The Lies of our Forefathers

I have a pseudo-habit of getting play while watching movies or series that shouldn't be aphrodisiacs. In college it was Hellsing, since 2010, it's been Aliens.

 [I can kind of see Hellsing, but what the hell about Aliens makes panties moist?]

Oh right, the penises. There are penises everywhere. There are at least four in this picture alone

Now as happens during getting play, people dare to touch my no no square. And I let them, as I found out that there really isn't free candy in the van in the parking lot, just a traumatized childhood. Anyway, there I was, bumpin' no no squares   with a hottie with Aliens blaring in the background. It was one of my earlier sexual encounters and I wasn't exactly the most pro in the sack. I ended up finishing before she did -- and just as I did, I hear...

"Game Over man, Game Over!"

Truer words have never been spoken.

The first world event that I have any recollection of was the Fall of the Berlin Wall. I was just barely past 3 and a half years old, watching dudes with sledge hammers tear down a big graffiti covered wall. Needless to say I didn't get the Geo-political aspect of dudes tearing down a city spanning series of ramparts.

I was born into the age of "The Bear in the Woods" As a young child up until 1991 I was taught that Jesus loved me, and that the Soviet Union was going to either unleash Nuclear Armageddon upon all of us because they hated us for being Capitalist.

[And it would have been awesome, just like this]

errr... right guys?

 It was either that, or that they Soviet Union was going to come over to enslave us all force us to be communist and not let women wear make up because it didn't jive with their utilitarian aesthetics -- you know "because commies and stuff, amirite?" 

But that never happened. The Soviet Union finally dissolved in 1991, which the United States called a victory. Capitalism had won, yadda yadda yadda.

[Wait a minute... does this mean Red Dawn wasn't a documentary?]

It might not be too late to steal my thesis back from the review panel...

 And then... well, and then there was nothing. We no longer had an enemy. This was the early 90's so there were no wolves in the woods. The defense industry took a hit, especially in California, which would eventually help to precipitate the recall of Governor Davis in 2003. In 1993 we had Waco, in 1994 we had the Oklahoma City bombings. But no major enemy. We were at peace and calm for the first time in over half a century.

So what filled this gap?

"Go to College, Get an education and rake in the dough." That was more or less the mantra I was raised with. All I had to do was study hard, collect a degree and then look for a job and get hired. It's what my father did, it's what all of his colleagues did, it's what our parents and parents' friends did. So that's what I did. I went to college, and between benefits and a reasonable scholarship I ended up getting paid to go. I put in my four years then stayed an extra semester and got a second degree.

And then what happened? Like Comrade Stalin's Zombie Ghost, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, the lies unraveled. I paid my dues and got shit in return. Part of it was my fault for picking shit majors and finishing up in a recession, but on the other hand, I paid my dues. So dude, where's my job?

The lesson here is that once again my wide eyed childish idealism supplanted reality before I even knew better... and I ran with it for twenty four years of my life. This was not the first and last mistake I've made or will make. But there is a lesson to all of this: Have faith in nothing, but never stop working for what you want. The world is our proverbial oyster, all we have to do is pry it open and get that sweet pearl inside.

[It's subtly sexual and I'm a man whore so that's what makes it funny!]

Right guys? ... guys?

That's why I work 50-90 hours a week and am working on a masters. (Which will likely be another piece of paper that's only good for assuaging myself that I'm "better" than most everyone else in the room) That is why I drink myself stupid and take home random women.

Am I a paragon of happiness? No. Drinking and fucking is hardly fulfilling on an emotional level and it certainly isn't intellectually stimulating. Neither is grinding away at shitty retail jobs where you can smell your own perceived failure every time you walk in the door. (Although I may just be smelling the failure of all my customers, which means I've probably developed another set of alcoholic super powers. But I'm hardly the paragon of misery either. Maybe it's because I expect my hard work to be rewarded down the line, because, well you know, I have the learning capacity of a drunken howler monkey. Maybe it's because I'm surrounded by wonderful friends on a consistent basis. Maybe it's because I do live a fast lifestyle: working, drinking and boning. Or maybe it's because every day is a new lesson and a new way to make myself better. And of course, the possibility that' it's a twisted complex combination of those things that makes it work. Who knows?

So ladies and gents, don't hold your breath until my next update, because you'll seriously pass out. Unless you're a mutant. Then you could go ahead and try it, but you'd be wasting your marginally useless superpower on me, which is kinda cool... I guess.

I am a Timeshare Sinner

If there is a hell, I'm definitely going to it. Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Back in 2010, during my stint in the Census, I came across many a folks who I managed to either, scare, charm, guilt, impress or barter with to get them to comply with filling out ten god damned questions. This is not a story about one of those times. This is about the portly, older black Jehovah's witness that literally shit stomped me so hard that my head spun.

 [Try as I might, I really can't hear Jehovah's Witness without One Winged Angel playing in my head]

If One Winged Angel played as they walked from door to door I might consider joining. Okay no I wouldn't, but I wouldn't take potshots at them from my roof any more.

This is about the woman who was an IRL speech check boss. Every little trick and nuance, from flattery to implied threats failed to get her to yield the 10 questions. Then she began to preach. I let her begin, hoping to uncoil the answers from her firm zealot's grasp. After nearly four hours standing in the blistering sun, several glasses of water and a few cookies (Even Jehovah's witnesses make good baked goods) she relented to provide me with the 10 questions in exchange for me agreeing to a weekly bible study. As an added humiliation she almost got me to consider going to a Jehovah's witness convention under the premise of meeting beautiful young women.

 [At least if I roll with Jenova I'm allowed to be a SOLDIER and get blood transfusions]

Also their conventions? Totally bad ass, even if just a tad bit over the top

Luckily my penis snapped me into sanity when it realized it wouldn't be getting in any of that. I mean beautiful women that won't touch your penis but still want your money? At least at the strip clubs I get to see some titties for my donations. (Say what you want but truly religiously motivated women really are lock crotches and aren't freaks in the sack)

Anyway, every Sunday about 8:00-9:00pm I get a call to do over the phone bible study. I stuck with it for a few months because I promised to, but I just couldn't find myself going down the Jehovah's witness path. One weekend I was out being a promiscuous man whore as was the standard fare for summer of 2010. The dinner ended early, as we were both human garbage disposals. We proceeded to go back to my car and drive out to a local lake which is relatively secluded. We began to chat. Then she began to chat to my dick. Nothing unusual for a first date at that point.

