BOSTON LOG TOSSER

When I was thirteen, I was all about efficiency and expediency.  I wanted to make sure everything in my life had order, was done correctly, and quickly.  When mowing the lawn I’d go as fast as I could but always with an eye on perfection; getting the little grass stalks that intertwined the chain link fence that the mower couldn’t get, with scissors; pruning the begonias and rose bushes; de-weeding the entire yard of it’s dandelions;  washing the windows like the President himself would be coming by and white gloving them.  I was ridiculous.  So, needless to say, I took that efficient mindedness into the bathroom with me.  I would vigorously shower like I’d been full body licked by a hairy Greek bath house patron and use the minimum amount of soap necessary.  One day, while showering, I had a sudden urge to shit.  I was almost clean by this point, mind you.  I thought about what an immense disruption in my clockwork-like day it would be to have to get out the shower, towel off, take a shit, wipe my ass, get back in the shower, basically take a whole new shower, towel off again and THEN get dressed.  That’s, like, 5 minutes of wasted time that I could be doing homework, vacuuming the carpet, helping my mom with groceries.  Not to mention how uncomfortable it feels to get out of the shower wet and sit on the toilet, all sliding around, wet, cold, and water on the floor, and yeah… it’s terrible.  So, I devised a plan of action.  I, while in the shower, just began to shit.  Bent my legs a little, in a half squat position, and started shitting.  I had a good solid log coming out, which was very fortunate.  The position I was in, however, made it very awkward, and my sphincter began to flutter.  In a panic, and concerned about a “suck back” and having to start all over, I quickly reacted….I grasped the log and began to pull.  It was like trying to pull a cat through the cat door it had almost successfully made it out of.  Despite some tender tugging the hand pull did the trick, I was able to manually extract the Christmas log from my anal cavity.  So, what to do with the 10 incher in my hand?  I opened the shower door (it was one of those glass shower doors) and like the fat kid picked for the basketball game I granny tossed it into the toilet.  A triumphant SPLOOSH and it was over.  All I had to do now was a quick cleaning of my ass and left hand, towel off, flush the toilet on the way out, and I was back on schedule.  I did this thrice total, but that third time was my last.  I got cocky, and it was my undoing. On that final time I attempted a Ray Allen, from the Celtics, jump shot with the log…..and missed.  The log hit the toilet rim, splitting itself in two, one half splooshed into the toilet but the stray piece exploded all over the floor and toilet side wall, creating an infinitesimally more complex situation than I had anticipated.  That was the last Log Toss I ever did, sad to say.  I retired my jersey and #2 was never worn again in my house.

SOUL SMASHING JUGGERNAUT

I’m sure I’m not alone in this, but I absolutely love screaming at, cursing out, and hyper-analyzing every decision and comment made on the show House Hunters, particularly the International version.  I find myself commending the good decisions of those that are savvy, who use common sense and a little imagination to see the property for what it is and could be.  I also, on the other side of the coin, notice that when ANYONE bitches about the paint color on the walls, that it drives me into a caveman rage!  I am smashing lamps, throwing milkshakes at the television, putting infants in submission head locks; I go NUTS!  “You can just paint the walls you dumb fucking bitch! Shut the fuck up!”  or  “No, dumbfuck! The curtains with the pink flowers that aren’t to your specific taste are NOT a permanent fixture on the house, shut the fuck up!”  ….that shit drives me fucking crazy.   

I also, thoroughly enjoy making fun of the people on the show.  I will critique any flaw on them as if I had none myself, as if I were the flesh and blood likeness of the statue David…oh wait, I am….but you get what I’m sayin’.  If she has a mole on her face, if he has an effeminate voice and she a butch one to contrast it, if their children look like little fat shits that need to go on a diet, any flaw is free game.  In public, I’m usually a very considerate person.  In my home, however, I am a juggernaut of self esteem smashing destruction.  If I was being secretly taped so that the buyers on House Hunters could review it for tips on buying strategies later, they’d fucking hang themselves or stab pencils in their ears to silence the barrage of hate being spewed forth.  They’d purposefully set their children on fire rather than expose them to the years of counseling and debilitating anxiety that would surely follow such a soul smashing tirade laid upon their parents and family name.   

