Math Hates You 2

Me at the Blah Blah Blahg like to occasionally highlight a member of the community who has something to say. Me’d like to report that Todd, our last guest blahgger, is doing, um, well he hasn’t killed himself, yet, and he apologized for the vulgarity in his post. Me told him not to sweat it, that although it was quite awkward and inappropriate, it was no big thing. This week me present to you a special guest columnist, a friend of mine and a friend to us all. Please join me in welcoming Math!

Yeah, Well I Hate You Too

By: Mathematics

Hello, you fucks. This is Mathematics. But you all call me “Math”, since most of you can’t say  4-syllable words. Yeah, I’m the one everyone hates. Need proof? You seriously need proof? Here’s your fucking proof!: 

“If I have to divide one more Goddamn thing Imma kill a bitch.”

-Kyle Hansen, age 8, Eli, MN

“Anytime I hear ‘Pythagorean Theorem’ I like to imagine a python strangling Ms. Lindy.”

            -Makayla Watkins (age 13) in a txt message sent during math class, Nashville, TN

“Happy Easter, everyone! I want to let you all know that after I survive this year’s tax dealine I will be ending my life. Can you please pass the ham?”

            -Manuel Torres, 43-year-old accountant, Rochester, NY

“You slut! I have never loved you and if you keep making me do math you’re gonna find glass in your coffee.”

–Tyler Redding (age 6) to his mother at breakfast, St. Louis, MO

“How much is 20% of that? Fuck Math! Screw it. I’ll just give her 10%. She wasn’t that good, right?”

-Nearly every sloutch who has ever eaten out (and for the record, she was 30% good, 

            you lazy pricks)

How do I know people said this? Because I’m like Santa Claus, bitch. I hear everything! I see you when you’re sleeping (and it takes every fiber of my being not to slit your throats). I know when you’re awake. I know if you’ve been bad or good so be good for fuck’s sake, you whiney little cunts.

You’re damn right I’m angry. Why the hell wouldn’t I be? Here are a few scenarios that I have to deal with. Every time I see my doctor it’s, “Turn your head and cough. Whoops! Forgot the lubricant.” When I walk outside it’s, “Do you have some spare cha— Get the fuck off my sidewalk!” And every time I go to a liquor store to pick up my medicine it’s, “Hey you! Get the fuck outta my store, ya piece o’ shit!” 

I’ll be the first to admit that at some point in high school I become utterly useless. That happens with every old person. But there's not a single being besides myself that can say they’ve been involved in the production of nearly every man-made thing on this planet.

Without me, you wouldn’t be able to know how strong that mint shit is, the candy booze you’ve been sneaking into your coffee at work. Without me you wouldn’t be able to describe to your friends what size tits/cock that chick/boy you plowed has. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be able to read this stupid fucking blog!

Oh, I’m sorry! It’s apparently spelled “blahg.” I wasn’t aware that Brad needs to go fuck himself!

See, now that shit's funny. 

I’m sick of it, people. “Did you know you can write "BOOBS" on your calc by typing in 80085?” Fuck you. “So, when do I carry the one?” How are you still breathing? “Where do you put the apostrophe when the word ends with ‘s’?” Wrong fucking subject, ASSHOLE! 

Breathe. Breathe.

I Wonder what Wendy has been up to? 

Oh, just writing NYTimes bestsellers about me. 

Boom and boom. 

Ahhh, much better. 

Look, I’m not gonna bite. I’m not gonna steal your husband or bang your dog. And I’ve been shooting blanks for over 5,000 years so I can’t exactly knock up your daughter. I may not like you, you may not like me, but I'm here to help. The greatest lie anyone ever told to you wasn’t that you’re attractive, it’s that “Math is hard.” So forget that and let’s do this shit!

Not when you're my age.

Now if you don't mind, Imma go carry the onie (if you know what I’m saying),

-Mathematics

And for the record, take the total of the bill, move the decimal one place to the left and double that amount. There’s your 20-fucking-percent.






Alright! Thank you, Mathematics? Well folks, I really didn't see that one coming so I apologize for any offense it caused. Stay tuned for another guest blahg entry in the future. Hopefully, um, it's something for the whole family to enjoy! 




