Friday, June 27, 2008

He spoke to me, I took his flute


There's always more time than you need when you don't need it, and never enough when you do.

That's why I propose that everyone cryogenically freeze themselves, and we'll take turns thawing each other out when our services are needed. With the amount of extra time each of us will have, we can practically live forever.

Apart from dreaming up practical alternatives to everyday problems, I also spend my time masturbating and peeping at some of my more attractive neighbors.

For the last month, I've been practicing my drawing with a book written sometime in the early part of the twentieth century by a guy named Andrew Loomis. His technique is great, but he's a little outdated by today's standards; however I now know how to draw slant-eyed Charlie Chan style Chinese characters, big lipped, watermelon eating black people, and women with all kinds of different black eyes.

The world certainly is a different place now than it was when jazz was king, candy bars only cost a nickel, and rape between two people of the same race wasn't really a crime.

A lot of folks would like to go back to those good old days; hell, I'm sure we all have a set of FDR polio leg braces that we're just itching to put to use. Plus, we would get to dress in costumes and people love that sort of thing.

For all our maturity, technology, and 'spirituality' human beings just can't seem to get enough of playing dress-up.

No matter how many photographs people see displaying the days of yore's ridiculous costumes, we keep adorning ourselves in plumage that makes peacocks look humble.

I don't know why we bother with clothes at all, a point I have made countless times in this and other forums; however, at present I would like to direct your attention to a piece of clothing so ridiculous that it's sheer existence is proof that there is no human supporting god, because no omnipotent deity would create a universe where its highest creation would consider the necktie fashionable.

I always read news article puff pieces about how you should dress for the job you want and not the job you have, but most of my employers have been particularly upset when I come into the office with my arm greased up to the elbow and leading a team of trained seals.

Besides, who wants to work at a job where you have to wrap a choking hazard around your neck; that's like sending an AIDS patient to change the bedpans in the nymphomania ward at your local sanitarium.

I have, for brief time, worked at companies that asked me wear a man ribbon, but such relationships never last long. I don't understand the point of getting dressed up to go to work, but it makes even less sense when men are forced to tie themselves up like a strange mix between a Christmas present and a soon to be hanged prisoner.

That is not to say that women don't wear ludicrous clothes, just that nothing women wear can possible compare to the idiocy that is the necktie.

Sure, a garter belt might be uncomfortable, but at least it holds up your stockings; a necktie doesn't even hold your shirt closed, our shirts come equipped with the latest button technology to do that.

Women also have ensembles that incorporate lots of ridiculous decorative objects to distract from their slowly fading looks, so it's not that strange when they add something new to the mix, but a man's suit is one step away from being as utilitarian as it gets, and our silly little wrappings turn what is otherwise the closest thing to sensible formal wear into an exercise in ludicrosity.

In the last twenty years, the number of apparel options, for men in the workplace, has expanded to include polo shirts and dungarees, which brings our grand total up to three; so, now, if a man has been to college and succeeded, he has to wear a silly tie, if his job is expendable, he gets to dress like the more upscale breed of pedophilic youth sports coaches, or if he's never received an education, or fallen on hard times, a single color jumpsuit.

I don't know why we all don't switch over to the jumpsuit. Life is much more comfortable when you don't have to wear pants.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Blonde on Blonde
by Bob Dylan

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Most of the women who are against abortion are the ones you wouldn't want to fuck in the first place


George Carlin died yesterday and no one is telling any jokes today.

Sure, I see lots of his jokes plastered everywhere, and there are plenty of videos of his old material all over the internet, but I don’t hear anyone telling any new jokes, and that’s what comedy is all about.

A big name like George Carlin takes up a lot of room on the main stage, which is good when it comes to keeping people like Dane Cook from dumbing down more of the masses, but it keeps the next good comedian from coming along and taking the master’s place.

Now that Carlin is dead, someone is going to have to step up and do it.

I’m not saying that I’m a suitable replacement for a guy who produced some of the funniest material in a generation, I don’t have half of his talent or wit, but it doesn’t hurt to try… especially since he’s now too dead to keep us from stealing his material.

