When I killed a mockingbird, I of course went and looked up what killing a mockingbird was supposed to mean in TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD. I figured it was some deep voodoo curse or something. Some backwoods Alabama legend where you kill a mockingbird and your family is cursed and your children and your children’s children.
Turns out, no, it’s just Gregory Peck being an asshole. What he’s saying is: if you are going to kill a bird, do not kill the mockingbird in particular. Kill a blue jay instead, because the blue jay’s call is annoying. Whereas the mockingbird creates beautiful songs.
Which– it depends. The mockingbirds around here aren’t covering nightingales or some shit like that. What mockingbirds do is move into an area and sing the songs of competing birds to fake them out. So a sparrow flies by, considers nesting, and then hears the song of another sparrow and thinks: fuck it; I’ll move on. Continue reading
Don’t read this if it’s about you.
So the date was a mistake. I was tired. I was hung over. I was not on my game. I had not ejaculated in two days despite being bombarded with sexual stimuli. I had a ton of work to do; I was sick and exhausted; I have no money to spend on stupid fucking booze for girls and I just… I did not want to go.
But I thought I was gonna get laid. She had messaged me. When she was on her way out of town; lives mostly in San Francisco; she messaged me initially when she was about to head up there for a while. This means: I need dick before I leave, right? I got her number and never called her. Then she messaged me again; in town for a couple days. Really pushing the date. On the night before she leaves town. My whole profile, which links prominently to this web site, is about how I like to go on one date with girls off OKCupid and then fuck. She doggedly kept messaging me. She wants to get fucked, right? Day of date, we had planned 8pm; she needs to push it later. To 10. I should go to bed at fucking 10 after ravaging myself with liquor, cocaine and whores for 48 consecutive hours. But that’s just her pushing the date closer to fucktime, right?
My fake girlfriend wanted to hang out with me. She makes a nice meal; I take a hot bath; we curl up and watch Jessica Fletcher solve crimes involving theatrical legends who are known to 1986 America only as washed out LOVE BOAT guest stars. Watch Sheriff Tom Bosley stop by Fletcher’s humble yet tasteful Cabot Cove Victorian unannounced with disturbing news: “there’s been a MURDAH at the old antique shop; Barney McGant impaled on his Yankee weathervane! Jessica, I’m plum out of ideas here– and by the way, you making dinner?” Fucking Bosley, mooching off Jessica’s deductive skills and culinary gifts in one fell swoop. You old dog you.
I have a date tonight. I’m not thinking clearly about the situation. I have not ejaculated since throat fucking Astrid for a prolonged period without getting off on Friday night, then kind of sexually wrassling around with her in my apartment in the morning, then attending a wedding full of teenage girls in short dresses who would sit with their legs uncrossed so you could see the tiny contained mounds of their steamy pubescent pussies in black cotton panties, then a party with 19-22 year old undergraduates including an Asian girl in tight pants with a tiny perfect ass rubbing on me on the couch, the orgy proposing guy’s girlfriend dressed up in some cartoon whore outfit she bought at Disneyland leaning over me on the stairs, her thighs; the girl I had fucked in a tiny sheer summer dress, remembering how my meatpipe sundered her girlish inexperienced pussy, cumming in her… my ball sac is glowing. It is plutonium. I am afraid to jerk off because I’m gonna cum so hard it’ll hurt. I want to go on this date so I can get her into my bed and cum in two seconds. I am viewing this date as the Olympics of premature ejaculation and I am bringing home the gold.
Yeah, Astrid boned a dude on the porch at a party. Then I went in the can with her while she was taking a piss and she stuck her finger in her pussy and pulled out a fingerful of jizz and tried to smear it on me.
We were watching an episode of MAMA’S FAMILY where the Harper household receives a series of obscene phone calls, which Thelma “Mama” Harper pronounces “OHB-seen.” I wanted to add voice over of the call saying stuff like “I’m gonna cut your pussy open with a box cutter and then shit in it and give you a shit baby” but MAMA’S FAMILY is shot with a stagey acting style that does not allow for realistic length pauses in phone scenes. In other words, Ken Berry or Vicki Lawrence or whoever will pick up the phone and say “hello,” then almost instantaneously begin reacting with revulsion to the imaginary voice on line, e.g. “you want to WHAT? With ICE CUBES?”
