In the 90’s, Kenny got busted for having phone sex with his three mistresses, when his marriage was falling apart. The way it worked was KENNY SET UP A FUCKING 800 NUMBER FOR THEM and when they called, they would hear a recording of Kenny describing sex fantasies. Stuff like: “He’s a big guy, six foot three maybe, but a great body. . . . He’s been in the sun, you can tell. . . . He’s so gentle with you and he takes his pants off and he’s got on these underwear that are kind of silk underwear … and you feel his skin all over you. . .”
This is shit straight out of a romance novel. Kenny considerately put some thought into what women might want and tried laying it down in the soothing road-worn voice of Kenny Rogers. Any other dude would have been like “and then I fuck your face till you choke on my cock and pull out and jizz on your sister’s tits,” etc. Kenny’s sex fantasies are completely unselfish.
And when busted, here’s what he said: “It’s not like I took fourteen-year-old girls and tied them up and fed them drugs, I mean, these were conversations. These were words.” FUCK YEAH I DID IT AND IT WAS NO BIG FUCKING DEAL- GET OFF MY BACK. Kenny has balls.
Anyway, Jenny. Sorry, but you should have been more interesting and you definitely should not have made me come in my hand. You are on fucking birth control, for Christ’s sake, and like— she specifically instructed me not to come on her— I wasn’t planning on blowing it all over her face or anything but I had to grip my helmet tightly and painfully to prevent cum from spraying all over the place. This is ridiculous. I hate how’s she’s so squeamish about basic sex acts, like— she won’t suck dick. She’s really cute and she can be really cool but also, you know, she used to be fat and is kind of owlish looking and so is still insecure about her appearance, who knows.
Heather. Heather, I am sorry, I know you like me, and I am blowing you off. I must have been the fucking catch of the century for you, and I don’t mean that in a self-aggrandizing way. I mean that in a way demeaning of you. I wanted to go out with you because you are nineteen years old, and that made me hot, but what kind of fucking nineteen year old has saggy boobs. Apparently you used to be fat, and that’s why they’re like that– well, get fat again. And you live in a squalid, filthy studio in Inglewood and have no car, and when I sleep over it’s on a goddamn pullout sofa bed with a fucking— trying to think of a funny word for steel bar— whatever, with a steel bar pinioning you in the middle, or on your roommate’s brick-hard little futon-couch. And when you come to visit me I have to go pick you up at the train station, and then drop you off– no. Find yourself a nice local boy. Continue reading
God dammit— why are all you girls so fucking boring. This is how old I am, this is where I’m from, this is what I do– I love my job! I love my family and friends! Go fuck your family and friends. I hope your family and friends are all on a bus and it explodes in a fiery wreck. I hope your job fires you and you are forced to suck dick under an underpass. You will wish your family and friends were there to help you out, but they will have died in a fiery wreck.
Just— you fucking chickenshits have to start showing a little actual personality. Who fucking cares what people think of you— you’re on the goddamn internet. Nobody cares.
Or— let’s just… let’s just assume you love your family and friends. From now on, let’s only make it a point to mention them if you do not love your family and friends. Everybody loves their family and friends, even me. Let’s just say something about your family if they beat and molested you; that’s the only thing that could possibly make them interesting. Even I love my family, although I would gladly trade them in for a family with a shitload of money, and my friends I end up fully replacing about every year and a half.
I used to have period sex.
I also used to eat chicken that I’d left out for 48 hours at room temperature. I’d grab half full beers at 4 am after a party off a crusty mantle covered with solo cups and pound them. Half the time there would be a cigarette in it. I used to jerk off while taking shits. There are a lot of disgusting things I used to do. No more, and period sex is one of them. I am no longer so desperate to get my dick into absolutely any kind of pussy anywhere that I will plunge it into this scabrous and foul smelling residue.
Because periods are fucking disgusting. Completely natural of course, but, shit is completely natural. Puke is completely natural. Natural things we rightly shun and abhor. This is why Hasids can’t touch a strange woman, in case she’s menstruating. Why ancient Hebrews would make menstruating women squat in red tents. Why Native Americans would send them to an isolated lodge on stilts to run the impurity out of them. It’s just gross. And it attracts bears.
I bring this up because I had a date last night who was cute, whom I liked, whom I took back to my apartment. With whom it got physical. Whom I clearly would have fucked. Clearly, except she was on her period. Continue reading
Yeah, it’s my birthday. I am thirty five years old. This feels like a momentous age for some reason. I am thinking like a woman, because, for an unmarried woman, this age is some kind of shitstorm where your last viable egg is now gone and you just have a 9/10th’s empty gumball machine with only a couple Trig Palins left rattling around. But still, I am single. I am single with no plausible hope of not being single. I do not know even one person, out of the dozens and dozens of reasonably attractive women whom I know- I do not know even one person I would consider dating who would consider dating me.
And now I’m thirty five. So you figure, if I meet someone tomorrow, we hit it off, we get married after a year, we spend two years traveling and hanging out and somehow saving money, and then we have kids, that puts me at thirty fucking eight when my first child is born. And if I want to have more kids, I’ll be into my forties. My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins. And this is assuming that I meet someone tomorrow, even though I have been trying, trying hard, to meet someone for ten fucking years. I have been doing everything. But ultimately I would have to completely reengineer my life to meet a woman and make it stick. I would have to put myself in a position where women are around me naturally. Because girls don’t want you; they don’t come looking for you; they don’t even like it if you come looking for them. You have to be forced to be in a place and your presence there has to be in no way motivated by there being girls there and they have to slowly come to like you over time.
Yeah, just stay away from alpacas, though. Because I know they have those ads late at night, between “BUY GOLD NOW” and “they’ll bring the diabeedus kits right to yer home,” and they show a little blonde boy frolicking with the angelic baby alpaca, you know. But it ain’t like that. They’re fucking surly, they bite, and their natural defense is to spit a hardened wad of mucous at your eyes or chest at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour. Also, the alpaca costs like 30 grand and it produces ten pounds of wool per year, which retails for $17 per pound. You are trapped breeding more and more thirty thousand dollar alpacas to sell to the next sucker, forever.