Did this blahg make you reconsider your sexuality? Wow, that's never happened before. You're welcome? On another note, if you enjoyed it, pass it along to a friend. And you can catch the Blahg's first guest guest column here.

My Almost-Post Post

Ten dollars an hour to sit still was probably the best job I ever had. Sure, people were watching me, and sketching me out, and oh yeah, I was naked. But it was easy money.

Yes friends, I did some nude modeling back in college.

Now I’m not going to play like I have the most glorious body on the face of the earth. Probably the second most glorious body. But in seriousness, the third most glorious body. I was less shapely as I am now, standing around 160 pounds on the scale. I had less of a gut and definitely less fur (does it ever stop growing!?!?!?).

A friend of mine in the art department suggested I give it a shot. I had never really thought of it before, but figured (get it?) it’d be a good way to get over a fear of being naked, a symptom of being self-conscious about my body.  Let’s be honest, fatty, if you grow up in America while being able to see and/or hear, you’ve probably had body-image issues at one point in time.

       

                                 

So I figured (get it?), what the hell. An email landed in my inbox a week or so after I signed up. The director of the program wanted to meet with me. I envisioned her to be quite attractive. She would ask me to disrobe while giving in to her compulsive lip-licking problem, saying something like, “Let’s see what we’re working with here,” and then of course we would bang. I’m thankful the “interview” went a little differently because she wasn’t as beautiful as I had imagined the night before. But she didn’t even want to see me naked? What kind of crap-ass porn shoot is this?

She told me to show up in the art building next Thursday night at 5:50. The session would last two hours and I’d get a brief break in between poses. Twenty bones for waving mine around? Done.

I walked in and was delighted to see a group of around five people. I was nervous but seeing a familiar face, one of my professors, made me even more nervous. He was “teaching” Drawing II, and much like a lot of the art professors at my university, he was good at art, but sucked at teaching.

He liked it silent in the class while we drawed stuff, but didn’t have the guts to tell someone to be quiet. I, not one to be silent, talked with my best friend through the entire semester, while others drawed stuff in silence. We gradually found out that my fellow students despised me for being chatty, jovial, myself, but not a single person said a single word. Ahhh, Minnesota nice. 

Gov. Ventura: "You haven't hunted until you've hunted man."

But I undress —digress! I digress. The first session went well. The poses weren’t too difficult. I didn’t have to hold any fruit or my fruit or stick fruit near my fruit. Fruit. My professor approached me after the session and expressed his surprise that I could sit still that long. I smiled.

The second session was different. It was in a different, brighter room, and there were a few more people. And something else happened: it moved.

Posing technique: you find a position that’s bearable, your eyes lock onto a spot on the wall, you stare at that spot, remain perfectly still, and get lost in your thoughts. If you’re anything like me your thoughts tend to gravitate to women, their bodies, what you’d like to do with those women and to their bodies, writhing, grinding, thrusting, sounds of heavy breathing, sounds of pleasure, the sound of the refrigerator opening, sounds of making and eating a sandwich. You know, the usual thoughts that plague my kind.

What do you mean by “my kind”?

Oh hey random person who often pops into my blahg! “My kind” are the people that—

Who are you talking about when you say “the people”?

I’m racist. Is that what you want me to say?

Yes.

Alright, I’m racist. Can I move on to the rest of the story?

Say it one more time, please.

I’m racist.

Clearly.

Anyway, I’m sitting there, perfectly still except for my penis. For those of you reading this that don’t have a penis, know that it is incredibly hard to stop it from growing once it starts.

“Are you fucking kidding me? This can’t be happening. Not now. No. NO! NO NO NO NO NO! Think of a chair. Chairs. No. Don’t do that. Don’t think of naked women sitting on chairs. Think of just chairs. There we go, chairs. Don’t think of sitting on naked women. Why would you even think of that? That’s ridiculous. Chairs! Hair. Hair down there. No! Think of stone. Stone, yeah, stone. Rocks. Rock hard —NO! Stop being stupid. Oh no, not the stupid woman you met at the bar last night. Don’t think of her naked. No. Bad idea. Bad bad bad idea. Naughty! You deserve to be punished! Nooo! “No” means no. STOP IT!”

Thankfully, I did stop it from reaching a full on, rock hard, sitting-on-naked-women erection. But I admit that I was flying at half-staff, enough that the trained eye would notice a difference.

