baseball player, lawyer, doctor, singer, politician, teacher, driver, publicist, actor, musician, director, or salesperson. Whatever you are, there's someone better at it than you. And you shouldn't give a shit. Striving to be the best at something, while admirable, is pointless. You should always try your best, but effort should not be confused with achievement. No matter how hard I try, there will always be a bigger asshole than me. No matter how many needles you put in your ass, there will always be someone bigger than you. What's the point of all this? Good question. Did you know I am an ordained minister? I can legally perform baptisms and weddings. The point I'm trying to make is if you compare yourself to others, you will never be satisfied and achieve true happiness. This dickhead I know recently said to me, "When I was 18, I always pictured myself driving a Ferrari to my high school reunion." Imagine your self worth being dependent upon the valuation of your former high school classmates. Jesus Christ, I couldn't give less of a fucking shit whether I see anyone from high school again, let alone what they think about the car I drive. We always seek our parents approval but that's irrelevant too. At age 27, if you're relying on your parents for survival, you should be taken out back and shot. You bring nothing to the table. You are a hinderance to the evolutionary process. Life can boiled down to three elements:

Birth
Chase after money
Death

If being born was optional, and that was the way life was presented, I think I would choose the alternative. And I have no idea what that alternative is. Of course there's other factors in that equation, like childhood, relationships, career, marriage, having kids. . .but all that shit falls into the chase after money category. You were born poor, you will want money. If you were born rich, you will want money. It takes money to live. Without money, you'll be like that homeless dude you ignored on your way into work. Life is too short for all that bullshit. Indulge every whim. Fuck it. You wanna make sure your family is taken care of when you die? Why can't they take care of themselves? I know if and when I have kids that I will want them to have everything they ever wanted, but at some point, you must be self sufficient. Everyone else has to be. If you are a tiger that takes too long to wean, the daddy tiger will kill you because you will try to fuck your mother. That's a hell of a metaphor. We come into this world alone and we leave it alone. The only thing that can't be taken away is the experiences you've had. If you had a good time, does it really matter if a dude you graduated with has a Ferrari? Odds are, your dick is bigger.

MLK is proud of me

I think 99% of the population is stupid. I get so caught up in the stupidity of others that my own idiotic moments go by the wayside. I would be remiss if I failed to make a correction about the Xanax thing: Yes, I'm addicted. Yes, I'm trying cut back. Yes, I was going through withdrawals. But one of the symptoms originated via an impetus other than the Xanax cessation: The diarrhea. See my fridge broke the other day. Not having a fridge is worse than not having air conditioning. Especially in Florida, when you're riding a 100 degree plus heat wave. Naturally everything in there went bad. Had to throw out a whole mess of shit. It was a bummer. When it initially occurred, a broken fridge was almost beyond my realm of comprehension. I remember going about my daily morning routine, which involves protein shakes and Redbulls (awesome). I also grabbed my delicious Bolthouse Farms mocha cappuccino protein drink. It's caffeine and protein in one drink. I challenge you to come up with a more awesome combination. I had to accept that my fridge was broken because my normally delicious, ice-cold Redbull was lukewarm. I drank it anyway, but was far less enthused than usual. At work, around mid morning, I mix black coffee and the Bolthouse. Which is milk based. Which was sitting in my inoperative refrigerator overnight. I was drinking sour milk. THAT'S why I was so gassy and pissing out of my asshole all day. My dumb ass didn't know notice it smelled funky because the taste was disguised by delicious cocoa and coffee beans. I shit like 5 times that day. My asshole is still raw. None of the movements were solid. The best part is I didn't realize this until the next day. I had some of the drink left over. I went to smell it and the fucking thing stunk; I can't believe I drank that shit. Jesus Christ what the fuck? How can someone knowingly imbibe sour milk? Those sort of mistakes freak me out, cause what happens when I really fuck up? I can be totally oblivious but quite observant all at the same time, so when I miss, I tend to miss big. The funny part is I've had sour milk before. I was eating Golden Grahams and it just tasted so, so horrible. I spit it and went to chug the milk to get the bad Golden Graham taste of my mouth. Yeah, it turned out the way you might expect. I went to friends house later that day and he had a slip and slide, remember those? It was so hot out and the water was so refreshing and the hill was so steep. . .it was a shame I had to shit in my bathing suit when it was my turn to go down. I had more brown following me than Martin Luther King, Jr. I think he would have been proud. . . .

Comments

I have no idea if anyone reads this bullshit. I really don't care. Actually, I would prefer no one read this. You, stop reading a-sap. These musings are for my own personal self-indulgence, verbal masturbation if you will, now go away and let me stroke it. . . I'm just joshing. Please come back. I need your love. I have this thing set so anyone can leave anonymous comments; you don't have to register. If you want to praise my prose, go right ahead. If you want to talk shit, I relish it. Just be prepared to receive a written anal-raping by me.

Face.

