From the Bowels of Enoch?

It's not easy for me to open up about things like this, especially in such a public manner. I've always felt a bit of a need for absolution... no, that's saying too much. I've always sought some sort of vindication for my sins and errors, a way to prove my intent and legitimacy without having to ask for forgiveness. If I can somehow justify these offenses to others, perhaps that will assuage the feelings I refuse to label as guilt. Yet in doing so, have I not already recognized said emotions as regretful, and therefore owe a responsibility not just to those offended but to myself, to seek some form of retribution? Is it possible for that level of self-reflection to negate penance?
I may be getting ahead of myself here. What I'm trying to say is that I feel bad for taking a shit on that homeless guy's face.

Now I had a well-prepared defense completely mapped out for when the time came for me to own up to this indiscretion. There were all sorts of excuses and pressing manners and 'you-had-to-be-there' ramblings of Bullshit and Exit Strategies (copyrighted for my book on that Iraqi matador) primed to unleash at the first inkling of judgment from any listener or bystander or material witness. However, I now feel it just to simply state my case as openly and honestly as possible, in the hope that my candor will somehow allow my grief to fade.

So I was on my way home from a barbeque, consuming all that was left of the cheap whiskey and cheese popcorn I had been thoughtful enough to contribute to the feast (though I had managed to get away with the remainders of my own and several other's dishes), swerving with grace and ease past the slow-moving traffic and oddly placed pedestrians, when I was suddenly struck by the revelation that Jesus Christ I hadn't had a Star Crunch in fucking forever. I quickly pulled over to the nearest fuel depot/mini-mall, fingers crossed as I leapt from the car and bounded inside. Fuck yes they had Star Crunch.

With a deserving glow of happenstance and glee, I walked directly out into the dead eyes and putrid squalor of what one would kindly refer to as a "bag lady" (though 'lady' seems a bit much, and I saw no bags. Maybe more of a "trash whore". No, that's mean. I guess she can be a lady. A lady-bum).

"Is that your car?!" she screeched through jagged nothings of Cold Piss and Cum-Rot (also copyrighted, for that overdue exposé on the bathrooms in Oak Lawn).
"Pardon?"
She took a step forward, then angrily shot out a bejeweled, cloven reptile wing (some drugs might have taken effect here) to signal my attention to the side of the building.
"There! Your car?"
There was my car.
"There my car" I affirmed.

Unsure of where this was going, I opened the Star Crunch and took in my surroundings. I had absolutely no idea where I was. As I peered back towards my vehicle, some things began to come into focus. One, the driver's door was ajar. Two, the engine was running. Three, there was a shopping cart lying on it's side in front of the car, with crazy homeless apocalyptic debris scattered from it in every direction. Then the lady-bum took my Star Crunch.

"Hey! Give me that back, you crazy old yeast mattress" I totally didn't say.
I understood what had happened, and figured the least I could do was let her get a chocolate fix. Apparently I had just walked out of the car without making the slightest effort to park, and it had rolled into her most precious belongings. No, it wasn't just cans.
As I righted the cart and sifted through the rubble, holding up various pieces of garbage to receive either the nod of approval or disavowal from the future Eliot Liebow interviewee, a haggard man walked up and began to assist me.

"Aw, come on now, you don't need to do that. She's always trying to pull something like this, I swear..."
He said some other things, but I was getting bored and was still hungry, and since he was picking everything up I went to move my car and open a beer.
I had a few hot dogs, and decided that the least I could do was offer one to the lady-bum, to whom I had only been known as some destructive force of chocolate, caramel crisp loving- god damn I wish I could've had that Star Crunch!
After I took a shot of whiskey and grabbed some dogs, I walked over and found that she had gone; vanished into the night, like a gypsy grocery shopper in a landfill of used diapers and tarnished dreams, who also maybe gives reptilian hand-jobs. Luckily the helpful man-bum was there, so we shared some wieners.

