My Stupid Fucking Ball Sack and its God Damn Demands

1 Mar

My stupid fucking ball sack and its god damn demands.  Better go out; maybe there will be girls.  There’s one now; go talk to her.  What the fuck are you so charming for if you’re not gonna get in that girl’s pants.  What purpose do ideas and words have if they’re not going to get you inside some woman.  Looks like school got out, better look up that girl’s skirt on the bus.  Better leer.  Better make a fool of yourself.   Yeah I know you want to write but Bing does perfect video searches for porn, anything you want.   How about chubby girls who just turned eighteen taking unwanted creampies; we could probably find something.  We have the technology.  OK now go empty me into the sink.  OK let’s do it again.

You better get a job, how are you gonna take girls out on dates.  When they ask what do you do, what are you gonna say.  Gotta hustle homie.  I know you want to write but why don’t you check your OKCupid; why don’t you search for women eighteen to twenty-five looking for casual sex. Look, dude, you’re not gonna be curing cancer; this is what you’re good at.  Talking your way into girls’ panties.  You have a limited amount of time to fuck all the pussy in the world.  There are hot pieces of ass in little summer dresses walking around, better swivel your head like a fucking dog whistle went off so everyone knows you’re a pig.

Miss Teen Delaware has a porn– go look at it.  Three months past her eighteenth birthday.  She was a foster kid.  Some foster brother or some boyfriend of her mother’s whose breath smelled like meat and old beer crawled on top of her on the couch over the old lady’s vicodin snores… put his hands in her little panties.  Fucked her in her little  ass.  He saw what he wanted and he took it…  OK now go empty me into the sink.

Your ball sack is an evil alien parasite that controls you.   Look at the fucking thing; it’s straight out of H.R. Giger and was clearly just stapled on as an afterthought.  And you spend your whole life following its orders and protecting it.  Your greatest fear is something happening to your balls.  God forbid something should hurt this malevolent little demon that makes you desperate and angry and contemptible.

My god damn ball sack.  I have wonderful women I would marry if I didn’t need to spray its contents inside girls who look like they’re in high school.  I have work I would do.   Places I would travel.  I would help people.  I would counsel abused foster kids.  A merciful God would never hang this smelly nasty little unwrinkling second mind off you.  Or, he would have made more women.

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4 Responses to “My Stupid Fucking Ball Sack and its God Damn Demands”

  1. Overachieving Sack March 1, 2013 at 3:59 pm #

    TREMENDOUS

    … like the demands imposed upon me by my sack

  2. L. Roy Aiken March 1, 2013 at 6:56 pm #

    I’m reminded of a limerick from the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. This is from memory, so although not precise in the wording, the spirit is thus:

    “There once was a man from Stamboul
    Who soliloquized thus to his tool:
    ‘You took all my wealth
    And you ruined my health
    And now you won’t pee, you old fool!”

    You’ll take no comfort in knowing that it *does* get better as you become of A Certain Age — you’ll still want to squeeze one off in the prettiest life support systems for pudenda you see, but you can also, as the great Bukowski described in one of his poems, dismiss them as “trouble,” and be free to move on to the Next Thing. Which likely won’t be intimacy with a nubile babymaker, but at least you won’t be *too* tormented about it.

    So I leave you with this golden oldie from the days when *Playboy* was relevant and had a good Party Jokes page, besides:

    “Nymphomaniacal Alice
    Úsed a dynamite stick for a phallus
    They found her vagina
    In North Carolina
    And her asshole west of Dallas,”

    I feel better, anyway.

    Hang in there, sport. It’s my personal experience that when you find something else to be interested in, and stay interested in it, the ladies will come looking for *you.* Because how *dare* you not obsess over them!

  3. Dr. Illusion March 1, 2013 at 10:07 pm #

    Thank you. I went and watched that porn because of you. With my gf. The porn wasn’t all that good, but we fucked afterward. 3.5 stars.

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. The Lives of Beasts | delicioustacos - March 21, 2013

    [...] Ten per cent of the males fuck a hundred per cent of the females. The other ninety per cent are just as horny, but they can’t jerk off. So they do the next best thing: grab a pup by the nose and drown it and fuck it for weeks. Males need to get off. Hands didn’t give us civilization because we could then build structures and tools. Hands gave us civilization because we can jerk off, thus freeing up energy and time. Otherwise, instead of inventing the spear, early hominids would have just devised cleverer and cleverer ways to fuck a baby antelope in the ass. Except for a historical hairsbreadth of enforced monogamy we’re another one of these animals where ten per cent of the males fuck ninety per cent of the females. Each generation is spawned only by the roughest horniest men and it just keeps getting amped up and up and up. Those unlaid otters are the spawn of otters who were so horny they could kill, and by the luck of the draw they were one per cent less horny and tough than the next guy. They had to back down but they were still carrying the hellish burden of this ball sack. [...]

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