Sex and Vietnam

I thought I had herpes once. I woke up one day with red bumps all over my dick. Seeing your dick change overnight is one of the scariest things that can happen to a man, in my opinion. I immediately began to think of every skank I've ever fucked so I could figure out which one burned me. Not easy, because I never wore rubbers. It feels so good to sex a girl raw that I almost consider intercourse with a condom not sex. Was it the girl from Georgetown? I don't even remember her name. I think it's funny to have had unprotected sex with a person whose name you cannot remember. Now that I think about it, I'm sure I never knew her name at all. I never remember anyone's name. Who cares? The night started out normal; we were in a dormroom playing quarters and got shitfaced. When it was time to pass out, she's like, "I'm sleeping wherever you are." Word. We got on the couch, a couple other buddies were passed out on various pieces of furniture, and we got to business. The funny part of doing something you're not supposed to when you're drunk is that you are aware of it but you just don't care. I knew I shouldn't fuck this girl without a condom. I would put my dick in and pump her a few times, but then I'd reconsider and take it out. We'd start hooking up again and I'd put my dick back in and pump her a couple more times, only to keep taking it out out of fear disease and blowing my load. We repeated this pattern over and over until I premature ejaculated over the covers without telling her. Awesome. In hindsight, I really prevented nothing, plus I denied both of us a good drunken pump session. In the wee hours of the morning, I recall one of my boys standing in front of a chair, in the dark. I thought it was really weird and went back to sleep. The next morning, I woke up, put my jeans on, and they were cold. And wet. I was like, "How the fuck did my jeans get wet?" Then I remembered dude standing up over the chair. This motherfucker pissed all over my jeans. How the fuck can you be so drunk that you just piss on a chair in the middle of a living room, thinking it's a toilet? That's some fucked up, repugnant shit. But anyway, since I was unable to pinpoint the diseased pussy I had dipped my dick in, I just got tested. I was fucking petrified. Normally you get tested knowing nothing is wrong. Well, I had a rash on my dick. I go to a ghetto walk-in clinic, and for two reasons:
1) I don't want my regular doctor to know.
2) These people have seen it all.
When it was my turn, a small, effeminate man calls me back into the examination room. If you think having your penis examined is awkward, when he's gay, it's even worse. So we've got my dick out. I'm pulling it one way showing him the bumps, he's pulling it the other way. . .we're giving it a full investigation. At the end he declares, "This looks fungal."
Me: "What the fuck? Fungal? The fuck does that mean?"
Fruity doc: "This is a fungus, like athlete's foot. Put some Lotrimin on it, you'll never see it again."
AHAHAHAHA I had athlete's cock! It was the best news I'd ever gotten. Just to be sure, we did a full blood test and swab (a q-tip in your pee hole is so unnatural I can't summon the words to even begin to describe it) and I was all good. Used the Lotrimin, smooth sailing. I vowed never again to pump without a rubber*. It's a fucking jungle out there and sex is Vietnam.


*Of course I did.

If you are a butter face here's some advice:

Just hit the gym and stop eating chips. Stop crying about how fat and ugly you are. You can't do anything about your face; it was god's will. . . But do not fear; as long as you are properly groomed, a man will let your busted ass horse face slide and fuck you if you have a great ass and legs. Let us fuck you from behind so we can't see your monstrosity. Now, all we have to do is focus on your ass and the arch of your back. If you are really ugly, we will pull your hair to prevent you from turning around and looking at us, as direct eye contact would cause a loss of our boners. As we near climax, try to scream a lot, and I would shut my eyes and think of a hotter girl, then pull out (knocking up an ugly girl would be devastating) and bust the load all over your face. I personally would blow an extra large load so the load could distort the unattractive contours of your rough mug, thus preserving the whole experience. Now go forth and sex, you ugly bitch.

Haiku's

I'm a fuck your face
Says who? You say to me fuck
On a Banyon tree

Code of the piss

The Man's 'Code of the Piss': Thou shalt not engage in discourse with a stranger, whilst holding your dick, at the urinal. You look straight ahead in silence. This motherfucker today rolls up next to me while I'm pissing. He looks right at me and starts talking. A foot away from me. While holding his dick. I maintained my composure, keeping my gaze forward, at the wall. Once my piss was complete (it was impressively long), I shook, zipped, stepped back, waited for him to turn around, and punched him right in the face. Fuck. No one breaks the 'Code of the Piss' on my watch. Stay swoll.

It was right in the face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face. Face.

Fuck.

Cherios

David Carradine was found dead, hanging by his neck and tied up in his hotel room in Thailand. The freaky part is he did it to himself. I think choking yourself while masturbating is disturbing and hysterical at the same time. I guess I kind of get it; he was like 72 years old. He's been jerking off for sixty years. I know I wouldn't want to eat Cherios everyday for sixty years; at some point you're gonna wanna spice it up with some strawberries or bananas. I've jerked off, on average, once a day since I was 12. I'm 26. That's 14 years of jerking off. 365 x 14 is 5,110. So, conservatively, I've jerked off 5,110 times. He was 72. If he started at 12, that means he's jerked off 21,900 times. Due to the freakishness of the incident I'm gonna round up to 22,000. Kill Bill has jerked off 22,000 times. When did it go bad? When did watching big-tittied lesbians, with only a bottle of lotion, start to bore him? They say it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master something, so does jerkoff deviancy start then? That would mean in seven years, at age 33, I'm gonna start to need some freaky shit to drop my load. That seems a tad early. I feel like sexual deviancy, assuming you have normal sexual behavior, would have to start in your forties at the earliest. That would mean you would have to jerkoff 15,000 times before you become a freak. . . I think I'm gonna slow down.
I was glad to see that he was at least in the middle of shooting a movie, because he was in Thailand. I was like, "Oh no, he's banging kids," but let me make this perfectly clear: The ONLY reason to go to Thailand is to fuck a child. That's it. There's no other legitimate reason. They eat bugs there. There are thousands of beautiful beaches all over the world, with better food and nightlife. Adults go to Thailand to fuck children. That's what that place is all about. You can get yourself three 8 year olds for like fifty bucks. If anyone you know says they're going on vacation in Thailand, don't ever let that sick fuck near your children because he will want to sex them. Although, this subject has me thinking: If it's that easy to bang kids in Thailand, I wonder if they'll serve me some delicious human meat? Hmmmm. . . . .