Here's the thing that's exceptionally great about giving food to the homeless: they really need it. I know that seems simplistic, but that's exactly what's so god damn beautiful about it. In a world full of massive, soul-crushing issues and perplexities mixed with colossal, catastrophic problems, it's still possible to be presented with a dilemma that is both immediate and easily remedied. This man has no food, nor money to buy any. I not only have some food, but am secure in the certainty of future meals. I give him some food, he lives another day, or at the very least experiences a modicum of rare satisfaction. Short term problem solving is usually the only kind we're blessed with achieving, so it warrants joy and a sense of accomplishment. It's like solving a crossword puzzle.
I did, however, end up shitting on a guy's face.

This is where the denial would come in, but alas, I simply must ask for your mercy. As extenuating as I could make the circumstances appear, there can be no excuse for such scatological treatment of what appeared to be a war veteran.
I think it's the popcorn that did it, though whiskey and wieners and being in a pool all day drinking ever-warming beer between mouthfuls of jalapeno chips and queso probably didn't help. My gut just started to bubble.
We had sat down together, the man-bum and I, on the curb to enjoy some frank-meat and frank talk. This was the sort of Steinbeck masculine fantasy I enjoyed to play out in evenings of inner-city drunken mischief and chance. Would we discuss the politics of being an urban nomad, or the intricacies of daily survival, or even just some kind of sports thingy?
No, he wanted to talk about these "Kardach-eyan" characters.

Now I don't mean to imply that a brief discussion about the Kardashian family made my asshole explode, but that just happens to be exactly what occurred. The distressed man-bum, between vigorous swallows of my under-appreciated gesture of communal beef, wouldn't shut up about whatever gibberish his sordid tongue had begun excreting, at least not long enough for me to scream "I'm-really-sorry-but-a-poop-star-is-about-to-supernova-through-my-cargo-shorts-fuck-shit!"
So I had to be rude and just run away. I slammed through the doors and frantically searched the Gas-n-Sip for a room where my ass could drip from percolation. Unfortunately, the station was not equipped with ‘facilities.’
I raced to the back of the building, shorts sliding off along the way, and finally experienced an ecstasy of relief over a massive pile of scattered garbage. Except that within that pile of garbage there lied a second homeless man, comfortably asleep, dreaming of a better life until someone came along and shit all over his face.
Me. I shit on his face. A lot.

I left before anything else happened. I really wanted to get home and shower, plus the other leftovers needed to go in the fridge. The original man-bum tried to yell something to me as I sped away, but I was too embarrassed and didn't really care what he said to begin with. That hobro-mantic dream was literally a fading image in my mirror as I journeyed onward into further depths of sullen shame.

So I guess the point is that that gas station really had a lot of homeless people. And they didn't even have a bathroom! Can you believe it?

Wow. I really do feel better.

Thanks for the Soda, Asian Prostitute.

There were several factors that led to my eventual and admittedly inevitable patronization of a small Asian prostitute. However, before I take that boner exhausting stroll back down memory layin' (remember to copyright this for Norman Rockwell porn series) I feel it necessary to offer a bit of an author's note.

Specific identities and locations have been altered or left out in order to protect those who shared in/provoked the following immoral self-indulgences. This may seem an unnecessary precaution to those with whom I've previously regaled this tale of lechery, but I feel it's only fair to not endanger certain relationships and professions because of my own need for recitation. Also, this story has a lot of my penis in it (now YOU make a joke!)

Every time I begin to tell a story about myself from the past 9-10 years, I try to preface it by describing how drunk/fucked up I was. I now realize that this may be an unnecessary step, as I really don't have much of a barometer for my levels of altered states through time, especially while living in Denton. Let's just say that this particular chapter occurred somewhere between the haze of the trailer park and the exhaustion of sunrise canoeing. Yes, the duplex days; jugs of Polar Ice and 30 packs of Keystone, kiddie pool beers and rooftop tents, heart attacks, rodents, acid on Thanksgiving and a thin wall between hip-hop and death metal. Simpler times.
In the midst of said times I was to bid a hopefully temporary farewell to a friend who had come into a bit of money to burn before their departure. We took this as an opportunity to take our party level from Dazed & Confused to Fear & Loathing in 3716 #A (yes, our address was #A, and yes, this joke is lame). I can't exactly recall the length of time this extended lost weekend took to complete, but by the time we were headed to the cat-house we were a solid 3 days drunk, jittery from blow, freshly tattooed and contemplating the bottle of Hydrocodone (Lortab?) in the cup holder.
Once we had made the u-turn on I-35, I knew our pilgrimage to the strip-mall brothel was a certainty. It was then that I decided to pop the muscle relaxer, as they had always caused a certain level of, uh, let's say girth induction, in me, which at this point seemed necessary to reach even a moderate level of solidity... balsa wood, if you will.