Lastly, the morons that go to some bum fuck place like Gabala, Azerbaijan for some shitty little job that’s going nowhere and doesn’t pay shit.  Then they are crushed when they find out that it’s customary in all Azerbaijanian homes to squat over and shit into a hole in the floor rather than a toilet, don’t have laundry machines, and the “master bedroom” doesn’t have a Jacuzzi.  They for some reason assume that the 70K they have to buy a house will get them a mansion with a maid that will give you a rub down with a happy ending daily.  Are you fucking retarded, seriously….. oh, yeah… you probably are…..You know why?....cause you’re moving to FUCKING   AZER-FUCKING-BAIJAN!!

At least it’s a good show though… 

PNEUMATIC EROTICA Pt.1

I have been considering that I may not, at some point, be as virile as I am now.  In the future there may come a time, possibly around 117 years old, that my kibbles and bits may not work like they used to.  So, I have taken the only logical step… I am going to preempt this possible assault, of age, on my manhood by upgrading myself ahead of time.  Next month, I plan on having my penis removed, put into a jar and cryogenically frozen as a backup cock.  Then, I will have a pneumatic penis installed in it’s place.  There are several models to choose from.  I want the best, so I’m going with the “Platinum Pussy Puncturer” model.  It’s quite an extensive surgery, but definitely worth it.  I will have to have my genitalia completely removed, my groin area carved out, and intestines and whatnot shoved up into my higher abdomen to make room for the (MCP) MotorController/Pnuematics assembly.  This is a stainless steel box that houses the motor, servo controllers, power supply, air cylinder, actuation valves, etc.  Once the box is installed, the surgeons will seal me back up leaving only a stainless steel nub sticking out where my penis once was.  I will have extra pubic hair added that is supplied from my ass hair to cover the scar and for a fuller mane of pubes to express my manliness.  Now, back to the stainless steel nub; this will be used as a quick disconnect for various attachments.  These accoutrements include such well known pneumatic devices as: THE SHITHOLE SMASHER, THE ANAL ANNIHILATOR, THE CUNT COERCER, THE VAGINAL VIOLATOR, THE CAREBEAR, THE HYDRA, and many more.  If you’ve never heard of those attachments, or are new to the realm of Pneumatic Erotica, stay tuned.  I plan on having continued updates where you will learn more about (PE) Pneumatic Erotica and how my preparations for the surgery are going.

PRETEND TIME !

We’re gonna play a little game called “Pretend.”  You remember that game don’t you?  The one in Elementary school, you know, where you were the knight in shining armor or the Pretty princess with the pony.  No… ? Well then, how bout more recently, as let’s saaaay a short skirted house maid, or oiled up pool boy….hmmm….that’s more your speed isn’t it.  Alright then, so what are we pretending then?  Well, what we are pretending today is simple enough... let’s just pretend that it's the year 1999, in Los Angeles, California and I was a gay necrophiliac who worked as an embalmer in the city morgue.  I was what you would call a Necrosexual.  I was a bit of a shut in, but really a sweet guy at heart.  I was just like everyone else.  I loved walks on the beach, old John Wayne flicks, a good glass of Pinot Grigio, couldn’t get enough of playing Jenga, and I was and still am a sucker for guys in corduroy pants….. oh, yeah…. and I loved fucking corpses.  Now, since I was a Homosexual Necrosexual, my Wednesday and Saturday nights were usually spent turning all the male stiffs that rolled through my morgue into human Pigs-in-the-blanket.  I prided myself on my efforts towards diversity.  I didn’t care about skin color (everybody was pretty much pale by the time they got to me anyways), tattoos, or body composition, I would say young or old, but what’s the point.  I didn’t care how ripe they were as long as they were male.  I’d fuck Thomas Jefferson’s old ass if I could get past the guards at Monticello long enough to dig em’ up.   Hell, I’d even go so far as fucking a zombie if they were real; now that’d spice up your Friday night!  

