For a background on this special short story written in the style of a children's Christmas book please read this. I know it's long, but it's a short story. Hang with it and I think you'll dig the ending. Merry Christmas to all you sad fuckers in cyberspace - FoOl.
Once upon a time there was a man named Mahmoud Haddad. He had come to America from the Middle East looking for a better life for his family. Upon his arrival Mahmoud sought an education but was soon blinded by the immediate gratification of low wage labour. He began working full time for an American opportunist who exploited his ignorance of labor laws and minimum wages. Mahmoud did not realize that $3.50 / hr was a paltry sum in America; he assumed that any work was good work, for in his homeland of Lebanon he surely would have already died running terrorist activity for the Hezbollah. He was most happy to be in America working full time lifting cement blocks and other heavy objects at the local warehouse, for it was much more than he could have ever hoped for in his homeland.
Time passed and Mahmoud worked harder and harder often forsaking sleep and personal hygiene to log 20-hour days. His diligence was rewarded in time. He was promoted to such important positions as Volatile Chemicals Handler and Hot Metal Holder. This filled him with a sense of accomplishment and though his wage was never increased with these promotions his sense of pride most certainly grew.
Mahmoud was severely burnt in the chemical spill of ’89, but this bothered him little since he did not value such things as physical beauty like others. In spite of his disfigurement, he married shortly after and had a daughter he named Adel. Things were going well for Mahmoud. He was always occupied with work and although he rarely saw his wife or daughter when he did their time together was all the more precious for his absence.
*** *** *** *** *** ***
Mahmoud was excited; it was now December and only two days until Christmas. He planned to make this year’s Christmas the best ever for little Adel. He had worked extra hours last month as well as this month so that he could purchase her the very thing she wanted for Christmas, a Super Suzy Play Home. Mahmoud usually only made enough to barely cover base expenses such as shelter, food and heating. Occasionally such luxuries as water and electricity had to be done without; but none of that this year. Mahmoud had been working 22-hour days to ensure that he would be able to pay for Adel’s gift. It wasn’t easy, but he was an ingenious fellow and he found ways to cope. For example: Instead of driving home to sleep, he would sleep in his car which he parked on the company lot, allowing him to maximize down time while minimizing travel. It was tough but Adel was worth it.
It was Thursday, and as they called the names of employees to come and receive their pay Mahmoud trembled with anticipation. He would run to the toy store in the morning and buy Adel’s present, then rush home to have it wrapped and under the tree in time for Christmas. “How wonderful”, he thought.
“Mahmoud Haddad, come receive your cheque”. It was the paymaster calling Mahmoud! Finally! He rushed up and snatched the cheque and was away to a quiet corner where he could enjoy the moment peacefully.
When Mahmoud opened his cheque his eyes were instantly filled with tears of sorrow. It was less than what he had anticipated; $87.50 less to be exact, the same sum needed to buy little Adel her Christmas present.
“This can’t be”, thought Mahmoud. He was certain he was owed more money, but since he lacked the math skills to verify this for himself, he was left with no choice but to accept the situation.
His heart sunk at the thought of little Adel’s face Christmas morning. She would be so terribly disappointed with her father. “I must find a way to make $87.50”, thought Mahmoud. He considered for a moment soliciting himself, but he had been down that road before as a young man and cared not to once again tread such a bumpy path. He never was agreeable with the rough trade. He thought hard for a moment, then.... “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, and ran to the see the paymaster.
Mahmoud approached the paymaster and said “Sir may I have a moment of your time?”
“What is it employee #147?” replied the paymaster.
“Well sir, I am in a bit of a situation. My paycheque was not sufficient enough for me to cover my expenses this month. In fact I am $87.50 short. My shift is now over and it’s 11:30 p.m. Would you be kind enough to let me work a 24-hour shift starting at 12:00 continuing through Christmas Eve and into Christmas morning? If you were to let me do this I figure I would have exactly enough money for everything I need”.
The paymaster looked at Mahmoud and said,
“Sure employee #147, you can work a 24-hour shift if you’d like...”
Mahmoud was again filled with hope,
“But it won’t be enough for you to cover your expenses”.
“How can this be?” asked Mahmoud. The paymaster replied, “It appears as though your feeble knowledge of math has failed you once again Employee #147. You need $87.50, right?”, “yes” replied Mahmoud.
“ Then you would need to work 25-hours to make that much at $3.50/hr. You and I both know that there are only 24 hours in a day. It appears as if there is no solution to your problem worker #147. I anticipate however that you will work the 24-hour shift?”, “yes” Mahmoud answered solemnly. “Now be gone,” said the paymaster, “ you have 30 minutes until your 24-hour shift begins”.
Mahmoud walked to his car and took refuge inside it. He had half an hour until it was Christmas Eve and his 24-hour shift would begin. “How can this be?” He asked himself, as he turned his gaze to the heavens. He then joined his burnt and disfigured hands in union and lifted them to god. “ Oh great lord, I have worked so hard only to be denied the opportunity to provide a good Christmas for my daughter Adel.
The paymaster has been very kind in letting me work a 24-hour shift and this land has provided me with a steady and reliable job, better than I could have hoped for in my homeland. But alas it is all not enough. I have not worked hard enough. I chose to sleep for a few hours a day, hours I could have used to work. I realize the error of my way lord, please...help me. Give me a 25th hour in the day so I can work and make enough to give Adel a good Christmas.”
Just then a bright light slowly descended from the sky towards Mahmoud. At first he leapt back in fear remembering that objects this bright usually burned him, but as it approached Mahmoud realized this light was different. It did not burn; it was instead cool and soothing.
The light spoke to him: “Mahmoud, I am the angel Gabriel, take comfort, God has heard your prayer.”
“Oh angel Gabriel, please forgive me. I have not worked hard enough and now must seek the grace of the lord to help me” Mahmoud cried.
“It is true Mahmoud. You have toiled and wasted time sleeping and eating and laughing with your family when you could have been working for your kind paymaster who has so gracefully taken you into his service. Ask yourself Mahmoud, would it have been so difficult to work 23 hours a day instead of 20?” Mahmoud cowered before the angel realizing that he had not only been unfair to his paymaster but unfair to his family with his poor effort.
“You are right angel Gabriel. I believe myself to be an industrious man, but I still can’t provide for my family. I work less than the maximum but believe that I do a great service to my paymaster. I am so blind that I truly don’t deserve your grace”
The angel looked at Mahmoud and said gently
“ I am here to help you Mahmoud. Although you have not done all that you could have, you are truly pure in spirit and kind at heart. God sees inside you Mahmoud, he sees when you question your kind paymaster and feel unsatisfied with your life. You must remember Mahmoud that the paymaster has given you a life you could never have dreamed of in Lebanon. Never lose faith in yourself, you now live in America a country based on equality, liberty and freedom for all. I have spoken to God and he has given me permission to add one hour to Christmas Eve giving you the time you need to work to get Adel her present.”
Mahmoud didn’t know what to say he was so overcome with joy.
“Thank you, thank you” he cried.
“No Mahmoud thank God, thank your honest paymaster who provides you with competitive wages in accordance with the free market, and thank the country of America, for they are the ones who have enabled all this for you.”
“ I promise I will never be a victim of sloth again,” said Mahmoud.
“Good Mahmoud, remember: if you do not have enough it is not God’s fault or the fault of your paymaster or the system he works for. It is simply because you yourself have not worked hard enough. Now go Mahmoud and work like you’ve never worked before!”
Mahmoud looked around him; the angel had disappeared and he could see that his car’s clock read 11:59p.m. He leapt forth and sprinted back toward the warehouse, his feet renewed in strength although he had just worked a 22-hour shift only half an hour before. He stormed into the building and saw his paymaster waiting for him. “I’m back,” said Mahmoud, “ and I have spoken to the angel Gabriel. He has granted me one more hour in the day so I can work 25 hours!”
“That’s great Mahmoud,” said the paymaster. “Now go to your station, we need you to hammer and lift masses of molten iron”.
“With pleasure sir” replied Mahmoud.
Mahmoud ran to his post and began hammering and lifting like he had never done before. At times he would hallucinate and lose his vision due to extreme fatigue and exertion, but he had learned his lesson, time was precious and the harder he worked the greater his reward would be. Hours lagged by slowly, Mahmoud continued to fight off dehydration and third degree burns. As his hallucinations grew stronger Mahmoud had to keep himself in check. Soon it was lunchtime, 12:00 noon, Christmas Eve. Mahmoud had almost finished half of his grueling shift. He kept working vigorously although his tasks became complicated. He found it difficult to hold the hammer firmly now that his index and middle finger had been burnt into one giant mass. Nevertheless he kept working in full knowledge that he would get what he deserved when he was finished.
Day became night and most workers left, but Mahmoud was determined. He pounded and lifted and did so again and again. At 12:00a.m that same night, Christmas Eve, Mahmoud noticed the clock had stopped but the machine that registered his pay hours kept running. Gabriel had kept his promise!
Mahmoud was exhausted and his body was failing him at this point. He was filthy and tired and hallucinating and unaware if sweat or urine caused the wetness of his pants. Through all this though, the sight of the clock resting at 12, both arms frozen in unison, energized him and he caught a second wind. He powered through that final hour, and then staggered to the paymaster’s quarters. He opened the door and found the paymaster sitting in his reclining leather chair waiting for him.
“Employee #147, I assume your here for your pay?”
Mahmoud let out an incoherent sound the paymaster interpreted as a yes. He walked over to Mahmoud, handed him an envelope and asked that Mahmoud leave his office promptly, for he smelled of unholy things.
On the way to his car Mahmoud opened the cheque to see the result of his furious labor. It read $87.50 payable to Mahmoud Haddad. He climbed into his car and made a few attempts at starting it before succeeding on his fourth or fifth. He was now ready to make his way home. As he pulled out of the parking lot he saw the paymaster walking over to his BMW, presumably on his way home as well. “What a kind, generous man” thought Mahmoud, for only a man who was truly blessed with godlike compassion would be willing to let him work a 25 hour shift on Christmas Eve. “May the Lord bless the paymaster!” he said aloud, and off he went to the toy store.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
As Mahmoud arrived at the toy store he noticed it was full of last minute shoppers. He also noticed that they quickly moved away from him pinching their noses as he passed by them in the aisles. He continued to move through the store, but since he had never been in a real toy store before he felt confused and lost. It took a moment but he found a service clerk who did not run from his hideous disfigurement and foul stench. He asked to be directed to the aisle where he could find the Super Suzy Play Home. The clerk first suggested that Mahmoud stop by next door at the local pharmacy to find the aisle that contained toothpaste and soap, but then pointed Mahmoud in the right direction.
As Mahmoud approached aisle 6 his heart was aflutter. He turned the corner and began walking toward the wall of toys when…could it be? It was! The paymaster was also there doing some last minute shopping! What a fortuitous event thought Mahmoud; he would be able to again thank the paymaster while picking up Adel’s present.
“Hello kind paymaster” said Mahmoud approaching the well dressed man and his chauffeur. The paymaster’s reply to Mahmoud was strange and unusually loud: “Get away from me vagrant!”
Vagrant?
What did this mean? Was it an American term of endearment? No. He could see a puzzled look in the paymaster’s eye as though he did not recognize Mahmoud.
“Paymaster, it’s me employee #147”
After he said this the paymaster became more relaxed though he was still steadily inching away. Mahmoud then noticed that the paymaster’s chauffeur was holding under his arm a brand new Super Suzy Play Home. “Ahh. I see you have a Super Suzy Play Home”, “Yes” replied the paymaster, “My daughter insisted that I get her one this Christmas”. “My daughter wanted one also” Mahmoud enthusiastically responded, excited by the fact his daughter had something in common with the paymaster’s. “Where did you find this Super Suzy Playhome” Mahmoud inquired “I’m having trouble locating them”. The paymaster raised his hand and pointed towards the empty shelf behind Mahmoud. “But I don’t understand there is nothing on the shelf”. The paymaster smiled a strange smile at Mahmoud’s confusion and said “That’s because there are none left employee #147. My chauffeur is holding the last Super Suzy Playhome under his arm here. While you were working your 25 hour shift, it seems as though the store sold out of the gift you wanted to buy for your daughter. It’s simple supply and demand employee #147”
Supply and demand? This sounded like something Mahmoud may have understood had he gone to school, but instead he stood there in a confused disappointment. As tears streamed down his face, causing his open sores to burn under their salty wetness, the paymaster couldn’t help but notice Mahmoud’s hand as he raised it to wipe his cheek.
“Employee #147…your hand…it’s….it’s…BEAUTIFUL”
What?!!