We were at a party, a going away party for my 22 year old friends; a small place but there are always 22 year old girls there. Astrid, I want you to know that I have had sex with the blonde girl who was into reading Tarot cards. I am disappointed that I was not able to discreetly convey that to you in situ. Usually when we are together near an attractive woman I have fucked I’m able to work it into conversation the way someone who went to Harvard works that into conversation. And you are appropriately impressed. She insists that I have a large penis; the sex was in fact painful for her and caused vaginal bleeding. I do not have a large penis. Her concept of penis size is completely out of left field. Continue reading
Roosh has an article today that discusses the effects of porn and whacking off on game. He posits that guys like me who can beat off like a chimp and still go out after girls are rare:
I have a friend who can jerk off six times in a day yet still be amped enough to hit on girls, but he’s an outlier. For the average guy, placing distance between himself and unlimited free delicious porn will lead to the optimal hormonal state needed to get laid. As accessible as porn is today, you should be actively resisting its siren call. Sexual capital in the form of heavy balls is needed to maximize your game efforts.
If you read PUA and man-o-sphere forums obsessively, like me, you will notice that there’s a whole gang of stalwart non-masturbators out there who insist that to keep the Eye of the Tiger when picking up women you shouldn’t jerk off. Nofappers. Men who believe that they are at risk of their sexual desire and urgency being too low to effectively get women.
Wait a minute- really? You guys don’t want to get laid after beating off? Continue reading
She was my first girlfriend. I got engaged to my first girlfriend. She wasn’t very attractive. Almost a midget, she was like– I’m sorry, not a midget… not a generic little person either– she was almost a dwarf. She was 4′ 11″ and had to some degree the slighly out of proportion head and limbs of someone with true dwarfism, or achondroplasia. Like Warwick Davis or Weeman from Jackass.
Her fingers were stumpy, like little baby carrots, and her feet were preternaturally broad and short like hobbit-feet. In fact overall she was almost gnomelike in appearance… homonculoid… she got fat, too, once she started doing a lot of smack…
The first time she told me she was pregnant she was just making it up. Chicks do that, I guess, just to fuck with you. But the second time I saw the little blue pee-stick in the trash and I knew the shitstorm was coming. In no way did being pregnant slow down her vodka and opiate-consuming needs– on the contrary, the stress of the situation made her want to take more. We would be fucking, she on top of me on a little– you know those fucking chair-mattress things, in our friends’ guest bedroom, and suddenly some combination of pills and hormones would kick in and she’d start mumbling and crying, talking about how much she loved me and needed me, and if I ever went away she’d kill herself. Then she’d get a wild look in her eye, piss herself (on my cock,) and pass out on top of me. When she passed out suddenly it was like a corpse– there was no way you were getting her up again. She would piss the bed every night– we were staying with a bunch of friends (even though we both had perfectly viable apartments,) and she would kind of moan and burble and it would spout out of her while she slept. You couldn’t wake her up. Every night I would have to just roll over the corpse, rip the sheets out from under her and drag them down to the basement laundry as the urine on my pajamas cooled against my skin.
I am a racist. There’s no getting around it, I’m a fucking racist. Not in the cross-burning I-hate-n*ggers kind of way but in a way where misanthropy in general channels itself through racism. Like the other day I was shopping for shirts at my local discount dept. store and the place was just aswarm with wild screaming Mexican children with dirty hands and chocolatey faces, just running wild all over the store. Also there but in no way engaged with these teeming hellions were the corresponding parents– each pair a normal if somewhat squat 19-22 year old man coupled with a preposterously fat stretch-panted mamacita with high arched eyebrows drawn on in two shades of metallic paint. And I thought: at the end of the trip do these people simply take home the correct number of filthy snot-nosed children, but not necessarily the same ones they came in with? Is it part of the Mexican morning toilet to make sure that your child has an appropriately filthy and chocolatey face before leaving the house? Like does the mama stand at the door with a chocolate ice cream cone covered in jimmies and marshmallows and give it a real good twist in the kid’s face before letting them out?
I heard you were fucking some cop from Orange County, and you went out to stay in his condo on some river in Arizona, and you took Faye with you, and that she fucked him while you were there. And now you’re pissed at her. I heard you fucked Donny, the lord of the douchebags, and he went around telling everybody you had big floppy taco tits. I heard you fucked Steve Norwood, the hunchback albino, and that he went around telling everybody you had a loose pussy. I heard right after you dated me you got back together with your ex, the worst screenwriter in Hollywood– you were always waxing Proustian about how he was evil and abusive. But you got back together with him. And then you complained about him again. I heard you fucked like hundreds and hundreds of guys. I know you didn’t make me wear a condom so you probably didn’t make them either. You probably have herpes.
But I would still get back together with you.
Those Dove ads– with the fat chicks standing around in their panties… the one all the way on the right, with the chin-length brown hair, kind of tan. She’s got this cute round face that makes her look about fourteen years old, this cute little nubbin nose… oh god, do Iwant to fuck that pig… that sloppy fat whore… her fat looks all smooth and soft, not all cellulitey and grainy like real fat chicks. Like there’s muscle underneath it. Man, I just want to cum in that hot little underage sow and make her have my baby…
The rest of them are disgusting.