“High sex drive” is a woman’s term. Every man is like me. I just can’t lie about it. Every man fucks as much as he can. Jerks off as much as he can. Every male teacher fucks his students whenever possible. If not, he’s ugly. His dick like a chewed up hunk of bologna you barely rescued from the dog, from beating off about sweet tight wet underage pussy 5,000 times a day. Every man on a farm has fucked a mule at least 10,000 times.
Every renowned man in history fucked hot young teens whenever possible. Gandhi slept with 14 year olds. Said it was to test virtue by not touching them. He was touching them. Martin Luther King shredded more ass than a mule tannery. We’re told: these were great men with a flaw. Lechery was a side effect of their fame.
No. Their accomplishments were a side effect of chasing teen pussy. To get where he could rawdog underage girls, Gandhi had to become the Mahatma.
The only exception: Hitler. Hitler got 0 ass.
I talk about underage pussy and birds. She did a great job cutting it together:
Once you make a rule– in this case, “Sunday morning is writing time–” once you make a rule, the opposite will happen. I took time to do other things. Sixteen minutes to whiten my teeth. Put on a Biore nose strip. Trim my body hair. Sixteen minutes. Enough to derail all meaningful thought for sixteen hours. I’ll never write again. All the other shit I’ve made this week: fucking garbage. Therefore I’ll never be famous. Never make the girls melt like the comedian who shared at AA last night. Now I have to google him like every woman in the room did. God dammit why wasn’t I a comedian. No one googles me but me. Although I do it enough to affect SEO.
Well they can’t do what I do, I think. Sit down at the keys to prove it. Watch the wizardly words flow out of my fingers. Crisply honed sentences. Metaphors that connect souls to truths they’ve thought their whole lives in unguarded corners of the mind but were just inchoate murmurs, until now… WATCH ME. WATCH ME, MOTHERFUCKERS–
Accept defeat. I’ll never write anything good again. What’s left of me. Half decent guitar player; about 60% funny. Enough to get a sideways glance from a fat elderly woman covered in roast beef purple cysts, maybe.
(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)
Good morning. Tuesday. Desperately want to not go to work. Don’t want to go to the gym. Don’t want to write. Just want free money and pussy. Just want to impregnate a hundred teens, have everyone else pay for my babies. Worship me as a god. I just want blimps with 800 foot LED pictures of my face a la Blade Runner humming in the airspace over schools telling kids their highest ambition should be to take my seed and clean my stove and be entombed alive in my pyramid. I just want my face stapled to Japanese junior high muff with the long straight jet black toilet brush textured pubes while I’m fed by enema. Never work never pay bills. I’d still find something to complain about. Continue reading
(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)
God will not get you any pussy. He cannot cure cancer. Or at least, He won’t. He won’t get your kids home safe; He won’t save your job; He will not affect your AIDS test. What He will do if you can get through to Him is remind you that it doesn’t matter. God is your insignificance. God is the knowledge that you’re already dead. The world moves on as if you were never there. One day it’ll be as though the world itself was never there. Your mistakes, less meaningful than the death of a liver fluke. Like your happiness. Continue reading
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(Buy my book Hot Naked Tits.)
Have to fucking drive to spend Father’s Day with my stepdad. Have to go to my friend’s stupid bachelor party. Arranged by oafs. There will be no sex and no possibility of sex. Have to go to the Alcoholics Anonymous District GSR meeting. This is where… I don’t fucking know. Some joiner thing, you hear about issues pertaining to the worldwide organization. Discuss budgeting the district pancake breakfast. Hear a bunch of serial DUI hairspray drinkers dither over Robert’s Rules of Order. Report back to your group. My group of East LA heroin addicts could not give less of a fuck. Why did I agree to this. Have to give my cat a flea bath. Then vacuum up the fleas on the carpet. Then apply flea medicine. Any one of these things: a nightmare. All 3, get the fuck out of here.
Clean the fish tank. Do laundry. Wash every dish. Clean the bathtub, the sink, which were already “deep cleaned” by professionals. 9 days later, filthy. Thought I’d be an adult. Get the place in order. It’s a New Way of Life but I was right the first time: cleaning is useless. It doesn’t make me happier. Doesn’t even keep the landlady off my ass. There’s always something else to clean. I’d rather eat a six foot log of my own shit swarming with house centipedes and their gooey egg sacs than clean the toilet again. It’s a fucking woman’s job. I blame feminism. Continue reading
I put my best shit into a book. It’s called Hot Naked Tits. 3 bucks even on Amazon because $2.99 is a dirty lie. Kindle & Kindle apps only for now. If it does OK I’ll have some printed.
What can I say. Go fuckin buy it.
Agitated about this. Trying not to put significance on it. But it is significant. No getting around it. Then again– I can do this now because I’ve come around to not giving a shit. I don’t need the money. More people have already read my shit than are gonna buy the book. A fucking lot of people. I have succeeded. This is gravy. Continue reading