Mahmoud couldn’t believe what he had heard. Did the paymaster really just say that? Was he hallucinating again? Even though he didn’t understand much of what Americans considered ‘beautiful’, he most certainly knew his hand was grotesque. The fingers had been burned together and his skin much resembled the mozzarella of a severely overcooked pizza. Even the paymaster’s chauffeur was aghast in strange disbelief. Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, the paymaster offered an explanation
“See…employee #147…here’s the thing…I’m rich. I’m so very rich and white. I am white and rich. I have so much money the simple pleasures in life no longer hold any value for me, so my tastes have been perverted into the realm of the strange and weird. Alone I sit in my vast mansion… by myself…with no one to speak to. My eccentricities and queer fascinations run wild through my mind’s eye. Since the world caters to my wealth, reality has become an abstract concept for me. There is no morality in my world, no obstacles – all that exists are the things that I want and the formality of me obtaining them with my money”
Mahmoud and the chauffeur were still puzzled so the paymaster continued
“Lately #147, as I sit alone in my study sipping on a snifter full of Napoleon XIIV, I feel as though I could really use a human hand. Not for any practical reason, but more as an abstract decoration that stands in monument to my excess. At first I thought this might just be a passing fancy but it has been months now and every morning when I wake up I find the same restless desire to own a human hand…so I had a special pedestal of marble crafted and erected in my study; there it sits awaiting a human hand to be placed on it for purposes of display”
The paymaster paused before adding
“The thing is #147 I don’t want just any human hand. I want one that is as dark and disfigured as my soul. I want one that can serve as a metaphor for who I truly am. Many times I’ve thought of paying a homeless man to dip his hand into a pot of acid before severing it to achieve this effect, but something about that seems patently false to me. I need a more authentic monument….employee #147, I NEED your hand!”
The chauffeur and Mahmoud stood staring at the paymaster in a silent revulsion.
“Why would I give you my hand paymaster? What’s in it for me?”
“Well of course there would be something in it for you #147 – if you cut off your hand and give it to me so that I could use it as an art piece, I would gladly pay for this Super Suzy Play Home and you could have it to give to your daughter for Christmas. What’s more…I’ll up your wage to $4.50 and hour.”
Mahmoud could not believe what he was hearing…$4.50 an hour!! Usually employees had to work 10 years before reaching that pay rate and here the paymaster was willing to put him on the fast track at the cost of his hand.
‘But no’, thought Mahmoud, ‘I need my hand!’
As though he could sense Mahmoud’s apprehension the paymaster interjected
“Listen #147, you couldn’t curl that paw around a doorknob, let alone use it for anything practical. It’s useless to you. Besides, back in your homeland there’s no doubt you would have already lost your hand long ago running terrorist activities for HAMAS or knife fighting with the Jews. You would be a fool not to accept my offer. Love is sacrifice #147. Do you love your daughter?”
The paymaster was right. He again spoke a truth so plain and simple Mahmoud could make no argument against it. If he didn’t do this for his daughter he would be selfish and ungrateful for not taking advantage of the opportunity offered to him here in America; after all, as the paymaster had said, he would most certainly have lost his hand for a lot less back in Lebanon. So he spoke to the paymaster using a voice of reason
“While I am frightened by the idea of living the rest of my life with only one functioning hand, I must admit I find no fault in your logic paymaster. I will agree to your terms. I will sever my hand in exchange for the Super Suzy Playhome and an increased wage of $4.50 an hour. It’s the dream I have always had in my heart since I left my home in Lebanon, having these things has been my dream and far be it for me to allow something as small as a hand to come in between me and my dream”
The paymaster’s eyes gleamed with joy. It was the first time Mahmoud had ever truly seen him happy.
“Excellent #147. Follow me to my BMW. I keep a machete in the trunk.”
And so it came to be that Mahmoud Haddad worked the first and only 25 hour shift in human history that Christmas Eve.
And it also came to be that after working this shift he severed his hand in a toy store parking lot using a machete.
When he arrived home that Christmas morning, Mahmoud’s wife was nearly overcome by joy at the sight of her husband. Her home was not the same when he was gone.
He presented the Super Suzy Play Home to his daughter Adel and she was so happy to receive it that when she ran to the waiting arms of her father for an embrace she didn’t even notice that there was only one hand gently patting her on the back.
Months passed and Adel eventually grew tired of her Super Suzy Play Home in the way children often become bored with toys. Mahmoud also grew tired; tired of having to live life with only one hand. He worked hard as ever but there was always a piercing pain in the stub that used to be his hand. He never realized that his wound was infected and that a deadly rot was growing amidst the pus and blood of his untreated gash.
Mahmoud passed away while sleeping in his car between shifts. When the doctors eventually found his body, they determined the cause of death was ischemia necrosis.
Mahmoud’s wife was not greatly saddened by the loss of her husband. He had lived longer than he could have ever hoped to have lived back in Lebanon. Many of the men in her life had died young – she remembered her brother who died when the rock he hurled at the Jewish tanks bounced back unexpectedly striking him in the head shattering his skull. A death like that was tragic. Not Mahmoud’s though. He had lived to see the glory of America and he provided for his family. His life was a blessing and she resolved that she would continue on as a single mother in this land of plenty because Adel deserved nothing less.
When it came time to bury Mahmoud, his wife could not afford a funeral service so instead she had a couple construction workers dig a makeshift grave in the neighbourhood park. In exchange for their labour she provided the workers with oral sex and found the arrangement agreeable enough that she thought perhaps this was how she could support Adel now that the onus of providing fell onto her delicate shoulders.
As she stood over the plot where Mahmoud lay she grabbed a stick from the ground nearby to write out an epitaph in the dirt. He had no tombstone, but she wanted the world to know who Mahmoud was and that he lay in rest under the park grounds on which the children so often play. She paused reflecting on what she could say about Mahmoud that would capture the glory of his life, the essence of his spirit.
Finally she moved the stick through the dirt scribbling out the following:
Here Lies Mahmoud Haddad
Seeker of the American Dream
A True Son of God.
Showing newest 9 of 10 posts from December 2008. Show older posts
Showing newest 9 of 10 posts from December 2008. Show older posts
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
What's 15% of "Suck My Dick"??
"WE PISSED IN YOUR BEER CAUSE WE HATE YOU"
- Angry Waiters
You know what the best part about being in Europe was for me?
It wasn't the art and culture. It wasn't the architecture or partying. It wasn't the universally shaved pussy or the fact there's no such thing as last call. Naw. All of that was great don't get me wrong but none of that stuff was the best part.
The absolute best part of being in Europe for me was that when I sat down to eat at some shitty restaurant, at the end of my meal when the waiter brought me my bill I was responsible for paying EXACTLY what the total on the bill was without having to wrack my brain over what I should tip. That shit was all already taken care of right there in the bottom line price by MGMT and all I had to do was pay it and walk out. Amazing!
No big deal if you live in Europe and that's just the way you're used to rolling, but if you're from North America walking away without tipping above the bottom line price on your bill makes you a clear cut target for social derision. Or worse! But there I was: walking away leaving exact change on the table, a strange and powerful subversive rush coursing through my body. Unfortunately when my trip ended it was back to Toronto for more of the status quo.
North American food service motherfuckers are the absolute worst. They are the uncontested heavyweight champs of 'most pimped out by The Man'. They are the most logic impaired employee demographic in existence. These rubes have been fooled by their bosses into thinking that the establishment that they work for, their employer, shouldn't be responsible for paying them their full wage, that instead it should be the customers responsibility for subsidizing their wage because, after all, they’re serving the customer, right?
What a fucking joke! Pimp logic at its finest: “look baby, I'm givin you an opportunity to make some money, whether you do or don't ain't up to me. Besides, you ain’t suckin my dick now is you?”.
It wasn't the art and culture. It wasn't the architecture or partying. It wasn't the universally shaved pussy or the fact there's no such thing as last call. Naw. All of that was great don't get me wrong but none of that stuff was the best part.
The absolute best part of being in Europe for me was that when I sat down to eat at some shitty restaurant, at the end of my meal when the waiter brought me my bill I was responsible for paying EXACTLY what the total on the bill was without having to wrack my brain over what I should tip. That shit was all already taken care of right there in the bottom line price by MGMT and all I had to do was pay it and walk out. Amazing!
No big deal if you live in Europe and that's just the way you're used to rolling, but if you're from North America walking away without tipping above the bottom line price on your bill makes you a clear cut target for social derision. Or worse! But there I was: walking away leaving exact change on the table, a strange and powerful subversive rush coursing through my body. Unfortunately when my trip ended it was back to Toronto for more of the status quo.
North American food service motherfuckers are the absolute worst. They are the uncontested heavyweight champs of 'most pimped out by The Man'. They are the most logic impaired employee demographic in existence. These rubes have been fooled by their bosses into thinking that the establishment that they work for, their employer, shouldn't be responsible for paying them their full wage, that instead it should be the customers responsibility for subsidizing their wage because, after all, they’re serving the customer, right?
What a fucking joke! Pimp logic at its finest: “look baby, I'm givin you an opportunity to make some money, whether you do or don't ain't up to me. Besides, you ain’t suckin my dick now is you?”.
Hey food service people lemme ask you something:
You think my University Professor stands at the exit door after a lecture with an upturned hat panhandling tips off students saying shit like “I really felt like I went above and beyond with this one!!”?
Get the fuck.
You think when I approach my boss at her desk with a nice pile of perfectly photocopied quarterly reports that were put together to her exact specification she stops to throw change at me on my way out her office??
Get the fuck.
And yet the food service cuntsmiths over here in North America expect to be tipped for the following:
Asking me what I want to eat
Writing it down on a notepad
Waiting til the food is done being cooked, then bringing it to my table
Making sure I have a knife and fork
Occasionally asking me “is everything okay” and maybe topping up my glass of water
Bringing me the bill
It's that goddamn simple yet if you were to talk to any of these self-righteous, ultra delusional divas you'd think they were saving lives on their 6 hour shift. And that's the part that gets to me the most – the fucking attitude of these people. Can we be honest for a minute? Most of the time the service you get when you go out is decent to average. Sometimes it’s even outright poor. In spite of this the person serving you no doubt has a sense of entitlement that demands you leave 15% at the minimum for a tip or else you’re a cheap ass sub human whose burger they should’ve spat in.
There have been a number of occasions where I’ve been able to hang out with some food service employees after they’ve finished their shift and the restaurant closes for the night. I can tell you as fact: there is no industry that you could find anywhere in the world that matches North American food service when it comes to the “us” and “them” mentality. Unions ain't got shit on a disgruntled wait staff.
Usually after work these people sit around talking like scorned lovers about the assortment of rude customers they had to deal with on their shift – 'so and so was so fucking cheap!’, or 'can you believe how picky that fucking guy was?' and they portray themselves as being a separate and unique entity apart from the rest of working humanity, united in the suffering brought on by their immensely challenging task of serving food. This niggerish persecution complex is compounded by the fact food service people only hang out with each other and drink excessively. They get wasted, complain and talk about the rest of the world with disdain and then fuck each other; it's all really kinda sad from an outsider’s perspective. Working food service isn't just a job, it's an insular lifestyle that revolves around shared delusion and egocentric mania. I've tried to point this out a number of times while in the company of food service workers and every time I did the conversation went from 0 to Crazy in under 6 seconds.
“Well you know its not just serving food. You have to put up with peoples attitudes and you deserve tips because you're not just presenting them with service, you're presenting them with your personality and manners. It's about interacting with the people and giving them a good time and you always have to be funny and upbeat”
Riiiiiight. Sorry I forgot what a beautiful and unique snowflake you are and that when people walk into a restaurant they're expecting table side stand up comedy from a well groomed charmer who never forgets to say 'please' and 'thank you'. Hey waitstaff chick…come over here for a second…
EAT MY DICK.
Go ahead, lick the taint...lick it some more....lick it til you fucking like it foodservice faggots...
When you're done go cry about it after closing with the rest of your buddies while you drink your bosses liquor. Im gonna write this out in caps so we get this nice and clear: YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL. YOUR JOB IS NO MORE CHALLENGING OR IMPORTANT THAN THAT OF ANYONE ELSE. STOP THINKING THAT BECAUSE YOU CAN HOLD 2 MINUTES OF POLITE CONVERSATION WITH A STRANGER THAT YOU HAVE SOME INCREDIBLE SKILL THAT DESERVES REWARD.
Have you ever heard such me-centric bullshit? Getting paid because you think you’re interesting and charming? Who are you, prostitutes providing me with a GFE? Now THOSE bitches really earn their tip.
In a civilized world we'd work like Europe. If you want to charge the customer an additional fee for service set a fixed rate and put it right there in the bill. Done. It’s sane and egalitarian. Everyone knows what the expectation is and they know it will always be met. There’s no silent judging or after work group therapy over a bottle of Johnnie Walker or any of that bullshit. There’s no fear that your smiling server will spit or fart on your food because they remember you didn’t tip to their expectation last time you were there. And who likes having to figure out what to tip?
