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.

"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