I may be a 'self-hating ugly' but I would never develop "military robots that could feed on corpses."

If you are ever at the post office eye fucking a cute girl and she tries to look away, you could assume she is disgusted by your actions.... that is until she EYE FUCKS the guy with tats holding the door open for her on the way out of the post office.

Then you understand that she really doesn't hate being 'eye raped,' she just hates being eye raped by you ...Mr. Ugly.

Which I get. Because I hate ugly people too.

Maybe you have no idea what this "eye rape" post has to do with the government developing robots for the military that feast on the dead bodies of slain soldiers, but I imagine that the only people developing such a weapon were self-hating uglies that have it out for the human race.

A message to my Nerdy friends in the weapons development arena:

YOU KNOW BETTER!...You guys spent every Friday for the last two years watching Terminator-The Sarah Connor Chronicles. You have to know what those robots are going to do us.

AN URGENT MESSAGE TO ALL HOT GIRLS

Please allow the ugly guy in line behind you at the post office to eye rape you. Eye rape is all ugly men have. Well... that and the hand job we give ourselves later.

If you don't allow eye rape you may just allow Mankind to be exterminated. And that's on YOU hot girls of the world.

All on you!

When Martin Attacks

There are people out there who want to tell you a story. They will bend down to whisper things in your ear that they are ashamed to say out loud in line at the grocery store. They will tell you that things are going to shit. The world is falling apart.

They spit a bit into your ear when they bend down to tell you, "Plan for the worst. Things won't be getting better."

It's true. Life is shit. But that does not mean that everybody I know isn't better off than me. The spit mumbled narrative is not the story of "our" times. It's just the story of my life.

Martin had a plan to kill Lester.

The plan backfired. It ended in a sad ironic twist.

But before that Martin sat on the video game chair getting pissed. Not far from his line of vision a couple of cockroaches ran from the dishwasher to the cabinet. No one at the party noticed them. The cockroaches counted themselves lucky after they reached the safety of the dark food pantry.

There is a party going on but someone forgot to buy plastic cups, so we are all drinking out of dirty glasses. The host of the party is running around asking people if they have "seen any of her shot glasses." The party hosts also forgot to purchase toilet paper. There is a crate of empty beer cans and trash in the middle of the floor of the living room that we have to step around to get to the beer stored in the refrigerator.

An mp3 player is connected to a couple of computer speakers. The speakers strain to be heard over the noise of a half dozen teenagers getting drunk. The piles of damp towels on the floor in each of the bedrooms are beginning to mildew. The towel's eerie smell sticks to your goatee when you use them to dry off spilled beer.

Martin is upset that the door to Jessie's room is locked. He has tried unlocking the door, but the cheap apartment frame and the door's hollow particle board center are too much for him. The door remains securely locked. Whatever secrets the door has kept from Martin remain hidden.

Martin is drinking heavily. He has consumed one of the two bottles of Crown Royal purchased for the party by himself. I bought the Crown because it was on sale. Buy one get on free. I never knew how smooth Crown Royal was until I tried it at the party. Now I see why all the kids in the Ghetto enjoy it. You can't taste the liquor or the alcohol. All you taste is the Dr. Pepper you bought to mix it with.

The television is on. On the screen a man is talking behind a podium. There is a large red devil painted into the background of the podium. The man behind it is talking about Abbey Hoffman and the counter culture.

The party has gone through 3 cases of Budweiser in addition to a quart of vodka and the Crown Royal.

The man on the television is telling me it is okay to take money from yuppies. "Yuppies want to pretend they are part of the counter movement. Don't worry that's okay. We are ALL part of the movement."

I wonder if the man is talking about me. I wonder if I am counter culture because I am twice the age of the second oldest person here. I am not sure. I wonder if being old only makes me perverted. I begin to question my attendance at this party after I get a lap dance from an 18 year old girl who tells me, "She thinks of me as a father figure."

"You have a strange father." I tell her.

She lifts her shirt to show me her belly. She slowly grinds me. Her breasts nuzzle against me awkwardly. As soon as her breasts touch my face they stop. She falls forward off the chair and off of me to the ground. She laughs and runs back to the bedroom where Lester waits. Lester locks the door again and I think that's when Martin begins to think about killing Lester.