Obviously, working at the morgue afforded me opportunities which benefited my particular “interests.”  I wasn’t always like this; I used to just be your regular old run-of-the-mill homosexual.  I’d window shop the various clubs in L.A.  My favorite was this one called “The Tool Box.”  I’d meet young men, such as myself, roofie them immediately, and roll them home in a shopping cart.  That limp sack of Man Meat was as close as I got to bliss before I started working at the city morgue.   Now that I worked there I could take all the pictures that I wanted, make all the videos that I wanted, I could even violate Tom, Dick, AND Harry while pulling their brains out of their nostrils with a crochet needle and douching the left over cavity full of embalming fluid.   I loved my job, it was the best.  If it hadn’t been for the owner showing up at 2AM, and catching me elbows deep in two Asian prior-weight lifters with (10) other stiffs sitting in chairs in a circle around us, and the video camera running,  I’d still be working there.  Life’s a funny thing (no pun intended).

AMAZONIAN ASS HAIR ON ARBOR DAY

I have found that in order to trim ass crack hair, and ladies don’t look at me obtusely like you don’t do it too, I have to perform a complex set of maneuvers.  To begin with, I feel that I should be honest with you.  I don’t trim/shave my ass hair very often.  Usually, it’s only for an anniversary or a Bar Mitzvah (I’m not Jewish, but why not, it’s an excuse) or because it’s Arbor Day (I’m environmentally conscious).  So anyways, you can’t just shove a Schick Quattro up your ass crack and expect magic.  You may get the tree tops of the Amazon but you won’t even be close to clearing the forest and kicking out the Natives to make room for your condominiums unless you get creative.

 I find that climbing completely onto the sink top itself, turning around, and facing my ass towards the mirror is the best approach.  I can then begin to bend over at this point.  You must, however, be extremely careful as you are top heavy and slightly off balance on that thin sink rim.  You can easily topple right off the sink and go through the bathroom door.  I managed to do this last Arbor Day and ended up smashing through the door like the Kool-Aid Man “OH YEAH!”, and knocking myself unconscious with my Quattro imbedded in my left ass cheek.  It was quite embarrassing, as my whole GREEN ECO-FIGHTERS CLUB group was there at the time having tea and strumpets before a rally on a local non-recycling 7-Eleven.  Needless to say, I was barred from the group as they found out that I was not full time Au Natural in the butt crack department….a lot of Oregonians and Northern Californians in that group.

 So, back to ass crack hair… you’re bent over looking at your pucker pipe from between your legs.  You then cock one leg up on the towel rack and begin to take on the briar patch.  Get it all, might as well, get the dingle berries, the taint trap, and the chocolate valley….hell, and even get those little strays that linger around the starfish.   When you’re done you’ll have a back end that’s as smooth as shark’s skin and will be the envy of all your friends.      

HOMO-WORDS

Fun with Homophones.  I have no idea if this is rythmically correct, but fuck it, it's my blog and I'll write about shitting in a poetic verse if I want to.

The shit, out my ass, it did pour;

As a zit being popped squirting out the pore.

Shooting out of my sphincter in the shape of a ball;

It felt so bad, all night crying; I did bawl.

Hours and hours it brewed;

But seconds to get to the pool; my brood.

It was painful but special so I kept it, like a science experiment, in a vial;

Does hoarding my feces make me vile?

Does it make me weak,

the fact that I’ve been doing it for a week?

I don’t care because each time I poo, I watch the inches come off my waist.

The perfect diet, all by dumping my waste.

You think that’s gross?

At least I didn’t tell you of the taste.

FOLLICULAR PHALLUS

I asked my Wife, the other day, “Honey, if instead of me having an amazing penis, as I do, what if it were, instead, nothing more than a giant hair follicle, would you still love me?” To which she replied, “Of course darling, I’ll love you no matter what your penis has become.”  Now that’s love, and it got me thinking… what if I DID have only one single hair follicle for a penis?  I’d say the dimensions, in order to be accurate, would have to be comparable to a Pringles can in girth and length.  Wouldn’t that be odd?  I’d ejaculate dandruff, it’d be like a New Years Eve party every time I busted a nut, like confetti exploding everywhere.  The more I stroked it the smoother it would get and whenever I put conditioner or mineral oil on it, PHEW! Look at that shine!  It’d give new meaning to the word “Fuller hair”.  The only foreseeable problem would be if I were to ever get lice.  If my follicle penis was that big you’d assume the lice would be equally huge.  Then I’d have to worry about these giant lice eating my cats or heaven forbid, attacking my child.  Oh man, we’d have a real problem then.  Good thing I take care of my hair.

Side note: The hair follicle would be one large one from the same type that is on my head, not like a giant pubic hair or anything, that’d be nasty.