If I were a Jonas brother. . .

My balls would be worth more than the lives of everyone you know, combined. Every female, of every age, would do anything for my Jonas load. Their every orifice would be at my load's complete disposal. Mothers would be lining up their daughters, begging me to drop my life security providing load on their daughters. . . and themselves. Because they know, every time I masturbate, that load filled towel is worth millions of dollars. And instead of always sexing up the little girls and their mothers (of course it would be simultaneously), I would sometimes proclaim, "Do not touch my dick!" and make them watch me jerk off in front of them so they can only witness the load they cannot have. . . just because I can. My purity ring would be about as worthless as your opinion. I could get a 1.5 million dollar Bugatti Veyron, keep it in a garage, and then drive it when I finally turn sixteen. I would operate with reckless abandon and Disney would cover up everything I ever did. I would be accountable for nothing because I'm underage. I wouldn't have to go to school and my parents would work for me. I'd be like, "Dad, clean my room or you won't get your allowance this week." I could have the same sanctimonious look on my face all the time because your life will never be as awesome as mine. I know the reason dudes all hate me is because their little girlfriends would all buy lottery tickets for a chance at becoming the recipient of one of my loads. If only I were a Jonas brother. . . .

What would Patrick Bateman do?

I have a new game. It's called, "What would Patrick Bateman do?" Patrick Bateman is, of course, the star of the greatest movie and book ever, "American Psycho". I'm going to walk around and whenever my reaction is called for I will think, "What would Patrick Bateman do?" and respond accordingly. Still unclear? Here's an example:

My girlfriend's mom's cat had kittens. I'm over at the house playing with them, as they are so cute and cuddly, and she asks me what I think of them. I think, what would Patrick Bateman do? So I take one of the kittens and feed it to an ATM machine. . . .The next day I had to go to the grocery store. The high school girl cashier asks me, "Paper or Plastic?" I tell her, "You're a fucking ugly bitch. I want to stab you death, and then play around with your blood." Get it? Isn't this game awesome? My assistant comes into my office with some invoices. She asks, "Do you want to go over these before I enter them?" I. Just. Say. "No". . .and as she's leaving I tell her, "Kelly, don't ever wear that outfit again." She stops.

"Umm, what? I didn't hear you."

"I said, 'Do not wear that outfit again'. Wear a dress. A skirt or something. You're prettier than that. And high heels, I like high heels."

After work, I hit the gym. I personally designed my workout to integrate free weights with isometric machines. Free weights are important because they allow me to utilize my core muscles for stability. The machines isolate the movements, allowing me to get a more fuller and all-over pump. Relieving stress from the workout relaxes me and I hit the smoothie shop. My abs are tight and my traps are like steel. I notice the little hardbody named Christie working the front desk is checking me out. I tell her she looks like the model on the new Dior campaign and she laughs. We arrange to meet at the Lime for drinks, followed by dinner at Berns. I know the maitre d' and I sometimes buy cocaine from one of the sommeliers. After dinner, we go back to my apartment on the 19th floor at 345 Bayshore Avenue (nice). Upstairs, she tells me what a nice view of Tampa Bay I have. I know. It's none of your business, but it certainly wasn't cheap. I ask her if she takes American Express. I have a black one. She tells me I'm funny and asks if she can use the bathroom. What would Patrick Bateman do? I tell her yes and call an escort service, asking very specifically for a blonde. I put on a CD by Phil Collins. The song Sussudio comes on. Great, great song, a personal favorite. Thirty minutes later there's a knock at the door. A girl with dirty blonde enters my apartment. "Not quite blonde, are you?" I tell her. "More like a dirty-blonde. I'm going to call you Sabrina. You will respond only to Sabrina." I pour two glasses of wine mixed with some Roofies. I tell Sabrina to draw a bath so she and Christie can wash their vaginas. After I'm positive their cunts are clean, I order them to the bedroom. Christie crawls onto my bed and Sabrina starts to dance. "Don't just stare at it Sabrina, eat it!" I put on Huey Lewis and the News and pop a VHS tape into my Sony camcorder and focus it on my king size bed. Sabrina is licking Christie's vagina while Christie is on all fours, sucking my cock. I hit a double bicep pose and slide my cock into Christie's vagina. As I pump her from behind I scream, "You fucking bitch! You whore face trash bitch!" I headbutt Christie in the back of the head and grab a butcher knife from my Ethan Allen bedside night table. Naked and wearing white Reebok high tops, I chase Sabrina to my front door and stab her 37 times. I laugh hysterically while I fuck the holes I made in her with the knife. Remembering Christie, I run to the bedroom where she's hiding under the bed. Ignoring her screams, I tie her up and bite off her nipples. I giggle uncontrollably and begin to fuck her face. After four orgasms I am still aroused, so I take a rat I've been starving and let him burrow for the cheese I've placed up Sabrina's vagina. As he claws his way deeper into her cunt, I change the CD to Whitney Houston because Huey's a little too black-sounding for me. I pour a J&B straight up on the rocks and sit out on my balcony. I stare at the reflection of the moon on the water and a calm washes over me in an awesome wave. I sip my drink and think,"What an excellent game . . ."