Martin and Jessie have a history. The history consists of Martin trying to conquer Jessie and failing. I can imagine why he is worried. All that hard work Martin has put in over the years has left Jessie vulnerable. Martin is fuming that Lester is going to take advantage of all of Martin's hard work.

"If you take Ritalin you will be able to stare at boring websites longer."

"Excuse me?" I twist my head towards the sound. I look at the girl next to me but she just stares at me blankly.

"That was the TV… I think." She says after I ask her for Ritalin. She does not have any. And then she laughs at my joke that, "This party would be more interesting if we had Ritalin."

She agrees. She tugs at the lime green striped dress she is wearing. The dress is more like a long t-shirt than a skirt. The dress is tight. She has a nice body. I was surprised by a Martin's remark after he caught me staring at her long legs that, "she's had like 4 kids."

"But she's like 20." I found myself adapting the local language and adding "likes" to most any sentence.

"Unbelievable." The man on the TV and I respond.

Martin was getting antsy. He kept glancing over at the door that Jessie and Lester were behind. I knew it was only a matter of time before the door got kicked in.

Martin does not disappoint me. He got up and sat his drink down on the kitchen table. He then walked quickly over to the bedroom door and gave a mighty pull on it. He jiggled the lock and cursed. Then he raised his foot and kicked hard at the door knob.

A loud KERAAACK sound. But the door still stood. The knob was in place. The frame seemed resistant to his efforts. Martin placed two hands on the door knob and started pulling. That did not work either, so he started bumping the door with his shoulder. He put all his weight behind a last effort with his shoulder just as Lester from behind the door managed to swing the door open.

Martin's shoulder missed the door but his head did not miss the frame. He fell backwards after making a strange sound. Like he had the wind knocked out of him.

"Sorry, man." Lester said as he looked down at the crumpled body below him. A knot was already starting to show on Martin's forehead.

Martin sat down on a chair. He mumbled for the next few hours. In between mumbles he would place his head in his hands and fall forward off the chair. He would lower his head between his knees for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to begin to worry that I would have to get up and ask him if he was okay. Then just as I would stand up so would he and he would start to say something about being "good."

That was good. I needed Martin to live long enough for the buses to start running. After the buses got here and I was safely gone it would be someone else's fault if he died. I could imagine saying to the police officer, "he seemed fine while I was there."

Maybe I would only get charged with negligent homicide instead of manslaughter.

"If I went to prison." I told myself. "I would use my time wisely. I would learn how to be an arsonist and a murderer. I would join the counter culture."

"Great idea!" Echoed the guy on the TV. "Great idea!"

Oh Heavanly Father

Why has thou forsaken me?
And sent tiny fishes to feed on the bottoms of my feet?

and thou awokenenst me
in the middle
of the night

by chocking
me
in my
sleep

I cannot
swallow

lest
I choke
again

O father
I wipe my eyes
in the bed
thou
maketh for me.

Thou had maketh
my tongue
swell

and
placeth
cotton
in my mouth
to silence
me

Lord,

I
Cannot
swallow

AND

I walketh
beside
ye
In the desert

yet ye cast demons
at me
who taunt

Demons
who
falsely offer
to lay with me

I
am
Falling
lord.

falling
d
o
w
n

AND
even
on my
knees

you will
torment
me

and
send
a thousand
plagues
on
me

and you will
taketh
all things
from me
that are rightly
mine

sworn to me
in covenant
with
thee

And
you will
make
blisters
on my
shoulders

And mark
my chest
with the
stain
from
birth

Even as you
do these
things

I will
not
repent

For
I have
no
sins

for which
you
can find fault.

I will call
out a
warning
to all
who will
hear.

open thy eyes
lest they
be the rest of
the dead

And walketh
with
injured
calves

Escapeth
the
PATH

be true
and
hear
my words

lest you all
be as damned
as
I.

Last night my life was a lot like a tV action series only I drink beer and shit green peanuts

The morning after I still smell like stale beer. Like a half empty can of Schlitz malt liquor that has been left open all night.

I sit at my computer in my underwear. I type into a search engine the words "Emma Watson panty slip." I look through the links for pictures. I tug at my flaccid penis until my ass begins to itch.

I go to the bathroom and wipe. I am curious to see what's down there. I look in the bowl and I see peanuts. The peanuts are covered with a moist green layer of shit that looks a little like algae.

