So imagine you're having the intercourse with some lady. Doesn't matter which one (does it ever?) because it's hypothetical, but it can be Wendy Peffercorn if you want. So you're all givin the go and you're about to finish so you pull out and then jerk off on her. You just traded down from Wendy to Palm a la Handerson.
I submit that masturbation is a sign of intelligence when it comes to sensibility and efficiency.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Myles
I used to work in a processing plant with a paring knife picking potatoes off a conveyer belt. It was a real shit job and I once got so bored that I stuck the knife into the belt just to watch it snap and go flying. Now I work with an X-acto knife and the only thing to stab is myself so when I get really bored I flick on the radio. Where I live there's this one station that's a recipe made with ⅓ decent shit, ⅓ terrible shit and ⅓ listening to the god damned fucking DJ. I've grown to not only hate his voice but him as a person. I hope he comes around when I'm bored at work.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Strap ons
Two lesbians are friggin. One of them is doing the other with a strap on but doing a real crappy job. If the other one doesn't orgasm then how do they know when they're finished? They'd just keep going.
Forever.
Forever.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Laundry
Bullshit. I'm calling bullshit. I just went to use some fabric softener and was scraping the bottom of the barrel to get enough. I stopped shaking the container and thought to myself "clothes are already soft, fuck this". I don't know about you but I think just about everything I wear is cotton. Have you ever seen a cotton field? That shit looks like someone put a giant mirror on the ground and it's reflecting fucking clouds. It's god damn beautiful. Fabric always plenty soft and I refuse to believe there's any product, treatment, concoction or cult ritual that can break down it's chemical form and somehow make it softer. They don't make clothing out of Klingon foreheads for a reason.
If you take a bunch of paint and mix it all together you're going to get some crappy mud bullshit color every time. Forever. Where does this grey-blue dryer lint come from? There's also so much of it that I'm surprised there's anything left of our clothes by the time that bastard is done drying them. You basically earn a scarf every couple loads. Ever see the back of a laundromat? It's like a cotton field mixed with a scene from the Crow. Maybe the only clothes that produce lint are the blue ones. Someone needs to put an arctic research team together and get on this.
If you take a bunch of paint and mix it all together you're going to get some crappy mud bullshit color every time. Forever. Where does this grey-blue dryer lint come from? There's also so much of it that I'm surprised there's anything left of our clothes by the time that bastard is done drying them. You basically earn a scarf every couple loads. Ever see the back of a laundromat? It's like a cotton field mixed with a scene from the Crow. Maybe the only clothes that produce lint are the blue ones. Someone needs to put an arctic research team together and get on this.
Puppy Room
I present to you a business idea with no downside that's guaranteed to produce results and income. A room where people pay money to enter and play with hordes of puppies. The perfect room.
A small addition is built onto an SPCA building and consists of a front lobby and a separate room. A customer walks up, pays ten bucks for an hour or something then enters the empty room and sits down on a beanbag chair. The door is shut behind them then one on each other wall opens and in comes a flood of puppies to play with. Just a buttload of friggin puppies. You would pay for this and you know it.
All the puppies are from the SPCA and since customers get the chance to play with them there's a good chance they'll grow attached and as a result more animals find homes through adoption. The puppies all become more socialized and get some play time out of it. As for the customer, you could put the most depressed individual in that room and there's no way they don't leave it feeling better. Everyone wins.
If a place like this existed I would go there all the god damned time.
A small addition is built onto an SPCA building and consists of a front lobby and a separate room. A customer walks up, pays ten bucks for an hour or something then enters the empty room and sits down on a beanbag chair. The door is shut behind them then one on each other wall opens and in comes a flood of puppies to play with. Just a buttload of friggin puppies. You would pay for this and you know it.
All the puppies are from the SPCA and since customers get the chance to play with them there's a good chance they'll grow attached and as a result more animals find homes through adoption. The puppies all become more socialized and get some play time out of it. As for the customer, you could put the most depressed individual in that room and there's no way they don't leave it feeling better. Everyone wins.
If a place like this existed I would go there all the god damned time.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Ode à L'odeur
Today I had a dream described to me in which someone had used my bathroom and I played them a song I had written about shittin. Now, It may come as no surprise to some of you, but shit is actually the main subject of two poems I've written which I plan to publish and distribute in a zine of similar terrible things and the like. The following is a new poem which I dedicate to Emily.
