Thursday, July 31, 2014

Jack-Offs Jacking-off

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Let's get one thing straight, if a guy has sex with a girl and she doesn't come, the show's not over! To me, all this jack-off's done is figured out a way to jack-off with a vagina instead of a hand. If you've been on this page before or you know me and you thought my standards were high about trivialities, then you have noooo idea how high they are when it comes to the word 'sex'. Sex is two people naked, moaning in a room, indulging in the fruits of human nature! When a dude grunts after thirty seconds, rolls over and goes to sleep, that my friend is a tragedy! In my mind, until I can get my back looking like a Jackson Pollock, sex has not occurred. Regardless of sexual-competency, my pleasure is only secondary to the girls, and that's how all guys should think.

When I was in school, girls that were way too young to be having sex were. Whenever one of them told me that they weren't a virgin, I imagined something out of a movie. I'd picture her profile in black-and-white, straddling a well-toned gentlemen in a dimly-lit room. The thin, long, white curtain waving in the breeze, because who has time to close windows in that state of mind. She runs her hand over her breast and then through her hair out of pure-ecstasy. She leans in and clamps her teeth on his ear. He whispers in hers with his mouth while guiding her with his hand. Having never had sex myself, that's what I would imagine every time somebody told me they'd had sex. To be truthful, that's still the image I carried around even after I started doin’ it myself, right up until the revelation that this wasn't actually happening! I thought that everybody that wasn't me was having better, amazing, knee-rattling sex. I later realised that my definition of ‘sex’ was a fantasy compared to everybody else's. These lucky-guys were just as skinny as I was, just as white and, most importantly, sex was just a matter of getting rid of some fluids to them. Ugh!

Let's get real though, I'm no sexual marksmen, but that doesn't matter because whenever I jump into the sack, my plan is to try to blow her mind, and I use everything in my arsenal to get that done. That's my point. You don't have to be Deepak Chopra in bed to be a sexual guru; you don't! It's about fucking attitude. It's about thinking "it doesn't matter if I come, but it matters if she doesn't." It's about treating every sexual encounter like it's your last because you might keel over and die the very next day. The last thing you want is for that girl to hear of your death and think "oh, that guy that came early and wouldn't go down on me died. GOOD!"

And fuckin' ay right, it's good! These people are the reason wars happen and that slavery exists! Too many unsatisfied women loose in the world!

I understand though, sometimes it's not even physically possible for some people to be amazing in the sack. Sometimes you're going to come early. Sometimes you're going lose your erection. Sometimes you're going to be too drunk. News flash: It's called oral sex, maybe you've heard of it. And if you don't like that (because you're an idiot) or you're worried about infection (because you're smart), you always have these things called "fingers." They aren't a great substitute, but they’re certainly better than nothing. Time and time again I hear about these assholes just coming prematurely and then...well, that's it. What? Are they joking? Have they only heard about getting head and not about giving it? There are ways of making a girl come that don't involve vaginal intercourse. I'm beginning to wonder if guys are even aware of that.

A year ago, I wrote about the beauty of sex, and that's all I was talking about - sex! The real definition of ‘sex’, not this scarring ordeal guys are putting gorgeous girls through. I'm talking about sex so bad that it makes a girl question her heterosexuality while brushing over it with a therapist later on down the track. If there are guys leaving women wanting more - and there are - then maybe women have been right all along, maybe men are all arseholes. Because how could a guy want sex so badly that he dreams of it all the way through his teens, with the wet dreams and the constant jerking off; how could a guy go onto Google and watch naked women have sex for hours; how could a guy essentially beg a girl for sex, and then finally get to copulating with a real, beautiful, flesh and blood woman and then do nothing to make it a purely transcendent experience!

What's wrong with us?

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Why are Everybody Such Good Drivers? what people should be whinging about.

It's my opinion that humans were never meant to operate vehicles and heavy-machinery. We're too easily-distracted, and distraction doesn't bode well with being in control of a high-speed box of steel. But contrary to every trite, clich├ęd complaint you've heard from either yourself or others about other drivers, I actually think that we're all very good at driving. I'm not being sarcastic. There would be way more crashes and way more fatalities if we really were as bad as we all say we are, don't you think?

