Thursday, April 28, 2011

Me On Us On You: An Exploitative Exploration of Third Party Threesome Narration

You wake up in the middle of the night with the overwhelming sensation of floating.  You are in a warm lake.  Slowly, you open your eyes and try to swim.  As you move your arms you gradually slip out of your dreamlike state and begin to gain awareness of your surroundings.  You still think you are in some sort of warm ocean, but the presence of your bed beneath you makes this seem less and less likely as you slowly wake up.  You move around.  And then it hits you: you have shit yourself in your sleep.  And not just any old Lincoln Log shit, no, this is a runny brown motor oil liquid explosion shit.  “I could swear this shit wasn’t here when i went to bed!” you cry out.  Instinctively, you reach your hand to the scene of the crime to ASSes the situation.  As soon as your hand slides beneath your boxers you realize you have made a terrible miscalculation.  You now have a shit covered hand as well as shitted in boxers.  
    For a moment, your instincts scream, “Just go back to sleep! It will all be ok when you wake up.”  But experience in this sort of thing helps you realize the fallacy of this promise.  With a sigh and a slosh you slide out of bed and walk to the bathroom, your thighs a bit more lubricated than usual as they chaffe together.  You feel the warmth slowly gliding down your leg as you trudge the long road to the bathroom.   At this point, your senses are completely awake and the smell of your midnight delivery seers your nostrils.  Forcing back the urge to vomit you remove your boxers with shaking hands and flop onto the toilet.  Half asleep, you consider your next move.  With some effort, you push, thinking their may be more.  But all that escapes is a weary fart, the last one to leave the party, all the other guests having already spilled into your boxers.  You recall with a wistful sigh the day you bought those pink checkered boxers.  They looked so fresh and proud in their 3 pack cardboard wrapper.  So stiffly starched.  So full of the promise that some day they may be pulled off from around your ankle by your own foot, to end up on the floor as a beautiful woman ravages your body with her mouth.  This thought leads to an image of a beautiful woman ravaging your body in its present condition.  Again, you nearly vomit.  You never imagined your poor pink checkered boxers would end up like this... with a brown badge of shame slowly seeping in and spreading.  They look so defeated; so shitty.  Slowly, you pick yourself up from the toilett and wipe off your shit covered ass.  A tragic case of too little too late.  Looking around, you find your roommates shorts and put them on.  “These should get me through the night” you think to yourself.  In a flash of brilliance you draw a sinkful of warm water and toss in your defeated boxers.  Perhaps they’ll live to fight another day now.  Returning to bed, you console yourself with the thoguht that at least you didn’t shit right on the bed.  
When you awaken the next morning, you realize that you did, in fact, shit...right on the bed.  Boxers could not contain this sort of explosion.  Like the white elephant in a room, the brown stain on your white bedspread stares you in the eye, a shit-eating grin plastered on its face.  You think back to a few days earlier when your friend had thrown some dirty clothes on your bed and you had shouted at him, “Get that shit off my bed!”  How prophetic those words had been...  And yesterday, when your roommate had again left the dishes lying out and you had thought to yourself, “I’m sick of this shit!”  What an understatement....
Will your co-workers guess what happened to you?  Will the stain come out?  What of the stain to your pride? To your confidence in farting in public?  Will you ever push hard to fart again without thoughts of that dreadful 4am swim coming flooding back to haunt you?  Shit like that doesn’t just go away.  Shit like that can bother you for awhile.  It’s not the big shit that brings you down, its the little shit at 4am.

Monday, April 25, 2011

How to: Write

Ever have someone tell you they think you’d be a really good writer? Yes I have. You might be thinking it right now as you read this. You might be wishing you could tell me yourself how good of a writer you are. But you are not, so you can’t. Some tips on how to write more good.
·         Purchase and operate a manual transmission vehicle
·         Practice internalizing your thoughts throughout the day when the loved ones in your life vomit asinine advice on your face. This will give supply you with ample animosity to fuel your writing.
·         Try to consistently operate in a state of high awareness. Something that can easily be obtained from driving a manual transmission vehicle.
·         Let your fingers do the thinking. You don’t have any good ideas.
·         Never ever proof read what you write. Don’t be a pussy.
·         Read as much pornographic literature as you can. If you need an explanation why this is important give up right now, you do not have a high enough level of insight into the human condition to be a writer.
·         Don’t worry about grammar, sentence structure, spelling or any of that gay shit. Stuff like that is for academia solely. Useless propaganda created to filter truth out of writing.
·          
·         Read between the lines.
·         Don’t ever buy into the hype.
·         Read through an entire dictionary and thesaurus while under the influence of a nearly lethal dose of OTC cough medicine.
·         Stop listening to shitty music and get with the program.
·         Enroll at whatever the nearest institute of higher education is to you right now. Major in Philosophy, switch to English, half way through, take a year off to find yourself, then go back and get a degree in radiography because you need money fast to pay off the massive debt you accrued from being a jack ass for the past year.
The list above will give you a good start on your road to poverty and failure as a writer. You can. You can achieve this. You will show them. You know what you are talking about. The road to success is paved by the bodies of the incompetent.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