I've never agreed with the whole 'button on a fur coat' analogy for the condition of cocaine penis. Maybe it's because I'm not sure that fur coats have buttons, or maybe it's because I haven't seen enough fur coats in the orange-ish family. For whatever reason, the simile just doesn't sit right with me. The closest I've come to a proper description is when you've eaten most of the lifesavers and have folded a bit of the paper back over the top.

So we pull into the back lot of a nearly gated off three shop business strip next to a La Quinta Inn and walk in to what resembles the front room of a tiny money laundering shop in England. The woman behind the glass discusses things with my associate, and after a short wait a door is buzzed, unbolted and opened to reveal a tall Middle Eastern woman and a shorter East Asian woman, both in lingerie, both with smiles, both working the 3AM shift on a Tuesday.
The more Amazonian of the two offers to take me back, but I have my eye elsewhere. I had a certain expectation of how this momentous occasion would play out, and it usually mirrored The Pillow Book more than Halfaouine: Boy of the Terraces (this is an amazing joke). As subtly as I thought possible, I indicated my preference. Looking back, it was probably rather foolish to think that my desire of the other prostitute would hurt any feelings, but I truly believe that in my own mis-managed way, I was trying to treat these objects like women. So I went with the Asian whore.
The rest of the evening played out as a ribaldrous game of Saigon Says. We entered a small, romantic room with a few candles, a chair, a massage table and a large,
glaring, obviously two-way mirror. And the seduction began:

"So, what would you like?"
"Um, I don't know... I guess, just the usual, or..."

I had seen enough movies to coach me through the artful dodging of entrapment.

"You want everything?"
"Sure, yeah. Let's do... everything"
"You want take a shower?"
"Uh, okay."
"Okay, you undress."

She stepped out as I gave the mirror some raised eyebrows before a deep breath and a shrug. I pulled off my shoes and socks and carefully placed them to the side by the chair. Then my shirt, then my pants. I have no idea why I felt the need to delicately fold each item and arrange my attire in a respectable stack, but as I've tried to relate, my mind was for a bit of a wander. Now, I could feel that the downers had yet to offset the cocaine, but they had begun to affect my sense of 'giving-a-shit', so I dropped the boxer briefs and stood, staring at the door, waiting for a flicker of dicker.
The great thing was that by the time she walked in I knew that this was all going to happen regardless, so I began to relax and enjoy the ludicrous abandonment of it all. My Geisha in Gilly Hicks wrapped a towel around me and led me down a hall to what pretty much resembled a cleaner version of where Riggs was tortured in Lethal Weapon 1. Maybe not that bad; the lighting was excellent. I think I was by this point so fucked up that everything had that soft-porn glow, like vanilla candles and billowing beige bed canopies, in a Jr. High shower. Along for the ride as ever, I lost the towel and stood while our flirtatious discourse intensified.

"You want hot water, or cold?'
"Hot, hot. I mean..."

I glanced down, as if to notify her of the assistance needed before we could experience "everything". She nodded in approval and pulled out a long shower head extension, whose climaxing member was the cause of both great joy and great envy. The hot water spray-down was working it's magic as Esmeralda from earlier poked her head in and said something in Prostitutian I couldn't quite make out. She then gave me a full body scan and a wolf whistle, which I understood to be placating as I was still hanging cold-water brain.
I was then told to lie down on a sort of waterproof massage table, where I was rubbed head to toe with a washcloth of warm soaps and snake-oil (I presume), front and back. It was easily the best I have ever been washed by another human being. This went on for what felt like 12-15 minutes, and then it was time to go back to the first room. I remember thinking to myself that even if that had been everything, I would be content. Maybe even more so.
Alas, the best had yet to come.

