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.

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...