Thursday, August 28, 2008
This is a piece for the Sex Blog Thursday Group.
I’m not a promiscuous person.
Not that there’s anything wrong with promiscuity, if people want to engage in sexual activity with a high number, and wide variety, of folks, then that’s their business and has absolutely nothing to do with me, no matter who, what, or how they want to stick what when and where.
I strictly limit myself to fucking only those people who want to have sex with me. If there’s no one around who wants that particular job, I have no problem having sex with myself; I’m not one of those people who goes around forcing his penis down everyone’s throat whether it’s been requested or not, or, as they’re called in the parlance of our times, Evangelical Christians. Those people are promiscuous. I’m just an opportunist.
For any women who are reading this and wondering how only sleeping with the people who want to sleep with me is in any way discerning or discriminating, you should know that, as men, very few women will try to sleep with us over the course of our lives, maybe a few dozen at most; unlike women, whom are constantly hounded by everything with a penis including several breeds of small dog and more than a few of their drunken uncles.
Of course, this doesn’t count if you’re wealthy or famous; if that’s the case, then you may as well be a woman for the number of people who try to fuck you.
My selectivity can lead to some problems. Namely, in that there are times when it’s best not to put your penis into everyone who requests that you do; I learned that lesson the first time my second grade teacher, in a moment of desperation, after realizing that she accidentally forgot to take a whole month’s worth of birth control pills and was now most likely infected with the kind of parasite that a state agency paid her to teach, whispered, “Fuck me” while she stood near my desk; or when you’re otherwise monogamistically linked to a person that doesn’t share your views on the harmlessness of having sex with their close friends and relatives.
I’ve only ever successfully turned down sex once and I’ve cheated on every woman with whom I’ve ever been romantically involved. When you add that to my disdain for personal hygiene, extensive porn collection, and love of all things anal, you can see why most women don’t often ask me to have sex with them; however, it does happen from time to time, and I have only ever once said “No.”
Well, that’s not true, I said no twice, technically, but I only ever really meant it once and the other time I was just posturing because I was too young, idealistic, and stupid to do what I would regret doing had I done it, but probably should have done at the time. I suppose that’s what you get for having principles.
The first time I turned a girl down for sex, she was drunk, I was sober, and that didn’t seem fair. You can talk drunken people into doing all kinds of things that they wouldn’t ordinarily do, including degrading things such as having sex with someone like me.
The other time I turned someone down for sex, it turned out that she was a virgin and I was the first boy she ever kissed. Not wanting that kind of pressure, I gracefully bowed out and let someone else spoil that poor girl. I may be a monster, but I prefer to keep my monsterism to the already ruined.
So, short of discovering that an orifice was filled with razor sharp teeth, or pus oozing sores, there’s not much, as various small animals, pool filters, and microwave heated jars of peanut butter can attest, that would dissuade me from putting my penis into a warm, wet place, which is nice if you’re the kind of person who wants to have sex with me, but not so nice if you’re the kind of person that doesn’t want me to have sex with anyone else; namely, my wife, or various sixteen year old girls’ parents.
Unfortunately, once I’m having sex, I’m almost always disappointed. I grew up in a home where sex and sexual imagery was only acceptable when there was laughter to be had; for example, if one of my parents, on the first day of high school, were to show up and loudly ask, in front of my peers, if I could explain the box of Kleenex, bottle of hand lotion, and thousands of rock hard tissues they found underneath my bed; the rest of the time, my pornography was routinely confiscated and I was not allowed to have girls in my room without the door staying open; therefore, I never remember anything about sex because I tend to lose interest in it before long thereby making it a regularly disappointing experience (although, probably less disappointing for me than it is for any of the other participants).
I do, however, remember all the horrible things that have happened while having sex: a girl mistaking my penis for a finger, my partner vomiting en flagrante delicto, my grandmother’s coffin, behind which I was hiding, choosing the exact moment of my climax to tip over.
There’s nothing important about sex and there’s nothing particularly special about it, which is why I no more remember each sexual encounter than I do every handshake… well, that’s not entirely true either, because I don’t have to cover my hands in latex before introducing myself to someone… anymore.
Human beings, like most other animals, know that fucking feels good, but, unlike our primitive cousins, we possess the consciousness and understanding necessary for engaging in the kinds of sex about which zebras can only dream; unfortunately, we spoil that by inventing imaginary deities with rules about who, how, why, when, and where we can fuck when really there’s no reason why two, or more, consenting adults, upon realizing that they have five to ten minutes to kill while waiting for a bus, dinner, movie, taxi, school bell, or police response, shouldn’t just strip off their clothes and start fucking wherever, however, and whyever they so please.
If people relaxed about that sort of thing, then the world would probably be exactly the same as it is now, because human beings can’t ever leave well enough alone and enjoy a fun aspect of their existence, but at least we’d all get laid a little more.