Another side note: I'll bet you stared at that picture for awhile until you figured out what was going on.... it's okay, drink it in, it's good for you.

TRAPPED ON DOUCHE BAG ISLAND

I’m sure you’ve all known that one work associate or acquaintance that is a total condescending douche bag.  They always feel it necessary to make you look stupid or correct you with some paltry bit of knowledge they know that you don’t, in order to validate themselves.  The IT computer guy at (insert company) comes to mind as a good example.  “Ummm .. It’s Windows 7, not Vista … du’h… the HTML doesn’t load the same, hehehe, everybody knows that, stupid.”  Yeah, you know the type.  Luckily, in life, those unique personalities are only sprinkled amongst society.  Unluckily for me, I was recently trapped in a room with 6 of them all at once.  When you die, and if you were a bad boy or girl, and are religious, and go to hell, the idea is to suffer for eternity reliving the worst nightmare imaginable.  If I had the choice of going through one more day with those shitheads OR to suffer an eternity of having Satan himself butt fuck me with his huge horn-shaped and spike covered red cock while having my balls scorched with a butane torch; I would pick the latter.  

The amazing thing is that they apparently have no idea what incredible pricks they are, and it’s not even worth letting them know because they can’t even conceive of themselves as anything other than awesome.  I mean, I suppose I may be a douche bag, myself, without even knowing it, however it’s extremely unlikely due to the fact that I am fucking amazing, have a huge penis, and everyone fucking loves me, but you get the idea.  So, I’m stuck in this room with them, let’s just say it was a training seminar that allowed opportunities for everyone to express themselves.  I was unusually introverted, as to not provoke more moronic conversation than was absolutely necessary.  I spent 6 hours gritting my teeth and wincing in pain as I was ear-raped by these spider monkeys; these human-hyena hybrids; these….fucking douche bags.  Like having to listen to finger nails down a chalk board or a fork scraping zigzag on a ceramic plate, I was tortured relentlessly.   Debates raged on about who was the most travelled, the best athlete, the most highly trained, had the most divorces, who was the most  mature due to their knowledge of 80’s and 90’s trivia (the last topic was a draw due to everyone’s equal knowledge level when it came to ThunderCats and Gloria Estefan music).   Just as I drew the imaginary Smith&Wesson revolver from it’s hallucinated holster, cocked the lucidly dreamt hammer back, and placed it to my quivering temple, the instructor notified the class that we were done.  I was drenched in sweat and shaking, but it was all over.  I had survived, without going to prison for disemboweling every fucking cocksucker in the place with my Las Vegas Nudie Girl revealing ball point pen.

SHOTGUN FARTS

SHIT! I’ll tell you what; I bought a whole shitload of fresh roasted garlic with olive oil on it, like 3 fist full's worth, at the supermarket yesterday.  I ate them ALL.  They were so fuckin’ good.  This morning and pretty much all day today I have had a school that requires a fair amount of concentration and finite hand coordination (you have a dirty ass mind, shut up).  The gas produced by the quarter pound of roasted garlic built up in my system so quick and smelled so bad that I had to rush to the bathroom every half hour.  I couldn’t concentrate the pressure pains were too much.  Each time I ran to the toilet and hurriedly sat down, my ass cheeks were splayed open by the curvature of the seat cover’s design, and my sphincter didn’t even have a chance to flutter..BAM!! Like a shotgun!! (not even close to an exaggeration) the 75psi worth of gas in my bowels ejaculated out of my ass! (and yes that is an appropriate way to use that word, see you learned something today.. it’s not just for nut bustin’)  How did I know it was the roasted garlic and olive oil that caused this half hourly turmoil?  I could clearly see, just as you would corn, the WHOLE garlic cloves just as they went into my mouth but coming out the other end with such velocity as to chip the enamel of the porcelain toilet.  Hell, I probably could have pulled them out of the toilet and ate them again they looked so similar to how they were just yesterday going into my mouth.  I was actually concerned that someone might think I was making a snuff film in one of the stalls because it didn’t sound like I was farting/sharting  AT ALL.  The fart was quick and explosive and the sound (yes the sound) of the garlic cloves ricocheting off of the toilet bowl walls was so similar to a Mossberg 500 that if anyone was within ear shot I might be in jail right now. 