There are probably some of you out there in internetland who are thinking about my proposition and saying to yourselves, “Well, I’m not funny like George Carlin” but that’s a bunch of horseshit, because George Carlin wasn’t all that funny either. Sure, he was a great writer, an excellent performer, and a masterful linguist, but his material wasn’t that strong compared with some of the all time, comedy greats like Milton Berle, Jerry Seinfeld, and Groucho Marx – those guys had polished acts.

I’m glad I’m not in America at the moment, because it’s bad enough hearing everyone and their mother talk about how sad it is that George Carlin died. It’s like they spent fifty years watching the guy perform and didn’t hear a damn thing he said.

Yes, George Carlin was a funny motherfucker, I’ll be the first to admit that, and it will also be sad that we won’t get to hear any more of his fantastic material, but that’s nothing to be sad about. If you had gone deaf any time in the last fifty years, you wouldn’t have been able to hear any new George Carlin material either. Plus, there’s a good chance that there’s more George Carlin material out there that you haven’t seen yet, like his short lived Fox sitcom from the early 90s, which means that, just like Tupac Shakur, George Carlin is going to be around a lot longer even after he’s gone, especially when publishers, network suits, media assholes, and marketers find all the little funny notes he wrote on greeting cards or bathroom stalls which they will then repackage and sell to the American people who will line up to buy the definitive, collectors edition, Good Housekeeping approved George Carlin retrospective (All the same albums and books you already own, but it comes in a 12 cent cardboard box with a picture of George on the front).

Then there is his daughter, Kelly Carlin and any grandchildren she might have. All it takes is one creep or scumbag like me to marry, or be born, into that family and suddenly you’ll see George Carlin advertising products like salad dressing, Christian conservative Republican politicians, or amusement parks.

So, there’s no sense in getting sad that George Carlin is gone, because no one will learn anything from his best ideas and there will be another comedian along shortly who can do the same thing equally well, if not better. The best way to honor someone is to carry on their life’s work.

It’s been a while since I sat down and listened to George Carlin’s material, but that’s only because of these cursed rectal polyps.

I forgot how much I emulate his material… and by emulate, I mean steal wholesale.

In the spirit of stealing from George Carlin, I am going to continue that proud tradition even though the great comedian is no longer with us.

Starting with his corpse.

I know, his family will probably want cremate him and sprinkle his ashes in someplace meaningful, but my other comedian corpse is starting to stink and, aside from the giant penis, which I had preserved in formaldehyde, you can barely tell that it was once Milton Berle. I don’t want to do anything strange with George Carlin’s corpse. I just want to decorate my home with it, and eat his brains to absorb his comedy power.

Of course, I want to preserve George Carlin’s corpse with the utmost respect and decency it deserves, which is why I will put it on a rotating pedestal by my front door and attach a motion sensor to the base, so that anytime someone walks into my house, the former comedian will turn to them and say, courtesy of a speaker system and audio player I will install in his chest and mouth, the various catch phrases and jokes that made him famous like Yabba Dabba Doo!!!, Where’s the Beef?, and Sock it to me.

Okay, so maybe George Carlin didn’t change the world, and, just like the man said, it would arrogant to assume that any one human, or even all of us working together, ever could, but, when he left, he vacated a sizeable gap, like when a huge tree falls in the rain forest. Now it’s up to us lichens and parasites to suck the rest of the nutrients out of his legacy while there’s still time.

In another two years, you’ll see his computerized image selling toasters for Best Buy.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

A Place for My Stuff
by George Carlin

Monday, June 23, 2008

You say my kisses are not like his


Every day, when I come into work, there is always at least one dead bug sitting on my desk.

Right now, there are a few random wings and legs sitting on my mouse pad.

On one hand, I admire their tenacity; on the other hand, I’m tired of picking them off my keyboard.

It’s a terrible thing, what we’ve done to these bugs. They spent millions of years developing evolutionary mechanisms to guide their flight by slowly evolving millions of eyes and using them as navigational instruments to maintain course heading, velocity, pitch, and yaw; only to have some fucker named Edison come along and muck it all up with his damned electric light bulb.

