Monday, September 29, 2008

I have not showered in 36 days


Korean people don’t flush their toilet paper.

Each toilet has a small garbage can next to it, into which people throw their shit stained toilet tissue after wiping their asses.

Women’s bathrooms also have piss stained toilet paper in their trash cans… I think, I don’t know because I’ve never been in a women’s bathroom in Korea.

Or course, this is all moot, because 90% of the public toilets in Korea don’t have any toilet paper in the stalls; if you’re lucky enough to find an attendant and ask them about toilet paper, they usually laugh at you and then go back to whatever it is they were doing before you bothered them with your ridiculous question.

Still, there are public toilets everywhere. I have never had trouble finding a public toilet anywhere in Korea. As long as you’re willing to forgo toilet paper, this place is a bathroom paradise.

It makes me wonder if we even need toilet paper at all.

I know you ladies use toilet paper to dry off your vaginas after a good pee, but isn’t that why we wear underwear. No amount of shaking and drying can keep the last few drops from winding up in your pants, but that’s okay because urine is sterile and human urine contains a powerful pheromone that produces a strong, and immediate, reaction in other humans of the opposite sex; If you don’t believe me, then just carry a small cup full of your urine around and watch what happens when you throw it on the female of your dreams.

Toilet paper engenders an inefficient waste management system since, in countries where the toilet paper gets flushed, waste water treatment costs go up in relation to how much tissue needs removing and, in countries where the toilet paper goes in the garbage, there are, at any time, large trucks driving around with bags of shit paper. It’s bad enough that parents buy disposable diapers and leave them for their friendly neighborhood sanitation associate to haul away, but to make every garbage bag a potential typhus epidemic is too much.

It’s about time that we worked out a real solution to this problem, and, as always, the solution is simple cost management.

Toilet paper is too expensive. People have to keep buying more and more of it, plus, the stuff is hardly reusable. During a particularly virulent environmentally conscious period, I tried to stretch my household budget by wiping with both the front and back of the paper, but the flimsy stuff fell apart after the fifth or sixth use.

Similarly, if we wiped with an article of clothing, or our hands, we’d lose whatever savings he earned, by getting rid of toilet paper because we would constantly need to wash the shit off our hands.

So, in the interest of saving everyone some time, money, and discomfort, I recommend that we start wiping our vaginas and asses with junk mail. Take those credit card offers, Val-Pak coupons, and Sears Catalogues and treat your rectum to the soothing feel of glossy paper. The best part about it is that, once you’re done, you can put it right back in the envelope… return to sender.

The sheer amount of junk mail a family receives is enough to keep the family wiping for decades to come; besides, if companies are going to send several pounds of unsolicited advertising to your door on a daily basis, then there’s no need to waste money buying expensive TP.

Okay, so maybe you and your family have gastrointestinal problems, or maybe you just can’t stop frying your bacon in lard, and you think that your junk mail won’t be enough to cover you for the year. Don’t worry; the new yellow pages will be here soon enough.

Once you’re done wiping your way from Aaronson’s Aardvark Repair to Zena’s Zither and Zincography Emporium, there is plenty more useless paper sitting around your house that would better serve to collect feces than it does being read.

The bible makes for excellent wiping. Not only are the pages soft, absorbent, and spiritual, but you can keep them in a box by the door for the next time that a Christian proselytizer comes to the door to pick up your poopy scripture and drop off a new one. The only downside is that they usually want to talk, so you’ve got to quickly grab their holy book, thrust the shit stained pages at them, and close the door before they get started, because, once they do, you’re in for a four hour treatise on “Jesus this” and “Stop stabbing me” that.

Next, plow through your coffee table books. Start with the ones you received as gifts from spiteful relatives such as Lighthouses of Iowa, Hitler’s Guide to Hospitality, and Siberian Winterscapes and gradually work your way through to ones that are just picture after picture of naked babies.

Not only will you save money, but, in the long run, you’ll clear all manner of useless shit out of your house.

Don’t forget to flush.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Unreleased tracks
by Lemon Demon

Friday, September 26, 2008

Blindly falling faster


I’m always conflicted when I come across two people having sex in public.

On the one hand, I think it’s hot that two people care about each other so much that they’re willing to throw down where any passerby can see them and, on the other, I feel bad for taking so many pictures and masturbating while they’re trying to share a tender moment.

Of course, public fuckers can’t get mad for drawing a crowd, because part of having sex in public is the implied consent to watch what they’re doing. With the exception of teenagers and the homeless, who often have no other place to fuck, most adults have at least a car or apartment to which they can take their carnal pastimes. Even if you’re one of those unfortunate people who have neither, there are always mostly empty dumpsters, public toilets, and the roof of your local Wal-Mart.