It's my thyroid

Fat people are disgusting. There's really not much more I can say. . . . I lied. There's a shitload more I'm going to say. I cannot fathom how obesity can be tolerated in our society. It's like the only socially acceptable addiction. We've even outcast smokers. We treat them like lepers. I smoked cigarettes for over ten years, so I know exactly how delicious they are. The nicotine washes over you in an awesome wave, but I also couldn't breathe anymore. I already smoke weed and as one brilliant, non-cigarette-smoking, crackhead put to me so eloquently in rehab, "Why smoke it if it don't get you high?" I was struck by his perspicacity and those brilliant words never left me. I finally quit. Lasted 8 months, relapsed (I get a pass, trust me), and now I'm back on the wagon. Or off the wagon. Whatever, I'm not smoking and it's been two months and two days now and all I smoke is weed (coming soon: "This is the highest I've ever been!"). Allow me to pause while I eat my cookie. Sex . . . Anyway, you can't smoke cigarettes anywhere. People look at smokers and go, "They're disgusting, filthy, addicts". Which they are, but fat people are even grosser. At least with a smoker, you don't have to actually see their blacked out lungs. Out of sight, out of mind. With a fat person, it's in your face: Their cottage cheese asses, their bubbly hips jiggling unabashed, topped with triple chins and the maximum effort they put into walking. . . Human beings are not meant to look that way. You're not supposed to bigger around than you are tall. I shouldn't be able to roll you down a hill. And all fat people say the same thing: "I don't even eat that much, I have a thyroid problem." AHAHAHAHAHA you stupid fat fuck! There's only one way to get that fat, and it's by being a lazy piece of shit and eating too much food. There's no other way. "I don't eat that much." What are we stupid? You're three hundred fucking pounds! I'm 5'9'' 170, you're 5'9'' 300, of course you eat too much! You are like every other addict in denial; rationalizing is what we do. I rationalize my weed dependence by how I'm super busy all day and it's the only way to relax. . .whole lotta bullshit, I just like to get fucked up. And you just like to eat. A lot. Just admit you love filling your chubby fists with processed deliciousness, or stop fucking eating so goddamn much while sitting on your ass all day. You'll lose weight. It's fucking science. If you burn more calories than you take in, you lose weight. I can hear it now, "Timmy are you being so cruel to fat people?" Well a fat person used to rape me. Up my ass. He would make me lift up his stomach and suck his dick, swallowing his. . . . . Just kidding. America is too coddled. The pussification of America is it's own subject. Well, no more. I believe all fat people need a thorough berating. They must be told how disgusting and gluttonous they are. They inconvenience me when I'm on airplanes. Every skinny person knows there's nothing worse than sitting next to a fat person. They spill out over the armrests and onto your arm. I usually rock paper scissors my seatmate for the armrest, but none of those three beat "rolls". But please don't get confused. I don't care whether people are healthy; I only about things that inconvenience me. So either have a heart attack and die, or buy two seats when you fly, you fat fucking fuck.

Face.

We fear change

Yes, we do. I'd like to believe I embrace, even praise change, but the reality is that I fear it just like anyone else. Case in point: The Grocery Store. I do not like being in foreign grocery stores. I like MY grocery store. It feels strange, unnatural, and wrong to be in a different one. The beef is not where it's supposed to be and the Gatorade is on the opposite end. . . it's far too disorienting. I believe all grocery stores should look the same on the inside. Why should they be different? They all sell the same shit. They all have parking lots in front of them. Homogenization seem to be the ultimate goal of humanity anyway, so stop freaking me out with all these differently designed grocery stores goddamnit. . . .

Did you know I have never, ever, once, sought to obtain an onion? For any reason or purpose? I go out of my way to request food without onions. You could eradicate the Earth of onions and I wouldn't miss a beat. I fail to grasp the allure of this mysterious vegetable. The odor is repugnant. The smell permeates throughout the room, dominating all other scents in it's path. The same with garlic. It is an overwhelming aroma that detracts from all that surround it. It oozes out of your pores and makes you stink. If they are supposed to enhance the flavor of the dish, then why is the smell so fucking overpowering? If I can't smell shit else in the room, then why is it not a focal point? Why don't people eat onion and garlic sandwiches? Because it's stupid, that's why. I'll eat you. Shut the fuck up.

Parking

Sometimes, I like to manipulate human behavior. It's so easy; I can't help it. So forgive me when I can't stand people who drive all over a parking lot, looking and waiting for the best spot. Who has that kind of time? It's not like this is rocket science; just pick a spot somewhat close to your desired destination, and park there. It's gonna take you longer to wait till that good spot opens up and by then I'm already in the store. I hate waiting. Nothing makes me feel like more of a bitch than waiting for something. When I find myself in those situations, it means someone else wants the same thing I want, and they're going to have it before me. . . .and that's fucking bullshit. It means I'm not as unique as I think I am. I'm supposed to think of everything before everyone else. "That's pride fucking wit you, man!" Fuck pride. And waiting. Humans LOOOVE to wait. They love it. Everyone will say they don't, but they really do (New York City wouldn't even exist if people didn't really love to wait). At McDonald's, how many times have you seen two registers and one line? I relish those moments. I'll just walk in front up to the first one I see open. Everyone in the original line will initially think, "what the fuck?!?" But then they'll realize they were being stupid and they will create a second line behind me. So now apply this logic to parking: Sometimes, it's easier just to make your own space. Who says you have to park where they tell you? What are they gonna do, put you in parking jail? (They actually tow you; I found out the hard way. Like I say, everyone is a monkey.) Whatever, I don't give a fuck, I'll keep doing it. I will not modify my behavior out of fear for the tow truck. I refuse to drive around a parking lot all fucking day when it's easier to just make my own space. And I won't get caught because someone will park behind me, and that means we're both going down. If I'm going down, I'm taking someone with me. "People". . . more like, "Sheeple". . .