After I am done taking the shit I don't want to jack off anymore. So I take a shower.

My ingrown toe nail has decided to bleed out. There is blood all over my foot. I watch it run down the drain. Some of it is bright red. Most of the blood is black. It must have clotted last night when I jumped over the fence and ran to the liquor store.

We had to make a beer run last night. I outran my 18 year old BFF to the liquor store after she told me that the liquor store closes at 1:45 am. I think her large bosoms prevented her from keeping up with me.

The liquor store had police tape blocking off the entrance, though no dead bodies inside. Instead it had three guys with mops cleaning the floors.

I yelled over at the black guy who I assumed was the liquor store attendant.

"Are you guys closed?"

"We close early every night. We close at 1:45." He answered back. The man grabbed a garden hose and began to shower the area in my direction with sprays of water. I think he wants me to keep back.

"I know that." I told him. I was still shouting at him, because I wanted him to hear me over the sounds of the water hitting the cement drive way.

"I know you close at 1:45." I glance down at my cell phone. The display blinks at me. It says 1:40.

"Did you close early today?" I ask. My voice trails off. I am out of breath from the run from the apartment. I am worried that I not going to get any more beer, and my BFF just invited Lester to come over and party with us.

Lester is a redneck who wears cowboy hats. I assume rednecks drink a lot. Unless Lester is a gay redneck. Gay rednecks don't drink beer. They drink Gatorade and they offer to smoke meth with you in the bathroom. Then they argue the merits of calling nine year old boys "Manginas" vs. "ManPussy" with you.

"So you closed early tonight?" This is mostly a rhetorical question. My brain is still bouncing in my skull from the run. I just wanted to clarify the events. I did not mean to say anything to antagonize anyone.

"We close early EVERY night!"

He uses the garden hose to punctuate the ending of every word. The water leaps out in giant arcs. If the sun was out you would have confused his efforts to clean the drive way with making rainbows.

"But it is not 1:45 yet!" I tell him.

"So DID you close the store EARLY tonight?" I repeat. This time I meant to antagonize him. I am far enough away from him that I figure he can't get a good look at me and so he won't remember me. And if he decides to chase after me I have a good enough head start. I am fast. Much faster that I look. The 18 year old girl who ran with me to the store is just coming down the side walk. She hides in the shadows of the brick wall so as not to get caught trying to buy beer with me. Her eyes stare wide open at me. She is watching me get pissed off for the first time.

It's been a long time since I got pissed off enough at someone to yell at them. I go years without a good cathartic scream fest.

"We close early EVERY night!" He yells.

Now the guy is just trying to piss me off.

"I get that! I know that you close every night at 1:45. Only the time is FUCKING 1:40. You see?? So that's why I am asking…I mean WHAT THE FUCK… DO I LOOK LIKE SOME KIND OF FUCKING IDIOT?"

I walk off.

I turn my head and scream back at him, "WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?"

"Did you hear that, Jessie?"

"Fuck ya!" Her eyes were full of admiration. "That was awesome!" "I've never seen you go off on anyone like that!"

"I know."

We still need to get beer.

"I know another store where we can get beer." Jessica volunteers.

"Can we make it?"

"If we run."

I think she means if I run we will make it.

"Let's go."

As we walk to the next store Jessica tells me how she gets hit on by lesbians a lot. I think it's because she looks EMO when she wears mascara. I tell Jessica that I think EMO chicks are hot.

"If you weren't young enough to be my daughter…" I leave the sentence hanging.

"You would what?" She asks. "I thought you were going to finish that statement."

I just shrug my shoulders.

"When I first met you..." She remembers. "I thought you were cool. I hoped you had a son. If you did I would have dated him."

"What if he was 14?" I asked.

"We'd work around it."

I stop walking.

"Pervert!" I mock accuse her.

"I know." She laughs. "Four years. That's gross."

So I guess 20 years would not be okay then. I decide to change the subject.

"Lester is in love with you."

"No he's not!"

Yes he is.

"I can't see why else a guy would walk three miles at 2 in the morning to meet you on a random Tuesday."

We are almost to the other store. I see the lights are dimmed. The store is closed and now we will have to walk even further to the gas station. The time is 1:55. I look over at Jessica and mumble something about Keifer Sutherland and start jogging.