If someone stumbles upon you plowing your wife, girlfriend, or wife’s girlfriend, in public, then you can, by all logic, run away in embarrassment, but certainly you shouldn’t get mad, or violent, at the person who caught you.

So, I was nursing a black eye the other night when I started to think about why people would have sex in public even if they didn’t want anyone to watch them fucking. I’m still drawing a blank, but it might be that only one of the people involved wanted to publically fuck and they convinced the other person to do it because the other person is head over heels in love, hard up for sex, or deluding themselves into thinking that giving in to their partner’s crazy sexual fantasies will make that person forget their earlier statement that they weren’t looking for a relationship but an understanding genitalia set.

Passion gets people to do crazy things which they would otherwise never try.

All too often, people discover one or two things they like, or that society tells them they should like, and they settle into a decent rut, sucking all the pleasure out of that particular practice until it loses all its original flavor and, suddenly, something that should be fun, like masturbating with your off-hand, becomes as mundane and pedestrian as whipping it out on a crowded subway.

You can’t be afraid to try something new. If it wasn’t for experimentation, you would never have discovered the pleasant musk in your grandmother’s recently worn underpants, or whatever sexual perversion you practice and, for which, you should be judged and castigated by your friends and bridge partners.

The easiest way to convince someone to broaden their horizons is to put them into a situation where they’re suddenly out of their league; that is why all attractive men and women should sacrifice their own personal happiness and contribute to the greater good by coupling with society’s most homely and troglodytic castaways, which is what I tell hotties when I’m convincing them to slum it with me for a while.

I know there are a lot of folks out there with hang-ups, but you don’t learn except by trying and there’s nothing worse than missing out on a whole lot of fun just because you don’t think you’ll like something.

Most of the time, if you don’t think you’ll like a particular activity, then, when you experience it, you probably won’t, because our expectations do as much to flavor our experiences as the experience itself. When we expect too much, then nothing will whet our appetites, no matter what it delivers, and if we close ourselves off from pleasure by anticipating a bad time, then that’s exactly what you’re going to get; that’s why it was so disappointing to see Meg Ryan get naked in the movie In the Cut because it had been built up for so long that her once nubile body couldn’t suffice and why you didn’t like human feces the first time you ate it because you expected that it would taste bad.

Fecal consumption and Jane Campion films aside, it shouldn’t take a human being with whom we are so enamored, or deluded, to open up our minds to new experiences, but that’s part of the human condition. Most of us have such a hard time finding our way around in the dark that only another human being can tell us that we have our eyes closed. There are people in our lives who, for one reason or another, act as catalysts for our self-awareness’s expansion and it is from our interaction with these teachers that folks get ridiculous hooey like soul mates and true love.

The truth is that a good number of us use these inamorati as excuses to explore areas of our sexuality, or personality, in which we fear to tread, the same way that many of us won’t go to a bar unless we can convince a friend to lend their company, even though drinking alone in a bar is much more fun than most recovering alcoholics admit.

The trick is in letting go of any and all inhibitions. Now, when I say this, most people assume that I’m talking about things that feel good like anal sex and stealing other people’s newspapers, but you shouldn’t be afraid to try things that are intentionally harmful like eating thirty, or more, White Castle hamburgers in one sitting or trying to fit your balls into someone else’s asshole.

Most of all, we have to stop assuming that sexual contact with a person of your sex is homosexual. You can’t fault with this women because they are more open to this kind of thing as evidenced by 78% of the myspace profile pictures in which a teenaged or twenty-something girl kisses, fondles or fingers one of her BFFs; but guys, you have to stop getting so offended when another man has sex with you. Wanting to exclusively couple with members of your sex makes you gay; letting another man put his tongue in your mouth is just a fun way to share bacteria and mouth sores.

Enjoy these teachers when they come along, these people who are kind enough to push our boundaries by being so desirable that it’s much easier to talk us into experimentation. Think of them like Boy Scouts helping little old ladies cross the street, where your conservative and frightened thinking is what keeps you stranded on the curb until a strapping young Boy Scout comes along to help you to the other side. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that analogy unless you’re a grandmother who gets sexually aroused by little boys in neckerchiefs.

That’s right, letting your partner convince you to fuck in public is like helping an old lady cross the street; the only difference being that I have no desire to watch old women cross streets, unless they’re wearing skirts and directly pass over the sewer grating, air condition vent, or shrubbery under which I’m hiding with my camera.

Think about that the next time you want to get freaky in the library.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:


by Guster

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I'm at a loss, you were my tangerine, my pussycat, my trampoline


When I was a child, I always felt an atmospheric change when walking into a church.

