Three Reasons Not to Suicide:

1)  You’ll spoil your record of perfect attendance.  You’ve been alive since you were born. Even when you’ve been knocked out cold you were still alive.  You’ve survived chicken pox, the dentist, learning how to ride a bike, maybe even had sex once or twice.  If you kill yourself, that all gets wiped out.

 

2)  Death is not an escape.  You know how life works, it’s the same shit over and over again in different packaging.  Do you really think the Designer of so nefarious a world would provide such an easy way out?  Have you ever tried getting out of a cell phone contract?  It doesn’t have to be the threat of a fiery Hell to stick around either:  you could come back to earth, only with a smaller penis, or as a Siamese twin, sharing a smaller penis.

 

3)  Death is guaranteed.  No one ever got to the ticket window and heard, “I’m sorry, we’re all out of death.”  Death is coming anyway, why pay extra for 2-day shipping?  God only kills happy people.  Make Him do the work.

 

 

There you have it, three reasons not to suicide.  Not very good reasons, but some kind of lubricant is always better than none.

From May 2014

I don’t give a shit movie reviews

Transformers 2: Recap. for anyone who thinks it rocked…5 primes huddling like gay faggots and turning into a mountain.

Terminator Salvation: I once pooped while dehydrated and without enough fiber and swore I was shitting a cactus made of sandpaper.  That was better than T:S.

District 9: space roaches have a giant anti-gravity spaceship and a few cool spaceguns only they can operate, but they’d rather live in a slum, buying cat food from Nigerians and knocking junk out of each other’s claws.

G.I. Joe: Storm Shadow the Japanese ninja is played by a Korean. G.I.Joe lives under the pyramids. Half the team are unlikely foreign Blacks plus a fucking Muslim. Mandatory, totally unnecessary, insulting interracial hookup in this movie  is jive-asshole Marlon “Ripcord” Wayans pursuing a vapid, flat-butted White girl “genius” (Scarlett) who falls for him anyway, proving she’s an idiot. A lot of CGI and nonsense. Rip-off of Firefox. Cobra Commander sounds like Darth Vader. TUH-HANE!

Watchmen: All anyone remembers is that glowing blue guy’s penis. I liked Rorschach. Everyone does.

Wanted: Finally saw it. Too much slow motion. The White guy who almost got eaten by Idi Amin is in it. Angelina Jolie is hot but has ugly hands. Bullets curve around things. Morgan Freeman is Black. The looms were the most interesting things.

Date Movie: Alyson Hannigan, aka Flutepussy, is cute in one scene and ugly the next. A Black Midget. Crunk scene was the only real laugh.

Animated Wonder Woman movie: Tits or GTFO. Peppy. Amazon MILFS. Nothing to jack off to.

Hope you enjoyed this.  If not, it’s too late.

A horrible way to wake up

A horrible way to be jolted from sleep would be having onion rings plucked out of a deep fat fryer and immediately dropped one by one over your morning “piss boner” until it was hidden from view. For someone like me it could take well over an hour (your time may vary) for the stacked burning onion rings to reach the zenith, finally creating a Michelin Man-style penis/onion ring-holder while the hot oil burned everything. And for what?

Portrait of a Penis as a Deadly Cobra

I hadn’t jacked-off in 12 days, some kind of World Record. Mostly it didn’t bother me, but other times–especially when good ass was in sight–my scrotum burned like glass in a blue flame. It could’ve been my imagination, but it also began to feel leaden, less willing to yo-yo in response to stimuli.

Finally the time came to come again. I summoned Kaylan Nicole like a genie from her hard drive bottle, cuing the scene. CC Fafafini, yet another hairless porn-dolphin, was ramming that vagina like his penis was a plunger working to unclog a toilet in a BAD Mexican restaurant. Such a beautiful vagina she had, the close-ups excellent.

With my penis heavy like a shotgun I figured it’d be over fast. Not so!

I got through Kaylan’s plowing twice before sighing with boredom. I debated switching to something else; my left hand clumsily clicked the mouse. Now it was Mack Wallass, he of the hooked nose and horn, working away on one Renee Emerald, one of those women who do only one or two films, then nothing. Sean Elephantay, the Black Stud, was also involved.

The scene, low-key as it was, did the trick, but there was no blast. In the 12 days of inactivity, my poor cobra had forgotten how to spit, leaving only a few weak coins and gurgles of man-yogurt.

I tried again, but the show was over. The Cosmoslick lubricant had actually turned to foam, making it look as if I’d tried to screw a Starbucks latte.

The next night I had no idea of the outcome, but my cock had the block on lock. This time the scene was Wallass with Maya Puissant, which never fails. In short order I was feeling much better despite earlier losing my wallet. A brilliant, steaming Rorshach of white wet music glorified a soon-to-be-trashed sock, testament to the power of happy testicles, counterbalancing an unhappy mind.

Such is the power.