I need a shortcut. I see a fence. I hop over the lowest part of the fence that separates the sidewalk and the gas station. I run some more and make it to the store just as the door is about to close. The cashier tells me I have 30 seconds.

I grab the first 24 pack I can get my hands on. Busch beer. Jessica is stunned by my performance. Jessica tells me she is going to alter her facebook to add me as a hero. "For running like a bitch to get beer."

We walk back towards the apartment that Jessica shares with two roommates. We walk by a Camaro that has two hot Mexican girls in the backseat. I point them out to Jessica. I tell her that "if the girls are lesbians that will be ok because we both have Bush."

"You see I am carrying a case of Busch beer." I point at the 24 pack of beer I am holding. Then for extra giggles I point at Jessica's vagina.

She laughs and runs off to meet Lester who is walking towards us carrying a 32 ounce Lemon lime Gatorade.

Happy Fourth of July, Megan Fox. Now Please Shut the Fuck Up!

What if the only thing you could own of Megan Fox was her hands? Would you do it? Would you hire O.J. Simpson to take a blade to Megan Fox's wrists just so when you were masturbating you could pretend she was giving you a hand job?

I am not sure how you would go about getting O.J. out of jail or why the service you choose to procure body parts of celebrities only allows you to buy certain body parts of famous people. But I guess I did not really think through the logic of the idea on this post.

I may not write logically, but I bet after you read my title you thought this was going to be one of those "I hate Megan Fox because she is a giant cunt" posts.

You'd be wrong, hater!

It would be easy to write that Megan Fox has gone Hollywood and become a smug, stuck up, (well, you know what.) Because like you I hate Megan Fox. I hate her for all the normal reasons we hate movie stars. WE hate Megan Fox because she is beautiful. (Except for her the freaky thumbs that is.) And I hate her because she is popular, super rich, famous, and has a life... way better than mine.

But any celebrity will do for that kind of post. I didn't really care about Megan Fox until I read this story about Megan shitting on the movie Transformer's 2.

After reading the story I could imagine her agent wanting to slap some sense into her.

HER AGENT:

"Megan don't shit on the only career you have."

After making that stink bomb of movie Transformers 2 I bet she already has.*

*I should mention I have not seen the second movie. The first movie barely got 2 stars out of 5 from me. For the life of me I could not figure how "who" was fighting "who(m)" in the battle scenes between Octogon and Pentra Gam. But I digress.

Let's look at the statement carefully before we pass judgment.

Is Megan Fox really a douche bag for having uttered this statement?:

"I mean, I can't shit on this movie because it did give me a career and open all these doors for me. But I don't want to blow smoke up people's ass. People are well aware that this is not a movie about acting."*

*I am glad to see that Megan Fox has finally decided TO ACT in her movies.

I BET you want me to call Megan Fox a "douche" for having shit on the movie that made her a household name. I think the reporter just caught Megan on a bad day, maybe the reporter from US magazine interrupted Megan while she was trying to get through a particularly difficult chapter of Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind. That book always puts me in a funk.

Megan Fox is not a douche bag. Maybe you need to understand that Megan Fox's life is full of ennui.

The reason Megan Fox sounds so bitter is that she knows her career is already over with, and she is going to have to go back to dancing at the corner strip club, broke as fuck, because nobody told her that 30% of her salary went to management, and another 30% to taxes.

Megan Fox does not have it easy.

I am sure Megan Fox's life beats a life spent starving to death in a North Korean work camp. But when shit happens (like when you've got ACTING chops like Megan Fox, but the world does not notice them, because we are way too busy staring at Megan's delicious rump*) the bitterness can pile up in your colon.

*(Which is really just us trying to stay the fuck away from looking at your freakish hammer thumbs. Really, Megan, how the fuck do you leave the house without gloves?)

I live in squalor

My house has been invaded by those bugs that live inside rotting food. I am not sure what kind of bugs they are. They look like fruit flies. They live inside bags of discarded Jack in the Box.

My last roommate found a bag in his room under a pile of dirty clothes. We had the flies in the house for 3 weeks before I convinced him to take a look around.

The decomposing meat allowed generation after generation of these things to be born.

I remember my friend tried to pass it off as science experiment. And then he offered me 20 dollars to collect the bag and toss it outside.

