Poetry Licks Ass

April is National Poetry Month.  Yes, you read that right.  Since it is the end of April now, I guess this post is a little late.  But who cares, because poetry sucks fucking ass.

Really, poetry bites. 

I don’t know why poetry sucks so bad.  I mean, I like music, and music is pretty much poetry that somebody sings.  So why is it that, when somebody doesn’t sing poetry, it sucks so much? 

Years ago, poetry was so popular in America that poets you have never even heard of got incredibly rich.  Like Walt Mason, known as “Uncle Walt,” of Emporia, Kansas, was one of the richest writers in the world around World War I.  He wrote poetry for newspapers.  And James Whitcomb Riley of Greenfield, Indiana, who was also one of the wealthiest writers of his time.  Get this: he made most of his money by reciting his poetry in theatres and halls for the cost of admission.  Can you fucking believe it?  What the fuck was wrong with people in those days?

Yet, why did I pay ten bucks for this?

He drinks a whisky drink.
He drinks a vodka drink.
He drinks a lager drink.
He drinks a cider drink.
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times.
He sings the songs that remind him of the better times.
Don’t cry for me next door neighbor….
  — Chumbawumba from Tubthumping

See.  If you just read that without the music, it sucks ass.

I try to be a creative kind of dude.  I write, I draw, I invent new menstrual devices.  But I have never been into poetry.  It takes a lot for me to like a poem.

For instance, here is one of my favorite poems.

This poem only works for me if I imagine that, after he wrote this poem, William H. Mearns was found murdered under mysterious circumstances.

Since poetry eats shit, it is hard for me to get into it.  But I have tried for a few weeks to come up with a good poem, because it is National Poetry Month.  Here is the best I could do.

That’s all I’ve got for you after weeks of trying.

See what I mean?  Poetry is total fucking smegma.

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Holy Zombies

I know that, at the end of my last post, I said I would soon write about the difference between porno and real life, and I will get around to that in a post or two, but first I want to clear something up. 

Some people were insulted by my last post about chick flicks and dick flicks for a number of reasons.  I did not mean to insult particular movies, however contrived, formulaic, or overhyped those movies might be.  Nor did I intend to insult the people who enjoy those movies, however idiotically sheep-like and mindlessly stereotypical those people’s reactions to those contrived, formulaic, overhyped movies might be.

I don’t mean to insult anyone.  I just want to make that clear right now.  I love movies.  And I don’t mean only porno movies, although I do love porno.  I mean mainstream movies.  I am especially fond of horror movies and, in fact, I have probably seen every zombie movie ever made, including the many very hot porno zombie movies, like 28 Lays Later and Night of Giving Head.

That is why I have decided to devote this blog entry to an uncontroversial topic that will showcase my knowledge of popular culture while also demonstrating to you, my loyal readers, that I mean to insult no one: Jesus was a zombie.

Now, this is pretty straightforward.  If you look up the definition for zombie in the dictionary, it says, “a dead body that has been brought back to life by a supernatural force.”  Done and done.  That’s pretty clear, huh?  Plainly, Jesus is, by definition, a zombie.  According to Christians, Jesus died and then rose three days later.  Once you have been dead, the only thing you can later be is undead.

But I don’t mean to get all Christian on you.  Here is what I am getting at: when Christians watch zombie movies, why don’t they root for the Zombies?  What would Jesus do?

In some George Romero zombie movies, he uses this line: “When there’s no more room in hell, the dead shall walk to earth.”  No, George.  Sorry.  You’re wrong.  When there’s no more room in heaven, the dead shall walk to earth.

See, everybody should agree that a world filled with zombies is pretty much the very idea of Christian paradise.  And it’s not like Jesus didn’t start the whole, “eat my body and drink my blood,” thing.  Does he have to knock you over the head with his zombie message for you to get it?

Look at the world around you and maybe you see sin, right?  Fornication?  Death?  Prejudice?  War? 