Let me just draw this picture in your head: peak-hour traffic. Two lanes. It's so congested that you feel like you're sperm trying to impregnate the city. I want to go left, she wants to go right. We are literally boxes of painted-steel, centimetres apart with extremely high blood pressure. We all want to get home to our husbands/Xboxes/girls we're trying to bang, but this steel cluster-fuck is in the way. And yet, you'll get to wherever you're going without a scratch on your car. How is that possible! If we really were bad drivers, it would just be fucking dodge 'em cars. A few minutes in peak hour traffic and you'd need a panel-beater! Sometimes getting through these car parks we call Sydney's roads is like trying to get a plutonium core out of a missile without touching the magnetic edges, but we do it somehow! Not too shabby, I must say.

You might be thinking, "Yeah, okay. Now give me some hard-facts, David!" Well firstly, my name's not David, and secondly, let me put this to you: One of the media's many Christmas presents to us in this state is telling us how many people have died on the roads during the holiday season. Every year, they tally it up like the state governments are running a competition on who shouts the beers this year. When the kill count numbers are low, you can almost hear the disappointment in the news anchor's voices, just like last Christmas’ reported seven deaths over the eleven day period. Seven out of the entire state, that is. Have you ever seen NSW on a map? It's big. We have over seven million people here, and only seven of them died? Last census found just under seventeen million registered vehicles, and only up to seven of them managed to hit someone. Bad drivers? Get real! By late December, 2000, one of the worst holiday seasons for road accidents in my memory, twenty-five NSW deaths were reported for that holiday period. So, while everybody's too busy whinging about unsubstantiated opinions, I'm not seeing a real lot of solid facts.

With seventeen million monoliths of steel tearing around corners and flying through amber-signals, I need a number around the five hundred mark to garner a response! Give me images akin to ones after an al-Assad massacre or after a train veers off the rails and off a bridge into a deep lake. Then maybe, juuuust maybe I'll credit complaints about "bad driving." However, while there may not be bad drivers, I'd be delusional if I said that there weren't a fuck-tonne of impolite drivers out there, but that's bore-snore! You'd often find that the driving has nothing to do with the rudeness, and that driving-style is merely a reflection of one's personality. So, when you take the car out of the equation, those people are still fuckin’ rude!

We're good drivers.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Whore Waiting

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If you ever see me on the phone speaking with someone, I actually don't want to be speaking with them, probably because I hate them. That's why I love call waiting. When one of my idiot friends is talking about their sick grandmother or stupid shit like that and I hear that beeping sound, it's like a gift from on high. They should call it "god-waiting!" Because those beeps give me carte blanch to be the twisted, impolite prick that I really am underneath. It's the greatest innovation in the world.

You see, most of my friends are polite, and when they're speaking to me on the phone, they're actually speaking to me. They're not concerned about who else could be calling, they're only worried about our conversation. It's because they're fucking idiots. For me, there isn't enough voltage in this world that could shock me into caring any less about whatever it is they think they have to say to me. So, the moment I hear that angelic symphony of beeps, you could not get me off the phone faster. I must, no, I need to get off and find out whether or not that person is anymore interesting than my mother, because I'm rude and I'm not going to hide that shit.

I love call waiting so much in fact that I wish they had it for face-to-face interactions. Somebody could be speaking to me and then something would just pass over me like a wave. My eyes would go vacant, my body language would become stilted and I'd just walk away like the mothership just called. Then I'd go seek out the person I actually want to speak to.

To me though, my strict-adherence to the call waiting gods isn't a true enough reflection of my rudeness, so I've managed to come up with something better and it's called "whore waiting." What happens is, when one of my whores needs me or whatever, they call me. If I'm already on the phone with a friend or my mum or my girlfriend, it cuts my current call off after five seconds and puts me straight through to the other call. This is good because being as rude as I am can get pretty tiresome, especially with all of that button-pushing and all those pleasantries! I'm not a button-pusher and I'm not fucking pleasant! Whore-waiting is all automated! So when there's a call, I just quickly say "SorryNanny! Somebodywantstosuckmydick! You'reboring! Gottago!" before it cuts me off. Genius.

Who would have thought that that the phone companies would be so accommodating for rude, arseholes like myself. While before people were polite and normal and just simply missed calls because they were in one already, now I can be diplomatic with whom I want to speak to! So write yourself a checklist of the following and tick the ones that apply to you right now: Are you an arsehole? Are you rude? Did your mother or father not love you enough? If you didn't tick any of them, then I'm afraid you shouldn't be using call-waiting; it's only for rude arseholes.