SUDDENLY: Wild Jehovah's witness calls. Fuck. I had totally forgotten about that. "Don't worry, you can answer it," she said. I thought about explaining it to her then shut up and pulled out my little bible book. I bullshitted for about 10 min, then pulled a generic "Gotta go, my hamster is on fire" type deal just as I was getting close to finishing. Although, now that I think about it, an excited utterance of "Oh God" or "Oh God, Yes!" might have been hilarious. The resulting fallout of "Oh, fuck yeah" might not have been.

In retrospect I feel bad for her, just because, how does your brain handle giving oral to someone who is doing over the phone bible study? She fumbled a bit in poor attempt of asking for an explanation before I told her if she played her cards right I'd explain over a bottle of wine at my place. She accepted. The night went well.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I'm a timeshare sinner. And I have a condo in hell.

[It's like this but with more succubi, fire and brimstone. Also the screams of the damned]

Also fucking Hitler is on the floor above me always goosestepping at 4:00am. And crying into his emo diary. Fucking Hitler

So until next time, my fellow sinners. Let's pray that the Jehovah's Witnesses aren't totally correct, or I just might lose that condo and the complimentary succubi chicks. And trust me, 'dem succubi be worth it, timeshares or not.

Well, It's been a while... hasn't it? Today'sTopics: Sentient toilets and Poor Parenting. Let's Go!

You're in the middle of getting you bone on when you hear a what sounds like a wet snapping of bone, or someone throwing their keys at a plaster wall. You stop your thrusting and do a once around the room with a confused look on your face that say "HUH?"Your, erm, companion hook up of the evening's face turns red and gets to half laughing. 

[This is the reason why I withdrew the term Companion. Yes, I am this much of a nerd]

 If you don't get it and I know you in real life, we can no longer be friends

Hey, I'm not the only one who farts during or after sex. So Fuck your noise.

As I was pooping in the Gay/Lesbian/Bi-Sexual/Transgender support lounge the other day, I managed to set off the toilets when it caught a glimpse of my rectum, convincing me that the toilets in the GLBT support lounge are in fact fully homosexual. (Or straight and female with a thing for pegging) The toilets earlier were shown to only react to my waving wang, but have added my tender, succulent ass to the list.

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's Sponsor: Justifiable Homicide) 

Working at that liquor store is slowly destroying my faith in humanity. Now, I'm no parent. I know I'm not anywhere near being ready emotionally, financially or maturity wise to be a parent.

 [And when I am a parent, I will undoubtedly be a terrible, if not well-fed parent]

BONUS POINTS: Children are free labor once they're old enough to help lift the bodies

So maybe I have no place to judge, but I think that you might be a terrible parent...

-If you attempt to pay for a "haffa pint" with your WIC card. Last time I checked E&J is not part of a balanced breakfast
-If your morbidly obese child is limited to two bags of chips because he's "on a diet"
-If your twelve year old has more gang tattoos then felons that are twice his age

Now, I think it's probably fair to say that the above mention is indication that you're a terrible parent. And as a future horrible parent, I think my next judgement is definitely more than fair.

[No, I don't give a shit how much you cry, Delilah, you're stuck using that 12 gauge until you have the upper body strength and fine motor skills to hit something with a Kalashnikov]

But if you eat all your vegetables, I'll let you burn down the neighbor's garage with some thermite

-If you refuse to let your child have a 50 cent bag of peanuts because you "need the money to play another number" then you are without doubt or question, a horrible parent. 

The joys of selling products that destroy lives. Oh well, someone's gonna do it, I might as well be the one collecting the pay check.

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

 

Anyway back on topic: Sentient, latently homosexual toilets or heterosexual Toilets with an apparent pegging fetish.

 [Which is fine, so long as they don't take this documentary as an instruction manual]

I mean most toilets force us to touch their jiggly parts as is. Just think about that for a moment

On the notion of toilets, I've come to the conclusion that the biggest challenge for a male in the year 2012 is to figure out how to make a god damned toilet flush, especially the urinals. Some are motion activated, some work by string, some work by lever or knob. Some work by pushing a button, and some work by playing voyeur.


Now, like the normal, well adjusted human being I most clearly am, I'd almost immediately come to the conclusion that bars and restaurants are conspiring together to use different toilet flushing mechanisms to confuse drunk assholes like me. It's clearly the only logical solution. 

Except, well, picture this:
Its 2012, your friend drags you along to some British farce on Japanese culture written in the old time days. So you're in some semi-stuffy old folk's theatre that's one step above community college theatre and one step down from total high class theatres simultaneously. There's the air of money and the air of poor college students intertwined, and everyone seems okay with it. Eventually all the water you drank catches up with you and you have to use the pisser. You enter the mens bathroom and find: Two urinals, one toilet, each with a different flushing mechanism. REALLY? C'mon guys, I can't figure this shit out half the time without taking five minutes, old people -- your theatre's staple patron, sure as hell can't do it any faster.


Can we just bring back the urinal penis flushers? Please?

[If you don't see at least three penises in this picture, then you're doing it wrong]

And if you think further, you're giving them a hander. Every. Single. Time. Enjoy your strange half woody next time you flush

Oh shit, what is this? -- I don't even... I'm not very good with Blogs...

[Damn it, I wanted our new robot overlords to look like Summer Glau!]

Well it isn't that bad I suppose. I mean hey, free hander! I guess it's about time they returned the favor after all

And that's the show stopper. Sentient toilets giving you a hander while you take a piss is a bit too much for even me to continue with. So, until next time... you know what, pray there isn't a next time. I mean seriously, sentient robot urinals? Yeah. Nope. Later.