Think of your best idea of heaven.  It is a world where you wind up after you are dead, but without any of the sin.  You don’t even think any bad thoughts in heaven.  You just sort of mill around doing whatever.  Sounds heavenly, doesn’t it?

Now watch your favorite zombie movie.  If zombies took over the world — after they killed all the people (a.k.a. sinners) — there would be no war, no death, no jealousy, no coveting, no prejudice.  Zombies are never racist, sexist, or homophobes.  You will never see anything like this in a zombie movie.

Zombies feel no pain.  They have no diseases.  They don’t recognize handicaps.  They never argue or bitch or whine.  They only do what God intelligently designed them to do: eat sinners.  And eating a sinner is a transformative process.  After the sinner dies, he turns into a zombie — a perfect, sinless human being — completing the heavenly circle. 

Zombies in most movies don’t even bother with animals.  Animals are free to roam and play.  Zombies don’t eat apples, either.  How much does this sounds like Eden to you?

After Zombies had eradicated all non-zombies, the world would return to a state of nature.  People would all be zombies.  And the world would be a perfect, Christian paradise.  Eden on earth.

So, the next time you see a zombie flick, if you call yourself a Christian, cheer for the zombies.  Ask yourself: what would Jesus, king of the zombies, do?

That’s all I have to say about that.  More porn and cake to come.

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Suckage Part 1

I read a couple of months ago that 11% of women and 5% of men are on antidepressants in this country.  Eleven percent of women!  That means that, when you walk into a bar, you have a one-in-ten chance of bringing home someone who is depressed even before the whole hump & dump thing.

According to the article, most of these people are not actually ill with depression.  They do not have clinical depression, which is the only thing antidepressants have been approved to treat.  That is a good thing because clinical depression is supposed to feel something like being the pope’s hard-on.  Forever.

No, the vast majority of people who take antidepressants take them because they are depressed the way that everybody gets depressed sometimes.  You know, like because Natalie Portman will probably never star in even one porno movie or because statutory rape laws have killed the passion you once had for a career in teaching high school.  Without really using my imagination, I have a hard time seeing any upside to bringing somebody who is already depressed home with you from a club or a bar.

So why the fuck is everyone so gaddamn depressed?  I have given this a lot of thought and the best answer I can come up with is suckage.  Life is just full of suckage.

There are many sources of suckage.  Work is all about suckage.  Families have closets full of suckage.  Suckage is all around us.  But I think the biggest suckage indicators are the movies.  See, art is jam-packed with suckage.  Art=suckage.  Nowhere is this clearer than the difference between real life and the movies.

Women like romantic comedies.  You know, those formulaic social commentaries that feature perfectly dressed women with fabulous hair who would be models of stability were it not for their fucked up relationships with men so statuesque and beautiful that they must be CG.  These movies go perfect with a chilled chardonnay and a big ol’ box of chocolate-covered strawberries.  And a box of Kleenex.  And a few shots of insulin.

Men have their own dick flicks.  I don’t mean porn.  We will call porno “skin flicks.”  I mean movies where things get blown up and a lot of people get injured and killed.  Those are dick flicks.  Also high on the dick flick list are recent movies like Superbad and Forgetting Sarah Marshall, dude-buddy unromantic comedies so crammed with dick jokes that they make vaginas seem about as fashionable and sexy as bicycle helmets.

None of these types of films has anything in common with reality.  So, whether you like your movies with a tall glass of estrogen or testosterone, real life is comparatively jam-packed with suckage.  Women want romance and relationships free of turbulence and misunderstanding.  Men want to kill things, to fuck, and to talk about their dicks when they are not killing or fucking.  If life were perfect, every time I told a dick joke or blew my wad hundreds of people would be injured or die.  That must be what heaven is like.

I read this article the other day about how a couple of scientists in Hawaii think some other scientists are going to destroy the universe.  So, they are suing and have started a crappy website.