The thing that you should know about artists is that they’ve been training their eyes for their entire lives. The room that day was filled with trained eyes, all looking at naked me and my me-ness gaining girth and length. 

I was never asked to come back. No calls. No emails. They used me for my body and didn't have the common decency to even call me a cab. My perfect job had come to an end and though I was never told why, it’s easy to imagine the reason.

I was too fat.






Did you enjoy this blahg post about my almost post? Well doesn't that make me feel all warm and —DON'T THINK OF THAT! But hey, do pass this along to all your friends and family that may get a kick out of it. 

Beast Have Mercy

As I've mentioned before, when I smoke marijuana I change. A being takes over-–one that I am virtually powerless to—and starts pulling the strings, ordering me to pillage and consume anything with calories. And I don’t use the term “pillage” lightly. Follow me.

I want you to close your eyes.

Now open them to read the rest of this blahg.

Open? Good. Imagine a party. It’s several months ago and I’m there with a slew of friends. Many people are laughing. Everyone is having a good time. Marijuana is introduced.

“Hello Marijuana, I’m Brad. Lovely to see you again. You look scared. You’re being chased? Maybe you should hide out in my lungs for a while. But not too long, otherwise I’ll start coughing and give us both away.”

“Oh Marijuana, you’re so funny! You make me feel like a kid again. I feel like I’m sinking, like this chair is swallowing me. I can’t stop licking my lips. My hips are numb. Remember, Marijuana, the time we hung out and I… completely forgot what I was going to say! Oh, Marijuana, how you distract me so!”

I died a little when it was canceled.

Fast forward. But not the DVD 10x fast forward. I’m talking VHS fast forwarding. (Whistling). Dum, duh-dum. Almost there. Wait, did I go too far? Nope, here it is.

“So one testicle decides to—“

Whoops! That’s not it. Didn’t go far enough. Here it is!

“Hey, Brad. This is Beast. You need to go into the kitchen right now otherwise babies will die.”

“Babies?!”

“Yes, Brad. Babies.”

“Yes, of course I will go!”

"Marijuana is not a drug. I used to suck dick for cookies. 

Now that's an addiction. You ever suck some dick for marijuana?"

“O.K.,” Beast says as I enter the kitchen. “I lied about the babies. But since you’re here, you should eat something. You look famished.”

“I am quite hungry.”

“Yes,” Beast says. “You are hungry. And you should eat.”

Creamy seven layer dip? Yes. Baked ham? Of course. A slice of baked ham placed on a cracker with a dollop of Ranch salad dressing topped off with another slice of ham and cracker to make a divine miniature sandwich? Oh, you are good!

“Beast, I’m sleepy. I think we should go to bed.”

“Are you sure? I’m fairly certain there’s more food in here somewhere.”

“Yes, Beast. I am sure. I’m powering down.”

I strip down to my boxer shorts as if my clothes are suffocating me. I crawl into one of the beds in one of the rooms of the apartment where said party is winding down. I am fading into dreams when Beast hears three words out of the mess of chatter. 

“Blah blah blah carrot cake blah blah blah fridge.”

“Brad! We need to go into the kitchen or else all the babies, even the dumb babies and the ugly babies, will die right now! There are puppies, too! Babies and puppies! Get up! Get up! You need to save them!” 

“Of course, Beast! I will be the saver of the babies and puppies,” I say as I climb out of bed. “But let me put some pants on.”

“There’s no time, Brad! The babies! The puppies!”

“You’re right,” I say while making a beeline to the kitchen.

“Alright, I’m here! Where are the babies and puppies?”

“I lied again,” Beast says. “But there’s some carrot cake in the fridge and you should eat it because you really, really love carrot cake and pssssst, you’re still hungry.”

“You’re right, I am. You’re so smart, Beast.”

So there I stand, wearing only boxer shorts, eating carrot cake that’s not mine. Two friends enter the kitchen to watch the spectacle. They are two of the most beautiful human beings I know and both are giggling at me. Soup is the host of the party. She’s an amazing cook with an amazing heart, but has been known to accuse her coworkers of stealing her soup when she actually forgot it in her car. B’Dazzle is a lady of the cloth and will be the source of my bankruptcy as I try everything known to man to get her to like me sexually, or men in general.  I am facing them as they watch me engulf the delicious conundrum (who would’ve thought that vegetable + cake = glory?).