Side note:  Another way of using ejactulate is:  He couldn’t take the child’s constant whining and bickering anymore and finally ejaculated, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll kick the fuck out of you!”  (if you read old books, as I like to, you hear it used in this way a lot, still sounds weird though.)

Another note:  I could have put Blade to shame today with the amount of vampires that would have gotten fucked up being anywhere near me.

HOME DEPOT: ODYSSEUS' WORST NIGHTMARE

I needed a star-head screwdriver this morning because I was attempting to take apart the vacuum, apparently to shock myself to death when touching the motor as I know nothing about vacuum repair.  Where can I get a star-head screwdriver, I asked myself? Then, like Odysseus from The Odyssey, I felt the seductive melodies of the Sirens;  HOME and DEPOT were their names.   As soon as it popped into my mind the neuropathways of the DEPOT obsession started pulsating and firing at rapid rates.  My Limbic system was on fire with anticipation of all the tools and goodies that I needed in addition to the star-head screwdriver.  

So, as I was driving closer I could feel the pull of the Siren’s call and there it was….the majestic  Hunter Orange square logo with it’s utilitarian, no nonsense, don’t got time for fancy lettering cause I’m a busy working guy, stamped white lettering.  Fantastic!  By the way:  If you’ve ever read the book Propoganda by Edward Bernays you’ll understand how ridiculously perfect just the logo alone is, but anyway, I digress.   I then walk in, the cool air rushes onto me in a wave creating an amazing juxtaposition to the 98 degree Mars –like atmosphere just mere feet away in the parking lot.  “I am home”…  I don’t even know where to begin (The Sirens in aisle 9 are calling me, plumbing supplies!), “Focus damnit, focus!”,  I have a mission.. get a star-head screwdriver, and that’s IT.  (The Sirens in aisle 13 are calling me now),  “I sure could use some 4x4 pieces of wood…I DID want to build a new kitty tower at the house.”  (The Sirens from Aisle 22 are calling), “.. and don’t forget, you’ll need some carpet pieces to put ON the kitty tower.”  (The Siren in aisle 9 is reminding me that I’ll need a staple gun to mount the carpet to the new kitty tower) “Thanks Siren from aisle 9", I say.  

So, long story short, unlike Odysseus, I didn’t have any wax for my ears to block the Siren’s calls or a crew of dedicated sailors to hold me back.  I didn’t buy the shit for the kitty tower, but let’s just say like a recovering alcoholic who just fucked up their 20 year dry streak, I got what I wanted but I feel like an asshole!  Who the hell even uses a Messograf  pocket caliper pen anyways?  Hell if I know, but I own one now if you wanna borrow it.

CANDY BARS AND BUTT BABIES

I woke up this morning with a hankering for chocolate.  So, I lazily reached off the side of the bed into an old pair of jeans that I remembered had half of an old candy bar in it and BINGO!  As I was getting the squirreled away pseudo-melted candy bar I looked over at my baby in the crib.  I looked at my sleeping baby, then at the candy bar, then the baby again, and the candy bar again, baby, candy bar, baby, candy bar.  Then I had an epiphany.  For all those metro sexual husbands out there (Picture the movie “I love you Man”) that want to share in the experience of child birth but can’t, or have a wife that’s infertile, or they are sterile themselves, I have a solution.  Butt Babies! 

 Now, a women’s reproductive tract is a hostile environment, for sperm, to begin with.  It’s like taking  seventy- thousand 3 year olds, giving them Nerf guns, dropping them off on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day and saying “The Nazi’s are in those pill boxes on the cliffside, go gettum’ soldiers!”   The end result may make a great Dead Baby joke, but it’s a brutal environment, and that’s why very few sperm make it to fertilize the egg.  For women who want to be mothers but are having difficulties you have artificial insemination, surrogacy, fertility pills, etc. but even these methods aren’t always certain to produce.  

Once again, Butt Babies solves this dilemma! Very similar to artificial insemination, except you shove the fertilized egg up the husband’s ass and graft it to his rectal wall so the passing by bowel movements don’t take it away.  Kind of like a little spider pouch, if you’ve seen those, but in a guy’s ass.  The walls of the rectum are quite flexible and would easily facilitate a healthy, albeit shit covered, baby.  For all you naysayers, just go online, change your web search filter setting to NONE on Google, and type in “Brutal Anal.”  You will be a believer after that I assure you.  So, anyways, the baby grows and is excreted into the toilet or into a warm moist towel held by a wet nurse and voila! You have a brand new butt baby boy or girl!  Problem solved, and just think, this all came from a flattened, lint covered, three week old, partial Snickers bar. Life’s a funny thing.