You Could Say That This Post is a... Gas

I once woke up, sat up on my bed and ripped ass so hard that I could hear the springs in my mattress reverberating. What does this have to do with anything? I have no fucking clue, but apparently I'm a gassy mother fucker.

I think I managed to get myself on yet another government watch list. Debit card purchases for saint patty's week:

1x 36 pack of condoms
1x set of wooden furniture for a PSL marksman rifle
4x magazines for above stated PSL
1x bipod and adapter for an AR-15
1x bottle of Jack Daniels
1x massage oil
1x jumper cables
1x Too much fucking beer and liquor on patty's day
1x too much fucking money for a half a tank of gas

Okay so strike the gas and patty's day liquor. Gun parts, booze, massage oil, condoms and jumper cables. Sounds like a drunken, erotic kidnapping and interrogation plot to me.

 [SURPRISE PLOT TWIST: I'm the one who is going to be interrogated]

Her name: Natalya. She's a time traveling Soviet spy, and I'm totally cool with dealing with the jumper cables if I get a piece of that bottle of jack. Oh also the chick... I guess I'd hit that too.

You know what's embarrassing? When you rip ass on the toilet really loud, so it's like a megaphone and everyone on the second floor of your house hears it.
You know what's more embarrassing? When the chick you just fucked laughs and goes "Wow, That was loud."
You know what tops that? "You're usually silent but deadly, every time I woke up last night I could smell it."

Well. Glad we boned before that, cuz I wouldn't have been in the mood other wise. Even shameless broken man whores have their limits, apparently.

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Drunken Evolution and future Apex predators)

So I've come across a phenomenon that until recently I was unable to articulate. Possibly because I was unable to see the potential association. I'm sure everyone here has experienced what we colloquially call a "brain fart."

I have noticed that when working at the liquor store I will occasionally run into someone, who if  they are in about a ten to fifteen feet radius from me, will seemingly suppress my higher cognitive functions. As soon as they get close, it becomes a struggle to think, and in some cases act. I'm forced to tough through this seeming "blank" feeling in my head, which is immediately mixed with: "Man I'm smarter than this, why can't I think straight?" Which of course, leads to a general daze and confusion.

[It's like this going on in your head]

Actually, this probably makes more sense

As anyone insane, retarded or disciplined enough to have read the rest of this blog knows, I hold the theory that excessive alcohol consumption fosters the development of super powers. This leads me to my theory of the hour:

If you spiral into ridiculously crippling alcoholism you're at an obvious natural disadvantage from a natural selection perspective. Being in a state of inebriation causes you to lose fine motor skills, impairs judgement, cripples intelligence, balance and charisma with repeated applications.

 BONUS BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Some sort of twisted real life causality error and/or meta humor.) 

 It's a Bonus content within bonus content. Which is like a blog post in a blog post in a blog post. BLOGCEPTION

If you went full on nerd and statted alcohol it would look something like this:

Alcohol

+1 to Charisma (with basic social skills trait)
+1 to Charisma (with naturally funny trait)
+1 to Intellect
-1 to Intellect, Dexterity, Agility, Balance and Perception with each additional application
-1 To Charisma after three applications (stacking)
+50% Chance of making poor sexual decisions (modified by available party members and luck score)
+10% Chance to smoke (Stacking)
+25% Chance of gettin some bonin' on
+200% Chance of consuming more alcohol or Taco Bell with each application

And because reading this bonus bonus content seems to take ten times as long to experience as the regular bonus content, I'll make it ten times shorter. Back to the blog within a blog with you!

We now return you irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat suffering from ADD 
as opposed to blogging away on the internet.

Long term regular alcoholism can cause liver scarring, brain damage and even psychosis. Needless to say you wouldn't exactly be the healthiest duck in the pond. That being said you're likely to be the only duck in the pond and this pond is really made of mud and liquid dog shit, but that's another story.

So when you are inebriated you're practically useless. When you aren't you're still suffering from a myriad of health problems. This means the more intelligent and agile individuals are at a natural evolutionary advantage. But what if... what if you could even the playing field. What if you could suppress all of their higher brain functions and essentially cripple the competition, bringing them to your level or possibly dragging them even lower?

Ladies and gentlemen, I propose that a handful of folks who engage in chronic alcohol consumption were born with a 10/10 luck score and rolled appropriately. They've mutated to even the playing field. Just as I reject reality and replace it with my own subjective bullshit, these highly evolved individuals are able to reject your reality and replace it with absolutely nothing.

Alcoholics are the next Apex Predators... and there's nothing you can do about it because when they're near you, you'll be too dumb to realize it. Let's just pray they don't go feral and all cannibal and shit on us.

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

 I've taken to ripping ass in front of the coolers and when I'm filling them. I attempt to hold it until I see someone approaching, then walk away with straight face and fill the next cooler so I can watch them suffer, because I hate most of the people who drink 40oz beers. BONUS POINTS: Adherence to basic social rules prevents them from saying anything.

And now I will summon my inner 17 year old and turn into a woman and blog about my saint patty's day:

[I'll um, be right back... um... not getting naked in the mirror and masturbating until my fingers bleed]

But hypothetically, if I say, was... hypothetically... masturbating to my underage female form in the mirror... that wouldn't be illegal, right?

Saint Patty's Day round up:

TL:DR version: I got trashed with my best friend. Woo.

I went to this place called Great Lakes Brewing company with one of my best friends. BONUS POINTS: He also is the man who saved my life. Cool, huh. His mother was playing in the band there, and I got a free meal. A Ruben -quesadilla to go with my Irish car bombs and butt loads of Conways. Then I got so fucked up that I don't remember much of the day. Man I got this blog shit on lockdown. 

And with that glorious exposition, I'm going to shave and shit. Literally. So remember my fellow capitalist-pig dogs: Political power may grow from the barrel of a gun, but cameras are the shot takers that end careers. If you find yourself in a hotel room with four transvestite Thai midgets and your creepy friend starts trying to videotape it, punch him in the face and show him what 0 in the pink 5 in the stink means.