My good friend, HotMom72, comes in the kitchen, loops around behind me, and with one swift motion pulls my boxers down to my ankles. He bobs and weaves through the laughter and ducks out of the kitchen.

“That’s my cue,” B’Dazzle says, admitting that the party is over the second she sees a penis. Both her and Soup make an exit.

“Maybe I should pull my boxers up, Beast,” I say while standing completely naked in the kitchen.

“But think about the babies, Brad.”

“There are no babies, Beast.”

“Shut up and eat!”

I ignore any embarrassment and obey. HotMom72 swings back into the kitchen, thinking that by now I have embraced the shame of man and covered myself. Man is he wrong! 

“Jesus,” he says while turning and walking straight back out of the kitchen.

The party is over. My boxers eventually find themselves around my waist, the carrot cake (or what was left of it) finds its way back into the fridge, and I catch a ride to passed outville. 

In the morning I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rub my bulging stomach, and pray. “Beast have mercy on me.” 




Did you enjoy this entry? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you over all the chewing. Well, if you did don't miss the Beast's latest chronicle of gnawnia. And if you missed the his debut, you can read more about it here. 

Bar Character #1: Pilfer

Sometimes you go to bars. Most times you drink at these bars. And if you’re lucky you run across characters, people who color this world so interesting with their oddities that you need to share your interactions with them with as many people as possible to prevent the story of gold from burning a hole in your soul. This is one of those stories. 

Bar Character #1 is a gentleman (pause) that my good friend, let’s continue to call him HotMom72, and I ran into about a month ago. We were watching the Minnesota Vikings play the Green Bay Packers at the Rocky Flats Lounge, located in the outskirts of Boulder, CO.

First: The Rocky. It’s a Packer bar, a place of worship for those who eat, sleep, dream, and shit green and gold. It’s a house-converted bar, a great hole in the wall, dive style right out of small-town Midwest. Anyone who grew up in the heartland will instantly be transported right back. It is not classy. It is not incredibly clean. It barely allows for two men to use the bathroom at the same time, and when this occurs it can get quite awkward, as the door to the stall cannot open unless the person using the urinal moves out of the way. But it’s a piece of home and the people there are way more friendly because they’re just plain happy to be in a place similar to where they donated brain cells in the prime of their adolescence.

I will call Bar Character #1 “Pilfer” and you’ll soon see why. Pilfer looks to be in his 40s. He’s a fan of the Vikings, like me, but he is not wearing any purple. I know he’s on my side because he has come to this discovery multiple times during the snippets of our conversations, multiple times because he is hammered. It’s not an incoming-freshman hammered. More of a seasoned-drunk hammered: you can’t really notice unless it’s a commercial break and he’s trying to talk to you. Nonetheless, Pilfer is lit.

The clock is nibbling into the fourth quarter and the Vikes are down by 13. They’re eating up the field in a possible comeback so nearly everyone is on the edge of their seats, even though the defending champion Packers are undefeated and the Vikings have one win and five losses. Pilfer sits in an open spot at our table of four. We pay him no mind because the television has us by the eyeballs, not to mention we’re both a wee bit messed up. He’s giving us the drunk stare and before the drool comes over his bottom lip, we start talking with him. Two minutes later I get a text from HotMom72 that says, “He’s too drunk to know what we are talking about.” And it’s true. He’s completely unable to follow a sentence from start to finish. In the middle of our “conversation,” he points at our pitcher of beer, which is 3/4 full and rests in the middle of the table.

“Can I have some of that,” he asks and while we recoil from the stranger’s strange request, he brushes the question aside, urging us to not even ponder it with a wave of his hand. “What a stupid question,” he appeared to be saying to himself. “Why would I ask two complete strangers, who I’ve said a total of 27 slurred words to, for a sip of their golden nectar?” This is not how his thoughts were flowing. They probably went something like, “Beer! Their beer. My beer?! No. No. Vikings.”

HotMom72 and I both thought the question was extremely odd. I nearly thanked him aloud for withdrawing it because I hate to tell drunk men “No.” The commercial break ended and we were suddenly sucked back into the game.

About three minutes later I see him, out of the corner of my eye, reach across the table, grab our pitcher with both hands and take a quick sip.