Side Note: Yes, I know about Thomas Beatie, but my method involves ZERO surgery to accomplish.

Dead Baby Joke (cause you knew it was coming): 
J:  What’s grosser than ten dead babies nailed to a tree?

A: One dead baby nailed to ten trees.

**Dead baby joke courtesy of:  dead-baby-joke.com

REDWINGS. WHO'S THE REAL WINNER?

                                                                          

I have found that men wear it as a badge of honor having performed oral sex on a woman during her period, thus earning the coveted Redwing certification.  Who’s the real winner here though?  The man who performed the act or the women who GOT the man to perform the act?  For men, we don’t have a “special” time of the month for women to claim THEIR badge of honor.  The question is, who should be claiming that badge?  I’m starting to believe that women should be claiming that Redwing badge rather than the men.  They should tattoo it on their inner thigh like they tattooed Nazi or Japanese flags on airplanes during WWII to signify the amount of successful bombing runs.  Women should have it proudly displayed on their inner thigh as to how many men they have dooped into giving them head during their period.  Don’t be ashamed ladies, men may think they have the upper hand and grab ass about it while smoking cigars, but it’s really the women who wear the badge of the Redwings. 

Just a side note: Would vampires be, like, the redwing grand masters?  With additional stars mounted on top of their redwing badges signifying amounts of 5 per extra star?

I WISH MY CATS HAD GLAUCOMA

                                                                                 

I have five cats, yes, you heard me…five!  They used to be awesome and my goal was to have six cats so I could say at parties, “I’ve got a half dozen cats.”  Cause if you have five you’re just the crazy cat guy or lady, but if you have a half dozen, now you’re trendy and hip.  So now that I’m getting sick of these little bastards, after 10 years of having them, I don’t know how to get rid of them.  I look at my cats, condescendingly of course as I always do, and they look pretty fuckin’ healthy.  I don’t think they are ever gonna die, hell, they might even out live me at this rate.  They aren’t like outdoor cats that have to struggle to find food and fight other cats for territorial supremacy and mates, living a stressed out life. They are lazy, ungrateful, and spoiled cats each with their own belly fat that sways as they walk.  They look fit as a fiddle.  You’d expect the signs that a house pet is getting old to be, like, glaucoma in both eyes, teeth falling out, fur manging and falling out, limping and in pain, etc.  These fucking cats are doing back flips!  That’s like going to your Grandpa’s house expecting to see a decrepit old man and you walk in on him banging Miss Oklahoma 1999 while flexing in the mirror like Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.  I’m not sure what to do?  I want to smother them with a pillow or drown them or shoot them in their cute little furry fucking faces with a shotgun but I don’t have the heart to do so.  I thought about giving them away but I’m too damn attached to them.  It’d be like giving away your kids, you want to, but you’d feel bad for a little while after the fact.  So now, I’m basically just stuck waiting for them to die.  I find myself sitting on the couch petting them while they purr away on my belly, saying “why won’t just die you little son-of-a-bitch, just die already!”  Why couldn’t I have five gerbils instead?  Their life span is like 2-4 years.  When you’re done sticking them up your ass, just break their neck and throw their little shit covered ass in the trash.  Then get a new one.  I used to go through like 10 a week back in the day.  I’d buy um’ by the bushel.

Side note: A cat’s life span is approximately 12-14 years.  A gerbil’s life span is approximately 2-4 years.  A gerbil’s lifespan in my house … 30 minutes to an hour depending on if he scratches my colon or not.

HUMMINGBIRD BLOWJOBS

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Public Service Announcement: JIZZ KNOTS CAN BE LETHAL

So, I could get very descriptive with this term but I don’t think I’ll need to.  Basically, a jizz knot, jizz plug or cock knot as it may also be called, is after the “ evacuation” by the male he does not soon after urinate to clean the pipes.  This causes the residual seminal fluid to coagulate into a firm plug within the man’s urethra that feels like a ball bearing got shoved up there.  This is very uncomfortable and can potentially lead to serious problems.  I have created a video using MSpaint and Windows Movie Maker 2.6 as a public service announcement about the dangers of Jizz knots.  Thank you for your time and stay strong.