You know what the LAST thing I want to do after I've polished off three pints at the bar is?
A: Figure out 15% of 34.67
I've mentioned all of these points to the sour, drunk 3:30 a.m. Food service clique and they protest in chorus, as if rehearsed:
“Yeah but if it’s always a fixed rate then you have no incentive to provide better service for the customer”
which when translated from retard to english means:
“I don't want to do my job well. Waaaaah waaaah give me more money all the time or I won't work hard”
Guess what food service assholes? How about you do your job well for the same reason as everyone else in the fucking non-tip receiving world: because it’s your JOB.
Like there should be a fucking hierarchy for 'degree of service'. What a joke. Aren't you supposed to do your job to the best of your ability always? Isn't that what being professional is all about? When you put on your servers uniform and punch in at work do you feel like your mounting a cross to die for the sins of man? Cause you act the part.
The fucking attitude on these people.
“What? I don't deserve a tip if I provide exceptional service to a restaurant patron?”
Riiiiiight. Sorry I forgot what a beautiful and unique snowflake you are and that when people walk into a restaurant they're expecting table side stand up comedy from a well groomed charmer who never forgets to say 'please' and 'thank you'. Hey waitstaff chick…come over here for a second…
EAT MY DICK.
Go ahead, lick the taint...lick it some more....lick it til you fucking like it foodservice faggots...
When you're done go cry about it after closing with the rest of your buddies while you drink your bosses liquor. Im gonna write this out in caps so we get this nice and clear: YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL. YOUR JOB IS NO MORE CHALLENGING OR IMPORTANT THAN THAT OF ANYONE ELSE. STOP THINKING THAT BECAUSE YOU CAN HOLD 2 MINUTES OF POLITE CONVERSATION WITH A STRANGER THAT YOU HAVE SOME INCREDIBLE SKILL THAT DESERVES REWARD.
Have you ever heard such me-centric bullshit? Getting paid because you think you’re interesting and charming? Who are you, prostitutes providing me with a GFE? Now THOSE bitches really earn their tip.
In a civilized world we'd work like Europe. If you want to charge the customer an additional fee for service set a fixed rate and put it right there in the bill. Done. It’s sane and egalitarian. Everyone knows what the expectation is and they know it will always be met. There’s no silent judging or after work group therapy over a bottle of Johnnie Walker or any of that bullshit. There’s no fear that your smiling server will spit or fart on your food because they remember you didn’t tip to their expectation last time you were there. And who likes having to figure out what to tip?
You know what the LAST thing I want to do after I've polished off three pints at the bar is?
A: Figure out 15% of 34.67
I've mentioned all of these points to the sour, drunk 3:30 a.m. Food service clique and they protest in chorus, as if rehearsed:
“Yeah but if it’s always a fixed rate then you have no incentive to provide better service for the customer”
which when translated from retard to english means:
“I don't want to do my job well. Waaaaah waaaah give me more money all the time or I won't work hard”
Guess what food service assholes? How about you do your job well for the same reason as everyone else in the fucking non-tip receiving world: because it’s your JOB.
Like there should be a fucking hierarchy for 'degree of service'. What a joke. Aren't you supposed to do your job to the best of your ability always? Isn't that what being professional is all about? When you put on your servers uniform and punch in at work do you feel like your mounting a cross to die for the sins of man? Cause you act the part.
The fucking attitude on these people.
“What? I don't deserve a tip if I provide exceptional service to a restaurant patron?”
You mean like if I ask you to bring me a side of mustard and you actually do so this means I should be so grateful that I pay you additionally out of my wallet for what boils down to you essentially doing your job? ? Of course this will never make sense to a food service worker. The wall of self-righteous indignation is impossible to penetrate.
I feel sorry for the food service types. I pity them in a way. When they get out of college they'll have to enter the 'real world' and I can't imagine how empty they'll feel over having no one to blame for their personal dissatisfaction with their jobs. It’s hard to shake off the pimp logic once it’s been deeply ingrained in the psyche. I think this might be why so many food service types never graduate from the food service game. They end up being lifers because they need to live in their warped bubble where it’s 'us' and 'them'.
I've also heard all the arguments from the owner’s side about why the tipping structure exists as it does here in North America. I've heard about how it’s hard in the restaurant industry to come out on top and that if they were to pay their employees better they wouldn't be able to make it in the industry. Hey, here’s an idea: at the risk of sounding like a logical realist, maybe you shouldn't fucking jump into the industry if it’s so hard to make it. Is it my fault there's a fixed number of restaurant goers in the world and you chose to open the millionth Thai Fusion joint in the city? Should I indulge your uninspired choice by paying your employees for you? Again: EAT MY DICK.
Actually you know what food service whores and restaurant owners – I take it back! Allow me to display my regret for this tirade by serving YOU for a change. Here’s how it’ll work:
I feel sorry for the food service types. I pity them in a way. When they get out of college they'll have to enter the 'real world' and I can't imagine how empty they'll feel over having no one to blame for their personal dissatisfaction with their jobs. It’s hard to shake off the pimp logic once it’s been deeply ingrained in the psyche. I think this might be why so many food service types never graduate from the food service game. They end up being lifers because they need to live in their warped bubble where it’s 'us' and 'them'.
I've also heard all the arguments from the owner’s side about why the tipping structure exists as it does here in North America. I've heard about how it’s hard in the restaurant industry to come out on top and that if they were to pay their employees better they wouldn't be able to make it in the industry. Hey, here’s an idea: at the risk of sounding like a logical realist, maybe you shouldn't fucking jump into the industry if it’s so hard to make it. Is it my fault there's a fixed number of restaurant goers in the world and you chose to open the millionth Thai Fusion joint in the city? Should I indulge your uninspired choice by paying your employees for you? Again: EAT MY DICK.
Actually you know what food service whores and restaurant owners – I take it back! Allow me to display my regret for this tirade by serving YOU for a change. Here’s how it’ll work:
Line up one by one while I serve you all a generous helping of My Dick. Take turns eating it in succession. I will serve it to your mouths with great charm and personality, working my balls off your chin to your exact specification. It'll be the most complete and ‘personal’ experience you will ever receive, this I guarantee. After the main course is over I will then serve you a hot portion of My Load to cleanse the palette.
But please remember: for this most careful and considerate service I provide you, I expect nothing less than 15%. Natch.
But please remember: for this most careful and considerate service I provide you, I expect nothing less than 15%. Natch.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
My Gym: The Gayest Place On Earth!!
Besides the fact it costs money and requires commitment, the worst part about working out at a gym has to be that it's quite possibly the gayest place in the world.
Once a month, spurred on by guilt and a deteriorating body image, I'll find the requisite motivation to drag my ass out of my apartment and down to the local gym even though I know what's awaiting me when I get there. I pack a sports bag full of shit I'll never actually use like supplement bars and sweatbands and I'm on my way.
When I arrive at the gym the gayness is almost instant. It waits for me behind the changeroom door like a naked man hiding behind a couch at a surprise birthday party. I walk in and blammmo...
Dick.
The smell. The sight. If I'm not sharp enough to dodge the careless hairy naked 50-something Italian guy walking by me – the touch.
All in all it's just fucking disgusting.
I don't mean to sound like an immature teen who thinks the human body is 'icky', but it's one thing to be able to maturely handle seeing another man naked and quite another to walk into a room packed full of smelly naked men, some of whom have their legs up on a bench so they can towel dry their asscrack. You got dudes cutting their toenails and trimming their nosehair and taking naked shits in the stalls. I always think the same thing when I walk into this predictable and unchanging situation: Wait a minute...I'm paying to be here?
After settling into the least abused corner of the changeroom facility, I spend a few moments building up the courage to take off my clothes in front of other men standing less than an arm's length away from me. I try not to step into any mystery puddles as I swap my boots for a pair of athletic trainers and I try to not think about other guys' cocks. I know that sounds gay in and of itself, but when you're surrounded by them it's almost impossible, like trying to not think about Asians while at a Bubble Tea lounge.
For as gay as it is, the whole changeroom process is just the beginning of the latent faggotry inherent to the men's fitness scene. It gets worse as the actual working out starts to happen. I used to have a really hard time doing the changeroom thing for the first while, but now I handle it with the stoic indifference of an Auschwitz Jew walking past a pile of burnt corpses. I'm numb to it. I've been through it too many times for it to faze me anymore.
When I eventually get out of the changeroom and into the gym it's business time:
I start my workout off with cardio, which is the gayest type of exercise there is. Sure it's great for fat people to help them lose weight but if you're a person in decent shape the only thing cardio is good for is feminizing you. You know who's into cardio? Disgusting looking toothpick bodied 'joggers' and marathon racers who look like an athletic metaphor for homosexuality and run like they're fresh off a particularly savage assfucking. I would love to bypass cardio altogether but since I eat like shit and don't want to die I end up ripping ten minutes on a treadmill – no doubt the gayest of all gym equipment. When I'm done running I've started to work up a really good sweat - time to mingle with the boys!
I head over to the weights area where the other men are and debate whether or not I'm ready to handle 20's. In the background I can hear a chorus of men grunting and moaning as they pump iron. It reminds me of the classic Sandler bit. Every muscle burning rep squeezed out by these gym freaks brings about another 'NNYYYYEEEEAAAAH' or 'ARRRRGGGHHH'. If there are two guys working out together you might hear one guy yelling at the other things like: 'Harder!' or 'Come on! Bring it!'
If I were gay I'm sure I'd be able to close my eyes right there standing in front of the weight rack and jerk off to climax in under 60 seconds.
Before I come to a conclusion on whether or not I'm ready to step up to the 20's, I'm usually bothered by some other guy who wants me to help 'spot' him on his exercise. Dude, can't you just drop the weight down to something you can manage on your own? No? Fuck.
According to gym etiquette you can't ever really say no when a guys asks you for a spot, but I'd be damned if I ever once felt comfortable saying yes. Spotting is the out and out gayest part of being at a men's gym. See, when a guy asks me 'can you spot me for a bit?' what I really hear is 'hey buddy, do you mind just coming over and getting a little gay with me for a second?”
In a 'which is gayer' contest I'm not sure which wins out:
actually sucking a man's cock or lining up your pelvis with another mans' so you can help to spot him from behind during a set of squats. Debate amongst yourselves.
I fortunately never get asked to spot for squats, but almost every trip to the gym some guy will ask me to spot him on benchpress. This is also really gay and even though I'm loathe to say 'yes' I typically agree with great hesitation. To spot a man for benchpress, he lies down on the workout bench and I gently move my way over his face so that my balls hover perilously close to his forehead. I then squat down a bit, bending over him slightly so that we look like an all-male 69 that's perpetually about to happen. Then as he starts lifting the weight his heavy breathing kicks in and on the exhale his breath might occasionally catch me off guard, entering my open mouth. It's disgusting and if I wasn't literally caught in the middle of a life or death situation I would walk off right then and there.
It goes on like this for another 40 odd minutes – men flexing and staring in mirrors and 'spotting' each other.
Then when it's time to go home I have to face the whole changeroom situation again. Maybe if I'm extra lucky an old hairy guy might throw the towel he just used to dry his balls onto the clean change of clothing I've laid out on the locker room bench. You just never know. The gym can be a wild card sometimes.
Even long after I've left the gym its gay effect lingers. When I get home I look at my body in the mirror studying whether or not there's any visible difference. When I go out the way I see the world changes cause of working out. Suddenly I'm sizing up and checking out other guys and their build, which, even though it's completely non-sexual, is still nevertheless kinda gay. I'll catch myself staring at some roid case in the food court at the mall and I'll think to myself 'damn he's got really nice triceps'. Then the second higher order level of my consciousness will call my first level consciousness a fag for thinking such faggoty thoughts. I feel conflicted.
I know I'm not alone on this. When I ask other guys I know who work out they say the same thing. As one friend so succinctly said, in a statement foreshadowing possible future queerness: “you never really appreciate a man's body until you start working out because only then do you realize what it takes to make it look as great as it does”. And he's right.
I'm a really secure guy. I don't fear gays and I have no questions about myself, so I'm not threatened on a personal level by all of this workout related quasi-homo stuff, but I'd be lying if I said being at a gym isn't really uncomfortable sometimes.
And I can't help but wonder if other less secure men are started off on a path to being gay by developing a platonic appreciation for the male body via working out at their local gym. Is this where the slippery slope begins for some? Does 'spotting' eventually turn into 'comparing bodies' which then turns into 'hanging out one on one' which eventually ends in 'biting a pillow while bending over in anticipation of your lover's entry into your anus'? I don't know how it works. And I don't need to be thinking about this shit right now. I've put in my time at the gym for this month. I won't need to see another 50-year old changeroom dick until January. Happy (gay) new year indeed.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The FoOl presents: MythBusters!! What Does Pussy REALLY Smell Like???
