to go out with you. I want to just fuck you. But I don’t want to fuck the kind of girl who just fucks you. And I don’t want to go out with the kind of girl who just goes out with you. I want to fuck the kind of girl who goes out with you, and go out with the kind of girl who just fucks you.
Once you get desensitized to constant STD hysteria, there’s a new one. This time a girl wouldn’t fuck me because she was scared of Hepatitis C. Another silent killer that you don’t know you have, except Steven Tyler has it and look at him now. Pamela Anderson has it and look at her now. Well shit dude—I don’t want to look like Steven Tyler, but if I spent two decades smoking freebase rocks the size of basketballs and my dick hadn’t spent more than ten minutes outside of some MTV watching slag since the 70’s, I would count myself LUCKY to look like Steven Tyler, i.e. ambulatory and breathing. But this Hep C is the new one; the new silent killer. Can’t scare ‘em with AIDS anymore so we better tell the kids they’ll look like Steven Tyler. Or worse, they’ll write songs like Steven Tyler.
Or they trot out syphilis, like it’s 1532 and we’ve been fucking cave bears. Or they point out that Chlamydia sneaks up on you and goes untreated and ravages your ovaries and you’ll die alone a childless spinster. These things have been around, you know—these are things that a 1942 sailor would laugh off after a quick shot of penicillin. These are things they made funny posters about in World War 2—she may LOOK clean, private, but Rosie’s got a surprise. And dudes fucked Rosie anyway and then their dick hurt and they got a shot and it was over. And they laughed about it. Which is what you SHOULD do about STD’s. Continue reading
I was thinking about when Arnold on DIFF’RENT STROKES was almost molested by a guy because the dude had an Atari and offered Arnold a bike. Even though Arnold lived in a gilded cradle of indescribable wealth. It goes to show you what a jerkoff Mr. Drummond was– he could have spared Arnold the very real possibility of getting buttfucked by an old fat guy by merely spending a pittance on some basic creature comforts that millions and millions of kids had, and they didn’t turn out to be slackers or fuckups. But because the guy had an Atari and a bike that Mr. Drummond had prickishly withheld, Arnold almost got fucked in the ass. And for poor Dudley, there was no “almost.” Dudley was deeply penetrated over and over and over again by an aging bear’s veiny, grey-pubed beef stick. Which experience Dudley had to replicate over and over and over again at 3am in some dank abandoned public park, seeking out white-haired “tops” of the approximate build as his initial rapist sitting idling in vans, well into adulthood. Probably.
For God’s sake, don’t mourn.
Use my death to get laid. Go to a party, talk to a girl, kind of be brooding a little bit, and when she asks you what’s wrong, say “my friend died today.” Open up to her about your feelings; tell a couple anecdotes about how close we were, things you will remember about me that will change the way you live the rest of your life. Like I tell women that I wear mismatching socks because my friend who died always wore mismatching socks and my group of boarding school friends all decided upon his death we would never wear matching socks for the rest of our lives. Girls love this. In reality, my friend who wore mismatching socks is still alive and I just stole his idea, but still. If I die, you have this for real. Start never wearing matching socks. Chicks eat this shit up. Continue reading
Right now, your mom is masturbating to a dirty book about a guy who duct tapes a young girl to a chair, blindfolds her, gags her, beats the shit out of her, then pulls a tampon out of her cooch and fucks her period pussy before spraying hot, salty jizz all over her face. With his huge cock. His huge, huge cock. So huge that she is scared of it, your mom in character as this 21 year old girl. The girl whom she is pretending to be while she is flicking her middle-aged bean is younger than you. She is younger than your younger sister. She is a mere four years older than you were when your mom would have been horrified to find a pack of purloined Virginia Slims crumpled up in your Levis when she was doing your laundry.
Right now your mom is pretending to be a girl who literally just turned old enough to drink, who meets a notorious but reclusive billionaire “industrialist” who made huge sums of money in the way that women think “industrialists” make money, which is: they don’t know, so he just owns a bunch of factories where things are made by hand right here in the good old U S of A and a bunch of farms where man and beast alike are treated ethically and humanely. When asked about his massive hoard of non-inherited money bootstrapped from nothing with the sweat of his brow the man, who is under thirty, speaks of how he “knows people” and the key is his forty thousand employees, all of whom he has hand-selected and pays what they’re worth and listens to their ideas and etc., even though his army of hot young blonde secretaries are terrified of him. The girl had to interview him for the school paper when her cub journalist roommate got sick, and then he tracked her down and made the girl his fuckslave. Continue reading