If this were a movie, the dudes out to destroy the universe would either have found a way to profit from the destruction of the universe or they would be completely mad.  I can’t think of many ways to make a lot of money destroying the universe all at once, even on eBay.  But if the dudes who want to destroy the universe are completely crazy mad scientists bent on annihilation of everything, what good would a lawsuit and a crappy website do?

This, my friends, is the difference between movies and the suckage that is real life.  Instead of sending some crack team of submachine-brandishing muscleheads out after these dudes who are about to destroy the universe, we file some papers with some goddamn court.  No superspies.  No superheroes.  No army of robots with retractable tentacles wielding heat-seeking buttplugs.

A few months ago on a Saturday night, I went out pussy hunting with one of my good friends.  We’ll call him Ralph.  Ralph is frequently my wingman on these excursions, but neither of us played a great game this night so we left with only phone numbers.  So, we’re walking down Second Avenue at about 3am and we are both a little drunk and I turn to Ralph and say, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”  You know, like in Fight Club, one of my favorite movies of all time.  So, Ralph turns to me and says, “Really?”  He is smiling.  I can tell he is all into this.  He is already clenching his fists open and closed.

And I’m already starting to have second thoughts.  Ralph is taller than I am.  He weighs more than I do.  He wants to maim people as much as any other dude.  If you can’t fuck and you don’t have a handy dick joke or a detonator, punching someone’s lights out is as good as anything.  But I am brave.  I say, “Sure.”  He says, “Okay.”

So I stand there, waiting for him to punch me.  I think I probably looked very deer-in-the-headlights while waiting to be punched.  Ralph doesn’t care.  He reels back like he is pitching for the majors and swings at me.  But my eyes are open, so I see it coming and move out of the way.  Ralph is one step ahead of me, though, and comes at me with his left fist.  He nails me under my right eye and kind of smooshes my nose.  He hits me so hard that I fall backwards on my ass.

So now, I am sitting in my expensive game clothes on a sidewalk on Second Avenue at 3am on a Saturday in a puddle that is probably some homeless dude’s piss.  Ralph is laughing as he asks, “You okay?”  Then he says, “You’re bleeding.” 

My nose is bleeding and I have a gash under my right eye.  I feel like crying.  But I don’t cry.  I wipe away the shock and blood with my sleeve and get up and say something to Ralph like, “I’m fine, you fucking thug.”  I am pissed and Ralph gets worried that I am really mad at him and whines something like, “You told me to hit you as hard as I could.”  I pinch my nose back to stop the bleeding and say, “I know.  Now you’re supposed to tell me to do you.”  And Ralph says, “Are you fucking nuts?” 

Just then, our dysfunctional relationship is 1% dick flick and 99% romantic comedy.  I don’t feel liberated or manly or transformed.  I am bleeding, for Christ’s sake!  I feel beaten and disappointed, and Ralph feels guilty and sorry.

We shared a silent cab to our respective stoogepens.  My nose eventually stopped bleeding but my eye puffed up.  When I went to work on Monday, somebody asked me what happened and, being the wizard of deception I am, I told him it was a paper cut.  Then people called me “Paper Cut” at work for two months.

That’s what I’m talking about.  That is suckage.  The antidepressants we take dull our senses just enough so that we can’t see the vast divide between what our lives ought to be and what a pathetic pussy-assed world we actually live in.

And that’s just mainstream movies versus our lives.  The difference between real sex and porno is even more stark and depressing, but I will take that up some other time.  That won’t be pretty either so, if you need to refill that prescription, you should do it today.  You have been warned.

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Mister Shorts Number 3

Today the pope came to New York City.  All the streets around the stoogepen were blocked off to traffic because the pope was coming right past my place in his chick-magnet popemobile.  I live very close to a Catholic all-girls school that let the students out early for the pope’s visit.

I may see fit to write more about this some other time, but I am content to let Mister Shorts do the talking for now.

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Dickmail

I don’t get that much email.  But my dick does.  My dick gets a ton of email every day.