(ed. note - I apologize for the lateness of this post. Today was crazy. I didn't edit this at all so forgive any spelling/flow errors. Maybe I'll touch it up later. Bless)
Of all the cruel hoaxes concocted by Patriarchal society in an effort to mentally cripple and demoralize the female populace, has there ever been any more effective and vicious than the myth of commonly foul vaginal odour?
Every woman is self conscious about it to a certain degree and while it is something every female should always be aware of to a reasonable extent, the paranoia surrounding the issue runs so deep it isn't uncommon to come across a woman who will refuse to let a man go down on her strictly because of her fear of the way she might smell 'down there'.
What bullshit.
Reality is if you have access to soap and running water then there should be no problem. But reality was never the problem. The problem is and always has been the lie, and it has taken on a life of its own.
There are four words that represent the great modern lie; a lie that has done more damage to the collective self-esteem of women everywhere than any gender based salary hierarchy ever could:
“It smells like fish”.
Sometime long ago it seems as though men everywhere ignorantly chose to stereotype female vaginal odour by comparing its likeness to the smell of “fish”. Since society has a funny way of slowly transforming myth and legend into belief, this inaccurate comparison is now how women typically think of themselves – like an otherwise normal human who happens to have a fish market stuck between their legs. This abnormal perception of self makes certain things difficult for a woman - like letting her lover wear her ass like a feeding bag without self-consciousness ruining the process.
In a lot of ways a woman tends to view her pussy as microcosm of herself. If you can’t love and accept her pussy, logically it follows that you can’t love and accept her. It’s not just a part of her body, it’s who she is and it’s the part of her body that defines her femininity. This is something the Patriarchy is well aware of and that’s why their cruel lie – “it smells like fish” – is so devastating to a woman’s self-image. To say “it smells like fish” is tantamount to saying “you smell like fish!” and who the fuck likes the way a fish smells?
Women cover up with perfume, and bury themselves under layers of product and maybe once a week they’ll take a petrified pebble shit when no one else is home and they have the washroom to themselves, but why all this cloak and daggery?
I’ll tell you why: because a woman’s greatest fear is smelling bad. Of all the five senses one speaks to the idea of "dirty" in a way the other 4 can't match, and that sense is smell. Smelling bad implies that you are dirty. Being dirty is a direct violation of the code of femininity and it strips you of your claim to womanhood. You can’t be foul and also be respected as a woman.
So what do you think you’re doing to a woman’s mental state when you falsely lead her to believe her twat smells like week old Sea Bass?
The devastation of this is beyond comprehension. There is no male equivalent for this type of genitally conscious mental anguish. Having a small dick doesn’t even come close.
“It smells like fish”
No it doesn't you fucking virgin.
Who've you been eating out? This chick? Probably not, cause even then I'm sure her box smelled more like “corpse” than “fish”.
Forget all this shit ladies.
Every woman is self conscious about it to a certain degree and while it is something every female should always be aware of to a reasonable extent, the paranoia surrounding the issue runs so deep it isn't uncommon to come across a woman who will refuse to let a man go down on her strictly because of her fear of the way she might smell 'down there'.
What bullshit.
Reality is if you have access to soap and running water then there should be no problem. But reality was never the problem. The problem is and always has been the lie, and it has taken on a life of its own.
There are four words that represent the great modern lie; a lie that has done more damage to the collective self-esteem of women everywhere than any gender based salary hierarchy ever could:
“It smells like fish”.
Sometime long ago it seems as though men everywhere ignorantly chose to stereotype female vaginal odour by comparing its likeness to the smell of “fish”. Since society has a funny way of slowly transforming myth and legend into belief, this inaccurate comparison is now how women typically think of themselves – like an otherwise normal human who happens to have a fish market stuck between their legs. This abnormal perception of self makes certain things difficult for a woman - like letting her lover wear her ass like a feeding bag without self-consciousness ruining the process.
In a lot of ways a woman tends to view her pussy as microcosm of herself. If you can’t love and accept her pussy, logically it follows that you can’t love and accept her. It’s not just a part of her body, it’s who she is and it’s the part of her body that defines her femininity. This is something the Patriarchy is well aware of and that’s why their cruel lie – “it smells like fish” – is so devastating to a woman’s self-image. To say “it smells like fish” is tantamount to saying “you smell like fish!” and who the fuck likes the way a fish smells?
Women cover up with perfume, and bury themselves under layers of product and maybe once a week they’ll take a petrified pebble shit when no one else is home and they have the washroom to themselves, but why all this cloak and daggery?
I’ll tell you why: because a woman’s greatest fear is smelling bad. Of all the five senses one speaks to the idea of "dirty" in a way the other 4 can't match, and that sense is smell. Smelling bad implies that you are dirty. Being dirty is a direct violation of the code of femininity and it strips you of your claim to womanhood. You can’t be foul and also be respected as a woman.
So what do you think you’re doing to a woman’s mental state when you falsely lead her to believe her twat smells like week old Sea Bass?
The devastation of this is beyond comprehension. There is no male equivalent for this type of genitally conscious mental anguish. Having a small dick doesn’t even come close.
“It smells like fish”
No it doesn't you fucking virgin.
Who've you been eating out? This chick? Probably not, cause even then I'm sure her box smelled more like “corpse” than “fish”.
Forget all this shit ladies.
I'm here today to set the record straight: YOUR PUSSY DOES NOT SMELL LIKE FISH.
Not the vast majority of you anyway. Some women do have fish smelling pussies, as I discovered in my empirical research of this subject, but they’re about as common as black Michael Richards fans. In other words: the main stereotype regarding the olfactory properties of the vagina is false.
So now that we know the lie, let's look at the truth...
First off, it's important to recognize that IN THE REAL WORLD there are many, many different smells that can be related to vaginas. The vast and overwhelming majority of these are faint or neutral and in no way unpleasant.
This is very different than the smell of dick, which is pretty much always the same and only comes in two varieties: clean dick and dirty dick. The smell of dick is instantly recognizable as itself. For example when I walk into the men's changeroom at my local gym and breathe in the air with a great big sniiiiiiifffffffff...ahhhhhhh....there it is: dick. That's when I usually feel like puking or cancelling my membership.
With women it’s different. There are as many vaginal odours as there are types of women, or types of pussy. Some may smell the same, but it’s hard to find an underlying commonality in scent that can be easily applied to all vaginas. Certainly not “fish” anyway. Nowhere in my wide sexual history have I come across a pussy that smells like fish. Not even remotely. In fact I haven't so much as had to deal with a pussy that I could truthfully say 'stunk'.
I know there is such a thing as stinky pussy; I've just never had the experience of it.
So I guess the percentages are either really low or I'm just the guy who manages to walk between the raindrops. Either way, I figured it would probably be wise for me to consult with others to have a larger sample for the conclusions I'm trying to make in this post, so I decided to ask my most whored out male friends for their opinion on the subject, cause after all, no man is an island right?
About my friends: They are unrepentant man-whores. They are whores of such perfect amorality they're probably trying to fuck my sister as I type this. If anyone would know about the rainbow of fragrance that pussy offers it would be them. So I asked...
What they told me is: yes, they have had experiences where the pussy stunk but they were rare and in the vast majority of situations there is no unpleasantness about the process of giving a girl oral except that it takes some chicks way too long to break off – a problem that can be directly related to the fact that women have a hard time enjoying oral cause of their level of self-consciousness.
From this same discussion here's a short list of different things we concluded pussy smelled like:
Mushrooms (regular for cooking, not the drug)
Chamomile Tea
Faintly of Black Pepper, like if you were to hold the shaker an arms length from your face
Vanilla Frosting
Kraft Dinner
Block of Mild Cheddar (this is NOT a bad smell, go to your fridge pull out a block of cheddar and sniff. Pretty neutral right? Maybe a bit salty?)
A sock that you wore for half an hour (again not a bad smell, just faint and strange)
Money that you won at the Racetrack (more strange than unpleasant)
Warm fresh bread (ed. note – this was not my contribution, but I'm really turned on by this idea. If you or your friend(s) smell like warm bread and you want to be eaten out please contact me at sufferthefool@gmail.com)
Fresh milk
Unsweetened Earl Grey Tea
As you can see the majority of those scents are pretty neutral and some are even downright inviting.
Of all my whore friends only one, Rico (name changed), had a story to share where the pussy smelled so bad he had to refuse a woman's request for oral. Here's a rough recap of that situation:
(conversation)
TF: Break it down.
Rico: We were in the Dominican, open bar style, it was well past last call, so you know what time it is. I'm a little crunky. Anyway I start talking to this fucking beast and she's feeling me so whatever. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say she wasn't prom queen, but it's 3 a.m. so are we really gonna split hairs? Jose Cuervo and Johnnie Walker outvoted me 2 to 1 that I should fuck this 'thing' and I believe in democracy so I got it moving.
So we leave the bar and we start making out....
TF: Where are you at this point?
Rico: In Will's room. I refused to fuck this chick on my bed. She was disgusting bro. Anyway we start making out on the deck and we get back into the room, she sucks my dick a bit then she pulls down her pants and asks me to eat her out. Right on. So I go to get to it and as I hit her belly button a wave of what smelled like, I would have to say spoiled calamari, hit my nasal like a Tyson upper-cut '89. Dude it was so fucking thick you could taste it. I immediately stopped and told her no I'm sorry I can't do this.
TF: What was her reaction when you said no?
Rico: I wasn't exactly in tune with her feelings at that point if you know what I mean. I was basically more focused on staying hard. I started fucking her, needless to say I didn't come cause of the smell. I don't really remember a lot of detail after that. She left. I remember feeling really low before passing out.
TF: So you'd say that story is the exception though right? Stinky is the exception?
Rico: Oh most definitely. That was probably the only time I've refused oral on a woman and I've been with...well fuck man you know my stats. I'm not exactly a man of character when it comes to that shit.
So women of the world, rest easy tonight. You've been living in a prison of your own design with all this fretting over the smell of your vagina. If you're still uncertain about your 'smell' then here's a little litmus test you can run the next time you’re playing with yourself:
Fool around until you're wet then put a finger or two inside yourself. Pull it out and taste it. Smell it. If you can handle it then your man should be able too also. If he can't, well then he's too much of a pussy to be messing with your pussy, feel me? Every woman should be able to enjoy receiving oral sex sans inhibition. There’d be less cheating and divorce in the world if such were the case and people would eat better cause women would have more incentive to cook well as an outward sign of their contentment. Everyone wins! Men, Women, Pussy Lovers…
In fact that's the whole reason I'm posting about this today.
I have a confession: I love eating pussy.
I love it.
I can't get enough of it.
I need women to be comfortable with receiving oral sex cause it’s the only way I can properly appease my perversion.
How much do I enjoy going down on a woman? Let's put it this way: I moan when I give a woman head.
Before sex I joyfully insist that there be 20 minutes of foreplay in which the tip end of my tongue and a woman's clitoris can spend some time alone together playing the “North, East, South, West” game.
Go ahead – grab my head with your two well manicured hands and plunge my face deep into your mucous soaked box. I won't mind. I promise.
Why do I love it so much? I'm not exactly sure. Maybe it’s because I was raised by a domineering mother and I see in the face of every post-orgasmic woman I tongue the satisfied look of approval I felt I never had growing up. Who the fuck knows, right Sigmund?
One thing I do know is that eating pussy not only sates my perversion, it also appeases my sense of social justice. To me eating a girl out is righteous. It’s progressive. It’s a matter of civil rights. Thrashing her clit with my tongue, in my opinion, gives her a sense of robust femininity that 1,000 burnt bras could never match. There’s just no equivalent. The female orgasm and the freedom to indulge in it free of guilt is really the holy grail of feminism. It’s practical. It’s real. It’s way more sane than doing something drastic like not shaving your armpits or, conversely, shaving your head.
In closing I would like to address all the fags out there that are reading this post and saying to themselves: eating pussy sucks, fuck her pleasure!
Guess what guys, lend me your girlfriends for a week, see if they come back to you.
The truth is any man who can't enjoy eating a woman out has to be borderline gay. Eating pussy is the most heterosexual sex activity a man could possibly engage in. While it has been proven time and time again that any closeted homo can muster enough self-delusion to bang a chick, what a gay man could never do is bury his face deep into a woman's midsection with the same zest as a thirsty desert wanderer happening across an oasis. You can't fake that kind of pussy lust. You either got it or you don't.
