Mister Shorts Number 2

Here is another Mister Shorts comic.

That crazy Mr. Shorts!

What will Mister Shorts do next?

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Bad Ideas Number 1

This is not one of those touchy-feely blogs where I write about me and what I eat and that funny thing my cat does.  But sometimes I can’t help but write about me.  When I do write about myself, you can pretty much expect for it to be a lot like this blog entry.

This morning I took one of those shits that really, really smelled bad.  It smelled like a homeless person had crawled up my ass in the middle of the night, vomited a couple of times, then died and started to rot.  A French homeless person!  And it had the consistency of play-doh.  You know, one of those shits where you feel so like you’re squeezing a tube of toothpaste that you try to bend your neck a lot to get the last bit out of your ass.

I am somewhat comforted by the fact that many men take bad, stinky shits every now and then.  I know because I go to public restrooms on occasion.  And public men’s rooms stink.  This morning, my bad crap was in my own bathroom.  But more than once, I have been forced to take bad shits in public restrooms.  I apologize to you all.

What I don’t understand are the guys who have no problem using public toilets just like they are at home.  They grunt and fart and moan as they take the smelliest crap ever, and then when they have finished and stand at the sink next to you, they say something to themselves like, “But, damn, that was a good burrito.”  I used to work in an office with a guy who brought the newspaper with him every morning.  Then, sometime after lunch, he would grab his newspaper and head for the toilet.  It was shittin’ time!  As he headed down the hall, New York Post under his arm, every man in the office would take note of the time.  We all knew to avoid the bathroom for at least a half-hour, but preferably for an hour.  I don’t know what Mr. Shittin’ Time ate, but he regularly took shits that smelled like the fucking morgue.  The Paris morgue!

I, for one, do not like taking shits in public restrooms.  It’s just not my thing.  But when I do have to shit in public, I try to make it quick and quiet and I prefer that nobody else is in the restroom.  And I do not use one of those paper seat covers.  First of all, they add precious time.  If I am alone, I have to hurry before someone walks in.  Second, do you really think those paper things do anything?  Let’s get this clear: it is next to impossible to get herpes from a dry toilet seat.  And, if you are plopping your ass onto wet toilet seats, do you think a piece of tissue paper will save you?  (I’m sorry, but this dude who talks about how he got herpes from a toilet seat forgot to mention the sound ass-fucking he got right before he used the toilet, and now he needs to spread and perpetuate his fucking lie so that his wife believes his bullshit.  Those are the people who get herpes from toilet seats.)  Must I disabuse you of all your myths?  Even if you’re afraid of herpes because you don’t consider stoogepie’s well-researched medical advice trustworthy, your little flimsy tissue seat cover will not save you.  Here is why: splash-back.

Every now and then, when you take a dump, the turd falls from your sphincter with a delightful confirmatory splash only to send water from the toilet bowl shooting right into your exposed asshole.  And then, toilet seat cover or not, you are left wondering what dreaded species of gonorrhea or flesh-eating virus has just begun to multiply up your ass.  At those moments, herpes doesn’t seem so bad.  Toilets don’t need seat covers.  Toilets need splashguards.  Splash-back scares even me.

If I did use toilet seat covers, I would only use these awesome Dora the Explorer toilet seat covers by Neat Solutions.  Not only do they have a plastic barrier on the bottom, they also have adhesive tabs to keep them in place.  Best of all, you get to sit on Dora’s face while you take a dump!  Explore this, Dora!  ¡Explore esto, Dora!  Splash!

Dora still can’t protect you from splash-back. 

What I really love about Dora, though, is that she encourages kids to use toilet seat covers.  I’m betting that adults have generally clean asses and thighs.  But kids are walking germ factories!  They touch everything and put their mouths on everything, and they do this after they crawl around on the floor, stick their fingers up their assholes, and lick and taste everything.  (By the way, if you are of legal age in your particular jurisdiction and this description fits you even remotely, please email me.)  This is perfectly healthy for kids.  In fact, according to Science Daily, all those germs may be good for kids because children are an entirely separate and superior species.  But it’s great that kids use toilet seat covers because we adults need protection from them.  So, I’m glad that Dora is there for us.  She’s got our asses covered.  ¡Explore esto, Dora!  Splash!

But, as long as kids use Dora, I will keep not using toilet seat covers.  I mean, if I were worried about germs, I might use toilet seat covers in my own bathroom.  I have lived in my apartment for several years and have had many guests, and I don’t think I have ever cleaned the toilet bowl seat.  Or the bathroom.

Anyway, I did not intend to write this much shit about shit.  This post was supposed to be about my bad ideas.  But my bad ideas have to do with shit.

See, I did not explain the background before.  The day before yesterday, I bought a $7 steak for dinner.  In New York City, in Manhattan, I bought an entire steak with steak fries and a shitty salad for $7!  I was proud of myself.  So, anyway, I ate half the steak, then I went to bed.  When I woke up yesterday morning, I took a normally stinky shit.  Not abnormally stinky.  Everything was fine.  But I also realized that I had left the steak sitting on my coffee table overnight.  I had forgotten to put it in the fridge.  So, I did what most people would do.  I carefully closed the container the steak had come in (which I had eaten out of — why waste a dish?) and threw it in the trash.

