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Now go wash your hands

Let me say, first and foremost, I am AGAINST goat rape.

Glad I got that out of the way.

And if you happen to be a goat rape enthusiast, I am judging you, sorry but it is what it is.

This twisted little train of thought came from a Facebook link a friend of mine posted.

It was a link to a news article about a man caught raping a goat.

It was a typical FB echo chamber of 20 people saying the same thing, but within the range of total outrage on one end to the ironically humorous hipster douchebag comments.

And then theres me.

My goal is not to contribute to the conversation, its to break it down into angry response discussion groups.

You find out a lot about people when they are pissed to the point of not being PC anymore.

“The heart wants what it wants, and sometimes, the heart wants a goat.”

That was the opening line of my defense of the goat rapist.

On a positive note, I like to think that it truly united the entire group into a unified front of anger.

Directed at me.

Somehow, not denouncing the goat rapist made me the following things, all at once:

  • A racist.
  • Pro human rape.
  • Pro sex trafficking.
  • Anti feminism.
  • Pro elder abuse.
  • Pro misogyny.
  • A hater of all animals.
  • A Trump supporter.

And those were just the public comments.

The private messages were more fun.

One of the first called me the “N-word”.

I am still not sure of the connection between Goat rape and the N-word, but they repeated it a few times.

My favorites are the animal rights people.

Their strings are so visible and easy to pull.

Simply find out what their animal of choice is and disagree in an aberrant way.

The level of outrage when a “Sea Shepherd” type is told that dolphin is delicious can be heard from space.

In my defense, I don’t attack anyones belief system that didn’t come to me first.

It is selective bully-ism employed on the people that usually bully others, so its justified in my mind. (My perspective is wonderfully streamlined to make me the hero in almost all settings.)

I read the article and it took an odd turn.

The goat owner suspected his neighbor was sneaking into the barn to abuse the goat.

So you lock the door, right?

No, this guys plan was to hook up motion detector cameras and chain the goat out in the yard.

This is like suspecting your neighbor is a pedophile so you dress your little boy in a Catholic school girl outfit and play on his pogostick out in front of the neighbors house everyday in the hopes of catching him.

The goat owner is culpable in all of this, like a beastiality pimp of some sort.

By the way, if you explain this reasoning to people, it will not go well.

Some people are not ready to hear these kinds of revelations.

At least, not without coffee.

Mmmmm coffee.

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Posted by on August 18, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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This message will self destruct in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

A non-descript black town car will pull up in front of your house at precisely 5pm.

You MUST be wearing a black dress with red heels.

If you wear anything else the driver will leave.

The driver will stand by the back door.

Nod at him as you approach, and gesture at the door ONLY with your left hand.

He will open the door and close it once you are in.

Place your hands in your lap and look down.

Do NOT make eye contact.

The driver will ask you 3 times, “Where are we going?”

Do NOT answer.

If you answer, he will pull over and remove you from the vehicle.

After the third time, he will head to the freeway.

You will arrive at a sake/sushi bar in Hollywood called “Kino”.

Walk THRU the restaurant to the bar.

Tell the batender with the RED bowtie that you want the “Twilight Special”.

He will push a napkin across the bar to you with a 5 of spades playing card under it.

Take the card and walk thru the kitchen to the black door at the back with the large Japanese man in a tuxedo in front of it.

He will say nothing.

Tilt your head to the LEFT side and say “What is the frequency, Kenneth?”

When he opens the door, walk thru the casino inside and out into the alley.

There is a limo waiting, get into the backseat and tell the driver that you are late.

He will drive you to the Bonaventure Hotel in LA.

Once you arrive, walk to the front desk and approach the clerk with the blue pen tucked behind his LEFT ear.

Shake his hand and palm him the playing card.

He will immediately hand you a large yellow envelope.

Go to the elevator and take it to the 23rd floor.

Open the envelope and inside there is a room key that has “2315” printed on it.

Use it to open room #2356.

In the closet of that room is a wall safe.

Input “2315#” and open the safe.

Inside, there is a cell phone.

Go out on the balcony and dial #6 on the speed dial menu.

When the call is answered, ask for help with your “Rodent” problem.

Hang up and leave the phone on the balcony in the black lounge chair.

Immediately take the elevator to the lobby and walk briskly to the Yellow cab waiting for you.

Tell the driver you are the “VIP” customer.

He will say nothing and drive.

Ignore the urine smell.

You will soon arrive at the Days Inn in Compton.

Go to the front desk and ask for Tran.

Tell Tran that the exterminator is delayed.