I’m sure there’s plenty of time for these bugs to develop new organs to aid their flight, because they’ll probably be around long after we fade away, but, in the meantime, they’re stuck butting their heads into computer screens, porch lights, and glow-in-the-dark vibrators everywhere.

When it comes to changing biological engineering, it’s understandable that these things take thousands of years, or more, for more complex life forms, because it’s like trying to play Jenga with a living creature; you can’t just yank out one of the bricks, you have to pull it out slowly and hope that the whole thing doesn’t come crashing down.

So, I don’t get upset when I hear that human beings haven’t developed super powers, I can continue my toxic waste, radioactive spider bites, and over exposure to gamma radiation treatments and be patient at the same time; however, I do get more than a little peeved when people are slow to socially adapt to their changing environment.

Still, I am more than willing to give people the benefit of the doubt; after all, the world is a very different place now than it was when most of you old fogeys were still tearing it up and wearing your sock garters.

Even back in the 50s and 60s, when most of my peers’ parents were born, there were only two and a half billion people in the world, no one knew what a computer was, and doctors thought it was perfectly safe to give thalidomide to pregnant women.

My own phocomelia not withstanding, we now know a lot more about the world than our parents, and their parents ever could have hoped to know.

You cannot catch gay from sharing a glass of water with a hair dresser.

Politicians from Texas should not be in charge of anything they can’t properly pronounce such as nuclear bombs or toasters.

Your elder’s deserve respect only for as long as it takes for a court to find them non compos mentis.

As we forge ahead, the world will continue to change, and it’s up to us to shape the future for the mutated humans who will survive our nuclear war; therefore, it is imperative that we set aside our foolish notions of conservatism and embrace change for what it is… evolution.

Not all change will lead to a good place, as any of us can attest from the time we thought it would be a good idea to get our hair cut like a character we saw on a TV show, to buy something we saw advertised in an infomercial, or to get off the toilet a split second before the real diarrhea came; sometimes, a little caution does a body good, but when caution leads to stagnation, just like when a pretty mountain stream is dammed, a pleasant place to rest quickly turns into a big puddle of shit.

Recently, there has been a big furor over gay marriage due to the California Supreme Court’s ruling that a state law prohibiting homosexual unions violates the people’s right to basic dignity and human respect; activists on both sides of the issue have promised to fight on, no matter what the cost, or how much TV exposure they have to endure to promote their cause.

Not only is gay marriage an idea whose time has finally come, but the longer people fight to keep it from happening the more they look like the dead flies sitting on my keyboard every morning.

Sometimes it’s worth taking the time to slow down for a little introspection, but sometimes that giant light you’re flying towards is nothing more than a great, big bigot-trapping bug-zapper.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Blonde on Blonde
by Bob Dylan

Friday, June 20, 2008

I found me a whore who looks just like you


Every Christmas, I wonder how many of those mall Santa Clauses get erections while there are children on their laps.

It's not as though pedophiles are naturally drawn to jobs as mall Santa's (although, statistically, there's a lot more pedophile Santas than not, but research has consistently shown a lack of a causal relationship), but sometimes, especially when something unpleasant is squirming around in your lap, your penis wakes up and checks out the situation.

With younger children, it's not a problem, since their accustomed to being forced into uncomfortable situations all the time, but I bet you have to be careful with the older kids. An attractive seven-year-old has already had their local religious leader or friendly summer camp counselor proposition them enough to know a boner when they feel one poking their backside.

At times like those, there's nothing left to do but pray.

If you do get fired from your Santa gig, because you happened to get caught with your flag at half mast, then there's nothing more natural than the desire to punish those who trespassed against you.

This is exactly why we should resist our vengeful desires at every opportunity… or, at least, that's what I would say if I believed in resisting natural desires. Vengeance is a perfectly natural response for an irrational and emotional animal brain, just like masturbation and square dancing, and I love at least one of those things.

So why is it that the folks who are most likely to tout the benefits of one of those desires, i.e. vengeance, so likely to denounce the other, masturbation?

Of course, there are those times when there is no one upon whom we can take our revenge.

Sure, we can respond to a September 11th terrorist attack by blowing some underdeveloped country to smithereens, starving its people, and planting our flags in their moldering corpses, but when it comes to natural disasters, we can't exactly whip the Hellespont and hope it responds to our bridge building.