(so hot she makes me want to shoplift)

Did that just happen? Or am I more fucked than I thought I was? A quick glance to HotMom gives me the answer.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask Pilfer with anger in my eyes. “Really? Really dude?”

“What’s yer problem,” Pilfer asks smugly. 

“What? What’s my— What?!?” HotMom and I are floored. Flabbergasted. Before we can count how many bar-etiquette offenses he’s committed, I continue.

“What the fuck, man? Are you an alcoholic? Do you need alcohol so much that you have to steal it?”

“Yeah,” he says with blatant arrogance.

I take him for his word and decide to feel sorry for him instead of eating his face. But I’m furious. I feel violated. Dirty. And this is so not the good dirty I feel whenever I see a cute pregnant woman. It’s a bad dirty that makes me look at him with disgust. It’s a dirty that decides for me that I’m not drinking anymore of that beer or any beer.

His friend was walking to our table when he saw Pilfer pilfer our beer. Friend sits at the table while I’m hammering Pilfer and interjects with the age old, “I’ll buy you a drink if you don’t kill my friend or me.” We refuse his offer purely on principal. Money can’t rectify this grave offense. But we shy away from killing the pompous lush and his sidekick. Friend insists on buying us something, anything. We still refuse. It’s time to sober up, right quick. If a fight is gonna happen, we need to be sharp.

Pilfer gets up and, to our delight, heads outside.

“What’s his deal?” I ask friend, still fuming. Friend says he has no idea what Pilfer was thinking. “He’s been drinking all day. He’s super drunk. I’m really sorry. Probably thought he was among friends.” He still tries to buy us drinks but we say no.

I start laughing to purge the tension and anger from me and we get chatty with friend. Pilfer’s back about 5 minutes later, completely blank to the atrocity he has committed. HotMom and I start messing with him, dancing his sluggish mind in a circle with our wizardry of words and sarcasm. I’m watching him with amusement as he fumbles with a cigarette. He has it in his left hand and brings it to his mouth, but hits it with his right hand, launching it behind him. He’s clueless as to where it’s gone and pity pushes me to point it out.

He gets up to go outside again. I take a deep breath as he walks toward the door and turn back to the game. Then I feel someone’s arm around my upper back, like a side hug. What the hell, my mind is whispers as I look over my shoulder. It’s Pilfer, with both his arms around HotMom and me. What the fuck! He steps back in the nick of time, avoiding a meteor of my most malicious language, and walks outside.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” I ask HotMom who’s as befuddled as me.

“I don’t know, man,” he says while laughing.

HotMom tells me later that Pilfer wasn’t just embracing us, like we were his best, most supportive friends. He was actually catching himself from a nosedive. He stumbled and we were his closest supports.

Some time passes and Pilfer returns after his cigarette. A brat he ordered appears in front of him and he’s delighted. His first bite, according to HotMom, was hilarious. Instead of shifting the brat perpendicular to his mouth, or the “blowjob angle”, he kept it parallel to his mouth, for a side bite. And when he bit down, the majority of the Sauerkraut fell onto the dirty table. He didn’t notice, of course, and without looking he put the side-bitten brat down onto the cardboard boat it was delivered in, missing the center of said boat, causing it to tilt up and spill the rest of the brat onto the dirty table. Pilfer didn’t notice. He stood and wobbled his way out of the room. He didn’t come back to finish his brat. He didn’t come back for the finish of the game and we didn’t see him during our exit. For all we know he was finishing the adult beverages of every unsuspecting fan of alcohol and asking, “What’s yer problem?”

Bar characters can be a treat or a menace. Or both. Pilfer was both and I am happy that every single interaction with him happened. Because I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard at someone. 

Nickelback The Fuck Up!

(my first-ever demotivational poster, inspired by 
a conversation with friends)

"What's the worst band you can think of?" Thank you for asking, middle-aged man at the porn shop I would rather not talk to. Did you not see my nonverbals? My face that was trying to tell you "I'd rather die than speak to anyone right now"? Apparently not. But since you asked, sir, let me put down this stack of "Big Bush Monthly" so I can gesture wildly during my answer. 

Nickelback. Nickelback is by far the worst successful band on the planet. I'm not alone in this assessment. Many folks I have talked with, at porn shops and beyond, have agreed with me. 