Filler Episode One of Twelve until I use my Super Powers

I have noticed that the all the toilets at my University have been upgraded to the new "modern" toilets that have a motion sensor in them. Now, that in itself is kind of creepy, because it's only a matter of time before some whacked out asshole decides to place a camera in there and watch you pee. What's even creepier is that out of every bathroom I've visited at this university only two of them work: The two toilets in the Gay/Lesbian/Bi-Sexual/Transgender support lounge. Now that's not the strange part.

[It's watching you pee, and it likes what it sees...]

The Toilets Have Eyes, Coming to a theatre near you, November 2013

The strange part is that the toilets only flush if shake my dick off at the end of a long piss. Doesn't matter if I shit, I can sit down and stand up a million times or just do squats in front of the pisser, but it won't flush. But if I jangle my wang in front of them, they flush jubilantly. Oh well, such is my life. Wouldn't be the first person or thing that got jubilant at my moving wang.

I have received demands for more debauchery stories. Being that I am sometimes a symbiotic asshat, I will accede to said demands. Take a breif glimpse into my world and imagine the following scenerio:

It's [A non-incriminating date]. [Non-incriminating town], USA. About [Non-incriminating time]. You decide to whack it. You finish, barely anything comes out, and your dick feels kind of sore. Then you smell your hand:

-Cloves
-Pussy
-Gun powder/solvant

On your clothes:

-Cloves
-Perfume
-Whiskey
-Gun powder

And in the background, well you did just jerk off, so there's that awkward smell of cum in a sheet of toilet paper telling you to hurry up and flush it. This time you also fish the fresh condom out of the trash and flush it instead of just leaving it in the trash. You call it weird. I call it a post work wank.

[Hah! I bet half of you were expecting a picture of a dick! Wait... What?]

This joke is specifically funny because his name is Dick and depending on your political ideology and interpretation of the 2000-2008 presidency of George W. Bush, you may or may not find him to be a dick, A term used here as a slang term for jerk. Also dick is a slang term for Penis and I was discussing masturbation.

I have a knack for getting free stuff for free. My friend asked me to find a copy of the last seasons of Entourage. I had gotten a few bootleg movies from an attractive classmate of mine in the past. Except, while we were waiting for it all to copy to my external hard drive (which is possibly more nerdy than the pocket drive I now have), we decided to split a bottle of wine. A massage ensued, followed by making out, fooling around and me getting oral.

"Can you ask your friend from that Anime thing you do to get me Entourage?"

"I don't think he's the kinda guy that watches Entourage. Also... I'm not gonna bug my friend to D/L a bunch of shit you can watch online for free anyway."

"Oh C'mon."

"Really? Dude, just go online and do it yourself."

"Hey what about that chick you got all those movies from?"

My mind trailed off: Oh shit I know where this is going

"No I don't really think that's a good idea." Usually it's a bad idea to call someone up to ask them for free stuff AND sexual favors.

"Why not? She sucked your dick the last time she gave you stuff!"

"Cuz I haven't called her since --" Woops. I honestly don't know what I was thinking on that one, she was cute and nice and... (I'm fucking retarded) "Yeah, why don't I just call her up and go: Oh hey baby, wanna let me come over so I can steal your bandwidth and you can suck my dick? Yeah. Soooo fucking romantic."

"Fine, just go over to her place and take a shit on her chest and get me entourage."

"Wait, how the shit did we go from me getting oral and free shit to me taking a shit on someone's chest?"

Yes, that was a real conversation. Yes, it continued to go on, sometimes in circles, but the jist is I was expected to call this chick up, steal her bandwidth, deliver a Cleveland Steamer and stroll on out. If only life worked that way... well minus the pooping part. Maybe.
    

     
[Would you believe that nobody has Photoshopped a steamroller with the Stanley Steamer Logo?]

Nobody has Photoshopped a Stanley Steemer van that says "Cleveland Steemer" either. Fuck

As for now, I do not seek... and I will not accept an invitation to continue this blog post. So until next time, my young racketeers, you can vote more effectively with a few well placed dollars, than you can with a few well placed votes.

Booze, Used Condoms and Brass Casings. I Have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Most Definately.

I have decided, that just as FLO RIDA created a career for himself by naming himself after his state and singing about oral sex, I too will join the ranks of career singers, and using the miracle of auto tune I'll sing about excessive promiscuity and anal, while using a clever name that is deserving of my over inflated ego. I shall call myself: "Optimus Rhyme."

  

[Why? Because Fuck your noise, that's why]

This costume is economical because I can double dip as I take on my super villain alter ego: Optimus Crime

A while back, we got some sort of deal on carpet cleaning. This happens every few years and for a good week or two all of the rugs in the house disappear, only to return brand new and free of dog piss. It's weird to see the naked floor, but the lack of dog piss smell is worth it, especially since my wonderful dog, the Unipooper manages to piss through gates, box barricades and anything else that's designed to prevent him from spraying his piss all over the rugs in question. 

Whatever, no big deal. Most of the time I'm informed of this and move all the furniture and roll the rugs up, then carry them to the strange gap between our living room, dining room, foyer and the staircase upstairs. I don't rightly know how to explain this gap, but it's certainly not large enough to put to any good use, it's sort of just there, as if the architect dropped his cigarette on the blueprints and the construction company just made some shit up left a big empty, useless space in my house to cover up his fuck up.

[This is clearly the worlds most cutting edge Architect]

You know else smoked lots of cigarettes? The soldiers in Stalingr-- just kidding, that joke's dead... just like the soldiers in Stalingrad!

Now, one day, I come home, oblivious to my surroundings because I'm tired from dealing with people that smell like hobos all day. I trudge upstairs ready to jerk off and take a god damned nap. As I step into my room, I notice that my nice black and red, golf themed rug has disappeared. So just like my house has a big empty spot, which is now freshly carpetless (much like an ideal fuck and chuck) my room now too is carpetless. 

Okay that's fine, right. Some dust bunnies, the occasional scrap of paper and -- shit. Fucking condom wrappers. Like seven of them. All of them were obscured from sight under my rug.Well, my parents are well aware of my debauchery. The rug dude probably high fived her and my poor mother probably assumed that it was only seven times. Right? No big deal.