In the last few weeks there have been earthquakes and typhoons killing massive amounts of people in China and Myanmar, respectively. Given that an approximate 90% of the world believes in some sort of deity, then it makes sense that we should indulge our natural disaster vendettas by punishing the religious.

Just like when a chemical company has to pay the cleanup costs, when their toxic waste dump site leaks and poisons a town, the religious groups in a country should foot the bill when their deity unleashes a torrent of natural disasters.

It's only fair.

Of course, the only thing anyone would have to do to get out of such a commitment is renounce their god, but, if many of the women, to whom I've faked spirituality and tried to talk into threesomes, are a fair representation of their various faiths, people don't seem willing to do that, even for great rewards.

They would rather pray for strength.

In some cases, I can understand why people pray; in certain situations, your prayer odds are much better than the odds that you'll win the lottery or break the bank at a casino, and people keep gambling in droves; however, I am always surprised when people ask others to pray, particularly when it comes to debilitating illnesses.

I can understand if you keep your fingers crossed when there's a 50% chance of rain on picnic day, and keeping your fingers crossed is just another form of praying, but even if it does stay dry while you take your best girl out for a picnic and an illicit, park bathroom blowjob, your wishing it were true has no bearing on whether the moisture accumulated in a cloud exceeds its ability to retain said moisture.

At best, a prayer is nothing more than a wish and at worst, a deluded wish. Your desire for your cousin to survive pancreatic cancer does nothing to change the 3%, five-year survival rate anymore than my wish, that my penis was big enough to do some serious damage, makes my cock any bigger.

When it comes to the illness sufferer, I completely understand why they would wish, pray, or do anything they could to improve their chances, because people in desperate situations will do reckless things, which is why it's always a good idea to bone up on your Shakespeare and visit your local college campus just before exam time to see how many blowjobs you can weasel out of about to fail undergrads… but that's no excuse for the rest of us to buy into it.

There are conditions in this world that create probable situations, and once those conditions are met, we can calculate the statistical probability with which those situations will occur; so, unless you're praying that a pregnancy test turns up negative at the same time as you're rooting around your lovers uterus with a curette, your prayers do nothing to influence the probable outcome.

And if you feel something poking you in the backside while you're sitting on Santa's lap, just cut him a break.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash
by The Pogues

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

I am in the henhouse with a dozen eggs for sale


I have never had my own room.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I had my own room for two years from 1981-1983, but, since I lacked the ability to speak, climb out of my crib, or roll up a phatty, I couldn’t really appreciate it.

I also had my own room for two months in the summer of 2000, but my girlfriend lived in the next room and that put a real damper on any parties I wanted to have with ladies I found passed out at seedy bars.

For most of my life, I have had a roommate.

My brother and I shared a room until I was seventeen, I had roommates for the two years I lived in a university dormitory, my cousin and I shared a room in my first apartment, and then I got married.

Just once, I would like to masturbate without having to wait for another human being to fall asleep.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

There are all kinds of practical problems with masturbating in the same room as a sleeping person: you can’t listen to the sound on any pornography since that’s the kind of thing that usually wakes people and if you’re wearing headphones you won’t know if your sleeping roommate is awake.

On top of that, you’ve got to be careful to keep all your masturbatory accoutrements available, because there’s just as much, if not more, danger digging around your room with a slowly withering erection, and your hand cupped underneath your penis to keep semen from dripping on the floor, while looking for a box of tissues.

For the most part, I don’t envy women. Breasts seem like they would be horribly uncomfortable, you have to wipe every time you go to the bathroom, and everything with a penis is convinced that the reason you don’t like a particular sexual activity is that you haven’t tried it the way THEY do it; however, I do envy women for the ability to inconspicuously masturbate everywhere. So, it’s no problem for women to masturbate while their roommate is sleeping.

Unless you wake up and you see your female roommate with a fifteen-inch black dildo shoved up her ass, it is virtually impossible to distinguish female masturbation from plain old genital scratching. They don’t even have to take off their pants to do it and there’s no rapidly drying gelatinous mess for them to clean up afterwards.