Face.

Retard sex

Do retarded people fuck? Surely retarded dudes get boners, probably quite often I'd imagine. It's probably a great way for a retard to spend his time, jerking off. If I were retarded, that's all I'd do: Jerkoff and slam my helmeted head into the wall. Do retards fuck each other? No doubt they seek pleasure. Like, if you have a retard, can you arrange with someone else's retard to have a retard sex hookup? Is there retard porn? I feel like that would be disturbing. Would it be ok to fuck a retard? I am unsure about the legality of such an act, but what if she was really hot and wanted it? Can a retard even be hot? I can't recall ever seeing one but I bet sex with a hot retard would be animalistic. They are such quite simple and primitive beasts that a hot retard bitch would probably go nuts on your cock. I've never seen a hot retarded bitch before, though. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't sex her down, even if she was hot. Do regular bitches let retarded dudes fuck them? If a bitch lets a dog fuck her, I'm positive she'd let a retard beat it up. I wonder if normal bitches ever have retarded fuck buddies? I bet a retard would destroy it; hammer that shit with their retarded pumps. They can be quite brutish and they probably take the same liberaties with a pussy. I think I wouldn't mind being retarded, so long as I could still bone. Retards live without inhibition. They feel no societal pressure. They get to piss and shit their pants, the whole time laughing their retarded laughs and playing with their poo. . . while somebody else cleans it up. They don't have to work or pay for anything. They can fuck, eat, sleep, bang their retarded helmeted heads into walls, color, play video games, and get fucked up. Being retarded sounds pretty fucking awesome when you look at it that way.

Eric Stoltz better watch out

Every time I see a person with red hair, I get really angry. There's something about seeing a skinny, pale-faced redhead that just really pisses me off. They always have this stupid shit-eating smirk and I get an overwhelming urge to punch them repeatedly in the face. What the fuck are you so happy about? You get burned spending five minutes in the sun. You're like a vampire except you don't have all those awesome powers like superhuman strength and immortality. Eric Stoltz is a supreme example of a redheaded douche bag. He's such a shitfuck and he's always in cool movies, I don't understand it. The guy was in "Pulp Fiction" for god's sake! Eric Stoltz and Pulp Fucking Fiction! Bullshit! "Pulp Fiction" is too cool a movie for redheaded people! He was also in "Rules of Attraction" playing a professor who gets his dick sucked by one of his hot students.

Watching him writhe in ecstacy from the dick sucking he's receiving makes me feel like I'm in bizarro world. What kind of whoreface would suck Eric Stoltz's dick and swallow his redheaded load? I bet his load tasted like fucking Tabasco sauce going down her throat. You have stupid red hair, you're ugly, and you don't deserve to have your dick sucked by anyone. . . except a dude. You better pray you don't run into me, Eric Stoltz, because I WILL punch your smug jerkoff face. Belee dat.

FACE.

Eiffel Tower

Anyone reading this made an "Eiffel Tower"? Yes? Then you are gay and don't know it. I'm sorry, but you are, and I'm here to tell you why. . . .Homo. You engaged in a sex act with another male. By that defintion it makes you gay. "But we're banging chicks, Bro!" I don't want to fucking hear it. If your penis, and another man's penis, were both exposed in the same room, getting sweaty, and pumping on the same chick, then that's gay. If you are banging a girl, raw (awesome), from behind, while she's blowing your buddy, that's gay. If you pump a man's wife while he's in there watching, that's gay. If you are naked, in a room, with a boner, and there's another dude in that room, clothed or otherwise, that's gay. You have a dude watching you pump and you have no qualms about it, there's some serious faggotry going on in your head. My dick is enough for one room, let alone one bitch. My question: Why two dudes? I feel that a threesome with two chicks is far more awesome than a threesome with two dudes. You could have two bitches blow you at the same time. Dick in one mouth, balls in the other. When that option is available, how could one possibly, even remotely, consider tag-teaming a bitch? I would rather concentrate my efforts on two bitches than two dudes. But you say, "Dude it's cool to high five your boy while you're boning!" Guess what Budday? You touched a dude during sex and that's gay. This is really quite simple, I can't believe this is even a topic of discussion. How can you get a boner with a naked fucking dude in the room? What the fuck? How can you focus on the chick when her lips are wrapped around your boy's cock? What happens if you switch? Sloppy seconds are all but assumed. . . . And I would hope that the consensus on double-penetration is that it's indisputably gay. I mean, you're fucking a half-pussy, half-dick for god's sake. You are using the friction from another man's penis to aid in the blowing of your load. I would assert that when any load you blow is male-assisted, that's really gay. I only drop "male-free loads". If you don't want to be gay, then you should too.


*I'm not saying I think there's anything wrong with being gay. If you want to fuck ass, that's awesome. Just don't deny who you are. People who sneak around are afraid of what others think and that means you're an insecure bitch. Don't be a bitch, be awesome.

I want to face-fuck Hannah Montana

Ha ha, YEAH! She has a whoreface and I would sex it. You really wanna grow up so fast? Let me show you how grownups play. . . with a big old load to your 16 year-old face. I'm talking about a huge load. A I-haven't-dropped-a-load-in-a-few-days load. An eight roper load. It'll look like someone squeezed a whole tube of Elmer's glue on your face. I'll shove my dick all the way down your gullet and those collagen-filled lips will serve as a moon bounce for my balls. After I'm done face-fucking you, you can sign my Hannah Montana special-edition lunch box. Welcome to adulthood Hannah Montana, the water's warm.