I decide to take advantage of this situation to clean my room, get all the dust out of, well, everywhere, pitch the pile of water bottles that accumulate between my bed and my nightstand in an attempt to stave off the next morning's hangovers, you know, the usual. As I'm piling everything into a bag, I stumble across ammo casings that made their way from my range bag to obscure places in my room. Okay, whatever. There's a few I can use to reload, and there's some I can't. Pitch those. Behind my bed I find a bottle of vanilla vodka.

[My exact internal dialogue]

When did I kill a bottle of vodka?

Oh right, with what's her face

(Brief recollection of her face and I remember to add her to the spank bank for the day)

I finish my cleaning and go to my trashcan. I pop it open, toss in the ammo casings and prepare to drop in the trash bag full of dusty Swiffer things, water bottles and assorted papers and junk I don't need. I see two used condoms. Old used condoms. Condoms that I didn't put there. I'm talking, from several months ago. Sitting at the top of the trash can, resting on top of two cardboard boxes. And on those boxes? Bulgarian Cyrillic. Why do I have small boxes with Bulgarian on them?

[If the term "7.62mm METAK" has nothing to do with Ammo, I'm gonna fuck someone]

Actually, I'll probably do that anyway. I might have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

Yeah, that's right. Surplus ammo boxes and used condoms. Now add the bullet casings and bottle of vodka. I'm sure I'm on some sort of watch list now. Also, a joke I once made to my friends about This Web Comic pretty much being about me, came true. 

Used Condoms? Check
Booze bottle? Check
Bullet casings? Check
Being stalked by a time traveling web comic artist? Not sure for sure if Check.

And I thought Zombies were my biggest worries.

[I was going to make a Zombie joke, but Google Images gave me This]

Scantily clad women and guns are only two of my four core tenants in life, but only 1 in 4 is necessary to trigger my ADHD

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Raging ADHD)

And now for today's cutting edge humor: 

So, a Nazi walks into a BAR...

[Brat-a-tat-tat-tat. Wizz! Bang! Pew Pew! "Ach Mich Lachen!"]

Hey, at least it's not a Stalingrad joke

 

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

Food for thought: If zombies are your biggest worry in life then either you're taking life too easy, or you're a mental abortion. Or you're me. Given my history pretty much all of the above is probably valid. Wait, self-deprecation on my narcissistic blogging project? Hell must have frozen over Stalingrad jokes must be funny again.

Okay, so a Nazi walks into a DP-27...

[Брат-в-Тат Тат Тат Wizz! Bang! Пью Пью! "Ach Mich Lachen!"]

You funny guy, Comrade.

That may or may not have been intentional. You know, in case some mental abortion didn't get the bonus content joke. Or maybe I just can't stop the WWII references and humor and have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Anyway, I'm getting bored with this, so I'm gonna go get piss drunk and fuck someone. Maybe. Probably.... yeah... I have a problem.

So until next time, my riveted readers, I'll be not searching for a Sex-a-holics group anonymous. Or should I be? I could... fuck, I do have a problem. I'm so using my subjective reality powers on this one...

"That was it?" Stalingrad, Sex and the US Census

I have discovered that when I consume alcohol, I apparently piss out about half of what I consume in liquid volume. Or so it seems. This would pretty much mean that my liver is like some sort of fucked up Thunderdome, my new motto being "Two beers enter, One beer leaves!"

 [If you think about it, he's a midget on a retard, technically counting as two people]

 THREE beers enter, one beer leaves! FUCK YEAH!

And now for a startling revelation:
I was a virgin until the spring of 2010. I can hear some of you going "Wait, what?" already.
Expected follow up question:
"You mean you weren't a hedonistic, debaucherous asshole until then either?"
My answer:
Pretty much

Go figure, right? I don't remember the date I lost my virginity, mainly because it lacked any actual special qualities and in retrospect is relatively similar to numerous other sexual encounters, minus the totally awkward fumbling number I undoubtedly pulled.

I used to believe in saving myself for marriage. As I grew older, my requirements lessened, but I still wanted to be in love before I had sex. Well, I fell in love. Long story short, it ended in a horrendous downward spiral that left me broken and lost for a bit. Arguably I'm still broken, but at least I'm not lost.

In the month and few weeks after that relationship ended, I found myself going relatively crazy, but still clinging to that youthful ideal of love. As I found myself fooling around more in the back of my car and less in the privacy of home, as I found myself juggling two, three maybe four women at a time and even having a few close calls where they almost found each other, I still clung to the concept of love.

I met a wonderful woman named Julie, via the internet. She was well read, brunette, nerdy and attractive. When we initially met, we met as friends. She was in the throes of a potential break up, I encouraged her to stick with her relationship, possibly out of empathy for the guy, or some narcissistic symbiosis, vicarious bullshit, or maybe because I still believed in "Giving love a chance, mang."

It didn't work for her. We got along. We hung out and were good friends. Turns out that when two attractive friends meet on an intellectual level and both are rebounding, feelings of mutual romance can happen. I asked her out. She said yes. We made out. We started fooling around.

One night, we found ourselves in my bed. We had fooled around there before, so there was nothing really unique about it. I had fooled around in this bed with at this point maybe four or five total women, including the then most recent ex. But it was a bit different. Not just us making out and fooling around, but more of this cuddling and disrobing thing.

I was still heart broken. I was recently out of the hospital. I craved affection of any kind, and was at this moment receiving more physical attention from a (get ready for this one) "a friend with whom I shared a mutual shared romantic interest as well as a mutual caution and uncertainty about relationships, both of us being unsure about where it was going, but okay with the concept of a relationship, yet still unwilling to commit to one." than I had with the then most recent ex.

BAM. So basically a less than glorified friends with benefits, plus the emotional confusion of mutual heartbreak and mutual physical and intellectual desire. Fuck yeah, I love needless complication!