I told him there was not enough money in the world for me to go into his room and pick the sack up. It was loaded with larvae and rotten food. Buzzing insects.

He gagged several times on the way to throw the bag out.

I gagged just writing that sentence.

Let's hope we find the source of these flies.

My roommate thinks it must be my infected toe nail. The smell of which is much reduced now that I have started to pour Listerine mouth wash into the open wound. So I have a feeling it can't be the gangrene.

My roommate must have some dead body in his room.

The only thing that pisses me off about that is the flies and the fact that he never offered me sex with her when the body was still fresh.

Greedy bastard.

*Update*


We found the source of the problem.

The roommate suggested that I use his wetvac to vacuum the rugs. He opened the WetVac and BAMMMM!!!!!
A swarm of a million fruit flies.
Then he screamed like a bitch.
Then he dropped the vac down and the lid spit open.
This released more flies.
I had to run over and grab the vacuum.
I ran it outside.
Roommate yells at me not to throw it away, "just dump the contents."
I tell roommate to fuck off.
Roommate examines contents of vacuum.
Roommate decides "throw the damn thing out!"
Still killing flies.
Roommate owes me 44 cents for throwing out my box of corn bread.
Roommate admits to using vacuum to suck up water and food.
I plan to make him pay for this.
Some how.

The Self Help Guide to overcoming infidelity.

Step #1 in The Self Help Guide to understanding and overcoming hypothetical adultery.

First you must accept this:

HE NEVER WANTED WHAT YOU WANTED

How do women put up with men? Women know what they expect out of life. Men don't realize anything about life until we reach 50, and our dicks no longer work.

But that’s because the dick is a magical creature. It talks us into any number of things. Men with dicks are not totally human, but then again women don’t fall for humans, they fall for MEN.

A man and his dick can do great things.

Very few men actually want to get married. And no penis ever does. But more often than naught the penis is trapped by a female before the penis can live out its dreams. If the female trap works the wonderful life the penis envisioned for its owner is doomed.*

*The penis not the vagina is the source of all creativity.

I mention this because super sexy Ubermilf Dark would like to blame her spouse’s “penis” for hypothetical infractions of the marital code.

She writes:

“Why, if your marriage is already weathering the stresses and strains of constant travel, would someone choose to invite an old flame out to dinner while in this old flame's current city? Away from his loyal spouse? Huh? Hypothetically, why would someone do that?”

But I say hold on.

Don’t blame the penis.

The penis and I hardly ever talk. The penis has its own agenda. I can’t trust the penis either. But that is not to say that the real man underneath the penis does not value you UberMilf, it is just means that the penis is hostage to young, hot pussy:

"So, hypothetically, this spouse might be pretty fucking pissed off and miserable and full of self-doubts and feeling like an idiot for ever giving up a career and stretching out her body having children and giving up the best years of her life because she stupidly trusted you. Hypothetically."

"Because, hypothetically, this high school flame is some unattached Hollywood producer with long blond hair and a non-stretched out body."

In a sense your violated "trust" is evolutionary pay back for being young and beautiful and able to control the penis. Don’t get mad now that the penis' compass is hypothetically directed elsewhere.

There was a time when you could control the penis and wield its wonderful power. Be thankful. That is more than I will ever know and must be the reason for my use of a masturbatory fantasy life where I become “Sarah Beth” and get ass raped by pimps. But I digress.

The moral of the story is that wielding a powerful instrument like the penis is addictive and just like your husband you are caught in its trap.

Your husband is addicted to the penis because he loves the idea of slamming strange pussy. You too are addicted to the power of the penis, because you love to control the MAN behind the penis.

You are each addicted to penis power.

Stop worrying about hypothetical adultery. Allow the penis to do what it wants as long as it is hypothetical.*

*It is possible for the man to fool his penis. A rich fantasy life can fool the penis. Sometimes for 30 years. Just long enough for the erect penis to deflate and the destructive/creative properties of testosterone to extinguish.

If we do not fool the penis MEN cannot stay married. The penis wants nothing to do with marriage, kids, car pooling, and recycle trash days.

What I am saying is that the man you are married to is engaging in a bit of diversionary fantasy for his penis, and this is good news for you. You are still married to a MAN. And not just a penis.