I like to sweep

I don't know why, but I do. Almost to the point of obsessive compulsion. I see dirt, I must sweep it ASAP. Cleanliness is next to godliness and being god would be cool. I mean, I have about as much chance as being god due to cleanliness as there is a chance there's a real one. I'm not going to debate theology with you. You can't reason with a sheep. And speaking of sheep, why is it always implied that people have sex with them? Is a sheep vagina very similar to a woman's vagina? Or is just because it's tighter than a cow or a horse's? I suppose a pig would be too feisty, but then again, any thing's possible. I saw a dude get fucked to death by a horse on the Internet. This dude took a horse cock the size of my arm and fist up his ass, to the hilt, causing internal bleeding and ultimately his demise. How embarrassing, but that's so fucking stupid his headstone should read:

Here lies Billy Wayne Willam Willams, Jr.

He got fucked to death by a horse.

Sick fuck.

And you could fit your whole arm in a cow's vagine. I can't imagine how that could be pleasurable, what with the lack of friction and all. Perhaps animal fucking is an opportunistic thing. That's how guys end up fucking each other in jail. You're sharing a cell with a dude serving a life sentence you best believe he's gonna try to get his pencil wet with you. There can't be a lot of bitches on a farm. I feel like they'd be hard to find anyway because you're sequestered by acres and acres of land. But since we're on the subject of animal sex, is a woman getting fucked by a dog worse than a guy fucking a sheep? For some reason I feel the dog one is more fucked up. It's probably out of male vanity because how could a dog possibly satisfy a woman? I know it's horrible that a man is raping a sheep, but come on. Those red rockets? In the clip I saw, Buddy knew he was about to get some ass. He hopped right up there and knew exactly where to put it. It's funny, as I type this, my dog is actually staring at me.

"Come here, boy! You want some peanut butter?"

Apricots

There comes a time in every male adolescent's life where he discovers the sheer, unbridled jubilation of dropping his first load. My first load came (pun intended) at the tender age of 12. I was perusing a Club magazine and my dick got so hard it hurt. I was laying on my stomach, grinding into the bed, but that did nothing but irritate it more. Frustrated and in pain, I took my dick out for inspection. I don't know if it was instinct or what, but I grabbed it. This caused my penis to explode, my first ejaculation! I ran to the bathroom unsure of what to do. A little voice in the back of my head told me to do that again, this time with a purpose. I did. It was fucking awesome. I'm not sure why preventing drug use in teenagers is difficult. Just give them some porn. If I had unlimited access to hardcore pornography, I would never have started smoking weed. What would be the point? There's nothing like that feeling of blowing a load. It immediately become a staple in my after-school routine. I would come home and go straight to the bathroom. I would draw a bath because the sound of the water filling the tub would drown out the jerking sounds, but it was a pressure jerk. I had to be finished before the tub filled up and the water turned off. So the best sessions came when no one was at home. I could be totally uninhibited. I would lay out two towels to see how far I could shoot it. If the wind was right, I could clear both of them and hit the wall. I pity the next occupants of that house. Initially, Vaseline was my lube of choice, but I found it only served to make the activity messier than it already was; plus it just wasn't practical. It was oily and next to impossible wash off. I had to use my spankerchief, but a towel full of load and vaseline is disgusting. I began to experiment with various lotions, even soap. Getting soap inside the tip of your penis is a bummer. I quickly abandoned it. Conditioner worked OK, but that was expensive and sure to be missed. A full investigation of our medicine cabinet led me to a tube titled "Apricot Scrub". Much to my chagrin, I was not familiar with what an exfoliate does. I figured it was some kind of apricot lotion and I liked apricots; they were like eating little ears*. I filled my hand generously and began jerking like mad. "OWWWW!" I screamed, as hundreds of crushed up apricot pits ripped into my dick. It was like whacking with sandpaper. It didn't deter me, of course. I immediately washed it off and went searching for an alternative. My inquisitive nature led me to my dad's dresser drawer. I was in forbidden territory, but my gambit paid off. I discovered something tailor-made for whacking: K-Y jelly. I used to hear my dad pumping cause his room was next to mine and hearing the moans freaked me the fuck out when I was 12. I told my dad his quote unquote "TV"was too loud at night. He got me a white-noise projector. Never been able to sleep without one since. But the beautiful thing about K-Y is that giving it water is like giving it steroids. One time during a particularly enthusiastic session I slipped, and hit myself in the nose with my fist. I immediately blew my load.

* Don't forget, I will eat you.

Shit

I have pooping issues. It takes me forever. I need a book, half a roll of toilet paper, and total solace (and more fiber). I'm in there for minimum 20 minutes. My buddy always gives me shit (not literally) about it. His name is, ironically, The Slug. The Slug goes, "Bro! You gotta let the shit just slide out Bro! Loosen up the sphincter!" He's the kind of guy who comes running to show the 14 inch long, totally intact shit he just took. I don't understand how a shit can be so long. An asshole that isn't used to be being dilated for extended amounts of time has to pucker up for air at some point. My argument is in order to be able to take a shit that big, your asshole has got to be loose. Loose like you-regularly-get-pumped-up-the ass-by-a giant-cock loose. That's the only way, in my mind, a shit can take such a form. My asshole is too tight to drop shits like that. I clamp up, it get's all messy, and takes forever to wipe. At summer camp, this was when I was like 14 years old, we're sitting on the front porch of the cabin and my boy Sean says, "Be right back, I gotta go shit." He was gone for literally 60 seconds. I was like, "Dude! That was faster than I can piss! How the hell did you do that?" He goes, "The shit just slides out my asshole." I was blown away; such profundities are not usually uttered by 15 year old adolescents. Especially by ones who used to inhale air-conditioner fluid. . .