I most definitely got it. Women should be getting it too.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Angered By Police Shooting, Greek Rioters Show Hatred for Their Government by Stealing Things From Other Greeks/Burning Down Family Businesses
Rioting.
Looks really cool in Rage Against the Machine videos, not so cool when some self-righteous college student burns down your house with a firebomb he made by sticking a lit rag into the top of an Oozo bottle.
Greece, known mainly as the home of anal sex and feta cheese, can now add to that list “riot capital of the world”. Check out these articles; I recommend reading both:
Now, from what I gather, a teenager was shot by corrupt police officers and everyone is losing their collective shit over it. Situation sound kinda familiar?
Man, how the fuck would these people cope with being black and living in New York City? The greek kid got shot once and from the evidence it’s actually possible (though unlikely) that it might have been accidental. Ha! In New York the ‘accidental’ shootings involving police and unarmed men start at about 41 bullets and top out somewhere near 50. The cops in question don't even go to jail! You don’t see anyone rioting over here about that though do you?
The riots in Greece aren’t the result of this one incident however. As is the case with most riots, the anger of the people seems to have been steadily building against the government for a while now, simmering into a nice thick stew of hate, and the shooting is just the breaking point, catalyzing the violence seen in the last few days.
I don't live in Greece so I don't know how bad things have been but the impression I get is that since the 2004 Olympics finished, the Greek government has proven itself to be as corrupt as a Don King Production and people are now taking a page from the Twisted Sister playbook with their flaming molotov cocktailed version of 'We're not Going to Take It'.
Fair enough. You know what? governments are inherently corrupt as fuck and to see people taking forceful, visible action against this corruption is commendable. Preventing exploitation and oppression are very noble pursuits. If this was what rioting was really about I'd be all for it. Too bad it isn't. Someone please explain this shit to me:
(excerpt from one of the articles above)
"Hooded youths pulled a driver from her car and set it alight in front of her..."
Good one there hooded youths. Way to stick it to the man. I'm sure burning this old woman's car will serve as a poignant metaphor for the people's resistance to government corruption. Or maybe now she'll just be an old lady with a pile of ash that used to be her car. Whatever – FUCK THE MAN!!! LET'S BURN SHIT!!
See, this is what I don't understand about rioting; what are you proving by destroying the businesses and possessions of your fellow citizens? How is this in any way 'sticking it to the man'? Anger toward the police I can understand. Destruction of property or symbols that are representative of government power I can maybe understand. Burning down family businesses in a fit of inarticulate rage against society? Sorry virtuous liberators of The Movement, you've lost me on that one. Consider this excerpt which is also taken from one of the articles above:
But that has been of little comfort to shopowners, who saw their businesses go up in flames.
"Nobody seems to care about the employees at the burnt shops. What will their fate be now over the Christmas season?" asked one shop assistant on the popular Ermou shopping street who would only give her first name, Eleni.
The problem with rioting is: for every righteous, well-intentioned, anti-government protestor who views the riots as a vehicle for real change, there are 3 motherfuckers throwing rocks through a storefront cause they want a free Blu-Ray player and flatscreen. The teenagers probably burn shit and fight cause they're angsty and bored. In theory riots seem like a good way to make a real statement against the government but in reality it’s a lot of disorganized Lord of the Flies bullshit that ends up hurting The People more than anything else. There’s no way you can convince me that destroying your country’s infrastructure so that you can end up paying taxes for the next 20 years for reconstruction projects to build it back up is in any way a sound course of action.
While this may be the first time we’re hearing about it over here in North America, rioting is nothing new in Greece. There have been many smaller, more contained riots that have happened there this year between the police and a growing Anarchist faction comprised mainly of, believe it or not – University students! Who would’ve guessed right?
Listen, I’ll fully admit I know nothing about the political situation in Greece, but fucking Anarchy? Seriously?
If you’re in college and you meet a student chick at the bar and you want to invite her back to your dorm to smoke out under your Castro/Guevara poster while discussing Anarchy and other ‘important’ social ideas found on Sex Pistols albums then I fully encourage you to do so. You’re 20 years old and so this shit is cool and dangerous, right? Gives you that rush like when you were 12 hiding in the backyard smoking your dad’s cigarettes right? Go for it man! Talk your fucking heart out. If you can convey enough passion and sincerity about your hate for the government you might even be able to get your dick sucked.
20 year old Anarchist: Hey, baby you know what? Fuck the State!
Organic College Girl: Oooooh. You're so dangerous and cool.
20 year old Anarchist: Yeah well, I just tell it like it is man.
Organic College Girl: Wow. I bet your cock tastes like Freedom!
20 year old Anarchist: There’s only one way to find out baby…
Good for you!! You’ve just participated in that age old student ritual of getting a girl to blow you cause you made her think that you’re a rebel. Score. Nicely done. Guess what though? That’s about all Anarchy is good for: getting you blown in college.
Go ahead: sew the patch to your jean jacket and help the world to see Anarchy in its most useful form – as a fashion statement.
In the real world Anarchy is the bullshit happening in Greece right now. It’s honest men having their independently owned businesses destroyed. It’s women scared to walk the streets. It’s people fighting under the premise of wanting to eliminate political corruption while the riots they incite hypocritically enable looting and theft. At present the total damage to Greek businesses and property is hovering somewhere around the 200 - 250 million euro mark.
In the end, when the last fire is put out and things are back under control, the Greeks are going to realize that they have, yet again, just been fucking each other in the ass.
While this may be the first time we’re hearing about it over here in North America, rioting is nothing new in Greece. There have been many smaller, more contained riots that have happened there this year between the police and a growing Anarchist faction comprised mainly of, believe it or not – University students! Who would’ve guessed right?
Listen, I’ll fully admit I know nothing about the political situation in Greece, but fucking Anarchy? Seriously?
If you’re in college and you meet a student chick at the bar and you want to invite her back to your dorm to smoke out under your Castro/Guevara poster while discussing Anarchy and other ‘important’ social ideas found on Sex Pistols albums then I fully encourage you to do so. You’re 20 years old and so this shit is cool and dangerous, right? Gives you that rush like when you were 12 hiding in the backyard smoking your dad’s cigarettes right? Go for it man! Talk your fucking heart out. If you can convey enough passion and sincerity about your hate for the government you might even be able to get your dick sucked.
20 year old Anarchist: Hey, baby you know what? Fuck the State!
Organic College Girl: Oooooh. You're so dangerous and cool.
20 year old Anarchist: Yeah well, I just tell it like it is man.
Organic College Girl: Wow. I bet your cock tastes like Freedom!
20 year old Anarchist: There’s only one way to find out baby…
Good for you!! You’ve just participated in that age old student ritual of getting a girl to blow you cause you made her think that you’re a rebel. Score. Nicely done. Guess what though? That’s about all Anarchy is good for: getting you blown in college.
Go ahead: sew the patch to your jean jacket and help the world to see Anarchy in its most useful form – as a fashion statement.
In the real world Anarchy is the bullshit happening in Greece right now. It’s honest men having their independently owned businesses destroyed. It’s women scared to walk the streets. It’s people fighting under the premise of wanting to eliminate political corruption while the riots they incite hypocritically enable looting and theft. At present the total damage to Greek businesses and property is hovering somewhere around the 200 - 250 million euro mark.
In the end, when the last fire is put out and things are back under control, the Greeks are going to realize that they have, yet again, just been fucking each other in the ass.
The FoOl asks: "Is It Cheating?"
Before I begin this discussion, to clarify: I'm talking about cheating in a relationship, not cheating like Barry '*73' Bonds or cheating like when you used to sit next to the Asian kid during a calculus exam or even cheating in the way you might occasionally do by stuffing you boxer briefs with a pair of socks to give them a 'fuller' look. All of those examples of cheating are fairly clear cut and require no elaborate discussion. Cheating only becomes really debate worthy when considered in the context of a relationship.
As is the case when I'm having trouble understanding something, I asked God (Wikipedia) what 'cheating' is and this is what She told me:
With regard to human relationships, couples tend to expect sexual monogamy of each other. If so, then cheating commonly refers to forms of infidelity, particularly adultery. However, there are other divisions of infidelity, which may be emotional. Cheating by thinking of, touching and talking with someone you are attracted to may be equally damaging to one of the parties. Emotional cheating may be correlated to that of emotional abuse, which to date is treated as seriously in a court of law as physical cheating. With the expansion of understanding of other cultures, there is a wide spectrum of what cheating means. When in a committed relationship, the definition of cheating is based on both parties opinions and both parties may redefine their understanding to match the party at an either lower or higher extreme of this definition.
Many good points brought up by God in Her definition. Let's look at some...
There is a broad range of physical/emotional activity, from the mild to the extreme, which people might consider to be 'cheating'.
For example: while my ex-girlfriend wouldn't even so much as let me touch my dick while thinking of another woman, not even to hold it while taking a piss, there are other men and women out there who keep websites like http://www.pleasebangmywife.com/ alive by allowing their partners to savour new and strange cock/vag while still in the confines of their relationship.
Don't believe me?
If you're in the Toronto area this weekend head down to Queen W. and check out Wicked nightclub. In there you'll find men calmly sitting on lounge chairs, enjoying a scotch and soda with the stoic demeanour of someone reading the Sunday paper while their wives/girlfriends are being gang banged ten feet away by a bunch of other guys who are also in relationships. Some of the gang-bangers might even be people the men consider‘friends’. This highly evolved practice is known as “swinging”.
If later on a gentleman has had enough of lounging with a scotch and soda, he too can walk about the club to find a woman to pump off into. It’s like the Wild West of ass n’ cock. Do whatever you want and explain yourself to no one. At the end of the night Mr. Scotch and Soda then takes his wife/girlfriend home, probably laying down some newspaper on the passenger side seat to prevent foreign cum from staining his Porsche leather, and they both carry on with each other as though they weren't just at a club fucking other people.
Ask any of the patrons at club Wicked if they consider what goes on there to be 'cheating' and I'm sure you'd get a 100% across the board answer of 'no'. If you think about it the very purpose of the club is to render obsolete the idea of cheating. Its goal is to make explicit all the activity that people in relationships want to engage in behind the backs of their partners without the guilt. In fact I'd be very curious to hear what these people would consider cheating; is there even a way to cheat on someone willing to swing? I'd go over to Wicked and ask but I don't know that I could handle the smell.
And so the extreme ends of the spectrum are represented with clear examples:
While my ex would scream infidelity if I were to smile and wave at another female, there are other more modern types who can laugh off the sight of their wife being given the Plunger by some 13 inched latin greaser in front of strangers at a nightclub.
Ask any of the patrons at club Wicked if they consider what goes on there to be 'cheating' and I'm sure you'd get a 100% across the board answer of 'no'. If you think about it the very purpose of the club is to render obsolete the idea of cheating. Its goal is to make explicit all the activity that people in relationships want to engage in behind the backs of their partners without the guilt. In fact I'd be very curious to hear what these people would consider cheating; is there even a way to cheat on someone willing to swing? I'd go over to Wicked and ask but I don't know that I could handle the smell.
And so the extreme ends of the spectrum are represented with clear examples:
While my ex would scream infidelity if I were to smile and wave at another female, there are other more modern types who can laugh off the sight of their wife being given the Plunger by some 13 inched latin greaser in front of strangers at a nightclub.
What does this mean?
Well the clear cut lesson from this is that swingers are fucking psychotic.
Well the clear cut lesson from this is that swingers are fucking psychotic.
The second lesson is that cheating is a term defined in the subjective.
To ask 'what is cheating?’ is to ask 'what does my partner consider cheating to be?'. While popular opinion may influence your conception of what cheating is, at the end of the day you are accountable to one person and one person only. Unless you’re Hef, in which case you’re accountable to no one ever.
So now you’re probably asking yourself: how can there be any ambiguity about this? What’s not clear here? If you have an understanding of what is and is not cheating based on discussions you’ve had with your partner then how can you not know if you’re cheating?
I’ll agree with you in terms of the big stuff/physical stuff. Figuring out whether or not someone has cheated on you in a physical sense is pretty cut and dry:
If your wife says you can’t put your 3-inch metrosexual she-dick into the babysitter’s mouth and you put your trans-dick in the babysitter’s mouth anyway, then that’s cheating.
If your supermodel wife says you can’t solicit sex with cracked out black hookers and you solicit sex with cracked out black hookers then that’s cheating.
If your husband says you can’t sleep with other people and you sleep with an overpaid post-racial diva who can’t hit in the clutch, then that’s cheating.
Determining whether or not someone cheated on you in a physical/sexual sense is an easy call.
Your dick is in the other girl’s mouth or it isn’t. His strange dick is in your mouth or it isn’t. It’s empirical.