It’s almost enough to make me want to be a woman.

Then again, nothing compares to the simple joy of sticking your penis in something.

Even women who don’t know what it’s like to have a penis have some idea just from the dopey smiles we men have on our faces when we get to do it. Unfortunately for women, it doesn’t really matter into what we’re sticking our penises to get that reaction.

Whether it’s a latex glove full of Vaseline, their best friend anus that one time they got really drunk while camping, or a greased up knothole in a tree, any lubricated opening will do the trick; and while some women might lie to you, saying it’s better, or more meaningful, when they’re penetrated by someone they love, under the right circumstances, any dick’ll do ya.

When it comes to genital stimulation, we are our only pleasure barriers.

Which is why I’m done waiting for roommates to fall asleep, if I feel like masturbating, I’m just going to masturbate; sure, it might make social engagements uncomfortable, but what else are you going to do at a long wedding service?

I know that there are some people out there who are too prude to appreciate this kind of logic, but I refuse to let my lack of privacy at home stand in the way of my auto-erotic satisfaction. This probably means that I’ll be banned from my local mall again, but this time I won’t feel ashamed by it.

My wife and I have already discussed it, as soon as we have enough money; we’re getting an apartment where we each have our own room.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Unknown Song
by Dan Bern

Monday, June 16, 2008

Microwave, or is that microwove


Difficult times call for great sacrifice.

Apparently, when my mother and father were children, they used to walk fifteen miles to school, in their bare feet and uphill… both ways. Times were different then. They didn’t have all the newfangled gadgets we have nowadays like cars and buses. With gas prices rising to all time highs, it might behoove us to make children walk to school again.

Sure, the world is a lot more dangerous these days than it was when my parents were children. After all, the US Department of Health and Human Services reported that the estimated number of substantiated sexually abused children is about 80,000 per year (in 2000, the last year for which I could find such data); therefore, since there are about 73 million children, under the age of 18, in the US, your kids have a 0.001% chance of being molested. While that is a truly frightening number, walking to school, while making children easier targets for sex predators, would diminish the number of overweight kids since they would be taken down first, and the rest would get plenty of exercise while running away.

If you’re not willing to give up something, then you may end up losing everything.

That’s why current US President George W Bush has given up playing golf to show his solidarity with the troops. The rationale is that it’s in poor taste for grieving mother’s and widows to see Georgie-boy out on the back 9 while they’re composting what remains of their husband, wife, son, or daughter, because they don’t have the money to pay for a proper funeral and benefits, for soldiers killed in action, have been reduced to the point that the military will only pay for a shovel set or a ride on their newest funerary innovation, the corpse-a-pult.

To show my own solidarity, I am going to give up supporting the troops until the Iraq War is over.

Like I said, difficult times call for difficult measures.

It’s not that I don’t like military personnel, most of the military people I’ve met, who didn’t try to beat me up for being a peace-loving, homo, faggot, were perfectly nice. It’s just that supporting the troops sends the wrong message to our fighting men and women overseas.

If we support the troops too much, then they’re going to think they can just stay overseas forever and invade any country they want. We have to play it hard to get, so that they want to come home and we don’t appear too needy. That’s what Doctor Phil recommends and you should always listen to bald, gay men.

I have also decided to give up making people laugh. I will still say funny and ridiculous things, but I will punctuate them with threats of physical violence against my audience.

Sacrifice is such a hard thing to make, since you usually have to acquire and assemble materials to make something, but making a sacrifice means giving up or disassembling something you built or possess. I prefer to eliminate the unnecessary verb and article and just sacrifice. I sacrifice. It’s a minor grammatical point, but speaking in two word sentences is an excellent way to say “Fuck you” to someone without having to insult them in front of their friends, family, coworkers, or children.

The thing about sacrifice is that the thing being forsworn has to mean something to the sacrificer. The folk tale of Abraham going up on the mountain to sacrifice his son means a lot because people tell me that it’s difficult to murder your children.