Sometime when I see your turd
I lose my breath and fall short for words
It's porcelain nest, it's hue of brown
I barely achieve it's flushing down
You can sit on my lap while we both do our duty
Even the largest log couldn't rival your beauty
These lovely feelings and smells we procure
Surely could hold a match to manure
It's practically like we share an ass
Since your butt first touched where my butt has
We may as well, we share a heart
You smell of the sweetest fart
I want you here, perched upon my love seat
Time's never wasted when waste we excrete
Someday we'll build a home of poo
And I'll spend my days growing old with you
The tally is now three. I have three poop poems. This is my mind. This is my life.
I lose my breath and fall short for words
It's porcelain nest, it's hue of brown
I barely achieve it's flushing down
You can sit on my lap while we both do our duty
Even the largest log couldn't rival your beauty
These lovely feelings and smells we procure
Surely could hold a match to manure
It's practically like we share an ass
Since your butt first touched where my butt has
We may as well, we share a heart
You smell of the sweetest fart
I want you here, perched upon my love seat
Time's never wasted when waste we excrete
Someday we'll build a home of poo
And I'll spend my days growing old with you
The tally is now three. I have three poop poems. This is my mind. This is my life.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Eggnog
Eggnog sucks but it only sucks seasonally and even then it's not that serious of a snag. Me and eggnog have an understanding, you see. It doesn't get in my mouth and then I don't have to deal with it's bullshit and vice versa. Some music could learn a thing or two from eggnog.
Sometimes when two people get together they turn into one large annoying entity that consumes conversations and at times entire rooms. You may like one of these people but as soon as that second asshole turns up you've got a Voltron made out of bullshit and want nothing more than to tightly bundle a bindle of needles and jam it into their everywhere. In this one instance everyone but you is the first person and the second asshole is The Joker by the Steve Miller Band. As soon as that song comes on you know for a fact that every dickcock around you is going to perch on the edge of their seat and wait with catlike reflexes until they hear the word "Maurice" and then pounce at that guitar string bend with all the agility of a wet turd loosely wrapped in tinfoil. It's bad enough that if you're alone and you hear the song you know that if someone was present they would do it right in front of you even if they knew you hated it. George Zimmer can guarantee that. This happens far too often and neither I nor anybody else should be needlessly subjected to it. It should follow eggnog's lead and fuck off for a whole year.
One thing that I just plain don't need to have around is an overgrown homosexual suffering from head trauma that makes him believe he's become some kind of Shakespearian marvel. And that's exactly the human form Bohemian Rhapsody would take on and you know it. You wouldn't let that man anywhere near your home. It's uncalled for and the frequency that's it's played on the radio is probably detrimental to our physical health.
If druids were resurrected and due to an unfortunate result of culture shock started wearing shirts like Ricky from the Trailer Park Boys and playing frisbee then they would listen to Rush. Everyone would hate them. I already do. Just like I hate Rush.
The only way I can make it through Journey's Don't Stop Believing is to change the lyrics in my head to "Don't stop conceiving, hold onto that semen". Coincidentally the third ingredient to eggnog is semen. Don't put it near your cooch.
Sometimes when two people get together they turn into one large annoying entity that consumes conversations and at times entire rooms. You may like one of these people but as soon as that second asshole turns up you've got a Voltron made out of bullshit and want nothing more than to tightly bundle a bindle of needles and jam it into their everywhere. In this one instance everyone but you is the first person and the second asshole is The Joker by the Steve Miller Band. As soon as that song comes on you know for a fact that every dickcock around you is going to perch on the edge of their seat and wait with catlike reflexes until they hear the word "Maurice" and then pounce at that guitar string bend with all the agility of a wet turd loosely wrapped in tinfoil. It's bad enough that if you're alone and you hear the song you know that if someone was present they would do it right in front of you even if they knew you hated it. George Zimmer can guarantee that. This happens far too often and neither I nor anybody else should be needlessly subjected to it. It should follow eggnog's lead and fuck off for a whole year.
One thing that I just plain don't need to have around is an overgrown homosexual suffering from head trauma that makes him believe he's become some kind of Shakespearian marvel. And that's exactly the human form Bohemian Rhapsody would take on and you know it. You wouldn't let that man anywhere near your home. It's uncalled for and the frequency that's it's played on the radio is probably detrimental to our physical health.
If druids were resurrected and due to an unfortunate result of culture shock started wearing shirts like Ricky from the Trailer Park Boys and playing frisbee then they would listen to Rush. Everyone would hate them. I already do. Just like I hate Rush.
The only way I can make it through Journey's Don't Stop Believing is to change the lyrics in my head to "Don't stop conceiving, hold onto that semen". Coincidentally the third ingredient to eggnog is semen. Don't put it near your cooch.
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