Mister Shorts Number 4

Happy Kink o’ de Mayo! 

For those of you not familiar with Mexican history, on September 15, 1810, Mexico declared its independence from Spain, but it didn’t tell Spain for eleven years.  So you can see how it came to pass that it wasn’t until more than fifty years after its declaration of independence that Mexico fought and won its freedom on May 5, 1862.  From the French.

Enough history.  Today we celebrate this Mexican holiday with tequila and Mexican food.  And explosive diarrhea.  And Mister Shorts.

I hope you have as festive and drunken a Kink o’ de Mayo planned as I do.  Porn and tacos for all!

Leave a comment....

Mental Health Mayday Part 2

So, I wrote last time about how May is National Mental Health Month.  Woohoo! 

I want to continue that post here.  I have a lot of very personal experience with insane people that you just might find helpful.

I have dated a lot of women.  And a lot of them have been crazy.  You don’t often find out that women are crazy while you are out in a public place with them.  They seem perfectly sane and very hot until you get them home or, even worse, until your dick is ready to do its business.

There is nothing wrong with fucking crazy women.  Sometimes it can be great.  I went out with one woman who was totally shit out of her fucking mind.  We met at a bar where she was too young to be drinking.  This is almost exactly what she told me that very first night.

Anyway, I went out with her for over a whole year.  I really wanted to break up with her because she was driving me fucking nuts, but I was afraid that nobody else would do all the nasty sex shit that she was perfectly happy to do.  I miss her.

Another time I went out with a perfectly normal woman who was wicked fucking sexy.  We went out a couple of times and it was lame, but her hotness demanded that I keep trying.  So, I insisted that we have dinner at my house.  This was only fair because I had spent like a fucking grand on dinners and entertainment already.

So I made dinner.  Really, I cooked the whole thing from recipes off the internet.  I can’t remember what I made but it was fucking incredible for me.  I don’t even think it cost anything less than going to a fancy restaurant, except that I got to take advantage of my borderline alcoholism by simply serving wine from my vast but cheap wine.com collection. 

We ate dinner and everything was great.  She didn’t eat much, but she was one of those food-pickers who never ate much.  She said she loved the food, though, and asked lots of questions about how it had been prepared.  Then she excused herself to go to the bathroom.  I cleared dishes.  After she came back, I went to take a piss.  While I was pissing, I noticed a smell: vomit.  She had puked.  I made her dinner, she ate it, and then she puked.

Now, what do you do when somebody pukes right after you serve them dinner?  I mean, is it unreasonable for me to want for you to digest the food I make and then shit it out instead of just puking it into the toilet right after you eat?  So, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable.  I asked her if she wanted dessert.  She said, “sure.”

I had actually bought the dessert but I lied and said I had made it.  To make the lie stick, I had looked up recipes on the internet.  I hope you are taking notes.

Anyway, she ate some dessert, then went back to the bathroom.  I cleared the dishes, opened some more wine, then checked the bathroom and, yep, she had puked again.

I was pretty sure by now that she was bulimic.  But whatever.  She was really fucking hot.  So, we sit on the couch and talk, we drink more, we kiss, we start to feel each other up.  She is pretty drunk, I guess.  And, after a while, she does something pretty fucking aggressive.  She moves her face into my lap like she is going to blow me.  I’m thinking, “Yes!” 

But, no, she pukes in my crotch.  Yes.  Pukes.  In.  My.  Crotch.  I didn’t even know what it was at first.

So, she had the same reaction to my meat that she had to all meat.  She stayed the night but she just slept.  I was glad to see her go in the morning.  Somehow, I still smelled like puke the next morning as she smelled like she had just washed her hair.

I could keep going.  I have a lot of experience with insane women.  But rather than share a bunch of anecdotes, I have developed some basic guidelines.  Manic-Depressives are awesome if they are in their manic phase.  They are perfect as on-again-off-again fuckbuddies.  Schizophrenics are often boring and suburban once they get treated and their meds are working.  And if they are off their meds, they talk too fucking much.  And I mean I-See-Dead-People talk.  Stay away.  Anorexics are fine if they are early-stage anorexics, and they often look fucking incredible!  Bulimics don’t give good head: hair trigger gag reflex.  Obsessive-compulsives?  Well, it depends.

I did not just make up those guidelines.  They are based on my hard-won experience.  I have not just met crazy women at clubs and such, but also through online dating services like match.com.  My rough estimation:

But you can dramatically improve these odds by looking for — yes, that’s right, seeking — insane women and using my guidelines. 

I recently discovered No Longer Lonely.  This dating site is fucking awesome!  Okay, you will need to join to really get into it but, no kidding, this is the best fucking dating website ever.  Oh, did I mention that you have to be insane to join?  Yeah, you do.  I qualified.