While it might seem like giving up golf does not mean anything, the people who criticize the President have to remember that he’s getting older by the second. Sure, he was a brash, young, go-getter when he took office, but George Bush Jr. is now 61-years-old, which means he has less than four years to perfect his game if he’s ever going to qualify for the Senior PGA tour. At this rate, the Iraq war could go on long enough that Bush has to give up his professional golfing dreams and settle for the millions of dollars he will receive in speaking and consulting fees after he steps down from the presidency. What is a soldier’s life compared to that?

So throw your stones if it will make you feel better about the behaviors you’ve sacrificed over the years, but you should actually throw those stones at yourself, because yes, while your wife may have asked you to stop killing prostitutes, and burying them in your basement, when you got married, no one made you do it.

No matter how much you think you’ve sacrificed, it still won’t measure up to the things George Bush gave up when he gave the order to invade Iraq.

Although, I hear that, what with the housing market the way it is, you can buy slightly used souls pretty cheap these days.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Unknown Song
by Dan Bern

Friday, June 13, 2008

God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son."


I’ve never liked to chew gum.

Gum has many similar properties to food, but it lacks the crucial, filling your belly aspect that I have come to know and love. Some people say that chewing gum keeps them from smoking cigarettes, eating, or engaging in intelligent conversation, but I don’t understand the purpose of eternally chewing something that, at best, starts out tasting like the mints your grandmother used to keep in a bowl on her coffee table, you know, the ones that harden into one gigantic peppermint ball during the summer; and ends up tasting the way you’d expect the rubber soles in your sneakers taste.

Even worse is the sound of people chewing gum. I’m a pretty thick skinned individual, but the sound of chewing gum, especially when chewed open mouthed, the way cows chew, makes me want to set things on fire.

I’m a man; I’m all about the primacy and immediacy of the orgasm. I want my actions to have a purpose. Chewing gum is like dating a eunuch.

That’s why I have such a hard time working out; not exercising, because that can be anything, but specifically, putting on a pair of old sweats, going to a gym, lifting weights, walking on a treadmill, or taking a spin class.

I can play a game for hours on end; on the rare occasion that I do go out with the football, baseball, or soccer ball, I want to keep playing long after most of the other competitors have hung up their hats, kicked off their cleats, or collapsed with heart failure; however, I can only run on a treadmill or lift weights for about twenty minutes before I’m bored as hell.

The difference is that game play requires a fair amount of cerebral activity to anticipate, react to, and counter an opponents actions, while working out is the physical equivalent of writing “I will not fingerbang the special needs girls while the teacher is getting loaded in the parking lot” five hundred times on the chalkboard.

I can’t go more than five minutes without some kind of mental stimulation; I always hated driving, because it requires you to focus all your attention on the road. If I could read a book while driving, there would be no problem and, in this regard, books on tape help quite a bit, but there’s only so many times that I can listen to ‘Hop on Pop’ or ‘Listening to Audio Books for Dummies’ before my mind starts to wander.

Of course, there is the health aspect to working out. A lot of people are concerned with their health, and go to the gym to keep from bloating into hairy, amorphous blobs, but is your health that important that you would pay good money to do things you could otherwise do for free.

There’s no reason why the simple actions of walking, riding a bicycle, and lifting heavy objects require mass produced metal, circuit boards, or electric power.

Sure, it is unpleasant to go for a walk when it’s cold, or raining, outside, but is it any worse than voluntarily transporting yourself to the human equivalent of the spinning wheels we put in hamster cages?

As far as weights are concerned, there are all kinds of heavy things lying around just waiting to be picked up. If you want to bulk up, save your money and get a job working at your local long distance shipping warehouse. There is never a shortage of heavy objects that need moving, and, if you’re smart, you’ll get someone to pay you to do it, instead of using your money, that could be spent on important things like booze, cigarettes, and drugs.

Besides, why are we spending all this time working out, when we are cheating our bodies out of the evolutionary advantages gained by chronic morbid obesity, ludicrously high cholesterol, and rampant, rampant cancer.

The more we try to keep ourselves healthy, the less likely we are to contract disease, so that our immune systems cannot develop the necessary adaptations that facilitate our sedentary lifestyle. If we let ourselves bloat up, our offspring will have stronger hearts, capable of supporting our corpulent mass. If we keep trying to prevent cancer, we won’t develop the immunities to our modern, polluted and irradiated world that enabled humanity to survive in the plague and rat infested waste that existed for most of human history.

