LEPIDOPTERA LAP DANCE

I was visiting my friend last weekend who works at the University of Florida’s McGuire Center for Lepidoptera.  Mark, my friend, is himself a Lepidopterist (a person who studies moths and butterflies).  I first met him while he was completing his Doctoral Thesis several years ago.  Since I was heading into the area I figured I’d give him a call and was glad that I did.  Mark expressed to me that the McGuire Center was having a hard time, lately, getting as much funding as they were used to due to the Recession.  He wanted me to come by and see a revolutionary and unique fund raising program that they had been implementing.  So I did. 
      When I got there he greeted me outside the entrance to the McGuire Center and we started meandering through the facility until we got to a door that had a small placard above saying “massage therapy”.  Upon entering there were seven different rooms within and a receptionist desk.  I asked Mark why there was a massage therapy clinic in the McGuire Center and he simply replied with “Trust me Rusty, this will blow your mind” and instructed me into the first room.  He gave me a small spritzer bottle and told me that once inside I should take my clothes off, lay on the massage table face up, spray my genital area with one or two sprays from the spritzer and relax.  So I did.  
      Once I had stripped, sprayed my junk, and started to relax to the music of Enya, that was playing, I was becoming increasingly curious as to how this was a fund raiser for a Lepidoptera center.  Then I started to hear a gradually increasing sound of fluttering coming from three vents situated in the ceiling.  In a rush the vents spewed forth thousands of moths that began swirling around the room like a tornado.  Before I even had a chance to try and comprehend what was happening they began, in waves, to dive bomb down and over my cock and balls.  Again and again thousands of fluttering wings cascaded across my testicles and my now rock hard baby juice injector.  It was the single most exhilarating moment of my life.  I almost immediately busted a nut so hard that the force and volume of the ejaculate hit thousands of the passing moths sending them crashing to the floor.  It was like a German artillery barrage on an attacking American bomber run in WWII except the American bombers were moths and the Nazi’s were firing semen! 
      After about fifteen minutes an intercom system voiced by the seductive receptionist instructed me to cloth myself and exit the room.  Mark was waiting outside and told me that the spritzer was female moth pheromones.  He said that he had, in just six months, raised over 2 million dollars for the McGuire Center and opened up a whole new field of research in the process with his venture.  I congratulated him on his success and invited him to lunch, but didn’t tell him I had kept the spritzer and hand full of moths for later.  Have a great week, Rusty out.

THE HIGHEST FIVE

I used to hate high fiving people but lately I’ve seen a resurgence of this multi use practice and I want back on the band wagon.  I say “multi-use” because if you think about it, high fiving is so versatile.  You can use it as a greeting, a congratulations, a celebratory action, a way to make a fool of someone as in “high five, down low, too slow”,  and even as a hip performance as in high fiving in the front as you walk by someone and then following with a reverse low five just as you pass.  The most awesome thing about high fives is that you don’t even need a cooperative or even aware partner for a high five.  I was at the trial for a murderer, as a witness, last month.  When he stood up and the bailiff told him to raise his right hand to swear his oath I leapt over the table towards him.  I managed to steal a free high five on his raised right hand before the bailiff pepper sprayed and beat me unconscious with his baton.  The verdict on court room oath high fives?  Totally worth it!  As if that wasn’t awesome enough I went to a neo Nazi rally I heard about on AryanNations.org.  I was drunk with ecstasy when everyone “Heiled Hitler”.  Let’s just say that when I woke up in the hospital a week later the only thing that hurt more than my broken jaw and crushed testicle, was the bruise on my hand from all those involuntary high fives I stole!  I can’t, however, say the same for the Black Panthers rally that I went to because you can’t high five a raised fist.  So, I didn’t get any high fives there, but I did, however, get my first gunshot wound in my left ass cheek, so that’s pretty cool.  I’ve been going crazy lately.  I’ve been slapping fives at auctions when they raise their hands; whacking the shit out of those little smarty nerds in elementary school classes that know the answers; getting some mid range fives from dirty bums with their hands out for change; people hailing cabs, and sailor’s wives on the pier as their husband’s ships sail away on deployment.  In fact, I’ve high fived so many times in the last month that I’ve developed quite the callus on my palm.  So much so that I could give a hand job to a running chainsaw and probably not feel it.  Despite the rough hands I plan on continuing in my palm punishing quest.  The more high fives I give, the more it catches on and therefore the more high fives I get.  It’s a perpetual motion machine of high fives and I’m right in the middle of it.

AS QUIET AS TWO GORILLAS, ON PCP, IN A LIBRARY

Have you ever tried to be EXTRA quiet for whatever reason; not to wake up the spouse, baby, dog, whatever, but you just ending up making a SHITLOAD of noise instead?  I came home this morning, unusually early, and realized that my wife and baby weren’t up yet.  Finally, some quiet time to myself.   I went into the bathroom to change into my lounge shorts that were on the floor.  Figuring, while I was there I'd take a piss.  So I took a piss, and being the considerate husband that I am, lowered the toilet rim, which slipped out of my fingers and SLAMMED down onto the toilet making that wincingly loud “PAAAAP!”  I stopped in my tracks, listening for the sounds of rustling in the bedroom, “Phew!” nothing…. good, back to what I was doing.  I start to put on the shorts, thrusting my first leg through while balancing on the other.  The problem was that there was a pool of water on the floor that I couldn’t see because the light was off.  My single balancing leg immediately lost traction on the wet floor and flew out from under me.  I attempted to catch myself but my leg was still tangled in my shorts and I hit the floor and side of the bathtub like a cow dropped from a second story building onto a fruit stand, “PUUH-DOOOM!”  I’m starting to feel like I’m in an original BATMAN TV series episode; BOOM! POW! BLAM!  After busting my ass, I nurse my sore areas while sharply yelping a muffled “Motherfucker!”  Standing up, I hobble my way out of the bathroom and head to the bedroom to put my ear up to the door.  I wanted to see if I could hear the baby crying or rustling without going in.  As I limp over through the dark hallway I trip over a vacuum left out by my Wife and like an amateur pole vaulter I lunge forward, smashing my face directly into the door handle.  The rest of my body hits the middle of the door causing a massive “KA-POOM!” that, within the bedroom, must have sounded like a WWII Nazi bunker getting hit with a 500LB bomb.  I hit it so hard with my face that it knocked the door itself out of alignment with the frame.  My wife jumps out of bed; the baby shit’s itself and starts crying; and cats are flying through the air like Hacky Sacks at a Nirvana concert and I am face down in the carpet with a concussion.  Needless to say, my anticipated quiet time became anything but quiet.  Fuck me, right?

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?