He will hand you a card key for room #22.

Head across the parking lot to room #22.

Put the card key in the slot, then turn to face the parking lot.

I will be in the yellow 1979 AMC Pacer with no pants on.

Get in and perform oral sex.

I’ll take you home, maybe we can get some Taco Bell.

 
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Posted by on June 9, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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One more thing you can’t do in church.

Starbucks is attempting a hostile world takeover, one cup at a time.

 

I felt a little awkward this morning, yelling at the dog to stop licking his balls.

I mean, who am I to judge?

If I could reach, I sure as hell would not listen to people asking me to stop.

However, I feed him and walk him, so its my way or the highway. (Highway consists of feeding himself and figuring out how to shit into mid-air.)

Upon reflection, It might be the best of all things that me, and by extension males as a species, are not double jointed in a way as to facilitate the licking of our own balls.

The damage to society would be devastating.

We would still be living in caves and the ladies would be cooking cold meals because nobody will stop their activities long enough to invent fire.

So it all works out for the best.

And no one will have invented Starbucks.

So there is that.

Talk about your aggressive organizations.

There was an old school sporting goods store in my town.

Been there since before I was born.

Burnt to the ground a few years ago.

And no one has had the heart to rebuild.

Like living in a house someone died in, there is bad mojo attached to it.

Enter Starbucks.

They could not care less.

Tempt fate? Motherfucker, they OWN fate sprinkled with pumpkin spice! (That line makes no sense, but I laugh every time I read it, so it stays.)

But why? Why do they want to dominate the world?

Two words.

Rechanneled libido.

It makes perfect sense now, doesn’t it?  

Starbucks is spreading like the plague because they can’t like their own balls. (Let that sink in.)

Even I am in awe at the twisted logic that made the concept above possible.

However twisted that sounds, I cannot find a serious argument against it.

Dogs, by the way, do not prefer the taste of pumpkin spice, much less latte’s with pumpkin spice. (Balls yes, P-spice? No bueno.)

It is this that has held dogs down from evolving thumbs and competing for dominance on this planet.

A test reader just made a funny about humans not sniffing each other’s asses.

Beg to differ.

Go to any bar in Hermosa Beach, California during the Summer on “Dollar Shot Night” and you will see manifest ass sniffing on a grand scale.

In truth, we are not that far from the caves, but we like to think we are.

This is the first in a series of posts that unmask plots by the major coffee houses.

My next post will explain Starbucks connection to the Unicorn Latte and nuclear war.

Mmmmm coffee…

 
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Posted by on May 19, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Hi Ho, Hi Ho, you know the rest.

There is an odd energy to being unemployed.

Like you are forgetting something that you just can’t remember.

But its always there.

And an element of laziness.

That would be my immigrant blood talking.

If you are not so sick or damaged that you are in hospital, why the hell aren’t you at work?

That voice in the back of my head sounds suspiciously like my father, but we are not here to analyze, just share.

I found myself caught in a layoff a month ago.

I hate surprises, especially when they interrupt my day to day.

I am a fan of consistency.

Mainly because you can never count on inconsistency.

Here is one of the main issues with job hunting.

Paranoia is your best friend.

You want to come across as a nice guy, exactly who they want, but your best bet is to approach it like borderline paranoid schizophrenic.

There are so many job scams going on, it boggles the mind.

Resumes services, recruiters that need a “fee” because they work with “exclusive” clients. (I hate using quotes, its annoying.)

I was a recruiter, worse, I was a “headhunter” during the Dot Coms. (Headhunter deserves quotes, we were shameless money whores.)

But even we didn’t have the yarbles to try and charge candidates selling them like human cattle for a DANDY profit.

These are the guys I love to keep on the phone for a long time, giving them the impression that the hook is solidly set into my upper lip.

Like telemarketers, these are people who think they are slick.

Its only when they realize that you are jerking them around that they get pissed.

I had one threaten to KICK MY ASS.

I pointed out that, as they had my resume, they knew where I lived, and further invited them by for said ass kicking.

Not that I think I am such a badass that I live without fear, far from it.

I am half a century old and chubby. (Cardio kickboxing can only do so much.)

I am not gonna be laying people out left and right, not even on a good day.

But, and here is the really weird part, I have had my ass kicked by people that are inhumanly good at it.

So, my fear of a mediocre smack down is low level at best.

Now, we move on to the shady types that have jobs.

I say shady because they have a job, but not one you want.

Among other things, I do sales.