Sure it gets more complex when you get down to the small shit like if you’re at a club and your hand accidentally-but-on-purpose grazes the tit of some chick you walk by on the dancefloor OR your girlfriend suggestively puts her arm around another man, but these things tie in to the more ambiguous areas of cheating related to the emotional/psychological.
The emotional and psychological forms of cheating are infinitely more complex and problem causing than the physical. Here are a few things that must be clearly understood in order to discuss emotional/psychological infidelity:
1. Every person in a relationship knows that their partner looks at/is potentially aroused by/ compulsively masturbates to the thought of other people. It’s a fact that people usually politely ignore so they don’t feel like committing a murder-suicide everyday when they come home from work.
2. Every person in a relationship knows that if curiosity or fascination is left to linger, the initial feelings your partner may have for other people could manifest into something that will threaten your relationship and possibly lead to you having to kill Olivier Martinez by hitting him in the head with a blunt object.
3. Every person in a relationship tries to impose the rules they feel necessary to limit the potential of these curiosities from manifesting in their partner.
4. Because you cannot see emotions or intentions – they are as invisible as my glide on anti-perspirant – you have to constantly assume and speculate about your partner’s level of curiosity toward someone else without having any real grounds to base these assumptions on other than your capacity to accurately judge subtleties.
This is where all the craziness happens.
So now you’re probably asking yourself: how can there be any ambiguity about this? What’s not clear here? If you have an understanding of what is and is not cheating based on discussions you’ve had with your partner then how can you not know if you’re cheating?
I’ll agree with you in terms of the big stuff/physical stuff. Figuring out whether or not someone has cheated on you in a physical sense is pretty cut and dry:
If your wife says you can’t put your 3-inch metrosexual she-dick into the babysitter’s mouth and you put your trans-dick in the babysitter’s mouth anyway, then that’s cheating.
If your supermodel wife says you can’t solicit sex with cracked out black hookers and you solicit sex with cracked out black hookers then that’s cheating.
If your husband says you can’t sleep with other people and you sleep with an overpaid post-racial diva who can’t hit in the clutch, then that’s cheating.
Determining whether or not someone cheated on you in a physical/sexual sense is an easy call.
Your dick is in the other girl’s mouth or it isn’t. His strange dick is in your mouth or it isn’t. It’s empirical.
Sure it gets more complex when you get down to the small shit like if you’re at a club and your hand accidentally-but-on-purpose grazes the tit of some chick you walk by on the dancefloor OR your girlfriend suggestively puts her arm around another man, but these things tie in to the more ambiguous areas of cheating related to the emotional/psychological.
The emotional and psychological forms of cheating are infinitely more complex and problem causing than the physical. Here are a few things that must be clearly understood in order to discuss emotional/psychological infidelity:
1. Every person in a relationship knows that their partner looks at/is potentially aroused by/ compulsively masturbates to the thought of other people. It’s a fact that people usually politely ignore so they don’t feel like committing a murder-suicide everyday when they come home from work.
2. Every person in a relationship knows that if curiosity or fascination is left to linger, the initial feelings your partner may have for other people could manifest into something that will threaten your relationship and possibly lead to you having to kill Olivier Martinez by hitting him in the head with a blunt object.
3. Every person in a relationship tries to impose the rules they feel necessary to limit the potential of these curiosities from manifesting in their partner.
4. Because you cannot see emotions or intentions – they are as invisible as my glide on anti-perspirant – you have to constantly assume and speculate about your partner’s level of curiosity toward someone else without having any real grounds to base these assumptions on other than your capacity to accurately judge subtleties.
This is where all the craziness happens.
You’re at a club with your girlfriend and you notice that she’s been talking to another guy for longer than you’re comfortable with. You start thinking about what her intentions might be. You then notice her putting her arm around his shoulder while giving him that look that you know is anything but innocent. WTF??!
What does this mean? How angry are you allowed to get because of this? She’ll just dismiss it as paranoia, but you know this ain’t fucking paranoia.
Is it cheating?
Before you jump up to quickly throw out a “Hell no, what is this, the 50’s? Insecure much?” consider this follow up point:
What if two weeks later you catch her making calls to that same guy because she pulled his number without telling you.
Is it cheating?
Now you’re probably more likely to say something like “Shit. That’s fucked up. That’s definitely not cool and you have a right to be suspicious/mad, but come on…I mean it isn’t exactly cheating, right?”
Alright. Have it your way. But what if two weeks after you catch her making calls to this guy you come home, browse over to YouPorn for your afternoon stroke and happen across a newly uploaded video featuring your girlfriend and that same guy at some motel fucking it out in a way you haven’t seen since your first month together. That would be some fucked up shit right?
Now you’re probably saying: “That’s cheating!! What a dirty bitch!” and here everyone agrees.
But tell me – if you look at the events leading up to the motel room upload as being a continuum, starting at your initial suspicion at the club and ending in your ruined fap session, where did the cheating start? If the intention is what leads to action then isn’t what went down at the club in the very beginning some form of cheating?
Is it cheating?
What does this mean? How angry are you allowed to get because of this? She’ll just dismiss it as paranoia, but you know this ain’t fucking paranoia.
Is it cheating?
Before you jump up to quickly throw out a “Hell no, what is this, the 50’s? Insecure much?” consider this follow up point:
What if two weeks later you catch her making calls to that same guy because she pulled his number without telling you.
Is it cheating?
Now you’re probably more likely to say something like “Shit. That’s fucked up. That’s definitely not cool and you have a right to be suspicious/mad, but come on…I mean it isn’t exactly cheating, right?”
Alright. Have it your way. But what if two weeks after you catch her making calls to this guy you come home, browse over to YouPorn for your afternoon stroke and happen across a newly uploaded video featuring your girlfriend and that same guy at some motel fucking it out in a way you haven’t seen since your first month together. That would be some fucked up shit right?
Now you’re probably saying: “That’s cheating!! What a dirty bitch!” and here everyone agrees.
But tell me – if you look at the events leading up to the motel room upload as being a continuum, starting at your initial suspicion at the club and ending in your ruined fap session, where did the cheating start? If the intention is what leads to action then isn’t what went down at the club in the very beginning some form of cheating?
Is it cheating?
I know this is a fallacious argument because it follows a 'slippery slope' model, but fuck man, can you honestly tell me that the intention observed in the first instance of this example didn't contribute to the end result?
In murder or assault or other crimes of harm intent is always considered in the verdict, right?
The reason I bring this all up is because I've been thinking about a situation I was in not too long ago with my ex-girlfriend. We were at an art auction, playfully revelling in each other's warm affections when a strange, well dressed man approached us introducing himself as John. We talked small for a while before he calmly offered my girlfriend a million dollars if she would let him fuck me in the ass.
The reason I bring this all up is because I've been thinking about a situation I was in not too long ago with my ex-girlfriend. We were at an art auction, playfully revelling in each other's warm affections when a strange, well dressed man approached us introducing himself as John. We talked small for a while before he calmly offered my girlfriend a million dollars if she would let him fuck me in the ass.
Hahahahahhaha. I kid.
No, really, I ask all of this because a friend of mine recently told me a story that goes like this:
She had a boyfriend but while she was with him she fell for another guy. Sucks for the boyfriend, right?
Anyway she stays with her boyfriend at first while at the same time growing her seed of intent to leave him by carrying on inappropriately (her words), though in no way overtly physical/sexual, with her new interest.
As you could probably guess, she eventually breaks up with her boyfriend and is now with the other guy. Makes me wonder: was it cheating?
On a surface level she did everything by the book because she never crossed the physical line before ending her relationship, yet if you were to ask her ex how he felt about the whole thing – assuming he’s aware of her inappropriate/intent forming interactions while still in the relationship – I could understand how it wouldn’t sit well with him and that he might even feel as though he’d been cheated on in some way.
Is it cheating?
Who am I to say... Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to Wicked.
(* There will be a follow up post to this called “If I pay for it, is it cheating??” look for it next week)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Ask An Expert: A look at Stephen Harper and the Coalition
"GUESS WHAT?? FUCK YOU!!"- S.Harper
Everyone seems to have a super strong opinion about our government dissolving and this new coalition forming to Take the Power Back like Chuck D/Flav '89, so I figure I should have an opinion too right? Problem is:
1. I know fuck all about Canadian politics
2. I can't think for myself
3. Learning about this shit on my own won't get me to the bar any faster
For these reasons I decided to consult a friend for their expert opinion on the subject in order to steal it and later present it as my own when I'm talking to rich white people who like to casually discuss issues like 'government' and 'imported cheese'. Cause, you know, that's so my scene.
Anyway, you don't just go and steal anyone's opinion. You find the most qualified head you can and probe them with a session of 'devil's advocate' argumentation to test the mettle of their reasoning.
Please find below the transcription of the MSN convo I had with my chosen politcal expert - my friend Jess. She's a McGill political science major/cute-as-fuck-heartbreaker and she happened to be on MSN at 3am just like me. If you want to know what I think of the coalition please refer to any of the points she makes and feel free to consider them as mine also. Cheers.
1. I know fuck all about Canadian politics
2. I can't think for myself
3. Learning about this shit on my own won't get me to the bar any faster
For these reasons I decided to consult a friend for their expert opinion on the subject in order to steal it and later present it as my own when I'm talking to rich white people who like to casually discuss issues like 'government' and 'imported cheese'. Cause, you know, that's so my scene.
Anyway, you don't just go and steal anyone's opinion. You find the most qualified head you can and probe them with a session of 'devil's advocate' argumentation to test the mettle of their reasoning.
Please find below the transcription of the MSN convo I had with my chosen politcal expert - my friend Jess. She's a McGill political science major/cute-as-fuck-heartbreaker and she happened to be on MSN at 3am just like me. If you want to know what I think of the coalition please refer to any of the points she makes and feel free to consider them as mine also. Cheers.
FoOl says:
yo, quickly- tell me what i should think about the coalition
jmac says:
its a good thing in the end. dion stepping down = (y). hopefully this will move things toward a proportional representative electoral system, inherently more democratic
FoOl says:
okay, but the white MBA finance guy at my office said "it (the coalition) is a violation of democracy and makes our government look like a joke". he used bigger words and intimidated me with the fact he's destined for upper management. So why is he wrong? Or is he?
jmac says:
ah, its a violation of democracy in that we, the people, did not explicitly choose it, as per a formal election or referendum etc. however a minority government being overthrown because the majority of the population did not vote for it in favour of a coalition of those parties for whom we, the people, did vote is more democratic and its like, we dont vote for our Prime Minister. he is appointed by the governor general based on which party most accurately represents the people via an election
FoOl says:
okay, but isn't that more or less the same shit Palpatine pulled in Star Wars Ep 1 that led to a vote of no confidence in the elected government which eventually led to The Empire taking over ?
jmac says:
i would say perhaps the method is the same.... but i wouldnt equate the canadian liberals with The Empire
FoOl says:
yeah but aren't they secretly stroking the Bloc in the backroom to get them on board with this shit? Listen, I'm not arguing with you for spite, I just need to know what to say tomorrow at work to all the older people so it looks like I actually give a shit about the world and don't really spend my time watching the latest preview clips at fuckedandbound.com...so entertain me
jmac says:
okay, the bloc is needed to support the coalition they are not, in fact, an official member and harper has pandered to the block once or twice previously...i forgot when.... but it was bloody recent and hes being a huge douchebag hypocrite for saying the coalition is whack for doing so. you just need them is all. theyre a significant representor of QC
FoOl says:
okay but i still don't know how settled i feel about the fact three parties are getting together and basically pulling a "we're not your friends anymore" tactic. its almost childish. harper was elected, you lost, get over it, know what im sayin?
jmac says:
ah, that was my original problem with it too. yeah but the thing is with this bloody first past the post system, harper only has the support of like 30% of the electorate. and that means 70% DIDNT vote for him or his party. minority governments are sooooooooo unstable
FoOl says:
okay so hang on allow me to, in my own way, present to you your argument as I see it:
10 people are choosing what they want to eat for dinner. Its agreed whichever eatery gets the most votes is the one everyone will have to eat at since they all want to eat in each other's company.
Of these 10 people:
3 say Harvey's, 2 say Taco Bell, 2 say Pizza Hut, 2 say KFC and 1 says fuck it I'll eat mom's home cooking.
So Harvey's wins.
What youre telling me is that if the Taco Bell, Pizza Hut and KFC guys get together, say we're all owned by one parent company (Pepsi), meaning we all have something in common, so now that we know that we lost we'll join together to agree: Taco Bell it is - and so everyone's got to eat Taco Bell all of a sudden like that's actually what people chose in the first place? Do you get what I'm getting at? Do you feel me? You can't just aggregate something and present it as being representative of what people chose in a situation where the parts of that aggregate were voted on as individual entities.