I was told to lay, face-down, on the voyeur-tastic massage table, without my towel. As I did so, I peeked over to see my gracious hostess drop her negligee to reveal... "everything". She climbed onto my back and began what turned out to be a much more sensuous massage than I expected, replete with oils, subtle grinding, and hot breaths on my ears and upper back. As it progressed, I sensed something. A presence I had not felt since... well, probably the night before, or earlier that morning maybe. Almost on cue I was rolled over, still mounted, as her breasts were brought up to me...

The door opened. Jasmine gave us a quick look and informed us, "All finished." She then turned and closed the door.
I had only a moment to assume that she meant her and my compatriot had completed their romp before the Asian hooker's mouth was around my wavering member.

Not business-like at all. For what seemed to be a small establishment, the level of skill and commitment was uncanny. I wasn't prepared to believe that these girls would be so convincing in their portrayals of enjoyment and desire. Not with this location. But sure enough, in what in no way was a side effect of my pre-coital consumptions, we were having hot, freshly-cleaned sex.
Her on top, close and further back, rolled over and continued. And then...
Somewhere, in the cloud of lewdness and revelry I had indulged for days, I thought I should be respectful. I reverted to what at the time was an instinctual act of not only safety, but courtesy. Forgetting my surroundings, my current activity, the profession of my sexual partner... I pulled out.
And as the world began to reappear around me, I looked down to see this woman's soft, patronized face looking back at me with disappointment. She reached down and put her hand around what I had just then realized was my prophylact-ed self. I believe I smiled a bit, and through calming breaths muttered, "force of habit."
I crawled off and sat in the chair across from our now desecrated site of passion, almost merrily awaiting some pillow-talk. She sat up, posturing herself.

"Thirsty? You want a coke, some water?"
"Um, yeah, I'll take a coke. Great."
"Okay."

She left, and I sat, naked and happy. I really believed that she would come back with two soft drinks and we would just shoot the shit for awhile. Maybe I would be the one customer she would open up to, share a little reality with. I'm empathetic, I'm charming. Wouldn't that be nice, a break from all the scum she probably puts up with in here. I think she would appreciate someone really listening to her for once.
She walked back in, no doubt ready for a coke and a smile. She only brought one cola, but so what? I took a long gulp, then looked over to her.

"So, do you have girlfriend?"
"Oh, uh... no, no, not really. No."
"Oh."

I sat still, suddenly feeling the awkwardness seeping in.

"So, should I go?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh, okay. Right. Yeah."

I dressed in a hurry and walked out to the waiting room, where my pal sat with a magazine and grin full of excrement. I hung my head a bit before releasing a chuckle, and asked if we were all settled. He said we were, and the ladies waved goodbye as we left.
Feeling almost sober, certainly invigorated, I asked to drive and we pulled away, just as another car was pulling in. After some hesitant, muted laughter we began to open up to each other. I shared my sensual epic of heated depravity, awaiting a story that would rival my own. What I got was this;

"Oh, I just got a blow job."


And she didn't even charge me for the Coke.

My Gentle Man Lover

The rumors are true. I have taken a Man Lover.

It's such a cliche, I know. Especially at my age. What am I going to do next, dye my hair? Buy a Porsche? Become a Republican?

Hopefully not. Seriously, could you see me as a blonde? No, for now my supple lapse in heterosexuality becomes the next questionable stain on my curriculum vitae, which it must be noted has been almost entirely clear of what many of my former peers adamantly insisted would be a scatological rap sheet of licentious, bestial faggotry.

But my Man Lover is streets ahead of such wicked depravity. Brecklyn is a class act. He has not one, but TWO bands, for which he provides hand drums and second back-up vocals. He has an amazingly decked-out (or as he says, 'brecked-out') second story loft above a beautifully restored 1968 Chevelle in his friend's garage (he doesn't drive, because of "you know, the enviro-ment, and oil just being... (he makes this great face where he raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders while waving his hands around.)) He's in great shape due to riding his bicycle to and from the gym every day (not to exercise, but to hand out flyers promoting his bands and his landscaping company), which at first I have to say was a bit daunting, but soon found paid off when I enlisted his services to help me move that aquarium my great aunt died in back down to the foyer.