 [Just as confusing, disastrous and fucked up as Stalingrad]

Don't even try to pretend you didn't see this allusion coming

Laying there, feeling the light trace of her soft fingers on my back, the occasional kiss on the neck or chest... you know, the basic shit that people do when they hook up. That instinctive physical affection and connectivity humans engage in when fucking. I'd say this goes on too when real, meaningful, loving, emotional sex happens, but I wouldn't know. I've never felt love during sex. Usually just drunken lust, or horny and willing to go through the motions.

But that evening, As I felt her fingers on my back, I felt this level of fulfillment. I was receiving more affection than I had ever felt with the woman I had recently broken up with. A woman that I had at one point, fully intended to marry and grow old with. A woman I was ready to raise children with, a woman I would have taken bullets for, or jumped in front of a car for. Yet, with someone who was effectively a stranger, I felt more cared for. I felt more of a physical connection. I felt as if I meant something to her.

In retrospect, I really was unsatisfied with my only "serious" relationship.

[If for every time I wanted affection but didn't receive it, someone died...]

... You'd have the approximate casualty rate of Stalingrad. Shit, this analogy is self perpetuating comedy gold

It was a moment of emotional weakness that made me go "eh fuck, it." 

Fast forward. Sex happens. Birds and bees, the hilarity of a virgin putting on a condom, blowing a quick load and seeing the gates of heaven and reaching enlightenment. saying "this is it?" Except I didn't say it out loud. I thought it though. I probably mouthed it unknowingly. (I really hope I didn't, just for her sake)

The majority of my life I had expected sex to be deep, passionate and meaningful. It wasn't. It just was. It satiated my base desires, and was one less thing to be worried about. One less source of stress in life that held you down. "This is it?"

Simultaneously I was working for the United States Census Bureau, which was a fucking awesome job. I got paid $15.25 an hour to go door to door and meet crazy folks, meet sane folks and meet nice people who would give me water, food and in a few cases pretty much solicit me.

Day one on the job I managed to be a colossal dick and secure about 80 missing EQs (Enumerator Questionnaires) from the old person's home in my town. For this feat I was promoted from Enumerator (door to door whore) to "Crew Leader Assistant," a dubious title that meant a fuck ton more work for no extra money.

[You know who else got a whole ton of extra work for no extra money? The folks in Pavlov's House]

Another Stalingrad reference. This is what Comedy Gold going platinum looks like

As I return, triumphant over the portly, angry, almost stereotypical black woman who ran the nursing home, I was informed of my "promotion." As he explained to me what it entailed, I thought "This is it?" I had not lost my virginity at this point. I had no idea how much this job would make me feel sexually awkward.

Later on, I convinced an older man who believed the Census was part of massive FEMA camp conspiracy to do his census because it would help us fight the Chinese. I saw the POW/MIA, REMEMBER 9/11, American Flag and American Eagle stickers on his door, noted his age to be around old enough to have fought in Vietnam, if not Korea and played the American Patriot card.

"Son, I fought those Chinese bastards in the War and I'll gladly do it again." Ten questions later I hear: "That was it?"

SUDDEN FLASHBACK TO LOSING MY VIRGINITY: "That was it?"

That phrase triggered memories. Sexy memories. Mixed feelings of pride with my job overlapping with the rush of getting your bone on. Excitement over succeeding over a dude that had turned away over half of my crew, mixed with the flashbacks of pride of getting your bone on in your first one night stand. Brain chemistry wise I was probably more confused and conflicted than those poor Soviet Conscripts...

[Soviet Machineguns, German Machine guns, either way I'm gonna wanna fuck]

Wait, I'm getting my wires crossed again. Fuck it I'm gonna go get shitfaced and pillage some -- wait. Shit, what the fuck am I doing again?

My time in the census gave me a line that I really wish I had more opportunities to use. After asking all 10 questions we were required to get the name of the respondent, their address (a superfluous duty, most of the time) and their phone number to insure that we weren't pulling shit out of our ass, smearing it on the questionnaires and handing it in screaming "LOL YOU GIVE ME PAY CHECK NOW." After a particularly long bout of answering questions (mainly because the entire time was spent flirting and chatting as opposed to working) I finish up the questionnaire, getting to the phone number part. She gives it. I write it down in the little boxes of the questionnaire sheet.

"So, now that I gave you my number, are you gonna give me yours?"

Wait, what? Did I just get asked for my number... by a hot little number? I fucking LOVE this job.

[And then it turned out she was 17]

"Don't ask Don't tell" was all about Jail bait, Right? RIGHT? Please God, somebody say yes

Unfortunately there's very few opportunities to use this line, and if the opportunity arises the woman in question usually has heard the line or a lamer version of it already, but I'll still give it a go. Why not? Worst I can hear is "no." 

The problem is, during the Census and my man whoring, I came across the phrase "That was it?" frequently. In the day, I heard it from the folks I convinced to take the census, and then in my head as I began my spiral into promiscuity, each time asking myself silently: "This is it?" as if the last shreds of the hopeless romantic in me was reaching out, trying to sink its claws into whatever remained of my romantic morality and ideals in order to bring me back to the more conservative and sexually reserved individual I once was. But eventually the "This is it?" settled into a "This is it." Followed by a "This is it. Fuck yeah!"

As my days and nights melted together, turning my life into an impetuous blur of working, boozing and fucking, my wires started getting crossed and remained crossed. When I hear the phrase "This is it?" or "That was it?" I can almost feel my heart rush with endorphins. The smatterings of memories of lustful sex, conquests and silver tongued banditry for sweet government cheese all meshed together for an ego boosting, narcissistic cluster fuck.

Wanna troll the fuck out of me in real life? Ask me "That was it?" or "This is it?" in a legitimate context and see what happens. Probably nothing, since I keep a decent poker face.

 [I'd poke her face, if you know what I mean]

Oh, like you're surprised I took it there. Plus she's practically holding up a bulls eye for me to aim at. Pew pew.

But maybe, just maybe, I'll get a chubby or something. Maybe. Or not. Probably not. But I'll probably be in the mood to fuck after that.

[Internal Logic Failure: Implication that I'm not always in the mood to fuck]

What is this? I don't even...