(ed. note - this was a really poor analogy. it was late and I was hungry.)
jmac says:
thats why its a coalition baby. do you feel me?
FoOl says:
while you answer has a swagger that quite frankly turns me on, no I'm not feeling you. explain...
jmac says:
well look, there is no parent company in this mix. so its like, yeah, no more harveys, but we get to eat some taco bell, some pizza hut and maybe a little KFC if we're feeling dangerous [where dangerous = separatist] and its what more people wanted anyway= more democratic.
they remain separate entities. we've had coalition governments before, its especially common during wartime and shit when we dont have time to fuck around with partisanship perhaps it will be a temporary thing [temporary could = years still] and when they implement the reforms they want, theyll lose the coalition and who knows. i dont think anyone is thinking that far ahead at present, however
FoOl says:
isn't that a bad thing? also, i know im going to lose mad sex appeal saying this to you, but isn't Harper doing a decent job? I mean shit I've been alive longer than you and this is the strongest our dollar/economy has been in all that time. can the man get a witness?!
jmac says:
to your first point, no its not a bad thing. i sincerely believe proportional representation will be implemented by then, so the electoral process will be far more democratic anyhow, therefore, if we get another PC government, at least we asked for it. to your second point: we're in a recession!
FoOl says:
yeah that's cause of the States though
jmac says:
it doesnt matter why we are, we just are. we need some state intervention here!! WOOO SOCIALISM ! okay ill stop.
FoOl says:
listen don't turn into a crazy vegan drum circling earth mother on me now alright. it does matter. if your neighbour parks his car on the lawn and has his friends over so they can sip forties in his garage, your property value goes to shit. doesn't matter how well youve been keeping your house. how the fuck is this Harper's fault?
jmac says:
point is: we're in one and we need what we need now.
FoOl says:
well Harper's proposing a stimulus package. i don't understand why he's not getting a chance to run his game. i mean, shit, election just passed a couple months ago.
jmac says:
ahhhh i dont really know the intricacies of the events that transpired prior to this whole drama but i think the house was generally unfavourable to him, got fed up, had a vote of non confidence, and here we be. though harper porogued the house before things got really real. so we're in bloody purgatory until january.
"THAT'S RIGHT BUDDY...TWO FINGERS...RIGHT IN YOUR ASS"- S.Harper
Monday, December 8, 2008
Moment Of Clarity
So she's sitting across from me and we've been talking for a bit and everything is going well. Better than well even. In fact....
Do I like this girl?
Holy shit... I think I might like this girl!
She's really cute. She laughs at my jokes. She contributes to the vibe instead of just sitting there like a bored child. She's interesting and cool.
I wonder what she'd be like in bed?
I visualize myself in bed with her using the right side of my brain while multi-tasking our conversation with the left side. I realize that instead of wanting to speed fuck her with my eyes closed thinking about the last Taylor Rain clip I caught on RedTube, I could see myself taking it slow - going down on her for at least a half hour before delicately entering her with the soft playfulness of a feather being lightly tickled across bare skin. That's what love is about right? This HAS to be it, right?
BUT WAIT!
Is this really the case? Am I thinking clearly?
Suddenly I remember that my brain has been compromised. A higher order level of consciousness reminds me that I cannot trust myself or my feelings. My mind is being affected by a delusional haze that separates perception from reality. I haven't had so much as a drink, I haven't taken any drug, yet I am most definitely under the influence...
Under the influence of not having released my load in over 3 days via sex/masturbation.
Women may not know this, but every man definitely does:
Immediately after breaking off, your ability to see the world as it is slowly deteriorates as your testicles refill themselves. A man with a full nutsac and a desperate want will have little to no grip on the world in and of itself and is certainly in no position to make sound decisions about matters of love. Put him in a bar on a Friday night and watch as reality crumbles; the apparent truths easily apprehended by more sober and less wanton minds inverting themselves to suit a desperate wanderer’s need to compulsively ejaculate. Nothing is as it seems, the little that he needs (E.Vedder, 2000): fat is slim, below average becomes acceptable, a clear-cut “6” turns into a “9” by last call. Boring is bearable, mundane is funny, up is down, black is white and on and on and on. The world is a different place when you're looking at it through the cum fogged lens of a ripe load.
Within every man there is a Jekyll and a Hyde. A Bruce Banner and a Hulk. A Hugh Grant w/ Liz Hurley and a Hugh Grant w/ Divine Brown. There is within us all, humans of the XY chromosome, the capacity for great good or depraved evil. For man life is a constant struggle to control the forces raging within him.
Usually I keep myself in control through sex with a willing/paid partner (when available/affordable) or strict devotion to a rigorous masturbation routine. Either will keep me sane and allow me to see the sky in its truest shade of blue.
In other words: working my joint keeps me on point.
Sometimes life gets in the way though. Sometimes you work all day and have to rush somewhere after work and you have to make dinner then you get caught up solving a really good Sudoku or maybe Conan has a couple interesting guests on Late Night and for whatever reason you just don't get around to releasing the pressure that has been building up inside of you. And then maybe another day goes by...and then maybe another one…
You see where this is going right?
For me things start to go pear shaped around day 3 or 4. That's my threshold. Every man has a threshold unique to his perversion and biology and mine is three days give or take 24 hours. I don't know how this stacks up with other men and personally I don't care. I'm sure there are guys who could go longer and I also figure there are a handful of poor bastards out there who couldn't stop jerking off if it meant saving their marriage. I don't dwell on either much. I just try to avoid putting myself in that terrible situation where you’re in bed with a girl, about to reach climax and you have the following happen:
“Yessss…..yesssss….yeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhooooohFuckWhatHaveIDone?!?”
So I'm still sitting there talking to her, still a bit starry eyed, still juggling these thoughts with one side of my brain while the other works on figuring out what to say next; but I can't go on like this. I need to know if this is real or just a hallucination I'm having cause at the moment I'm some kind of cum loaded Frankenstein. I need to find my moment of clarity. So I do the following:
Without explaining anything I excuse myself from the conversation by getting up and offering her a hug/kiss of the cheek. She asks me if I'm leaving and I say yes. I don't bother to grab her number because I know her through a friend and if I wanted to find her again I could. Asking for a number would create an expectation that I might not be willing to fulfill if I realize I'm wrong about this whole thing.
As I step back after giving her the hug I scan her body head to toe, front to back. I memorize her in depth – colour of her eyes, shape of her lower body, texture of her skin, the way the lighting creates a shadow in the space between her tits – everything is captured in my mind's eye.
I could be blinded with acid and still be able to mentally recall her ass with enough precision to paint a mural in its tribute like some modern day Monet. I also take a wholesale inventory of the night's conversation – absolutely everything that was talked about. Amazingly none of this is for beating off, but you'll understand later...
I leave the lounge and speed home to my bedroom, break open my laptop, position a box of tissue next to where I'm seated and I grab a notepad and ballpoint pen. I place the pad and pen on the opposite side of me, close enough to reach but far enough away to allow me space to do what must be done. I surf over to RedTube or PornHub or Quickfap, select a scene and begin stroking harder than the U.S. rowing team in the final 100m.
I give it my all. I immerse my soul in the activity; my face bearing the expression of some ancient tribesman engaged in a ritualistic quest for god. I bring myself toward enlightenment...
(elapsed time: 35 seconds)
Result!
I feel the psychosis leaving my body. I have found my Zen.
In this moment, immediately after having release, I see the world as clear as I ever will. I can see all of life for what it is. Every emotion is pure and centered.
Quickly, before I even attempt to dress myself, before my mental fades back into a pussy scavenging golem like single-mindedness, I grab the pad and pen and hit the recall button on my memory so that I can replay my night with the girl scrutinizing every detail of our interaction with the razor sharp logic of my freshly cleansed mind. I think about how I felt talking to her and run a session of revisionist history. As my feelings present themselves I note them on the pad. When I'm done I read over what was written and I can see her now for what she truly is:
Average looking at best
Conversation is typical, likes talking about Astrology too much
Believes in “The Secret”
Spits (lightly) when she talks
Slightly cross-eyed
Huge fan of post-insanity Britney because she’s “such a fighter”
That's usually about the time I'm glad I didn't give her my number.
Do I like this girl?
Holy shit... I think I might like this girl!
She's really cute. She laughs at my jokes. She contributes to the vibe instead of just sitting there like a bored child. She's interesting and cool.
I wonder what she'd be like in bed?
I visualize myself in bed with her using the right side of my brain while multi-tasking our conversation with the left side. I realize that instead of wanting to speed fuck her with my eyes closed thinking about the last Taylor Rain clip I caught on RedTube, I could see myself taking it slow - going down on her for at least a half hour before delicately entering her with the soft playfulness of a feather being lightly tickled across bare skin. That's what love is about right? This HAS to be it, right?
BUT WAIT!
Is this really the case? Am I thinking clearly?
Suddenly I remember that my brain has been compromised. A higher order level of consciousness reminds me that I cannot trust myself or my feelings. My mind is being affected by a delusional haze that separates perception from reality. I haven't had so much as a drink, I haven't taken any drug, yet I am most definitely under the influence...
Under the influence of not having released my load in over 3 days via sex/masturbation.
Women may not know this, but every man definitely does:
Immediately after breaking off, your ability to see the world as it is slowly deteriorates as your testicles refill themselves. A man with a full nutsac and a desperate want will have little to no grip on the world in and of itself and is certainly in no position to make sound decisions about matters of love. Put him in a bar on a Friday night and watch as reality crumbles; the apparent truths easily apprehended by more sober and less wanton minds inverting themselves to suit a desperate wanderer’s need to compulsively ejaculate. Nothing is as it seems, the little that he needs (E.Vedder, 2000): fat is slim, below average becomes acceptable, a clear-cut “6” turns into a “9” by last call. Boring is bearable, mundane is funny, up is down, black is white and on and on and on. The world is a different place when you're looking at it through the cum fogged lens of a ripe load.
Within every man there is a Jekyll and a Hyde. A Bruce Banner and a Hulk. A Hugh Grant w/ Liz Hurley and a Hugh Grant w/ Divine Brown. There is within us all, humans of the XY chromosome, the capacity for great good or depraved evil. For man life is a constant struggle to control the forces raging within him.
Usually I keep myself in control through sex with a willing/paid partner (when available/affordable) or strict devotion to a rigorous masturbation routine. Either will keep me sane and allow me to see the sky in its truest shade of blue.
In other words: working my joint keeps me on point.
Sometimes life gets in the way though. Sometimes you work all day and have to rush somewhere after work and you have to make dinner then you get caught up solving a really good Sudoku or maybe Conan has a couple interesting guests on Late Night and for whatever reason you just don't get around to releasing the pressure that has been building up inside of you. And then maybe another day goes by...and then maybe another one…
You see where this is going right?
For me things start to go pear shaped around day 3 or 4. That's my threshold. Every man has a threshold unique to his perversion and biology and mine is three days give or take 24 hours. I don't know how this stacks up with other men and personally I don't care. I'm sure there are guys who could go longer and I also figure there are a handful of poor bastards out there who couldn't stop jerking off if it meant saving their marriage. I don't dwell on either much. I just try to avoid putting myself in that terrible situation where you’re in bed with a girl, about to reach climax and you have the following happen:
“Yessss…..yesssss….yeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhooooohFuckWhatHaveIDone?!?”
So I'm still sitting there talking to her, still a bit starry eyed, still juggling these thoughts with one side of my brain while the other works on figuring out what to say next; but I can't go on like this. I need to know if this is real or just a hallucination I'm having cause at the moment I'm some kind of cum loaded Frankenstein. I need to find my moment of clarity. So I do the following:
Without explaining anything I excuse myself from the conversation by getting up and offering her a hug/kiss of the cheek. She asks me if I'm leaving and I say yes. I don't bother to grab her number because I know her through a friend and if I wanted to find her again I could. Asking for a number would create an expectation that I might not be willing to fulfill if I realize I'm wrong about this whole thing.
As I step back after giving her the hug I scan her body head to toe, front to back. I memorize her in depth – colour of her eyes, shape of her lower body, texture of her skin, the way the lighting creates a shadow in the space between her tits – everything is captured in my mind's eye.
I could be blinded with acid and still be able to mentally recall her ass with enough precision to paint a mural in its tribute like some modern day Monet. I also take a wholesale inventory of the night's conversation – absolutely everything that was talked about. Amazingly none of this is for beating off, but you'll understand later...
I leave the lounge and speed home to my bedroom, break open my laptop, position a box of tissue next to where I'm seated and I grab a notepad and ballpoint pen. I place the pad and pen on the opposite side of me, close enough to reach but far enough away to allow me space to do what must be done. I surf over to RedTube or PornHub or Quickfap, select a scene and begin stroking harder than the U.S. rowing team in the final 100m.