He's a giver. Did I mention that my Man Lover is quite the gentle Man Lover? Indeed. Brecklyn has a tender, seraphic touch, albeit hardy and virile when necessary. I swear, the man has the hands of a Messianic masseuse, or an 11 year old Korean seamstress; they're downright Dickensian.
Which brings me to one of the many issues I have begun to take with patronizing a Man Lover.

Brecklyn is a man. Now I was all for the concept of obtaining a swashbuckling swain, at first. However, the actualization of said desire has brought about it's share of hiccups, and not just due to sensitive gag reflexes. For you see, try as he might sometimes, Brecklyn just is not a woman. I know his attempts are mostly designed to please and entice me, perhaps thinking I would be more responsive to a temperate transition phase, and I can appreciate that. However, his requests to be "titty-fucked" and ongoing references to his "butt-gina" just aren't eliciting our mutual aspirations for desire. Which is probably why I keep sleeping with women.

Yes, this was never meant to be any sort of permanent replacement. I am simply a man of covetous ambition. When I hear talk of the countless hours of joy and delight brought to others by services rendered from a Man Lover, then I am prone to pursue such hedonism. Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I may have jumped the love gun in my acquisition of the first robust specimen I beckoned to play my proxy box. I suppose one hopes to squire a seasoned veteran when partaking in such games of stopgap claptrap and sham ma'am (if you're in the need for a good TSTVTG law firm).
Not to discredit Brecklyn.

He's a good man, and thorough.

Sort of Young, Dumb, and Completely Out of Cum.

I have completely run out of semen.

That's it. That's all there is, not a drop left. Any chances I had for children I actually wanted are now long gone because as I've just said, I am without semen. Now whenever I masturbate to what most would call fruition, all that ejaculates is a puff of smoke. Not even a puff, more like a faint breath, a whisper. It's like if you were to bump into a bottle of baby powder, except instead of a talcum for curing your waiter's ass it's just the remnants of my overdrawn man magma that coughs out. I swear, last time my penis just stuck out a white flag.
What happened? Where did all my white grape juice go (besides my old socks and the floor of the Burger King bathroom)? Donde esta mi semilla blanco?
I happen to know exactly where it went, but first I feel that I should tell you why. Why I let my genitalia reach such a level of barren, destitute failure. Why I've become more dry than my junior high librarian (trust me). Why when some, nay, most men can reproduce said fluids, I have lost the ability to replenish.
The answer? You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

Well, sort of. Okay, not at all really.
The answer of course is the most obvious one, the problem that plagues our entire way of life to no end for which there is no foreseeable cure, nor would we want there to be. The answer is over-masturbation.

I know, I know. How could this be? Every few years I see some article written by an accredited doctor that explains that there is no such thing as too much masturbation (unless you use the "death grip"). If it were possible, wouldn't we all have known when we were 14? I certainly would have. Age 12-15 is when I climbed the Everest of over-masturbation, pushing myself to the dangerous heights and depths of the pubescent male's waning endurance during summer breaks and "sick days", losing Sherpas and oxygen tanks to the frigid, savage snowstorms of multiple daily showers and Jergen's.
And yet I could always continue.
I remember well the first time ever I splooged my face. I was 12 years old, and I had been masturbating for a few months without culmination. I had ordered Playboy's 'The Best of Jenny McCarthy' video for a friend (I'll protect their identity here (it was Austin)), and decided to take it for a test drive. I was home early from school as winter break had just begun, and had the apartment to myself. The video was quite boring, as Playboy videos tend to be. Lots of arty and airbrushed shots of women posing in deserts and studios with perfectly pruned pubic patches of placidity, otherwise known as the stale tail, the vapid vag, the blunt cunt; the hoary quarry, the jejune poon, the ho hum cum bum. The insipid lipped...
Sorry, I got lost in some sort of parallel of euphemisms for uninteresting vaginas (the lackluster sackbuster!)
So, the last segment on this $19.99 mail order VHS is of Jenny McCarthy being photographed on a large bed by a lesser known, though still gorgeous Playmate. As the photo shoot goes on, they each remove more and more articles of clothing until they are both naked, rolling around on the bed taking pictures of their half-hearted lesbian romp. Now I've since seen more than my share of explicit lesbionatic activities, on tape and in person (thank you Denton), but at 12 years old, this was the most sexually exciting thing I had seen since Trading Places; and just like Jamie Lee Curtis' hermaphroditic breasts, I arrived.
Sparing further graphic detail, I required a shower. While I proceeded to make myself look less like someone a camel had spat upon, I was presented with an opportunity to revisit a certain occurrence, one I had just initiated into my daily existence. Which occurrence?
You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