Just try not to be promiscuous.
Sex Mahoney for President
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Monday, August 18, 2008
Well, folks. I decided to take this week off from blogging.
Instead, I'm going to host the...
The contest is simple.
I'm going to post a numbered list of one hundred quotes from various movies and television shows.
In the comments, you have to write down the number of the quote you're guessing, the name (or names) of the person (or people) who said the quote, and the show in which it was said.
The first person to correctly identify a quote gets a point, and the quote is then closed to any other entrant.
1. "Well, kiss my grits."
2. "You bet your sweet bippy."
3. "Autobots, transform and roll out."
1. Alice, Alice
2. Mr. Belvedere, Rowan and Martin's Laugh In
3. Optimus Prime, Transformers
1. Alice, Alice
2. Richard Nixon, Roman and Martini's Laugharium
3. Abraham Licoln, Gettysburgh Address
The person in Sample Answer 1 would get two points, one for correctly identifying the quote from Alice and one for correctly identifying the quote from Transformers, while the person from Sample Answer 2 would not receive any points since that quote was already identified, and I would send someone to their house to beat their children with socks full of batteries for thinking Abraham Lincoln was the leader of the Autobots.
The contest winners will receive:
FOURTH PRIZE: A complete set of Golden Girls pogs, or $750 worth of peanut brittle.
THIRD PRIZE: A personalized recording for your voicemail or answering machine.
SECOND PRIZE: A free CD from up and coming underground artists Megan Callahan and Acoustic Boomerang.
FIRST PRIZE: I will personally animate the winner into my next cartoon as one of the main characters.
If you have any questions, please either leave them in the comments section here, or send me a message. I'd be happy to help in any way that I can.
The list will go online tomorrow, August 19th, at about 7AM EST. The contest will remain open for one week, until August 26th, or until all of the quotes are identified, whichever comes first.
Tell your friends.
Sex Mahoney for President
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
There is an automatic stapler attached to the copy machine in my office.
The other day, I went to use the stapler, and someone stopped me; they told me it was broken.
In about ten minutes, I figured out how to fix the stapler: it took one minute to open the thing, five seconds to see that the only thing broken about it was that there were no staples loaded, and eight minutes and fifty five to ask someone where they keep the staples for the automatic stapler.
When it was all over, my boss was very impressed. He has been upset that the stapler has been broken for the last week as there are many things he wished to staple.
I don’t know that I really wanted to share this story, or just see how many times I could write stapler, or some variant, in four sentences.
I understand that, in our technologically advanced age, we are surrounded by a bevy of machines, the inner workings of which baffle us at every turn, but when something as simple as a stapler being out of staples keeps the office staplists from stapling the documents they need to staple, then things have gone a little too far.
Right now, many of your are sitting at home reading this piece on a machine that you know little to nothing about; you trust your, and your family’s, safety to a giant motorized vehicle whose engines run on some kind of liquid you barely understand, but for which are willing to pay through the teeth; and magic switches activate the lights in your homes.
For all our toys, very few of us have any idea how any of these things work.
Sure, even I would like to say that I am handy when it comes to home electrical and small appliance repair, but for every one thing I can fix, there’s several thousand that I can’t, and several million I’ve broken while trying.
For the most part, I, and most of you, live in a world of technological mystery and wonder.
Except when it comes to my computer.
I use a computer to do all my writing, entertaining, video processing, masturbating, and animating; so, it would be extremely negligent to rely on the computer fairies keeping my machine running while asking it to do so much. It wouldn’t be fair to the computer.
A key sign that you’re in an abusive relationship is when one partner does all the taking and none of the giving.
Are you in an abusive relationship with your computer? After coming home from a hard day at work and finding your internet connection sluggish at best, are you apt to slap the poor thing instead of listening to it talk about its day? How many times has your computer gone out for repairs and told a technician that it ‘fell down the stairs?’
A computer requires careful attention, the kind you would ordinarily reserve for only the finest prostitutes. Even if you bought your PC on the cheap, there’s a good chance that you spend a moderate to large amount of time taking advantage of the fun and joy that is computing in the 21st century; therefore, while your computer may not have cost much, it’s much more valuable than you think.
If you have a computer, you don’t need a television, or a cable hookup, since you can download anything that’s broadcast on TV; they even have a pay download service if you’re one of those pussies who don’t want to steal intellectual property.
If you have a computer, you don’t need a spouse, since pornography will satisfy your sexual urges. Financial management and voice recognition software will balance your checkbook and talk to you; plus, you can network your computer to your kitchen appliances and program them to bake various pies while you’re at work.
The sheer number of possibilities opened up by PC ownership removes most of the imaginative and practical limits to our short, pointless realities; plus, it makes our deaths so much more meaningful because, instead of waiting for worms to eat your corpse and shit you back into the circle of life, the next user can plug right into your death chair, format your hard drive, and pick up where you left off.