I like to sit down to piss

When I first started doing this it made perfect sense; when you wake up at 4 am to take a leak, who wants to get blasted by the bathroom light? If I sat down I could piss in the dark. One time I woke up with a raging hard-on that wasn't going anywhere. So instead of pulling an act of contortion at the toilet, I went outside and let it flow in all it's rainbow arcing glory. There's something so natural about pissing outside. Whenever I feel my testerone levels dipping I just piss outside, makes 'em spike back up with a quickness. When I was done (I swear to god it was over two minutes of uninterrupted flow), I went back inside and proceeded to walk face first into my sliding glass door at full speed. Fuck that hurt. I spent the next three hours with a throbbing head and a boner. But anway yeah, if you sit down to piss at night you don't have to turn the light on.

Black people eat hummus

All sandwiches should have meat. It's that simple. There's only one exception and that is the always delicious peanut butter and jelly sando. Why is it the exception? Protein. Protein makes you awesome. The more protein you eat, the more awesome you are. Peanut butter has a shit ton of protein. The foundation of a meal must have protein in it. A sandwich with no meat makes no sense. The only logical explanation (or excuse as I would say) is that you are a vegetarian. Well vegetarians are pussies. Show me a vegetarian and I will show you a pussy. You cannot get awesome by not eating meat. I understand there are arguments (stupid ones) for vegetarianism and true, it is a personal choice. Yeah, a personal choice to not be awesome. Moral reasons? Now you're a gaping pussy. Cows are here for one purpose and one purpose only: for us to eat. They're just like vegetables except they can move. Apparently the facts state that for every one pound of beef you could make seven pounds of grain. Well, I'll trade my seven pounds of grain for your one pound of beef ten times out of ten, you fucking vegan pussy. What the fuck am I gonna do with seven pounds of grain? What a paradox this is: we must reduce our carbon footprint yet still be able to eat delicious filet mignon. The Earth is one big natural resource and we're obliterating it at a pace that gives me vertigo. A balance must be struck between our god given right to eat animals and the detrimental effects of raising cattle for slaughter on our environment. The first time I witnessed a sandwich being made sans meat, I was quite perplexed. My roommate was making a sandwich that did not include meat. I was confused and distraught. Like an eloquent Italian from New Jersey, this does not make sense.
Me: "Dude, what is that shit you're putting on there?"
Roommate: "Hummus."
Me: "No meat?"
Roommate: " No, just hummus."
Did I mention my roommate was black? This was blowing my fucking mind. Not only was I watching a sandwich being made without the slightest trace of anything resembling meat, I was also witnessing a black man making a hummus sandwich, with a very generous portion of hummus. I have never seen this before. I hate hummus. I've never had it before; I'm not even sure what it is and nor do I care. It kinda sounds Jewish to me (don't worry I love Jews). I don't mean to stereotype but hummus cannot possibly be a common ingredient in most black folks' kitchen. Watermelon, fried chicken, cornbread, sugar water . . . hummus is most unexpected. Almost as unexpected as a sandwich without meat on it and my roommate was not a vegetarian by any means. This only served to compound my confusion further. It has never occurred to me, EVER, to have a meatless meal (insert obligatory gay reference here). An egg salad sandwich would be the closest thing, but that's protein from a bird. Pancake breakfast? Of course, but it is always accompanied by sausage and/or bacon. There are just some things in life that just ain't natural: Black people eating hummus and sandwiches without meat . . . .and vegetarians are pussies.

Baby Huey

After working in the same office with the same people for a few years, you can't help but notice your co-workers idiosyncrasies. We have a guy in our office that literally does nothing all day. He doesn't even have a fucking computer at his desk. Wait, I lied. He actually got one LAST WEEK. I started out as a college intern 8 years ago, and he just got the computer. He makes 140k to read the newspaper and find high school marching bands for games one month out of the year. But this doesn't affect me so I don't care about it. What DOES affect me are people who insist on engaging in small talk in the bathroom. There's this one dude who pisses and shits at least 16 times a day (twice an hour). And after he shits, it's beyond foul. I wish we had a sign we could put up after he shits that says "____ was just here" so I know to avoid the bathroom for the next five hours. He looks like Baby Huey and really needs to see a doctor. I hear the guy trying to piss and it sounds like he's trying deadlift 400 pounds. . . But anyway, when I do venture in there, there's always someone who wants to talk. Why THE FUCK would you want to spend any more other than the absolute minimum amount of time in the bathroom? It is a place of bodily functions. A human waste depository. A place where excrement lives and ass-wiping is taking place. Is there anything so important that it can't wait 30 seconds to discuss? We really have to talk about it over the grunts of a guy pinching off a loaf in a closed environment that, literally, smells like shit?

Co-worker: "So Slumdog Millionaire was an excellent movie, have you seen it yet?"
Guy Shitting: "UNNNHH, AHHHH. . . whew!"
Me: "Oh yeah, it should definitely win best picture."

I'm too polite. . .