Welp, that's the show stopper. At least it wasn't because of whiskey dick. Until next time, my voracious future conspirators, get gunned down by village fires. Wait, I think that was some sort of wire cross from one of my endless Stalingrad picture jokes. Heh, Stalingrad. Comedy Gold.  

HOLY FUCK I CAN ADD LABELS TO THESE POSTS

How unfulfilled can you feel for $40 an hour?

I have decided that my newest life goal and highest priority (along with drinking and fucking) is to earn the title "Hero of the Soviet Union." I realize that I am, at the time of this writing, about twenty years too late on this, seeing how the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991. To this end I have decided to begin a conspiracy to bring back the state that convinced idiot American analysts that Communism was a global Monolith threatening freedom and mom's apple pie. Sure, this will oppress millions and bring the world back to the brink of nuclear war. But I'll have a medal. Reasonable priorities, Fuck yeah.

Huh. I guess I'm a costume, bank robbery and a henchman away from achieving the status of super villain, which isn't that unappealing of a career path...

[Laser sharks or not, This dude's got nothing on me]

No really, he's just a fictional character portrayed by an actor. Nowhere near super villain status.

I currently hold two jobs, both of them equally shitty and equally awesome in their own ways. I also am one of the highest paid employees, for both jobs, excluding the owners of these establishments. As anyone who wasn't completely disinterested in my previous rantings will remember, one of those jobs currently is a liquor store. Being the highest paid employee outside of the boss means I get a whopping $8.00 an hour. How did I get the dubious privilege of earning 50 cents more than my peers for doing a job a mental abortion could accomplish?

I asked. Yeah, that story sucks ass.

Well $8.00 an hour isn't that much as you well know. At 40 hours a week, that's a mere $320 a week prior to taxes. Considering dinner and drinks can run you $60-100 for a single evening, not to mention the price of bar liquor, condoms, gas to get to and fro along with day to day expenses and the price of graduate courses, plus the finer luxuries in life such as ammunition, it's pretty obvious I'm living beyond the means of a shitty $320 paycheck. Even considering that I don't have to pay rent, it is impossible to live my lifestyle on slightly above minimum wage.

Clearly I must have massive credit card debt, like many of my peers. Right? Actually, I don't own a credit card. (Yes I know it's not the wisest decision, but it is what it is.)

[But when I do, this will be my custom skin]

I'll be the coolest kid from 2010

So how does a debaucherous, hedonistic man whore, pay for his booze, ammo and classes?

Web development. Yeah, that's right, yours truly has some basic computer skills, mainly HTML, php and some Javascript. But how does an English and History major get a job with computers you ask?

  [First picture in the Google search for "nagging bitch" that didn't involve cats and poor grammar]

It was actually less like "nagging" and more like emotional abuse, but that shit isn't nearly as funny

Yep, you guessed it. A woman. I made the mistake of quit my job at a local restaurant that made shaving my nipples off with a cheese grater a more appealing option that showing up for work on time. The hordes of fat people were horrendous, emptying tray after tray of buffet food at a rate just slightly slower than I could fill them, meaning that for every two troughs you filled, you were stuck refilling one that was empty. It was a veritable Sisyphean task that I got paid minimum wage + tips for.

I quit. Rather abruptly. Without the foresight of lining up another job first. Woops. My then girlfriend was relatively unhappy with her boyfriend only being a double major student with a full ride to a top tier university. (Between family benefits and scholarships I was actually getting PAID to be there)

 [Which means that I actually got paid to sleep. I call it Salary for Snoozing]

 Disaster was averted when I decided not to host a crossover with my Salary for Shit program

So to satiate her, I decided to find another job. In the middle of 2008, also known as part of "The Great Recession." You know, the polite way of saying "The United States finally fucked itself financially, no work for you." So, after months of failing to find employment, what did I do?

I learned an entirely new set of skills from the ground up with no prior background and got myself a god damned job by manipulating the shit out of my social connections. Basically this mildly diabolic bout of job grabbing was a prelude to the arrogant ass hat that I am now. A brilliant bout of social engineering and I got introduced to the owner of a local tech company that primarily did website maintenance. I got the introduction by implying I'd work for less than what it would normally cost to hire a web developer. When I got to the bargaining table I conned the owner into paying me the full $35.00 hour fee by offering to fill a void he needed filled about two weeks ago. Yes, there's a sex joke in there. I saw it too. 

[And fill that void I did, if you know what I mean]

Someone needs to put cotton in her mouth to soak up that drool while she sleeps and my splooge when she wakes

He was not the wisest man in the world. Of course hiring me worked out well for both of us as I'm not fucking retarded and actually do my work, but he was pretty lousy with money. As in so lousy, the company tanked four months later only to get bought out by another company that needed more software related people. (He did pay me however.) The new company was satisfied with my four months of experience and solid "web development skills" (Read: Retard level coding and photoshop abilities) and hired me.

[Actually, fuck photoshop. I use The GIMP]

Which, in perfect accordance with my debauchery, can be interpreted as needlessly and overtly sexual

A few months later I became bored and was also displeased with the amount of work I was getting. As the company that ate my old company was primarily hardware related, they bought us out mainly to get our hardware at bargain prices, and despite claiming to want to advance the software end of things, failed to do so. So I moved on to greener pastures with a coworker...

...to a company with the promise of 10 hours of work a week or more. Guaranteed. At the previous company I got decent work, but sometimes it slipped under 10 hours a week. Sometimes it pushed 25. A guarantee of 10 hours a week meant I could effectively budget. It means I could start doing things like begin budgeting for my eventual proposal to the then girlfriend. 

Which leaves me where I am today. Still with this company, and getting paid $5.00 an hour more than folks with degrees in programming. Why? Because one of the skills I fully unlocked after my brush with death was being a manipulative bastard and a quick-to-rise bullshitter.

Picture this setting: It's 2010. Your boss is attempting to get a client to spend a pretty big sum of money. That client has a female partner who is known for indirectly controlling the purse strings of the company he works for. He's also impulsive and sticks to a decision he makes. The chick helps keep him under control and helps shape his decisions, if he hasn't put his mind to them. How do I know this? My boss told me.