The Moment You’ve Been Waiting For


Its an important time in every young man’s life.  You wait years for this moment.  Hours of hard work you could have easily (easily) spent jerking off to pictures in last month’s Home & Garden will finally pay off.  In preparation for the big moment, here are a few things to consider.  Firstly, as the day approaches, you will likely begin to think obsessively about how you will look as the moment happens.  Whatever you do, don’t be caught wearing brown plaid!  Nothing screams “I have a radioactive penis and even my armpits have pimples!” like a brown plaid outfit.  Second, brace yourself for the inevitable swelling by adhering to a strict regimen of ice and heat in the preceding weeks.  Do NOT skimp on this. Thirdly, even though lots of people will say to you, “If you do today what you did yesterday, then soon tomorrow’s yesterdays will be today”  DO NOT believe them.  It is true on the surface, but a quick analysis of the data proves these commonly held beliefs to be slightly inaccurate, typically at a rate of .24 days/hour.  Fourthly, you will face near-overwhelming desires to run down to the nearest poor neighborhood and buy grape drink.  Give in to this desire, and give in fast, and hard and often.  Nothing stokes a young man’s fire like grape drink.  Fifthly, four words for you before you go: Don’t fake the funk.  Sixthly, If you have to pawn your flat screen tv to pay for the celebration party YOU”RE PROBABLY HAVING 2 BIG OF A CELEBRATION PARTY YOU DUMMY.  At an absolute maximum you should pawn no more than $800 in home electronics to offset the costs of your Celebration Party.  This is a big event in any young man’s life, granted, but come on.  i mean, come on.  Seventhly, under no circumstances should you invite the girl who laughed at you when you farted while she went down on you in the gym locker room.  This would only bring up painful memories during what should be a time of Joy and Celebration Party.  Eightly, if you find yourself sweating allot, wipe it off with a towel before the commemorative photo is taken.  This is the photo your future nieces and nephews will base their entire conception of your worth as a human on, so at least dab your brow you swine.  Ninely, if you are still reading this, you have proven your dedication to making this the seminal moment of your young adult life.  Congratulations.  You may now begin preparing for this upcoming moment fully armed with the knowledge and wherewithal to at least maybe not fuck it up.

But enough about that.  Have you ever thought about what would happen if somehow the Italian population began to exceed the Asian population in san francisco’s China Town?

Friday, April 22, 2011

How To Drive A Manual Transmission Successfully

I recently purchased and began to drive a manual transmission car. A 96 Toyota corolla, found on craigslist for two thousand and two hundred dollars. Complete with DIY window tint and a leaky oil pan. This stick shift has entirely transformed my internal state. I have been forced into consistently being accountable
More pertinent is why does this cake tastes like it has been sprayed with some high powered disinfectant? Not a cake disinfectant. But a diner counter disinfectant. A fucking stick shift man would not take this. He would take this cake back to diner attendant who sold it to him and demand a refund.
Try serving this to a HDH customer. See what appends. Well tell you to stick it in your fucking shit ass. Take it home and feed it to your shit eating neighbor. Fucking suck a fat cock in your mouth. Fucking ass cunt. Serve me this cake. Ill fucking eat your shit.
You think the guy from vampire weekend has to deal with this shit? He doesn’t even drive a manual. He fucking cant. No fucking way does he know how, I don’t even think he knows how to drive. That mother fucker made this cake. I knew it. With his fucking shitcake band.
Point being when you start driving a stick your entire outlook on life changes. You are now extremely “on point” while driving. You must be aware. Do you want to stall out at red light like an ass? You better not? You know what happens to white boys like you when you get it? They give you a fucking welcome package of used Trojans, KY lubejelley, and a tube a of cocksuckingred lipstick, if you’re lucky! So keep that shit up and see.
When you drive stick this high level of awareness transcends outside of your life on the road. You carry it into every waking moment of your life. Senses become heightened. Your level of cool drops below a drunken prom boy getting his cock sucked from the girl’s 2nd string winter track team coach in the back of his best friends limo rented out by his parents. No one will ever know. And you’ll never forget. One day you’ll let it out. Let your young cock out to be manhandled by every German woman with minimum body dimensions of 1.83m X 104kg.
The effect of driving a stick permeates into every area of your life. You need to do more when you’re not driving. Sitting still listen to some old alcoholic talk about his escapades selling his ass to Peruvian perverts when he was 5 in order to buy a plane ticket back to the Bronx where is booming cocaine blowjob business was now really beginning to get off the ground just doesn’t do it anymore. You need to write books about the subtleties of putting it from zero to first on a slight incline turning left with 10 Florida natives sitting behind you just waiting to blow their collective horn at the first sign of hesitation.
Driving a manual transmission version of any car makes you an all around better person.