                                                                            

Stank so bad it's comin' out your shirt collar

I was attempting to have a conversation with someone who's crotch smelled so bad that I could smell it coming out from his shirt collar.  Why was I talking to him?  I needed information that only this person could provide.  How did I know it was his crotch?  That's a legitimate question.  Crotches, as I'm sure you've scratched and sniffed your own at some point in your life, have a very distinct smell.  It's not armpit B.O., it's not foot toe jam, it's not even belly button gorganzola smell.  Crotches smell like crotches, you know what the hell I'm talkin' about and when they stink they stink.  Each part of your body is it's own little petri dish of funk and what was coming out of this guy's collar and being wafted into my face by him talking was straight up BU-D-USSY (without the USSY)! Imagine what that smell had to do to come out of his collar? It has to creep out of the underwear, up under the waistband and belt in between the fabric and the abdomen, rise under the shirt across the chest and come out of the collar.  Now that's some impressive stank.

CHRONO-BATING

Chronobating is a term I have coined for the rapid rate at which time increases while masturbating.  I’m sure, being the intelligent and well-learned audience that you are, that you’ve heard the phrase “Time flies when you’re having fun”?  I find that in my experience, in the masturbatory arts, that what seems like a 2 minute sprint race in all actuality is equivalent to about 20 minutes.  Now am I actually choking the chicken or for women, hooking the tuna, for 20 minutes!  Hmmm… I think not, my phallus would be shredded beet red from friction with the look of a pulled pork sandwich.  So, either my dick is a temporal nexus that can bend the fabric of space and time, or the act itself creates a chronometric annomally, thus slowing MY time down while the rest of the world operates at a normal rate.  Is this Quantum Leap?  Genitalia Leap?  Actually, it’s probably closer to H.G.Wells than Scott Bakula, and yes I know one is an author and the other an actor, you get the point.  Now, if I could only SLOW time down.  Maybe if I stick something up my ass?  Gathering empirical data is such a pain in the butt, literally.

Cat Ass Licking

Watching my cat, with it's leg whipped up over it's shoulder to facilitate the furious assh&*le licking that it feels is an absolute hourly necessity, is absolutely mezmerizing. I don't know what it is that keeps my attention so intently. Maybe I need to get out more....hmm.  The poor cat is gonna lick the chocolate starfish clean off it’s rear-end if it keeps going at it, like when you get a stamp TOO wet and it won’t stick and just slides around.

#1 or #2 in the bathroom? For women, it's #3.

So, I was with my friend the other day discussing why it is that you never notice when women go to the bathroom, or fart, or anything for that matter.  You never hear a woman saying “hey, hold up, I gotta go drop some kids off at the pool before we go to the party” or “I’ve got mud butt, lemme go and scoop the chocolate valley and we’ll bounce after that.” Why is that?  Are they shit ninjas?  Are they conforming to a societal norm of some sort saying women should be demure and discreet in such matters?  I don’t think it’s either.   Everyone knows the terms #1 and #2.  Number 1, having been coined as urination, and the latter being defecation.   I have recently discovered that women…. have a third option.  Oh yeah!  I know your secret ladies.  Just as everyone sweats out of their pores during exercise, women have the ability to excrete out their pores, as well, gradually throughout the day.  It sounds crazy I know, but it’s absolutely true.  The way you need to picture this business is like this: remember back in the day when Play Dough had the Play Dough Hair Factory toy?  It was essentially a meat grinder that you shoved your Play Dough into and got clay hair.  Pore excretion is the same principle, except the fecal strands that are expelled out of women’s pores are spider web thin.  That is why you never notice them.  The average human has over 4 million pores on their body.  If you were to spread a log of poo, over a 24 hour span, out of that many pores… you’d never even know or smell.  Ladies, I commend you for keeping this a secret for so long.  I am actually quite envious to be honest with you.  If I had that gift then the jalapeno covered tacos that I ate last night would have resulted in a mild sunburn sensation.  Instead, I had to endure the excruciating excretion in one shot and won’t be able to sit right for a week.