"But Billboard Magazine said they were the "Band of the Decade" in 2010?" 


For a guy that clearly has an anal bead fetish, you know a hellova lot about Nickelback. 

"I wouldn't consider it a fetish. It's more of a hobby." 


Whatever. Could you at least stop sucking on them while I talk with you? Thank you.

Nickelback has done a really good job at selling records, at somehow convincing people that their music is not only worth a 10-second listen, an entire-song listen, but a repeated listen of an entire album after dropping $11.99. If it were up to me, they'd get rocks thrown at them at a concert in Portugal and quit after the second song. 

"That actually happened already." 

Seriously, dude! Take 'em out of your mouth. That really happened?


"Yeah. Pretty sure it's on YouTube." 

So, friends, and my sex addiction therapist, imagine my delight when I saw an article on ESPN about how fans of the Detroit Lions are asking someone, anyone to remove Nickelback from the halftime show at their Thanksgiving Day contest against the Green Bay Packers.

"This game is nationally televised," reads the Change.org petition written by a Michigan native and ticket holder to the game. "Do we really want the rest of the US to associate Detroit with Nickelback? Detroit is home to so many great musicians and they choose Nickelback?!?!?!" 


Go on. I'm listening.

"This is completely unfair to those of us who purchased tickets to the game. At least the people watching at home can mute their TVs." 

Boom! I told you, sir. Sir? SIR?! Someone call an ambulance! I think he's choking!

Detroit finally has a solid football team. They're 6-2, in second place in their division, this is the biggest game of their season against the division rival Packers who are in first place, and they pick Nickelback to play halftime? Muy mal.


Dear Detroit, 

We realize times are tough for you and have been for a very long time. Poverty, crime, and unemployment are all through the roof. And now that you have a morale boost brought on by your Lions, we're going to make your head vomit your brain out your ears with Nickelback's "Rock and Roll." But we're hoping that the ratings will be through the roof!


Sincerely, 


The "Shit On You When You're Down" Committee

                                                     -"Dude, got a great idea for the poster, dude. How
                                                             about we put the "B" backwards. You know,
                                                             emphysema the 'back' in our name."  
                                                     -"Dude. That's awesome!" 




"Why exactly do you dislike about Nickelback?" 


What?! You were just choking on some anal beads.

"I'm like a cockroach —emphasis on "cock". I never die."

My aren't you clever. And why am I still talking to you? It's embarrassing enough having to come in here to feed an addiction, but now I have to converse with other addicts? 

"You could always talk to the blowup dolls." 

And moving on! "What do I dislike about Nickelback?" ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! Two words: music & lyrics. 

Let's take their music first. Tis cookie-cutter crap. Take a good band, the best band: The Beatles. What makes them the best is that they first created some awesome pop rock. But THEN THEY GREW. And I'm not talking about the sudden growth in your pants when a woman has hers around her feet. 

I'm talking "grew" in the spiritual/intelectual/musical sense. They didn't just stick with the "Hard Days Night" format to paint record after record gold. They grew. They took chances. They experimented.

"You mean like "girl on girl" experimentation?" 

Dude, shut up. I'm trying to make a point. 

"Sorry." 

(So hot they turn the sky red)

The Beatles pushed the boundaries and made "ahead of their time" music. That's why they're the best, and why Nickelback is trash. 

Moving right along: their lyrics. 

From their moronically popular song, "Figured You Out":

I like your pants around your feet / I like the dirt that's on your knees / And I like the way you still say please / When you're looking up at me / You're like my favorite damn disease

And I love the places that we go / And I love the people that you know / And I love the way you can't say no / Too many long lines in a row / I love the powder on your nose.

"I love that song! What's so bad about it?" 


Put it back in your pants, man. Let me build my case first. 


"I don't have it out of my pants. Oh shit. Yes I do. My bad." 

 

"Hmmm, how can I work "pussy" into the refrain?"

And then there's this lyrical gold that lead singer Chad Kroeger showers onto his fans. Tis from their song "Something In Your Mouth":

You're ripping up the dance floor honey 
(you naughty woman) 
You shake your ass around for everyone 
(you're such a mover) 
I love the way you dance with everybody 
(the way you swing) 
And tease them all by sucking on your thumb 

You're so much cooler when you never pull it out
Cause you look so much cuter with something in your mouth

"I fucking love that song! Great guitar riff." 