I get a few personal emails every day.  Some are from women I know.  None of the women I know ever write emails to my dick.  I wish that they would, but they do not. 

Nonetheless, my dick gets lots and lots of emails everyday from complete strangers.  It seems that bunches of people I do not know are really worried about my dick and its wellbeing.

I — not my dick — get email from strangers about penny stocks and weight loss.  But almost all the other email I get is dickmail.  It is for my dick.

Not only that, but I looked into the whole penny stock thing.  I wasn’t really interested in buying any penny stocks, but I wanted to know what was up with them.  It turns out it is a scam called “pump and dump” and it really, actually, truly works to make money for the people who send those emails to strangers.  You can read about it in these two dull articles if you are into boredom: “Spam Works” and “The Effect of Stock Spam on Financial Markets.”

Now, I was quite familiar with and terribly fond of the phrase “Pump and Dump” long before I skimmed but did not read these articles, but the phrase “Pump and Dump” had absolutely nothing to do with stocks.  Other phrases that mean the same thing to me as “Pump and Dump”: “Hit and Run” and “Fuck and Chuck.”  So it seems to me that even the penny stock emails are dickmail.

The emails I get from strangers selling porn are obviously also dickmail. 

Then there are the “tired girl emails”:

Hello!  I am tired this evening.  I am nice girl that would like to chat with you.  Email me at ILoveYourCock@IAmDesperate.info only, because I am using my friend’s email to write this.  To see my pics

I think the reason that Tired Girl does not finish that last sentence is because she falls asleep at the keyboard. 

Still, this is dickmail.  It is just not a very good dickmail.  Tired Girl, if you are so tired, why would you like to chat with me tonight?  Maybe you should get some rest instead.  Also, Tired Girl, if you want to chat, why not send me your IM screen name instead of your email address?  Why aren’t you using your own email to send this anyway?  Is this “friend” of yours male or female?  Would she like in on the action?  I am a lot more interested if your friend is interested, too.  Even if I am tired, too, your friend makes what you’re offering a lot more appealing to my dick, especially if your friend is not as fucking tired as you are. 

But the real reason this is a shitty dickmail that only a complete and utterly hard-up goddamn moron would respond to is this: if you are such a nice girl, why the fuck would I want to chat with you or to see your goddamn pics in the first place?  You are just wasting my time.

Of course, I also get a lot of emails advertising Rolex replicas.  But, let’s face it: that is dickmail, too.  If you tell me that a Rolex watch is a superior, meticulously crafted timepiece easily worth at least $5,000, then fuck you.  If that’s how you honestly feel about it, you are a fucking retard.  But fine.  It’s your five grand.  But if you spend $149 on a Rolex rip-off, you can’t tell me that you are interested in the handcrafted mechanism or the attention to detail or anything besides the counterfeit brand name.  You are buying a fucking $149 watch made in an Asian sweatshop by a twelve-year-old.  You can only be buying it to impress other people.  Buying a fake Rolex is all about getting your game on.  Your dick does the buying.

And all of this dickmail is just the beginning.  Pretty much, almost all the rest of the email I get might as well be sent directly to my dick.  A lot of my dickmail wants to make my dick bigger.  A lot of it wants to make my dick harder.  And some of it wants to make me cum in pints instead of ounces.

And, you know, I want all of that!  I want a porn-dude-sized dick.  Hell, I want a dick so big that I can buy my dick its own fucking fake Rolex to wear.  I figure that if a fake Rolex for my wrist will get me more pussy, a second fake Rolex worn on my enormous cock will not only get women to let me assfuck them during our very first fuckfest, but afterward they will gratefully eat the corn that my massive rod plunges out their small intestines.  Now, that’s status!