Why did he tell me this?

To put it in his words:

"Well you've been quite the man whore recently, right? Wanna help me out?"

"Wait, what? Are you... soliciting me? Cuz I'm gonna need a raise if you are."

He failed to jump on the "I already have a rise," joke and explained to me that he wanted me to come there and distract the chick as she was about my age and supposedly cute. His strategy was to distract her long enough to get the guy hooked on the sales pitch on his terms, get him to commit in his mind before the chick could convince him to bargain and haggle. Also he'd drive my ass, buy me some smokes and pay my bartab for the entire evening. Wait, did he say pay my bar tab for the ENTIRE evening? And the girl is cute too? Who the shit cares if I'm being exploited, all I have to do is get drunk and hit on someone.

 [He would have been better off paying me $35.00 an hour]

Starting a land war in Asia might very well be a smarter idea than offering to pay for my ENTIRE bar tab

The chick didn't show up. I was left as the third wheel as my job wasn't to sell the company, the owner was. He told me to go get drunk, but told me he wouldn't drive anyone home with me. Needless to say I had a few black labels. At Downtown prices. Then I had a few beers, and hit on every piece of ass in the bar. And I didn't get shot down by all of them either! Then I drank even more. Patron? Sure! Grey Goose? Why the fuck not?

Now it's 1:30 am. I'm pretty blitzed. I have a few numbers in my phone. Sweet. My boss is yammering on about the job. Then he turns to me. "Isn't that right?"

"Huh?"

"I said isn't that right?"

I head nodded towards the chick with a tramp stamp on her back at the bar. "Uhhhh..."

"We're able to handle software and hardware applications at all levels, right?"

"Oh!" I realized it was time to work. Somehow I had gotten drawn into this deal closing. I don't have a business degree or any of that shit, so why the shit do I have to do this? Oh, right, I drank like $35 worth of booze the first half hour I was there. That might be why. I began explaining to the client, trying my damnedest not to slur my words and make an ass of myself. Apparently I did a half decent job of explaining what I do, how quickly I can do it and talked up my fellow coding monkeys, because we got the contract.

[Unmarked Quest Complete]

    (Choose your reward)

- One time bonus check          

- Permanent hourly raise         

I took the permanent hourly raise. When I asked what the bonus check would have been I received the following response:

"That's for me to know and you to obsess over."

No maniacal laugh, but sometimes when I rethink it I throw one in, because he really should have laughed maniacally. 

Now full circle to the post title. Why? Because fuck your noise, that's why. (Or maybe because that was the entire point of this post. Maybe) As stated in the post title "How unfulfilled can you feel for $40 an hour?" I imply that my job is unfulfilling. That's because it is. My job requires retard level coding ability. A trained monkey could do most of the shit I do. I'm sure there are down syndrome children with more advanced coding abilities. Yet I am getting paid $40.00 an hour for this shit. I walked into a field with no experience, taught myself this shit and now I'm getting a paycheck so easy that I often complete my projects while hammered beyond belief. And they turn out flawless or so near flawless nobody knows there was a problem.

And I am getting paid $40.00 an hour for this bullshit. 

I'm not changing the world, saving orphans or curing cancer. I'm coding stupid people's websites for shit tier businesses. And let me reiterate this:  

I'm getting paid $40.00 an hour for this. 

When it comes to my work, it is unremarkable, boring and easy. I am without a doubt under worked and overpaid with this job. I frequently get to charge for a full hours of work for a job that takes twenty minutes. Taking this into account, I make more money in the space of 3 solid hours than I make all week at the liquor store.  

Three. Fucking. Hours. 

Usually while drunk. 

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Compulsive, Chronic Masturbation)

My boss encourages me to drink when working because he's happy with the results. He figured it out the night that he payed for my tab when I was on my iPhone and the customer had gone to use the restroom or solicit one of the bar sluts. (Possibly a crossover of the two.)

 The conversation when like this:

"What are you doing?"

"The [I'm not using the real name here] project."

"Now?"

"Why not? It's retard simple."

"Let me see your work." I hand him my phone. "God damn, really? how often do you code when drunk?"

OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT IM IN FOR IT NOW.

"Be honest now."

"More often than I'd like to admit to you?" 

"[Coworker] Can't code unless he jerks off first. If you think drinking and coding is the weirdest thing we deal with at this company, you're sorely mistaken."

[I always envisioned this coworker using The Cone after hearing that]

The scary part is this coworker practically lives at the office, meaning that we now know what the sticky stuff on the kitchen counter is

Wait. WHAT? How did my boss know that and was I just given permission to drink on the job?

"By the way if it'll make you code faster, you can bring in a 6 pack to the office when you have to stop by."

Holy shit my boss is awesome. Our client returned from the bathroom at that point and I went back to chase some tang. 

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

So if you read through my bonus content you can see further why I'm unfulfilled with my job. If I needed to snort a line of coke off of a hookers ass before I started coding, my boss would be okay with it, because he only cares about the end result. 

"You turned a profit? Cool. What? 20 dead babies? Whatever. Don't get arrested now, I need you coding on Friday."

Fine Print: This is not an actual quote from my boss. I'm fairly certain he'd be pissed we didn't harvest the dead babies for organs and give him a share of the profit if he found out they died in the process of coding.

This means while it's easy money and it lets me live my over the top life, I have no sense of satisfaction with this. It is not a career I want. I will make no difference in the world this way. And ultimately I want to change the world... and if I can't change the world, I'll gladly change someone's world for the better.

Some men want an easy way through life. Me? I want glory. And glory is never found by shuffling your feet and waiting for it to fall in your lap.

[Well... morning glory can fall into your lap, but that's different]

By morning glory, I mean an erection you get in the morning. Because there's a hot chick in your bed and you're ready for round two

So, fellow Glory hounds! Until next time, don your horned helmets and grab your axes and mead. Cuz we're gonna get piss drunk and sail up and down the coast of Norway pillaging some villages.