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.