Then yesterday, while I was at work, instead of my usual daydreaming and work avoidance, I found myself thinking about the steak.  Why had I thrown it out?  I mean, it was only exposed to the living room elements for a few hours.  I probably could have thrown it in the fridge and eaten the rest of it for dinner.  That would have saved me from having to buy dinner that night.  And, slowly, this thinking turned into wondering whether, since I was by then convinced that the steak would have been fine in the morning having been left uncovered, it would be okay to fish the leftovers out of the garbage and eat them without refrigeration.  After all, the leftovers were covered.  And besides, I would microwave the steak before eating it, and microwaving kills germs, right?  And, although it was impressive enough that I could get dinner for one night for $7, how fucking awesome is it that I could eat for two nights for only $7?

After a full day of thinking this while pretending to be a hard worker and a good noodle, I went home and fished the $7 steak out of the garbage, nuked it for a while, then ate it.  What came out of me the next morning was the putrefied shit about which I have already written at length.

So, bad idea number one was pulling the $7 steak out of the garbage and eating it.  A rule, for those of you into such things, is that it is a wonderful thing to find a $7 steak that is palatable and does not make you sick.  It is another thing entirely to fish half of a $7 steak out of the garbage and eat it.

That was lesson number one.

Now, as you can see, I believed that there was a connection between what I had eaten the day before and how my shit smelled.  This connection may seem obvious to you.  If so, good for you.  I had to look it up on the internet because I have an inquisitive mind.  If I eat a t-bone, why wouldn’t my shit smell like steak, maybe with some bacon and a baked potato on the side?  So I googled it to see whether, in fact, there were certain foods you ate that made your shit stink.  The google search contained the words, “shit,” “stink,” and “eat.”

It’s that last word, I now realize, that got me into trouble.

In case you have not already figured it out, I do not have any filters on my computer.  If I did, I would not be able to surf the web for porn.  You don’t have any filters on your computer either, or you probably would never have made it to this website.

I also want to say, for the record, that I am all about fetishes.  Fetishes are just fine with me.  I have tried some fetishes and they are good.  For instance, BDSM?  Good!  Rough sex is better than Hello Kitty sex any day.  In fact, often when I masturbate, just to keep things interesting, I punch myself in the face a few times.

But, people, there is no way that shit tastes good.  There.  I said it.  Shit cannot taste good.  Notice that I did not say, “Shit does not taste good.”  I did not say that because I have never, in fact, tasted shit.  I never intend to eat shit.  Shit-eating is not on my bucket list.  But, come on.  I can state some things without having tried them personally.  For instance, being scalped does not feel good.  Having your testicles bitten off by a weasel does not make you feel happy.  Oprah’s feet stink.  And shit cannot taste good.

Lesson number two: never, ever follow a bunch of links that are about eating and shit.  All shit stinks, so that was a throwaway search term.

Folks, please stop eating shit.  If you are not going to stop eating shit, then have the self-respect not to post pictures of yourself eating shit on the internet.  I mean, fucking is fine and is perfectly normal behavior.  You need not be ashamed of posting pictures of yourself fucking on the internet.  Nor should you be ashamed of any of the fucking spin-offs in which you engage: blowjobs, ass-fucking, DP, girl-girl action, you wearing pig tails in your hair and up your ass, baby Jesus buttplugs, whatever.  Post away!  I am happy to see your pictures.

But you shit-eaters need to stop.  This is not the first time that I have come upon your nasty shit-eating in my innocent searches for porn and other knowledge.  I often have my porn with cake, and you ruin both for me.

That’s all I have to say about that.

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Of Governors and Whores

Let me get my Elliot Spitzer joke out of the way.

Q: Why did Elliot Spitzer go to a prostitute?
A: Because his wife wouldn’t swallow.  She was a Spitzer.

Whew!  I feel better now.

Right now, the big thing in the news here in New York is all about the new governor, David Paterson, who became governor after Elliot Spitzer’s resignation.  The two burning questions for Governor Paterson from the press appear to be (1) “Who does this New York governor fuck?” and (2) “What drugs has this New York governor taken?”

I don’t really know why anyone gives a shit.  The point with the whole Spitzer thing was that prostitution is illegal and that fucking prostitutes is illegal.  Besides, Spitzer prosecuted prostitutes before he was governor, so he was a no-good fucking hypocrite.  Even there I think, geez, when did it become a big deal for a politician to be a hypocrite?  Shit, I’m not even a politician but if all of a sudden I couldn’t be hypocritical, I don’t think I could ever browbeat anyone again.  The horror!

So I think it’s the illegality of his conduct that landed Spitzer in hot water.  But nobody has even asked this new governor, as far as I know, “Alright, so you fucked around.  But anything illegal?  You ever killed a guy or, you know, knocked over a liquor store?”

And it’s not like Governor Paterson hasn’t admitted to illegal activity!  I mean, he has admitted that he has smoked weed and used cocaine in the past.  That’s illegal, yet I don’t see anyone calling for Governor Paterson’s resignation. 