Sure, I might be stepping over the line here in equating your PC or (shudder) MAC to your sister who has a penchant for shacking up with quick to anger guys named Jimbo, but when you treat complex objects like simple tools, make no effort to understand them, and abuse the hell out of the trust they put in you; you’re not much better than a domestic abuser.
So get to know your PC, open it up and see what makes it tick, push it to the limits of its capabilities to see what you can do together, stick your penis in its 5 and 3/4 inch drive bay and coat its motherboard with all the man juice you can muster.
And make sure that there are staplers in the automatic stapler before you call the automatic stapler repairman.
Sex Mahoney for President
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Monday, August 11, 2008
If you’re drunk, and you have to pee, how close to the bathroom should you be before you take off your pants and urinate?
The way bars sometimes are, what with drunken lollygaggers standing about, and music playing too loud to lugubriously communicate, dropping your pants before you get to the bathroom seems like a perfectly natural and clear signal to the other patrons that it’s in their best interest to get out of your way.
The one thing I would recommend you never do is take children to a bar; those little bastards can’t hold their liquor and they rarely make it to the toilet when it’s puking time. Plus, adults are smart enough to keep their opinions to themselves so they rarely complain about the foul tasting poison, aka “girl” rum, that marketing companies have convinced the general public make for tasty beverages, but children, especially the eight and under crowd, mewl and wine the second you and a buddy hold one down and start funneling grain alcohol down their throat.
Don’t ask me what it is about bars that people love so much; if it’s the liquor, I can get drunk faster and cheaper by drinking mouthwash in my hall closet, or, as I like to call it, the Wednesday morning ritual. If it’s the socializing, then why not join some kind of club or have a good, old fashioned gang bang.
I imagine it has something to do with the crowds; for whatever reason, people like crowds.
It’s true, and you can test this theory. Call up a few friends and stand around in a closed circle, eventually, more people will pile in behind you and ask you at what you’re staring. Soon, there’ll be a mob so thick that the people in the back won’t even be able to see you, but they’ll stand with the crowd anyway just because they don’t know what else to do. The police will break it up, especially if you’re doing this in a mall or some similar public-private place, and everyone there will wonder why our eventual alien overlords will treat us the way we treat cows, sheep, and the several diverse kinds of edible monkey.
People love crowds.
Everybody knows the best time to go to the beach is not in the height of summer, when everybody and their mother takes their flabby selves out to where dirt meets water, but in the middle of winter; just like you don’t jump in a gang bang when everybody’s still fresh and squirming around, you wait until everyone has had their turn before you get in there and do your business.
Sure, it’s a little soggy, but it’s still good.
I can’t stand crowds or crowded places. Other people not only increase the temperature of any crowded area into which they pack themselves, but there’s a good chance that, if so many people are interested in doing an activity, it’s probably a pretty stupid thing to do; for example, people who stand online outside a retailer to buy a new movie, book, piece of software, video game console, etc. when they could get it hassle free, and usually for a lower price, a few weeks later.
I understand that everyone is anxious to be first, and no one likes to wait, but there are plenty of other things to do in the meantime.
What about swindling the elderly? Instead of wasting your time in a line to get the next Xbox, why not scam old folks out of their retirement money? Or why not ruin weddings? Just go around from church to church and spoil people’s special days by insinuating that you slept with the bride or groom or both.
I understand that not everyone can be an individual, and that being an individual is not the same thing as being useful, but you’d think that for a species that prides itself on freedom of choice, rational thinking, and individuality, we’d be able to think of something to do where we don’t have to stand shoulder to shoulder and front to back with the world’s sweatiest, stinkiest, fattest, and pointiest families just to ride a roller coaster, see a movie, or have a fucking drink.
We’re social animals, I get it. Apart from watching people fuck, most of the time wasted on the internet is spent communicating with other hairless apes around the globe. We need human contact to keep us from going completely bat-shit crazy and doing something stupid like shaving our elbows or believing Fox News; however, there comes a point when we have to look at a throbbing herd of people and say “Enough is enough.”
They use electric shock prods to get cows into high density feed lots, but people are willing to pay out the ass to stand in a seven hour line for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World.
The older I get, the less comfortable I feel around all the rest of you. It seems ridiculous to walk around in these clothes, or trade metal and paper with one another in exchange for food, drugs, and sexual favors. There has to be a better way to spend our time than standing in a room full of strangers, drinking ethyl alcohol, playing darts, and listening to the same three songs over and over and over again.
The least they could do is let people pee everywhere. Just put a drain in the middle of the bar and slant the floor downwards. I’d feel much better about paying six dollars a bottle for a Corona if I knew that everyone was standing in a puddle of my urine.
Sex Mahoney for President
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by Lemon Demon
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