I had my misgivings at first.  When you sign up, you have to tell them how you are crazy.  Here is what the form looks like:

Notice anything missing?  See, I was hoping to cut through the bullshit and focus my searches with laser sharpness, so I had really hoped that either hypersexuality or nymphomania would be listed.  Neither is there.  So you need to choose among the illnesses provided and then use the profiles and email to figure out which women are the real fuck monkeys.

But, I have to tell you, the women here are totally fucking incredible.  There are too many dudes joining the website right now, but that’s because the talent is so good.  About 80% of the women fall somewhere between cute and unbe-fucking-lievable.  I don’t want to post pictures of them here because that would be wrong and I also want the hottiest of the hotties for myself.  But, for instance, here is the most important part of the profile of one totally wicked sweet babe:

Ripe for the picking.

Like I said, a lot of guys are joining recently and that’s no surprise,  But the best part is, the competition is fucking nuts!  Here is one dude’s entire profile who has a screen name that is eerily similar to “IKillKittens.”

Here is another.  This dude is a little bit country, and a little bit off his rocker.

Need I say more?

So, if you’re crazy and looking for a crazy chick who also happens to be incredibly hot, this is the dating site for you.  I’ll see you there!

That’s all I have to say about insanity for now.  But, hey, May has only just begun.  Enjoy National Mental Health Month!

Leave a comment....

Mental Health Mayday Part 1

May is National Mental Health month.  Woohoo!

There are a lot of crazy people in this country and, I suppose, around the world.  (For those of you just reading for the first time, I am in the United States.  Thanks for playing.)

My general opinion is that crazy people are not really a whole lot different from sane people.  Except for the crazy part.

A few weeks ago, somebody I work with went crazy.  She was sane on Thursday.  Then on Friday, I noticed that she seemed a bit talkative.  Then on Monday, whammo!, she was totally fucking insane. 

Over the weekend, she had realized that everyone in my office was involved in a massive conspiracy to subject her to military training and that we were trying to break her will so that we could turn her into the perfect soldier.  She wrote a fifteen-page manifesto about all of this, which she emailed to me.  It was fucking hilarious. 

Well, it was hilarious for a few days.  After that, crazy people start to get on your nerves.  Everything is about them.  Oh, sure, this is boot camp for you.  Oh, work is like a concentration camp for you.  Oh, the psychological abuse, physical violence, and just plain old drudgery of work in an office are dismantling your spirit and transforming you into a killing machine.  Hey, we work here, too, you know?  Get off your fucking soapbox, already.  It’s not about you!  The rest of us feel the same fucking way!

After about a week of this bullshit, we were ready to frag her ass.  I would walk past her desk and say, “Look alive, private.”  If we thought she was watching, we would salute one another as we passed in the halls.

It’s not that we were insensitive.  Listen, mental illness sucks dick for dimes, okay?  We all know that.  But it also wears away at the living.

A while ago, a friend of mine — let’s call him Jake — had a father with Alzheimer’s.  After his dad’s Alzheimer’s got really bad, the family strapped him to the silver trolley and sent him to the senior slammer.  So, Jake’s dad is in this old folks home for a couple of years and my friend’s mom lives alone in a house in the real world, the land of the living.

Well, one day Jake’s mom dies.  So, a couple of days later, Jake drives up to the geezer museum to tell his old man that his wife of like forty years is dead.  Jake is really nice about it, and he hangs out with the old dude for a while and brings him manosaurus treats and all.  And after a little while, the old man asks, “So, how is your mother?”  And Jake tells him.  “Dad, I do have some really bad news.  Mom passed away on Tuesday.”  So they both cry and tell stories about how wonderful mom was.  And after about fifteen minutes of this, they are in the middle of one of those wonderful stories when the old man says, “So, how is your mother?”  Jake is a little shocked at this question but then he remembers that his dad has Alzheimer’s.  So Jake breaks it to him gently again.  “Dad, mom passed away on Tuesday.”  So they cry and tell stories about how wonderful mom was again.  And, again, the fossil interrupts one of those touching stories by asking , “So, how is your mother?” 

Now, Jake loves his dad and all that, but this happened a buttload of times.  And by the tenth time this is what it was like. 

See, people with mental issues are a lot like the rest of us, except for the crazy part.  And the thing about it is, they make us act crazy.  Insanity is contagious.

I will write about just how contagious insanity is in another post about dating crazy chicks.  I have, unfortunately, plenty of material for that post, so I don’t want to tack it onto this one.  But here is the spoiler: not one — not even one of those psychotic bitches — was a nymphomaniac.

Suckage.

Leave a comment....

Vote With Your Ass!

Some people have asked me why I write this blog.  I want to explain. 