Maybe it’s because he’s legally blind that nobody cares whether what he did was illegal.  But I think I heard somewhere that blindness to the law is no excuse.  What the hell does it mean to be legally blind anyway?

All that I’m getting at is that I don’t care whether Governor Paterson snorts cocaine off the bare back of a ten-dollar whore while he fucks her up the ass on the steps of City Hall, just so long as he doesn’t arrest her afterward.

Why is prostitution illegal, anyway?  I mean, porn is not only legal, it is fan-fucking-tastic!  So why is prostitution illegal?  How come, if I hire someone to go with me to a motel room and fuck my brains out, I go to jail?  But if I also hire a cameraman, the police will stand outside and make sure nobody bothers us while we’re filming.  Does this make sense to anyone?  Is the cameraman union that powerful?  What, exactly, is the difference? 

It’s freedom of speech, right?  You’re thinking that pornography is entitled to protection as a form of expression, but fucking in private is not.  Well, if you don’t think that fucking is not only a form of expression but a pretty goddamn loud one at that, if you don’t think that fucking can be art, if you don’t think that any blowjob can be worth a thousand pictures even if the exchange rate is bad, then you are fucking the wrong people.  Maybe you should see a professional.

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Mister Shorts Number 1

Here is the first installment of the Mister Shorts series.

More to come.

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Trophy Wives

This is probably the last time that I mention my recent travels.  But on the flight to Miami, there was a couple behind me that I thought was a father and his adult daughter.  As the flight progressed, I was able to hear occasional snippets of conversation between the two of them.  I can best describe my overall impression as follows.

Now, the dude was maybe in his fifties, so he not forced-to-retire old.  But he was forced-to-retire ugly.  The woman was in her mid-twenties and was pretty damned alright, if you ask me.  Yes, it’s entirely possible that this was a match made in heaven, the only hitch being that he would return to the factory long before she did.  But a lot of their conversation argued against that conclusion.  For instance, the couple apparently lived in Florida but traveled often and, although the wife had shopped at fancy stores wherever they went, she thought New York’s Fifth Avenue shops were the nicest and couldn’t wait to raid them.  So she was very high maintenance and, in response, he was very Master Craftsman.  Besides, he dozed off once and I’m pretty sure that, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her pick his pocket.

I am not against May-December romances.  Far from it.  I am all for May-December romances.  Hell, I condone February-October romances.  It’s safe to say that all of the months could hook up with one another and I would be totally fine with it.  In fact, if all the individual days of the year decided to join in the action and have a massive orgy with daisy chains and bukkake and swaps, I would buy the video.  I would find it perfectly acceptable if Easter fucked Christmas.  How is that for open-minded?

But this was a marriage.  She was his trophy wife.  If he were just fucking her, that would be just fine.  He wasn’t just fucking her.  He had married her.

If you don’t see how wrong this is, consider this scenario.  You are a middle-aged dude having a middle-aged crisis.  It sounds very Tolkienesque, and it’s just as serious.  One night you go bowling with your buddies and you kick their asses at bowling.  (You can substitute the word “golfing” for “bowling” if you want to bring class into this.)  That night, you are a bowling lunatic, a madman.  You have a great time but it’s just not enough, what with your hair falling out and your eyesight getting worse and your dick only getting semi-hard no matter how disgusting the porn is.  So, you go to a store and you buy yourself a bowling trophy to commemorate your victory.  And not just any bowling trophy, a platinum, diamond studded bowling trophy with an adjustable-rate mortgage that you will be paying for until you die.  When people stop by and ask you how you won the fabulous trophy on your mantle, you tell them that you don’t mean to brag but you kicked ass and wanted a permanent reminder, so you bought a trophy for yourself that you will be paying for forever.  Do you yet see how fucking pathetic this is?

You don’t buy yourself a trophy!  By the same token, you don’t buy yourself a trophy wife.  Old dudes, it’s great that you have some cash.  And you’re right that you can’t take it with you, so you might as well spend it on fast cars and loose women.  But don’t buy the women permanently. 

Do what any self-respecting younger person would do.  Win the woman for a little while and secretly videotape her having sex with you.  The video is then your trophy.  When you distribute it on the internet, you will gain the admiration of the world.  True, some of us might email you and say, “Rick, dude, it doesn’t even look like either one of you is having a good time fucking.  And is that her nose or is she wearing one of those DIY nose straighteners?  The footage is so grainy I can’t tell.”  We ask these questions not to berate your accomplishments, but rather because the video is just not enough.  We want all the nasty details.  Like, where was your camera when you were doing Shannen Doherty, dude?  And is it true that Pamela Anderson won’t eat anything that comes from an animal?  Yeah, we didn’t think so.

Anyway, I digress.  What was my point again?  Oh, yeah, this rent versus lease-to-replace versus lease-to-buy versus buy thing.  Are you getting it yet, old and not-so-wizened dudes?

I’ll write a little more about prostitution some other time.  Not because it is relevant to this topic (though it is), but because I simply can’t help myself.  It is in my thoughts far too often.  And, old dudes, it should be in yours, too.

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