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.