I give it my all. I immerse my soul in the activity; my face bearing the expression of some ancient tribesman engaged in a ritualistic quest for god. I bring myself toward enlightenment...
(elapsed time: 35 seconds)
Result!
I feel the psychosis leaving my body. I have found my Zen.
In this moment, immediately after having release, I see the world as clear as I ever will. I can see all of life for what it is. Every emotion is pure and centered.
Quickly, before I even attempt to dress myself, before my mental fades back into a pussy scavenging golem like single-mindedness, I grab the pad and pen and hit the recall button on my memory so that I can replay my night with the girl scrutinizing every detail of our interaction with the razor sharp logic of my freshly cleansed mind. I think about how I felt talking to her and run a session of revisionist history. As my feelings present themselves I note them on the pad. When I'm done I read over what was written and I can see her now for what she truly is:
Average looking at best
Conversation is typical, likes talking about Astrology too much
Believes in “The Secret”
Spits (lightly) when she talks
Slightly cross-eyed
Huge fan of post-insanity Britney because she’s “such a fighter”
That's usually about the time I'm glad I didn't give her my number.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Cleopatra Jones and The Black Ass - a closer look at what makes The Black Ass so special
The Black Ass.
To explain it is redundant. It is a term easily comprehended by all. As innate as our understanding of God, as obvious as Britney's pantiless twat exiting a limo. If I say 'Black Ass' you know what I'm talking about. There is no need to go any further.
In spite of this, I will attempt in today's post to refine our understanding of what the Black Ass is and what it means. Arguably the greatest contribution made by African Americans to modern society, alongside Barack Obama and Public Enemy, The Black Ass deserves its moment of consideration and today on Suffer the Fool it gets just that.
Perhaps you've noticed that when I type the words 'Black Ass' I do so using capitalization. This is because The Black Ass demands such respect. It commands attention. Why mute its significance with small letters when its force is so undeniable? To downplay it by using lower case type would be like trying to put out a raging forest fire using a bottle of Aquafina. Instead of pursuing such a pointless methodology, the majesty of The Black Ass is represented to the fullest here in upper case.
The Black Ass is to ass what the Pyramids are to architecture. It is ancient, a mystery, a wonder of the modern age that goes beyond the realm of appearance into the ethereal. It is worthy of awe and mythology and like the Pyramids it is where many men wish to bury (parts of) themselves. It stands firm, solid, unmoved by the hands of time. As age and gravity work in unison to ravage many different types of ass – dropping them lower, flattening them, loosening the skin of the buttock and littering the cheeks with cellulite and wrinkles – The Black Ass playfully ignores gravity as though it were some cruel made-up rumour like 'the cooties'. Behold with thine eyes! The Black Ass at age 40 much resembleth the Black Ass at age 20 in both bubble and texture.
The Black Ass:
descrp. - M(ass)ive, (Ass)tronomical, (Ass)tounding, Incredul(ass), Glutton(ass), Stupend(ass), (Ass)inine, V(ass)t, A(bum)dant, (Bum)b(ass)tic, Enorm(ass)
Antonym – the asian ass
While the asian ass presents the world of ass as a flat, one-dimensional uninterrupted continuation of the back into the thigh, The Black Ass rebukes such narrow behindedness with all the boldness of Eratosthenes, instead affirming the world of ass to be spherical and globe like. Mostly ignored through the 80's hey day of cocaine, in which a small titted skeletonesque body was the epitome of beauty (think Blondie), The Black Ass rose to prominence in the mid to late 90's soaring to new heights on the prevalent trend of female exploitation in commercial hip-hop videos. The Black Ass became famous in 5 minute atonal doses brought to suburban living rooms in prime time via MTV and BET. It had media representation and thus had arrived.
Like many natural phenomena, The Black Ass has many permutations and forms that collectively comprise its whole. For example this photo is of a Black Ass
So is this one
And, because God is a mad scientist who sometimes doesn't know when to take his foot off the gas, so is this
At this point it is important to note that The Black Ass, in spite of its name, is not a uniquely racial attribute. Being black and having an ass does not mean that one will have a Black Ass, nor does being non-black and having an Ass mean that said Ass cannot qualify as being a Black Ass. Allow me to explain further using jpeg technology
This photo is of Ice-T's wife Coco. As you can see, she is – much like Ice-T – a white woman. I may be wrong on this but I believe she is of Serbian descent (?). Anyway point is: she's not black (read: African American/African). Yet, look at her ass! Clearly that is a Black Ass! Albeit of a lighter tint. As my friend Chris so eloquently put it when we came across this magazine cover at our local Chapters:
“Dude, you could tit fuck her ass. Like, have sex with her ass cheeks without actually penetrating anything.”
In the wake of hearing this remark I realized two things:
1 – My friends are philosophers and poets
2- Coco was a white woman with a Black Ass
Applying this same logic which states that The Black Ass is not principally defined by race, you can also see that the reverse is true. Behold a 1980's Diana Ross
This photo captures Diana in the aforementioned 80's coke days where a linear profile made you fuckable in the eyes of drugged yuppies. Notice the flatness of her ass – the apparent 'asianness' of it. Notice how it almost appears as if her back continues directly into the high end of her thighs. Now while Diana is most definitely black and, to the best of my knowledge, has an ass, she certainly does not have a Black Ass.
This proves that race is not a determining factor in whether or not one has a Black Ass, it is rather properties inherent in the Ass itself which dictate its designation of being a Black Ass.
How one feels about the Black Ass is a very personal thing. There are some who can only appreciate it in its less radical forms, while there are others I like to call Assmen Without Borders who bravely pursue the most extreme Blackest Ass imaginable. For them less is never more.
What I have noticed in my unscientific observation is: of all males, the population most attracted to The Black Ass are...wait for it...wiggers!!
In the same way black men view the courtship of white women as being the ultimate 'fuck you' to the historical oppression they have faced as a result of segregation, the wigger believes obtaining The Black Ass will somehow alleviate him from the pain of his whiteness. It brings him one step closer to being 'real'.
To me this is the pure vision of racial harmony dreamed so many times over by men like Martin Luther King: a skinny white basketball playing hip hopping wigger whose arms embrace a Black woman with an ass so pronounced you could rest a tray on it. This is the future made possible because of The Black Ass.
In the summer time I'll head down to the local basketball court for no reason in particular. I'll sit and watch a pack of Jason 'white chocolate' Williams wannabes perfecting their behind the back off the elbow pass. I'll watch them run the point and work a mediocre mid-range game. Then I watch as cute black girls from the neighbourhood come rolling around, their Black Asses hanging out the bottom of their booty shorts, licking a popsicle with their phat lips and acting like they could give a fuck about anything at all. That's when the game stops. The ball gets put away and the boys all take a moment to witness it together, their wiggerish hearts thumping in synch to the rhythm of Tribe's Electric Relaxation. That's usually when I hear one of them say:
“Yo man, there she goes...Cleopatra Jones: queen of the block. Black Ass natural. Holla!”.
To explain it is redundant. It is a term easily comprehended by all. As innate as our understanding of God, as obvious as Britney's pantiless twat exiting a limo. If I say 'Black Ass' you know what I'm talking about. There is no need to go any further.
In spite of this, I will attempt in today's post to refine our understanding of what the Black Ass is and what it means. Arguably the greatest contribution made by African Americans to modern society, alongside Barack Obama and Public Enemy, The Black Ass deserves its moment of consideration and today on Suffer the Fool it gets just that.
Perhaps you've noticed that when I type the words 'Black Ass' I do so using capitalization. This is because The Black Ass demands such respect. It commands attention. Why mute its significance with small letters when its force is so undeniable? To downplay it by using lower case type would be like trying to put out a raging forest fire using a bottle of Aquafina. Instead of pursuing such a pointless methodology, the majesty of The Black Ass is represented to the fullest here in upper case.
The Black Ass is to ass what the Pyramids are to architecture. It is ancient, a mystery, a wonder of the modern age that goes beyond the realm of appearance into the ethereal. It is worthy of awe and mythology and like the Pyramids it is where many men wish to bury (parts of) themselves. It stands firm, solid, unmoved by the hands of time. As age and gravity work in unison to ravage many different types of ass – dropping them lower, flattening them, loosening the skin of the buttock and littering the cheeks with cellulite and wrinkles – The Black Ass playfully ignores gravity as though it were some cruel made-up rumour like 'the cooties'. Behold with thine eyes! The Black Ass at age 40 much resembleth the Black Ass at age 20 in both bubble and texture.
The Black Ass:
descrp. - M(ass)ive, (Ass)tronomical, (Ass)tounding, Incredul(ass), Glutton(ass), Stupend(ass), (Ass)inine, V(ass)t, A(bum)dant, (Bum)b(ass)tic, Enorm(ass)
Antonym – the asian ass
While the asian ass presents the world of ass as a flat, one-dimensional uninterrupted continuation of the back into the thigh, The Black Ass rebukes such narrow behindedness with all the boldness of Eratosthenes, instead affirming the world of ass to be spherical and globe like. Mostly ignored through the 80's hey day of cocaine, in which a small titted skeletonesque body was the epitome of beauty (think Blondie), The Black Ass rose to prominence in the mid to late 90's soaring to new heights on the prevalent trend of female exploitation in commercial hip-hop videos. The Black Ass became famous in 5 minute atonal doses brought to suburban living rooms in prime time via MTV and BET. It had media representation and thus had arrived.
Like many natural phenomena, The Black Ass has many permutations and forms that collectively comprise its whole. For example this photo is of a Black Ass
So is this one
And, because God is a mad scientist who sometimes doesn't know when to take his foot off the gas, so is this
At this point it is important to note that The Black Ass, in spite of its name, is not a uniquely racial attribute. Being black and having an ass does not mean that one will have a Black Ass, nor does being non-black and having an Ass mean that said Ass cannot qualify as being a Black Ass. Allow me to explain further using jpeg technology
This photo is of Ice-T's wife Coco. As you can see, she is – much like Ice-T – a white woman. I may be wrong on this but I believe she is of Serbian descent (?). Anyway point is: she's not black (read: African American/African). Yet, look at her ass! Clearly that is a Black Ass! Albeit of a lighter tint. As my friend Chris so eloquently put it when we came across this magazine cover at our local Chapters:
“Dude, you could tit fuck her ass. Like, have sex with her ass cheeks without actually penetrating anything.”
In the wake of hearing this remark I realized two things:
1 – My friends are philosophers and poets
2- Coco was a white woman with a Black Ass
Applying this same logic which states that The Black Ass is not principally defined by race, you can also see that the reverse is true. Behold a 1980's Diana Ross
This photo captures Diana in the aforementioned 80's coke days where a linear profile made you fuckable in the eyes of drugged yuppies. Notice the flatness of her ass – the apparent 'asianness' of it. Notice how it almost appears as if her back continues directly into the high end of her thighs. Now while Diana is most definitely black and, to the best of my knowledge, has an ass, she certainly does not have a Black Ass.
This proves that race is not a determining factor in whether or not one has a Black Ass, it is rather properties inherent in the Ass itself which dictate its designation of being a Black Ass.
How one feels about the Black Ass is a very personal thing. There are some who can only appreciate it in its less radical forms, while there are others I like to call Assmen Without Borders who bravely pursue the most extreme Blackest Ass imaginable. For them less is never more.
What I have noticed in my unscientific observation is: of all males, the population most attracted to The Black Ass are...wait for it...wiggers!!
In the same way black men view the courtship of white women as being the ultimate 'fuck you' to the historical oppression they have faced as a result of segregation, the wigger believes obtaining The Black Ass will somehow alleviate him from the pain of his whiteness. It brings him one step closer to being 'real'.
To me this is the pure vision of racial harmony dreamed so many times over by men like Martin Luther King: a skinny white basketball playing hip hopping wigger whose arms embrace a Black woman with an ass so pronounced you could rest a tray on it. This is the future made possible because of The Black Ass.
In the summer time I'll head down to the local basketball court for no reason in particular. I'll sit and watch a pack of Jason 'white chocolate' Williams wannabes perfecting their behind the back off the elbow pass. I'll watch them run the point and work a mediocre mid-range game. Then I watch as cute black girls from the neighbourhood come rolling around, their Black Asses hanging out the bottom of their booty shorts, licking a popsicle with their phat lips and acting like they could give a fuck about anything at all. That's when the game stops. The ball gets put away and the boys all take a moment to witness it together, their wiggerish hearts thumping in synch to the rhythm of Tribe's Electric Relaxation. That's usually when I hear one of them say:
“Yo man, there she goes...Cleopatra Jones: queen of the block. Black Ass natural. Holla!”.
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