You're an idiot. 


"So what's your problem with the lyrics?" 

They're degrading to women. They objectify women. It fortifies a belief that women are only good for pleasuring the eyes and dicks of men. It teaches young men that this behavior is not only appropriate, but awesome! It is neither. It's terrible and what's worse is that people buy it. Now if you'll excuse me, these magazines aren't going to buy itself. 

HOLY SHIT! "ANAL INTRUDERS, PART FUCK?!?! I love that movie! Great cinematography. 


If you enjoyed this blahg post then help end eardrum oppression by signing said petition. Not sure if it'll help anything, but what's the harm in adding your name? A Change.org petition that gained over 306,000 signatures caused Bank Of America to reverse their decision to charge their customers $5 / month for using their debit cards. And then there's the 14,000 signatures a California man received on his Change.org petition that caused Bank Of America to halt the repossession of his home. How neat is that? 

That's pretty neat! 

Txts to an Asshole 2

So yeah, I fuck with random people who txt me. So sue me. P.S. Please don't sue me. I can't even afford jelly that includes real strawberry bits. P.P.S. It's some coagulated bullshit they call "spread." P.P.P.S. Here's the latest installment of my reoccurring, "Txts to an Asshole." P.P.P.P.S If you'd like to read the other "Txts to an Asshole," take a long, hard

look into the mirror, you sick fuck. Then click long and hard and remember, only highbrow humor here, folks ;). 


Them on 11/1/2011 7:39pm: Hey
Me @ 7:47: what's shaking? 
Them @ 7:48: Nothing just chilling being bored looked for something to do
Me @ 7:52: Well you can start with my laundry
Them @ 7:54: Sike....What do I get in return
Me @ 8:03: You have 3 options of what you get in return: 
Them @ 8:04: What's that ?
Me @ 8:04: hepatitis a, b, or c
                  Or all of them. I kinda lost track of which ones I have
Them @ 8:16: I have xyz already help me fill the alphabet
Me @ 8:16: Well here's your chance. Do my fucking laundry!
Them @ 8:24: Alright be right there.
Me @ 8:26: Cool. It's in my hamper above my other hamper. Next to the other hamper. Hope you're not busy for the next couple of days. 
Them @ 8:28: I just throw them in a washer at the mat and come back in 30
Me @ 8:33: As long as you dry them by hand


The next day...


Me on 11/2 @ 4:51pm: Ahhh, hello? Came home last night and guess what wasn't done. My laundry! It wasn't even there. Where the hell did you put it?
Them @ 4:53: I didn't do anything with yo Iaundry I don't even know where you live
Me @ 4:53: So you lied to me!?!?!
Them @ 4:53: How did I lie ?
Me @ 5:03: You said you were gonna do my laundry and then my laundry is gone. I NEED SOCKS AND NOW I NEED TO GO BUY SOCKS THAT I CAN'T EVEN AFFORD!!!

(The missing socks in question look like this)

Them @ 5:04: Well I'm sorry I never got my hepatitis a, b, or c
Me @ 5:06: Well you have yourself to thank on that one. What the hell, man. Is this your thing? You just go around and lie to people? Lead em on and tell em yo gonna do their laundry? 
Them @ 5:07: No
Me @ 5:08:  I don't know if I can trust that answer. You clearly have a track record for lying.
Them @ 5:10: Okay
Me @ *****1:51am*****: Seriously, man! I can't sleep right now bcuz all I can think about is how I have no, absolutely no socks to wear tomorrow. And it's all thanks to YOU!!!
Them @ 8:36am: Wtf is all this bull shit about your laundry. I don't even do my own laundry
Me @ 1:16pm: So lemme get this straight: you said you'd do my laundry. My laundry disappears. And now ur trying to tell me you don't even do your own laundry? Bullocks! 
Me @ 1:19: Meanwhile I'm in sandals. There's snow on the ground, and I'm in sandals. It's November, and I'm in sandals. You're the culprit, here. 
Me @ 1:20: You owe me some socks. Plain and simple. 


No response?!?