I write this blog for the same reason that I have done amateur stand-up for much of my adult life.  I write this blog for the same reason that I have gotten up early every morning to write my thoughts and ideas for years.  I write this blog for the same reason I have quietly studied illustrating for the past several years.  I write this blog for the same reason that I have dabbled in Flash and Maya 3D software to explore their usefulness in making good comics.  In short, I write this blog for the very same reason I breathe.  Because I am insane.

This brings us to an important point.  In addition to my other whorish behaviors that are far too numerous to list, I am an attention whore.

I think that all people who write blogs are attention whores.  All writers are attention whores.  All artists and actors and newscasters and weathermen and talk-show hosts and poets: attention whores.  Okay, maybe not the poets.  They are something else.

Some bloggers also have delusional ideas that they will make a shitload of money off their website.  Now, I know that a few people who write very popular blogs make money with their blogs.  According to some sources, Dooce generates $40,000 a month.  $40,000!  A month!  And dooce.com fucking sucks ass!  That is one expensive goddamn rim job.  You’re pissed because Elliot Spitzer got laid for $5,000 when Dooce’s Heather Armstrong is getting forty grand a month serving up her kid to baby junkies?

But I digress.  This blog, and just about every other blog out there, will never turn a real profit.  Even if they do generate a profit, they will never get anywhere near that Dooce level of cash.  Why?  Well, maybe because we suck even more than Dooce.  Or maybe because we lack the skills required to profitably whore ourselves and our children for more than mere attention.  Whatever.

Anyway, I want to whore myself to all of you and do whatever it takes to bring people to this blog, but I’m also lazy and disinterested.  Mostly lazy. 

But did I mention that I also want your money?  Well, yes, I want your money.  All of it.  I am willing to kill you to get your money, but wouldn’t it be more pleasant for everyone concerned if you just sent it to me?  Of course it would.

So, I have been looking into what it takes to get your money without killing you. 

Step one, no matter what, is to attract more readers.  I need to attract readers so that I can have you give me all your money, or so that I can kill you and steal all your money.  Just so you understand how this works, I am also working on a plan that might have you all commit suicide, and then I somehow get your money.  I haven’t worked out all the kinks in that plan yet, though.

Anyway, I have read a lot of shit on the internet about attracting more readers, but it all takes too much work.  For instance, one piece of advice is that I should write things that you want to read.  What kind of advice is that?  If you people don’t want to read about the things that I like to write about, then fuck you!  I want to write about feet with pussies in the soles, and dickmail, and fucking cars.  If that’s not what you feel like reading about, what the fuck is wrong with you?  Who are you people?

If you don’t think this is awesome, there is nothing I can do for you.

Now, a friend told me that I should make up a banner ad for MySpace and other social networking sites.  So, with a little help, I did.

Making that banner ad took a few days but it was a ton of fucking fun.  If you want to put my banner ad on your website to help get this whole thing going, email me and I will send you the secret code.  In exchange, I don’t mind helping you to make a similar banner ad for your website, but you will need to supply me with a naked chick.

That’s it for marketing the site.  I’m done.  I don’t have time for this bullshit.

As far as making money from all of you, people have a lot of ideas about that.  First there are ads.  You will notice that I have two underutilized highly profitable sidebars to the right.  Make me an offer.

Some people instead ask readers to donate money to the website.  What the fuck is that all about?  What am I, the March of Fucking Dimes?  I ain’t no stinking charity. 

Another idea is that, instead of asking you to donate cash, I should ask you to buy me something, like a beer or a cup of coffee.  Here is one of these coffee appeals that I stole from another website.

That’s really just asking a different way for you to donate, except that I would ask you to donate two bucks.  But you know what?  I can buy my own fucking coffee.  I mean, if I could get a million people to come to this site and buy me a cup a coffee, I would get $2 million, and that’s sweet enough.  But what are the fucking chances?

Instead of the stupid coffee thing, I have considered this:

Let me know whether you would donate to buy me a whore.  That would work for me.  If so, I will put up a permanent ad.  A very nasty whore is going to cost a fucking bundle, but I would give you all the disgusting details.

The problem is that people don’t want to buy someone else anything.  People don’t mind buying themselves something, but why the fuck would you buy anything for me?  So I need to sell something that you want.

Well, being the creative, inventive dude that I am, I came upon what I think is the perfect plan.  This is my brilliant invention number two, and it just so happens that it has a lot to do with number two.

It occurred to me that a lot of you buy buttplugs, as demonstrated by the Pigtail and Baby Jesus buttplugs about which I have already written.  The question was, how could I capitalize on the fact that you like to stick things up your ass while also being topical?  My answer: electoral buttplugs!

These buttplugs speak for themselves.  My work here is done.  Now send me your money.

Leave a comment....

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.

Leave a comment....