Yes, it makes sense that — beyond a certain threshold — women do not really care about how big your dick is.  It makes sense because of natural selection: if women preferred big, giant dicks, then dicks would be getting bigger and bigger because women would choose mates with bigger dicks.  Whatever.  Here is my opinion: if there is such a thing as too small, then size must matter.  Right?  And there is such a thing as too small, right?  Come on.  Don’t act like you don’t know.  Okay then, since we have established that size matters, then bigger must be better, right?

You’re shaking your head only because you have a small dick.  My logic is flawless and you know it.

Women act like size doesn’t matter, but we all know that if we had bigger dicks, we would get rock star parking outside of nightclubs, we would actually get laid in the champagne room, and women we know would ask us to bang their supermodel friends.  If I had a twelve-inch cock, whipping my dick out before sex would feel like turning over four aces at a poker game every single goddamn time!  I would get a fucking boner just thinking about my boner.

My cock also gets a lot of dickmail about Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra.  Now, if I had a footlong prick, taking a time-out between fucks might become a hassle, what with all the porn stars and supermodels patiently waiting their turn to earn their particular dent in my headboard.  I mean, what’s the use of having all that meat if you can’t use it whenever you want to?  Enter Erectile Dysfunction meds!  All the ED meds warn that, if you have an erection that lasts for more than four hours, there is a danger of permanent damage.  You know what I say to that?  Too fucking bad for her!  After four hours of fucking, she is just taking her goddamn chances.  Hell, she should consider the risk she is taking from being pounded by my massive cock long before four hours passes.

My cock doesn’t get quite as much dickmail about sperm volume as it once did.  This particular form of dickmail has, in fact, slowed down to a trickle.  I don’t know why.  And I have to admit that I did not understand these dickmails at first.  I mean, maybe in porno they call the cumshot the “money shot,” but sperm is not money.  There is no semen tax.  More is not necessarily better. 

But here is a dickmail I got for WonderCum.

Hi, Dear!

em…..

I gotta tell you something. Some years ago I used to watch porno often.  I always admired those guys cumming.

They splashed out so much sperm on their girls, it looked so cool, so manlike.  Now I have a girlfriend.. but quantity of my sperm was so scanty, that I felt ill at ease.

I was advised to eat green apples but even this didn’t help.  A month ago I was hanging around at the bar with my best friend.

And he said that I should try WONDERCUM. Well, - I thought, - sounds interesting.

Next day I came to know that it was really a highly effective all-natural dietary supplement, which not only increases the sperm volume but also improves the sperm quality and the mobility of spermatozoa.

Having ordered and tried I was shocked how cool it was.

I’d even say, it changed my life. I’m happy. I even became a better lover, knowing how it all would end.

By the way, read about WONDERCUM at this site:

Now, you know by now that I think porn is pretty sweet.  But I do not understand this dude’s dickmail.  So, he’s saying that splashing out so much sperm in porno looks “cool” and “manlike?”  Well, I hope it looks manlike.  I think the only alternatives are “womanlike” and “childlike,” and neither of those works for me no matter how little sperm we’re talking about.  Then he says that he now has a girlfriend but his payload was so scanty that he felt ill at ease.  So, dude, you have a girlfriend?  She lets you splash your cream all over her?  But it doesn’t feel right because you’re not hosing her down porno-style?  Have you talked to your girlfriend about this?  Because I have a pretty good feeling that she could have put you at ease.  “Sweetheart, I’m feeling ill at ease because I don’t think I’m drenching you with enough sperm.  Does my paltry semen volume make me appear childlike or womanlike to you?  Or even worse, uncool?”  You never know, but I am pretty sure that she might have cleared that up right away.  But wait.  There’s more.

So, then this dude says he was “advised to eat green apples but even this didn’t help.”  Dude, who the fuck told you to eat green apples?  Are you sure that some good friend of yours was not trying to tell you that your sperm tasted bad?  If so, what the fuck is up with you and your friends? 