Here is the general rule with sales:

  1. The higher the salary, the easier the sale and the more you want someone of a certain minimal level of quality to stay in the role for the long term. There are few jobs like this. Mainly because when someone gets one of these jobs, they never leave.
  2. The lower the salary, the harder the sales. When you are seeing something that is 100% commission, that is a really hard sale and the company doesn’t want to waste money on people who may never make that sale. Real Estate Agents and Car Salesmen live in this category. Yes, there is a reason they have that reputation.
  3. Never be afraid to let the employer know how much you love money. Sales is the only position that being “Money driven” is not only acceptable, its preferred.

As a general rule, any job that you cannot get a clear answer of what it is on the phone, that you have to come in for, is shady as fuck.

The person the phone wants you to come in because physical presence twists the equation enough that he has a better chance of you going for it.

And thats when you find yourself signing up friends and family to sell candles, insurance, weight-loss products and dildos. (I have seen family members selling all of those items.)

Now, this is just my opinion, I am not looking to throw the stink eye on anyone’s sale, but when you find yourself selling a double headed dildo to a blood relative, you have made a bad decision in the long run.

But that is just me. (Double headed dildos creep me out.)

I am an asshole before I have my coffee.

Alright, I am an asshole after, I am just happier.

Mmmm coffee…

 

 
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Posted by on May 12, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Attempted innocence – FAIL

I just finished watching one of the worst stand up comedy concerts Netflix has to offer.

I will not say the name, mainly because I don’t want the karma that comes with making someone even mildly curious enough to watch it.

It would be same if I was encouraging a pedophile.

So, I will not name the shameless hack out loud, just say that when you take a mediocre talent and promote her, nay, ram her down the throat of the public, despite talent, you end up with what I call the “Beyonce Effect”.

Enough with that.

 

Here’s the problem with Thai food.

They use spices that exist nowhere else in the world. (Meaning in anything I would eat regularly enough for my system to be used to it.”

This leads to a condition the experts call “Asinus praesepe mortem certa explosione” (The ass explosion of certain death. Its Latin and fuck you if you don’t get the humor there.)

Its not a pretty sight, or smell, for that matter.

Picture this, if you dare.

Constipation.

For the first few hours.

Your stomach begins gurgling like an angry newborn after the first 5 minutes and the pressure/pain builds and builds.

The final 15 minutes is like giving birth without anesthesia. (Or so I’m told.)

The pressure gets so bad that for the final 2 minutes, your body produces the symptoms of stroke and your whole left side goes slack.

What happens to the toilet is a damn shame.

At this point, even atheists will thank God for the discovery of bleach and Febreeze. (Pro tip- Avoid Lemon scented room fresheners. The only thing worse than the smell of ass is a lemon ass.)

Luckily, much like a sudden storm, it fades by the next day.

The only thing left to deal with is the psychological side effects.

I am not saying that you can be outright traumatized by a dose of the quacker-shits, but it is a near thing.

Seems to be a lot of potty talk lately.

I am sure there is some sort of Freudian reason for it. (I doubt it, but anything is possible. There really isn’t anything I hide from myself.)

But it should never shock women when men get weird sexually.

Its kind of a deeply ingrained thing with us.

Begins early, around 12 or 13.

We discover that the penis has a secondary feature that we never knew about.

AND THE GAME IS ON!

What follows is a lifetime of shame, guilt and wondering if your lazy eye and near-sightedness is self inflicted.

As far as obsessive hobbies go, masturbation does not mind sharing.

It doesn’t mind you having a girlfriend, a wife, a job, or other passions in your life.

Its like the sexual version of Cheers.

Happy to see you, never forgets what you like and is willing to try new and freaky shit in a judgement free atmosphere.

Masturbation is the best friend who will never leave you.

Ok, potty talk morphed into a creepy jerking off tangent.

Time to get back on track.

 

Coffee.

Today is blue collar, 7-11 coffee.

Kudos to 7-11 for realizing that shitty coffee is a poor seller.

They stepped up their coffee game awhile back.

Now it is one of the main profit sites in the store and they recognize that.

Flavored creamers, a variety of roasts and sizes so large that even the true stimulant freaks (Holler!) can get their fill.

I went with a solid Columbian roast, nothing better for the morning.

3 pink packets and a little half n half later, Bittermac is a happy boy.

To quote a hot friend of mine:

Coffee up, motherfuckers!

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on April 28, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Best to stay upwind

Perfume was invented by the ancient Egyptians.

They used it in religious ceremonies, burial preparations and daily use.

It is some of the most expensive liquid on the planet, ounce for ounce.

So, the modern usage for women is to lightly apply it.