But times have changed, and now my over-masturbation has just become an apt metaphor for selfishness in general. I spent the next 15 years pleasing myself, and mostly myself, to what end? I fostered an environment of self-pleasure and complacency that closed me off from the world, that was so concerned with my own conceit that it derived me of human connection. The only way to transcend, not defeat, mortality is to involve yourself in something greater than the confines of yourself. Essentially, I needed to get out and fuck.
When you truly fuck, you let loose all inhibition and pretext and share in the ecstasy of open-mindedness and discovery. I mean when you really let go and just bang the day and night away, until you're weak and hungry and can't smell your inter-connected stench because you've clogged your nose and every orifice with plugs and jellies and deep, dark inner thoughts that until now you were embarrassed to reveal to yourself, let alone some goofy fuck who's naked on your floor except for a torn and questionably stained argyle sock.

But no, we don't fuck that way anymore. We masturbate so much that when we do experience human interaction, sexual or no, we still are looking to please only ourselves. We become camouflaged in so much of our own juice that we have none left to share with others who may be thirsty. We've become not just a generation but an entire country of self flagellating brats, with our giant forearms and STDs, our loud music and our Dan Fogleberg; our Zima, hula hoops and Pac-man video games, don't you see?
We're a nation that is obsessed with mirrors but hates reflections (just let the pretentiousness soak in... ) We're born into an almost inescapable sense of privilege that continues until death. From that ever dwindling period between abortion and euthanasia it's me, me, me, I deserve this, I can't afford it but so what, I was born here, where's my stuff? So we continue to jerk off, and in doing so we not only squander our personal life-force, but life in general.
We've collapsed our economy and all but guaranteed a terrible life for the next few generations, as well as ensured that our country will continue to fall behind in every aspect of meaningful growth except muscle. Over-fed, over-medicated, over-populated, over-spent, under-educated and willfully full of ignorant resistance.

I'm through jerking off. I've cum all over myself for so long that a sort of second skin has formed around me like a cocoon of aged jism and forgotten dreams, a glaze of spoiled opportunities and mummified spermatozoa; an empty shell of defunct spunk. It's time to share the goo bazooka with the world, and I've got my sights set on...

You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

Less Teeth, More Enthusiasm

That's it. It's that simple. Those are the two basic rules when it comes to blowing somebody. I don't care who you are or how great your technique is; if you're looking for any sort of feedback, or have any doubts whatsoever, then these are the go to standards for improvement. Not to say that anyone's doing a less than stellar job out there. Someone who was lying once said that there's no such thing as a bad blow job. I adhere more to Carlin's line of thinking: "It's hard to argue with a good blow job".

Now I only bring this up because I'm starting to notice what a powerful proverb this mantra encompasses when applied to the world's general well being. It's kind of the basic formula for what needs to happen socially and politically in order for, I don't know, the survival of our species. Less aggression, malice, ranting, filibustering, feet stomping and pants shitting; enough cry-baby stubbornness that halts progression because it's not your agenda. That's like the child who hates the broccoli on the side, so no one gets to eat steak (I'd actually like to see someone arguing this in the Senate; "Look, steak is good, but we can't have it if there's peas on the same plate. That just can't be dinner! So, because of my deep seated illogical abhorrence of legumes, including my daughter the carob, the king shall not have his feast, and neither will any of you"). It's a baby/bathwater conundrum.