The Lemon Party

I used to always say I wanted to punch bloggers in the face because blogging is gay. I don't mean that I want to punch a gay guy in the face. I actually think male homosexual activity is quite amusing. Call me disturbed, but I find the concept of two hairy dudes pumping each other up the ass to be hysterical:

Homo dude 1 (in deep voice): "ARGH YEAH SMACK MY ASS!"
Homo dude 2 (in deeper voice): "OH YEAH I'M SPANKIN IT!"

The defining charateristic of the typical office environment is boredom. You're in the same place, for the same time, doing the same thing, everyday. But nothing brightens a day like tricking a heterosexual male friend into viewing gay porn. Back when AOL instant messenger was big, the trick was to change an innocuous link to something like,"God's Hand Appears in Rock Formation", with a hyperlink to something unbelievably offensive. Thinking they were about to have a laugh at the sake of another pious retard seeking to exploit religion for their personal monetary gain, instead they were forced to look at three naked geriatric men kissing and sucking each other's dicks. Yes, the famous "Lemon Party". Go on, look at it. It's like staring at the fucking sun. You'll get whiplash from turning away your head so quick. What started as something innocent, like a 70 year old man threesome, to stuff more hardcore. Eventually we were inserting hyperlinks to videos of a dude bouncing up and down on another dude's cock with his dick spinning in circles with each bounce to Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)" as the soundtrack. The best part is after about 20 seconds a message reading "You Are Officially Gay" pops up. I can sit here and say I watched it because I'm not gay. I'm a flaming heterosexual. And I also don't give a fuck what anyone thinks. If I were so inclined, trust me I'm not, but if I were, I'd just tell you I'm gonna go give a dude a pump. I'd be like, "Yo, I gotta get my dick sucked by this dude". I'm not going to hide it. You have to deal with my dick sucking activity, not me. We were becoming more and more desensitized to gay porn by the day. The next clip du jour was a dude blowing himself on a couch to the musical stylings of D.V.D.A (which is a porn term for double vagina, double anal penetration). That was hilarious. The game then stepped up to the Pain Olympics, which is a dude chopping off his cock and balls, the famous 2 Girls 1 Cup, to a dude sitting on a pickle jar and then breaking it with his sphincter with blood gushing out. It was at this point I realized we have crossed a line: We were now consistently exposing ourselves to the bowels (no pun intended) of gay porn on a daily basis. Who was actually getting punished? My buddy? Or me for trying to find the grossest gay porn I could find? Needless to say, this game died a grateful death. I'm sure you're thinking, "He said blogging is gay while he is blogging" and yes, you're right. I want to punch myself in the face. But if I got just ONE of you to click on any of the aforementioned links, it's all worth it. I gotta run, I'm gonna go get my dick sucked. By a dude. You faggot.

I will eat you

Seriously, I will. Actually not will, want. I WANT to eat you. You better hope to god that we aren't in an "Alive" situation where our plane crashes in the Andes and people have to eat the dead to survive because I wouldn't wait that long. I'd have started picking motherfuckers off that same day. We're on a mountain in the middle of nowhere? Your ass is getting ate. You better have eyes on the back of your head because I'm following the biggest person around with a knife and fork. . . . But don't think that I'm some sort of Jeffrey Dahmer type because that dude was fucked up; I just wouldn't hesitate if the opportunity arose to taste some delicious, delectable human meat. I wonder what type of person would make the best meal? It can't be a dude who works out every day, I feel he might be a tad gamey. It can't be a fat bitch either cause there's probably all kinds of nasty shit in there, a child seems wrong. . . yes, it would have to be someone who is moderately active. Not too toned, but not too fat either. When I was in college a friend told me about Manbeef.com and it was probably one of the most exciting, yet disappointing days of my life as I soon discovered it was a farce. How dare they dangle the possibility of a delicious human thigh, marinated to perfection, served medium rare. I'm drooling right now. . . I don't want to be cynical, but if someone disappears for three days, they're usually dead. So that's how many days I'll give you when we're stranded out in the woods. Three days then you're getting served. To myself.

There should be more dead people

There should be. With the advent of modern medicine, doctors now save all those idiots who are supposed to die. Fuck 'em. Unless they have something to contribute that makes society better, just let 'em go. Stephen Hawking. Now THAT dude should be kept alive in perpetuity. Even if he was dead he'd still be smarter than 99.99% of the population. Don't bury him, keep him hooked up to that word computer and I bet his decaying corpse would continue explaining the mysteries of the universe. I can't believe they want to abolish abortion. We need more abortions. YOU probably should have been aborted. Healthcare today is so fucking awesome that we can't seem to allow nature to run it's course. The weak and inferior are not allowed to die anymore. There should be more dead people.

Chipotle is my America

Speaking of Mexicans, everytime I have a delicious Chipotle' burrito it makes my asshole burn and spew hot, liquid lava. Whenever it happens I swear never to eat there again, yet something always brings me back. Sort of like no matter how many times we kick Mexicans out of our country, they keep coming back. I am Mexican and Chipotle' is my America.

Chuck Norris' real name is Carlos

Chuck Norris' real name is Carlos. Seriously, look that shit up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chuck_norris. He changed it to Chuck because he didn't want anyone to think he was Mexican. Who could blame him? Karate champions cannot be Mexican. Walker, Texas Ranger, cannot be Mexican. Is it gay to want Carlos Norris to nuzzle my forehead with his grizzly beard and then deliver a fatal roundhouse blow to my chin? That sounds pretty goddamn fucking awesome.