So why do you need to know that?

Because I am under an aromatic assault.

Someone reeks.

Remember what I said about the modern usage?

Lightly being the key word there.

How the fuck that morphed into dipping yourself in a large wine barrel of perfume daily using some sort of repurposed sexual rope and pulley system is beyond me.

The term “Old French Whore” comes to mind.

Not to dabble in misogynistic slut shaming, but now I am wondering what kind of old French whore.

Not like a modern one that you know she could bathe more, but she has a meth issue that gets in the way of productive thought, but a French revolution era French whore that bathes once a year, has an opium dependency and is rocking that whole “Les Miserable” vibe.

My nose actually hurts, how is that possible?
Growing up, one of my grandmother’s friends was an Avon sales lady.

And while grandma loved her perfume, You could smell the Avon lady when she pulled up at the curb.

I think the outrage, and sinus pain, that I am feeling is that the woman sitting next to me is not from my grandmother’s era.

She appears to be in her 30’s.

Stunning Japanese women that have an obvious talent for dressing and accessorizing never go wrong with perfume.

It boggles the mind that a woman in stiletto heels would not realize she smells like Miss Redneck at the homecoming tractor pull.

I am attracted and repulsed.

Let me clarify that.

My mind is repulsed.

My penis is lacking a nose or any sort of restraint, he finds her wonderful and would like to wear her ass for a hat.

(I am sure I will pay for that last line somehow, Karma has been taking cheap shots lately.)

The ring on her left hand tells me there is a mister somewhere, working his ass off to afford her expensive shoes and barrels of cheap perfume.

I wonder if his lack of a sense of smell has held him back in life?

Or perhaps he was raised in the family business, hand cleaning septic tanks.

Maybe she is the trophy/fetish wife?

None of my business, although my penis is nosey-rosey today.

The second my coffee cooled to the point that I figured I was offending some coffee based diety by not drinking it, I fled the building.

It took a full five minutes of walking and breathing deeply to clear out.

In thru the mouth at first, out thru the nose, just to push the crap out, then breathing in thru the nose after awhile.

And then I smelled the perfume on my shirt.

And realized I was sporting a semi against my will.

Karma, you are a twisted fuck.

 
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Posted by on March 31, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Don’t forget the roses, asshole.

Valentine’s day is one of those days where people freak out for a variety of reasons.

Saint Valentine must have been a sadistic son of bitch, setting aside the whole sainthood thing.

A quick Google search says that Saint Valentine lived in Rome when Emperor Claudius decided that soldiers were not allowed to marry because single men fight better, so Valentine was captured and tortured for performing marriages on the sly.

He was captured, imprisoned, and tortured.

That sounds about right.

Dating and sex, done right, can be some of the most uplifting things in your life.

Done the way almost EVERYONE does it, can suck the soul out of you and make you wish you were dead.

(Side note – I am in a coffee place that does bagels. The manager has been explaining to a homeless woman at the counter that the bagel toasting machine does not have settings. There is a nob on the front that says “LIGHT-MEDIUM-DARK”. So either the manager is just trying to get rid of the homeless lady or he is un-able to read, yet they made him manager. Go figure.)

Couples that go out on Valentine’s Day have a whole butt-load of stressful things to worry about.

If they have been dating for a long time, this whole night is just a farce.

If they just started dating, the pressure is on.

He will either drink too much out of the stress of wanting the night to go well, setting up a “Whiskey dick” scenario for later. (Good luck with that, buddy.)

Or, he will not drink enough and just be a stressed piece of shit for the night. (Doesn’t matter if he can get it up or not, he ain’t gettin any.)

For the single folk?

Even worse.

Because alone is when your inner voice tells you shit about love and relationships.

Not the good, hopeful stuff, either.

But the vile, evil shit that leads to bad behavior and obsession.

Stalking comes from this.

Guys and girls, no one is immune to the crazy bug.

And the crazy bug is something that is resistant to even the strongest antibiotics or bleach.

Stalking is kind of the middle of the road, generic thing that goes on.

Its kind of the safest one of the bunch.

The worse behaviors are extreme stalking and the “Fatal attraction” scenario.

And if you have never woken up in the middle of the night and dis-armed a lover before she can stab you, you really do not have an understanding of the mind set.

(Side note – Ignore the tears when there is a steak knife in her hand, they are crocodile tears and only meant to confuse.)

Moving on.

Romance is a bit of a cage fight.

Keep swinging and hopefully you will win and not end up dead.

Or castrated with a steak knife.

Cause that would be bad too.

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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