No matter how much weight you lose working out at a gym, no matter how much you bulk up your muscles, flatten your tummy, or blast your quads; there’s no amount of exercise that can fix socially awkward and ugly.

If you don’t believe me, then just take a look at the picture at the top of this page.

And God help you if you’re chewing gum.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Highway 61 Revisited
by Bob Dylan

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

I opened my eyes when you were kissing me


You can’t make someone like you.

Sure, you can buy them presents, compliment the hell out of them, treat them like dirt, and call them four thousand times a minute, but you can’t make someone like you.

I’m not dispensing any hidden wisdom, or new aphorisms for the ages, this material has all been covered ad nauseum by fiction writers throughout the ages, from Jove coming to Leda as a swan to Pamela Anderson, agreeing to let Tommy Lee film their fucking only because he promised that ‘no one will ever see this;’ and yet, there are still millions of people in this world, right now, doing their best to make other people like them.

One of the saddest realities is that the harder you try to make someone like you, the less they will.

All of us have had a sad, unpleasant person, doing their best to ingratiate themselves into our lives, only to meet rejection, disinterest, or outright hostility; all because some aspect of their personality made us instantly dislike them.

Personally, I never turn down an offer, when someone wants me to be their friend or lover, I jump at the chance, no matter how idiotic, homely, or herpes infested they are, because, unlike many of you who refuse to eat out of the garbage, insist that it’s proper to shower, and look down on people who use their hands instead of toilet paper, I have low standards.

The world does not exist to please you.

Our senses are tricky things; unlike our imaginations and memories, we can’t control what we see, hear, touch, smell, or taste; however, not all senses are equal. I have much more control over what I touch and taste than what I see, hear, or smell. A passing motorist might have Leo Sayer pumping out of their car’s windows and my ears have no alternative but to receive that sensory input, but I’ll be damned if I’m about to stick a syphilitic, menstruating hooker’s only, never-washed, pair of panties in my mouth… again.

In my memory, sure, I’ve blocked out the incident where a one-legged prostitute held me down, took my money, and made me eat her dirty underwear, but, at the time, there was nothing I could do to keep that rancid, cotton and rusty coin taste out of my mouth.

Censors have done their best to control input of unmonitored sensory receptors by putting restrictions, both legal and social, on audio/visual/odiferous output. There is no blood in violent television and films because seeing the consequences of violence might make people question the logic of allowing citizens to own as many guns as they can afford. There are no breasts, penises, or vaginas on TV because that would make children grow up thinking there’s nothing inherently wrong, or shameful, with other people seeing their genitals. We are forced to silence our farts in elevators, concert halls, and our offices so that someone else can smelt it, and, by constitutional law, be said to have dealt it.

Unfortunately, there are no restrictions, no ratings system, for tastes and touches.

I know, technically there is a rating system for “touching” in that I won’t be allowed back at Disney World if I keep doing what I do to people when I stand in crowded lines, but that’s not the kind of touching I’m talking about.

If seeing naked people leads to social decay, then were is the moral majority demanding that the government cover our bodies in thin layers of rubber or Teflon, to prevent impure tactile titillation from doing the same.

Censorship of any kind sends the message that we, as human beings, have an understanding so limited that we immediately want to do anything we see or hear, which is exactly why I’ve been working on a pair of anti-gravity boots ever since I heard the seminal 80s pop song ‘Dancing on the Ceiling.’

Sure there are some things that are fun to try once we’ve seen, heard or read about them, but we also have the necessary intelligence to figure out that while you might like to try sharing your girlfriend with seven or twelve of your closest friends, like you saw in ‘A Dozen Black Dicks for One Little White Chick’ it’s probably a bad idea to plug a USB cable into the back of your head, connect it to your computer, and assume you know kung fu.

It’s no wonder that the biggest proponents of censorship, a group that believes we go to a magical land of gumdrops and stinkless farts after we die, also does its best to eliminate the one tool that makes censorship unnecessary… a quality education.