What we need is more Gung-Ho-ness (no, not the infamous Saigon whore). More pro-active, positive energy that uplifts and tantalizes the desire to leave a legacy of pride and reverence. Basically less vagina dentata, and more of the spirit that beat the sideways vaginas.

Now there is a third rule. Really it's more of an addendum, an amendment; a sort of unnecessary bonus level, if you will. I've heard it referred to as 'minding the step-children' or 'having the in-laws over'(?). I'm just going to use what seems to be the most senselessly forgotten part of the Bible and quote the Beatitudes: blessed are the meek.

Now, you don't have to involve the balls in order to perform a great BJ. They can be completely left out, I swear we won't even notice. However, if either you or the lucky recipient should choose to go the full billiard, then the only guideline is to be as gentle as possible. Just pretend that Slugworth has whispered in your ear and you've been entranced by the notion of the treat he described, absorbing all the sweet deliciousness that is the candy flavored outside knowing that you can never reach the center. And if you use your teeth on a gobstopper, then your smile will ensure your future waiting tables at Waffle House.

Speaking of the meek and the grapes, this segues nicely into the Steinbeck-like scenario (though didn't they work on a peach orchard? Oh well, the book's title comes from a song about the coming of the Lord, so...) that has become many people's modern economy (though not mine, or really anyone I'm close to for that matter). People are getting married, having families, working decent jobs, going to school, etc., and they all seem incredibly happy while reaching said accomplishments. Yet somehow, it seems that everyone is mad at the President they so valiantly heralded and triumphed. The problem here is the American dream in general, which has just been simplified to the idea that everyone deserves to be, and will become rich. When for some incomprehensible reason that doesn't happen, then people need to direct their blame and shame towards something tangible that isn't themselves. Despite the ease they feel in blaming a president who ran on a platform of personal responsibility, nothing changes. For many reasons, but the most direct being that they don’t change themselves.

Point being, it's up to us to make something happen. Personal responsibility is the agenda, and the only standard worth measuring yourself to. The system is just winners and losers, and always will be, no matter who has the majority. Whether you're making another payment on the house you've rightfully earned and/or held on to, voting for a Democrat in Texas, praying for peace in Israel, or trying to make someone's eyes see the glory while their testicles grow heavy for the vintage, just remember: Less Teeth, More Enthusiasm. 

The Rumble in the Vajungle

I was going to write about queefs, and how I once got into a drunken contest with my white rapping roommate wherein we challenged each other to write a rap song (is there anything whiter than calling it a rap song?) about vaginal flatulence. Mine was pretty profane, and I still remember the first verse, yet I find myself oddly reluctant to share it. I'm not entirely sure what this means. I fear it's a sign of maturity, or worse yet, the death of my profane indulgences. Have I entered the twilight of my vulgarity? Will I never again be able to bask in my own ribaldry?
Doubtful. Perhaps it's just no longer as challenging as it once was to offend. Everything has been done and said already, and shock value has peaked in popularity in the last twenty years. Being edgy has become so mainstream that the wanton black market has become scatologically flooded. And that's not necessarily a bad thing.
People (what people?) say that the new prohibition in these sorts of issues revolves around race, and that's partly true. The most improper words or phrases you can mutter aloud in mixed company are either racial or sexual, but do we give much thought as to why that is?