Did u enjoy this blahg post? Then do me a favor n slap ur mouth. Really hard. Bcuz laughter = satan. But if u'd like 2 pass it along 2 some friends, maybe via Facebook & Twitter, so that ur friends can get a good dose of satan, by all means pass it along! 

Fuck you, Match.com!

Dear *************,

Thank you for submitting your profile to Match.com.

Unfortunately, we have rejected the profile submission due to the inclusion of language we deem inappropriate for our member community. If you are serious in your attempt to find a mutual match on our site, please revise your profile text and resubmit it following the instructions listed below…

An excerpt from the generic email I’ve gotten far too many times. It comes in my inbox because Match.com users can’t handle certain words. Some of them are minors and shouldn’t rea—WAIT, that’s complete bullshit. Everyone is of legal banging age. They all have credit cards. So you think they'd be able to handle phrases like “cum bubble”.

When I spread my lids and welcome this email into my eyes, I get all riled up.  But not the good riled up. Not the hot-for-teacher riled up I get anytime I hear Miss Othmar talk dirty to me.

No, not like that. No, I get aangrry. But let’s get to the point here, shall we? The pink and tender and ready-for-naughty point: the kind of words in my profile that make Match rejectulate all over my face.

Swears. But not crazy swears. Before the genesis of this blahg post I had never dropped the fuck-bomb in my "pick me!" page. Just shit like “shit” and “asshole.” Oh, and once I typed “cocaine.”

(PAUSE for reader to ask “Why the hell would he put “cocaine” in his dating profile?”)

 

Anyone who knows me is aware of my gutter mind and mouth. I admit this. I use all different kinds of blue to express myself. If you knew my extraordinary Catholic yet filthy-minded family you'd understand where it stems from. It’s who I am and how I giggle at the world and express my passion for certain things (like how cool chairs are! Double fucking cool!).

So in protest of Match.cum’s ripenisulous prohibitchin of certain whords, I wrote a slot of foul sintences and nailed them onto the “Abutt Me” sextion of my profile. And gash what! I’m going to share them with ewe!

Clitoris, as in “Family is extremely important to me. I love chillin’ with my favorite cousin Clitoris. He was screwed over by the semantic change of the word, but it meant something completely different when it was an old family name. Kinda like how the word 'gay' was commonly used to describe someone who is was happy. Now gay means sad.”

Cock ring, as in “I detest animal abuse, especially when roosters are placed in a cock ring to fight to the death.”

(SECOND PAUSE so reader can wonder if writer is ever going to explain the “cocaine” bomb)

Fuck, as in “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I’m awesome and you should date me!”

Boobies, as in “My favorite animals are Blue Footed Boobies. If you have a pair of them I would love to bury my face in them, or slide my rock-hard, cock-ringless penis them in between them in a vigorous thrusting motion.” See, not offensive in the least and it’s bullshit they don’t let me put it in there.

Bullshit, as in “The funniest thing that’s ever happened to me was when I was on a ranch in Montana trying to coerce a bull to fill a special bull condom with its bull-seed, and it proceeded to bullshit all over my face.” 

Cocaine, as in 

(THIRD PAUSE for "Really, guy? Really? You're gonna be asshole about it?")

Asshole, as in “I believe Jesus’s basic message boiled down to ‘Don’t be an asshole.’ I also often wonder if he ever got an itchy asshole.”

Pot, as in “I love gardening. Clitoris gave me a lovely pot to grow my pot in.”

Cunnilingus, as in “My hobbies include photography, writing, cunnilingus and scrap booking.”

Crack whore, as in “It feels so awkward writing about yourself in these things. Crack whore."

  

 

Now here’s where this blahg entry gets a really silly. I put the following sentences in my profile and they DIDN’T get rejected.

Breasts, as in “I like to shake it up in the bedroom by mixing food with sex, especially burying my face in a few chicken breasts that are in between her breasts.”

Heroin, as in “I am terrible at spelling, thought I don’t let it stop me from writing stories. A favorite protagonist of mine is a heroin that rescues drug addicts from their poison of choice: heroine.”

Fisting, as in “I love fisting, but only for the rights of those who don’t have a voice.”

Sluts, as in “The heroin in my latest story loves sluts.”

Testicles, as in “Hidden talents: being able to tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue, being able to do the splits, and having three testicles.”

To read another entry about my online dating adventures, click here.