We could also use a wax coating inside our mouths so that, like myself, a young man doesn’t one day suck on a fistful of old pennies and then get the hankering for some illicit, menstrual sex worker sex.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Extraordinary Machine
by Fiona Apple

Monday, June 9, 2008

Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain


As far as abstinence only education is concerned, there’s no more intimate way for two people to express their love for one another than to rub their genitals together.

Something about exchanging bodily fluids makes the hole-act more meaningful.

For whatever reason, abstinence only education book publishers were not receptive to my suggestion that similar bodily fluid exchange; for example, when two crying people rub their teary eyes together (since, according to Senator Bill Frist, M.D. this activity can transmit HIV), mash their boogers into a ball and then eat them ‘Lady and the Tramp’ style, or sweat into each other’s mouths.

They seem to think that intimacy is only possible when procreation is a possibility.

Sure, all your happy humping can create another human being, but that’s only if you’re not careful and you don’t have good aim with a wire hanger.

I fail to see how sexual intercourse is the best way to get intimate with someone; in fact, one of the best ways to shut someone up is to put your genitals in their mouth or give them a good rogering. For those men who don’t already know, a woman’s disposition declines dramatically in relation to the last time she had an orgasm. Most of the time, even if someone is not giving it to them regular, they can put up with us because they have the enviable ability to inconspicuously masturbate wherever and whenever they want, but, if something interrupts their auto-erotic dailies, then it would be best to stay out of their way. So the next time you piss off your wife, or girlfriend, just fuck her until she forgives you… that’s relationship advice domestic abusers, drunks, and drug addicts have exploited for years.

Even if you’re deeply in love with someone, that doesn’t mean every sexual encounter you have will be intimate; sometimes you just want to finish quickly so you can get to sleep, make it to work, or cum before the commercials are over.

You can make a deep, physical and emotional connection with another human being when your genitals are simultaneously stimulated, but it’s not guaranteed.

At best, abstinence only education is like a girl who thinks that sleeping with her boyfriend will make him love her back, or a man who thinks that he owns a woman just because she didn’t stop him from putting his penis inside her while she was sleeping.

Intimacy can even be faked. When my wealthy grandmother was lying in a hospital bed, dying from necrotizing fasciitis, I kept a concerned look on my face by trying to count to a million using only prime numbers. My cousin got his hands on her will and changed it before I did, so it didn’t do me any good in the long run, but, even as I held the pillow over her mouth and nose, she probably had no idea what I was really thinking.

As any frat boy who has struck out spending five hundred dollars on dinner, a Broadway show, and dancing before resorting to Rohypnol can tell you; no one knows when or where an intimate moment will occur.

The only thing we know for sure is that forcing intimacy does not work, and often leads to bad press or a prison sentence.

So if waiting until marriage does not magically create intimacy, then teaching abstinence only sex education to a group of people with raging hormones and poor impulse control is a lot like passing out guns to soldiers and cops then telling them their primary goal is to keep the peace; the only difference is that you can take away the guns when things get too violent, but, as every husband who spends three to five days of every month sleeping in a bar, hormones are a wave that one must ride until it’s over.

Intimacy is created any time two, or more, people find themselves inextricably linked by circumstances beyond their control, and you can no more teach people the best way to achieve it than you can explain the reasons why any two people fall in love.

The one thing, of which you can be sure, is that dogmatically sticking to one particular philosophy, especially at an early age, will do more to restrict the number of people with whom you will be truly intimate in your life.

In short, parents push their kids into piano lessons, little league, and ballet, but balk when it comes to the only activity where no one makes you wear a stupid uniform or perform in front of heckling strangers.

I know that those of you with children don’t want to think about the various genitals your children will rub against in their lives, but if you spend your time teaching them that abstaining until marriage is the best way to achieve intimacy, then they’ll grow up not knowing any better than to listen to a guy like me.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Born to Run
by Bruce Springsteen

Introduction



For those of you who are unfamiliar with me, I am an amateur writer, cartoonist, film maker, animator, singer/songwriter even though I am mediocre at all of those things.

This is but one of several places where you can find the Sex Mahoney blog on the internet; although, they all have the same material and none of it is worth wasting your time on anyway.

You can find new blogs here three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

I hope you enjoy them.

Sex Mahoney for President

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