Okay, so, this dude is hanging at a bar with his bestest friend and the subject obviously turns to whether or not each of these dudes is properly drowning their respective significant others in massive quantities of baby batter every night.  This is at least the second person the author of our dickmail has brought this subject up to, because some other person told him to eat green apples.  This dude, who hasn’t watched porn in years, can’t stop talking to people about how fucking childlike or womanlike he feels when he splashes his girlfriend with his splooge.  But he can’t talk to her about it.

So, after his very best friend tells him about WonderCum, he learns that it (1) increases jizz volume, (2) improves goo quality, and (3) improves the mobility of his spunk puppies.  So, not only can WonderCum make you shoot cups instead of spoonfuls, it also improves sperm quality.  No more regular sperm for this dude’s girlfriend.  Now she gets drenched in premium or maybe even super.  On top of that, his sperm mobility has improved, so those tadpoles are probably just flopping all around his girlfriend.  This is one lucky woman.  What some dudes won’t do to please their girlfriends. 

For some reason, this dickmail did not sound quite right to me when I read it.  I mean, this dude has solved his problem and is obviously really serious about his girlfriend.  And he still can’t stop telling complete strangers about his sperm.

So I was not convinced about this whole semen-volume thing.  I mean, I have been with more than a few women, and not one of them has ever said anything to me along the lines of, “Make it a venti!” 

But, you know, I have given this a lot more thought and it kind of makes sense.  I mean, you hold your sperm in your balls, right?  Your balls are your gravy boat, your spunk trunk.  So consider this. 

Think of your dick as a meatball submarine sandwich.  Just like at Subway Sandwiches, you can have a six-inch or a footlong, where “footlong” means twelve inches more or less but who’s counting when it’s that big?  Now, let’s say you go in, you order a six-inch sub, and the sandwich dude makes it.  So that’s the sandwich you start with.  But then you decide you want to make it a footlong.  Imagine if the dude just took half the meatballs from the six-inch and put them in the other six-inch piece of bread.  You would scream hell fucking no!  You want twice as many meatballs!

See, when you use these pills or whatever to transform your average dick into a mammoth, footlong dick, do you want the chick who sees it to say, “Well, damn that is a huge dick!  But your balls look like they belong to an average six-inch cock, not to a monster cock.”  Hell fucking no!  I think the point behind all those dickmails about making a whole lot more sperm is simply this: “Hey, dude, if you are going to have a footlong hero, you need twice the meatballs and that means twice the sauce!”  It just makes sense. 

When you supersize your order at McDonalds, you get a bigger cup so you can fit more milkshake into there.  It’s the opposite with your balls.  To get bigger balls, you need to make more milkshake.  A lot more milkshake.  So, these sperm volumizers like WonderCum are really just ball super-sizers.  And you need super-size balls for your super-size meat puppet to juggle.

It seems that this whole thing only makes sense if you buy the whole package: dick enlargement, dick performance enhancers, and ball super-sizers.  My dick wants it all. 

But, you know, this makes me wonder whether dudes have some massive self-image problem.  I mean, you hear all the time about women with anorexia and bulimia, and when you hear about cosmetic surgery it is almost always women who are the recipients.  Dove even has a self-esteem fund for girls!  But then, how come more than half of all text-based spam is targeted not only at dudes, but specifically at their dicks?

Let’s face it: the only reason spammers keep spamming is because it works.  They actually manage to get us to buy the stuff they sell using dickmails to complete strangers.  Otherwise, no matter how cheap it is to send dickmail, it would not be worth the time and effort.  So, why are so many dudes so down on their dicks?

I really don’t have an answer here.  All I know is, maybe somebody should look into this.  I have known a lot of women, and most women — whether they are porn stars or prostitutes or moms or lawyers or teachers or talk-show hosts — are more than their pussies, their asses, their tits, and their hot little moist mouths.  But a lot of men — me included — are indeed very little more than their dicks.  Houston, we may have a problem.

Anyway, I am thinking of setting up a contact page on this site especially for my dick.  I hardly ever get any emails through the contact page, but everybody wants to email my dick.

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