I understand that for some this isn't an issue. Certain words don't even enter into their psyche, and they therefore are normally not in danger of offending. For others though, who intentionally seek out the forbidden and the lascivious, we're often forced to self-censor, and while personally my intent is rarely to offend, I often do.
Most of the time, my interest lies in finding a way to think about or say something that generally isn't done or expressed in that manner. I’m thoroughly entertained by the fact that there are always so many unexplored options, to everything. Basically I'm looking to amuse myself, which perhaps is the basis of the entire problem. I'm consistently putting myself first.
When I focus more on my own self-interest, especially when it comes to things as trivial as jokes, I'm already being disrespectful. And while it's important to be honest with yourself (but not real important), it's better to make the small effort of recognizing why being mindful and respectful of others is mutually beneficial.
Which brings me to what I believe to be the last vestige of controversial social commentary: truth.
We go to such outrageous lengths in order to be sure we're not hurting anyone's delicate fucking sensibilities that we've become trapped within our own language from being honest. Having disregard for the feelings of others, intentional or not, does not equal bigotry, and it certainly doesn't amount to discrimination. The balancing act here is being sure that whatever your thoughts or opinions are, whether they're expressed or not, they don't cause you to treat people differently. I guess what I've arrived at is that you should probably try to offend everyone equally.
So, with that in mind...

I do the kind of shit that makes you question beliefs
Like my tongue against your ass while I'm sucking your queefs
Pissin' on your hair, 'cuz your weave is on fire
While the sweat under yo' titties is what I desire
Drinkin' all the milk out your areola
Chewin' on your ass like your shit was granola
Shittin' on my chest with my toes in your taint
While your grandma jerks me off in a bucket of paint
Spread it on the walls with her saggin' breast-eses
First be sure we TiVo the Young and the Restless-es
Watch her as she calls the little mailman a spade
Then we felch her husband's corpse with Mike's lemonade

I don't think there was a chorus.

If Anything...

You're always living in the moment, you just want a different moment.

The world is black & white. People are grey. When you're a child, you see the world as it truly is. Everything is attainable and possible, and all can be accomplished in every different way. As you get older, you begin to see why we had to delineate things. The world had to be separated to the ends of the spectrum to create the basis for structure and communal order, responsibility, laws, religions, and the standards needed to cultivate the drive for accomplishment. It is possible to live in the grey, but it's usually directionless, lonely, and unfulfilling; which isn't necessarily wrong. It's just not progressive, at least not in the way we've come to understand progress.

Hot sauce does make everything better.

Saying out loud how nice or enjoyable things are doesn't ruin the moment. It actually makes it better.

White men are still in charge of everything, they're just pussies now. They're either too afraid to have convictions, too insecure to back them up, too arrogant to change, or too rich to care. I'm not suggesting that they need to return to their old ways, or that white men should hold on to said power. I'm just saying that things are still getting decidedly worse.

I have never met anyone who was detrimental to my personal growth.

Overrated (by our generation): Blogs, The Clash, In-n-Out Burger, Hunter S. Thompson, Anal Sex, Individuality, Edward Norton, Voting, Martinis, Blow Jobs, "Closure"

If you're near a payphone, and it starts to ring, answer it.

Give your parents a break.

There is absolutely nothing that feels better than accomplishment, and it does not require validity. The happiness that follows, however, only survives when it is shared.

Unless they choose otherwise, boys become men, and girls become women. Always.

Michael Jackson was the greatest performer of all time.

Everyone always wants to be cool. Even people who are already cool. Especially people who are already cool. When people try to act uncool, it is a desperate attempt to look cool. People who are uncool are too busy working to worry about seeming cool. Eventually, they will become the people who accomplish things in life, and will possess greater currency than coolness.

I will always pick the grocery cart with the bad wheel(s).

It's not the poor or the weak or the stupid, but the willfully ignorant who have to be left behind.

Underrated (by our generation): Sincerity, Kissing, Public Libraries, Russian novelists, Community (TV), Communities (in general), Country Music, Sam Rockwell, Missionary Position

Victimization is a modern currency, and straight white men don't like being poor.

It's okay to leave the last sip of beer.

Hypocrisy does not negate merit. Catching someone in a lie is no reason to disregard everything they ever have or will say. This is such a deceptively fast moving culture that opinions and accusations have all become based on "gotcha" moments, sound bytes, tabloids and media hype. Someone capable of having differing, even opposing views and opinions is just someone capable of complex thought. I should add 'exposing hypocrisy' as overrated.

There is no need to correct someone unless it is absolutely necessary.

There is no bigger waste of time in life than being apprehensive.

Breathe deep. Drink water. Repeat. It's that simple.