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