It wasn’t until much later, when I was in high school or university, and started befriending hippies that I understood why.

The darkened windows, the constant stench of incense, the droning music, and well intentioned people with impractical ideas, are all the kinds of things you encounter in a hippie drug den.

To date, I still don’t know which of the two is more annoying.

On the one hand, the hippie philosophy is less antiquated than religion’s; plus, religion has a lot more people and, unlike the hippies, worshippers are generally less cannabis sedated and more likely to get angry when you laugh at their funny dress, crappy music, and ludicrous beliefs. On the other hand, hippies go on and on about the global conspiracies to keep Ralph Nader from being elected president of the United States and you have to shave through three layers of pubic undergrowth just to see if you’re about to sleep with one of their men or women.

Either way, they’re both groups that derive their self-esteem from identifying with an external group rather than recognizing whatever internal qualities might make them worthwhile members of the human race.

Just like most wives who take their husband’s name after marriage.

There is a lot about modernity that most likely sins against nature, but I’m perfectly willing to accept rapid species extinction and rising global temperatures for internet access and pornography because change is usually a good thing when compared to stagnation. If you don’t believe me, then just leave an uncapped bottle of water sitting in your backyard and tell me how it tastes after a few days.

For all the progress that we humans have made, there are a dedicated few of us who love clinging to our anachronistic traditions, and so, in this 21st century of the Common Era, there are still women who change their name after their nuptials.

A woman who gives up her last name is quietly assenting to the tradition that, upon wedding, she is now property of her husband, who has gone so far as to rename her in his own image, and belongs to that man. I’m amazed that so many conservative Christian groups still condone this practice, considering that a woman who changes her to preserve the sanctity of marriage is giving a big fuck you to her previous family who was good enough to give her a last name that seemed to work perfectly fine before a penis with a ring came along. That hardly seems like family values.

If women are going to change their names when they get married, then why stop at the last name? Since they have to get all new documents (i.e. passport, driver’s license, social security and credit cards, etc) then a wedding is a perfectly good excuse to go with an entirely new name that is some combination of their new husband’s last name and whatever they’ve always wanted their name to be.

Now, I know there are a lot of people out there who are sticklers for tradition, but most of the other wedding traditions are ignored these days and no one seems to mind. When is the last time you saw someone wearing a white wedding dress who hadn’t known a premarital dick or seven in her time? Considering that most women no longer lose their virginity to the man, or woman, they marry, wouldn’t it make much more sense if they shed their maiden name the first time they took a dick?

I have laid it on the ladies pretty thick up to this point, but that in no way excuses the kind of men who would get offended if their wife didn’t take their last name upon exchanging rings. Fellow penis-possessors, this is not an issue on which we should take any stand. What a woman names herself is her own business, and, for those of you who have never been married before, putting your foot down about anything will eventually come back to bite you in the ass.

A marriage works similar to a primitive economy, in that you must barter for all goods and services; any concessions your partner gives you must eventually be evened out to cover the debt you incur for getting them to concede to your desires; so, just like when, while engaging the services of a bus station prostitute, you catch syphilis because you used the condom you keep in your wallet instead of spending two minutes to buy a new one from the men’s room; during the tense weeks leading up to your wedding day, when you’re complaining to your wife about how she would take your name if she were a good wife, ask yourself if a pyrrhic victory over a pointless label is really worth having to do something that you could have gotten out of if you weren’t such an idiot, such as plucking your wife’s sphincter hair, going dress shopping with her and her mother-in-law, or having your formerly blushing bride shit into your mouth and pretend you’re Rush Limbaugh.

Weddings in general are silly rituals that would do better moldering in the pages of storybooks than in modern practice and, in the last few decades, there have been numerous attempts to break the wedding out of its ultra-traditional mode, but most of them keep the same customs and change nothing more than the location.

For the 21st century, it’s time to put all that romantic hooey associated with weddings to the wayside and conduct marriage services where they properly belong… in the courtroom. Most couples end up getting divorced anyway, it only makes sense that a marriage begins and ends in the same place; plus, this will give divorce lawyers a good place to advertise their services.

Marriage is not a social contract, it is business pure and simple, which is why, when people get divorced, they divide all the common property, children included, before they go their separate ways.

When you start building pomp and circumstance around a legal matter, people cease thinking about it in practical terms and romanticize the hell out of what should be a serious endeavor. Dresses, tuxedos, table settings, and picking a DJ are all tasks that distract engaged couples from realizing the seriousness of their situation which is signing a contract. While it may seem perfectly normal to wear a gigantic white dress and tuxedo to get married, you hardly ever see the CEOs of two merging companies get all gussied up to join their finances and you can bet your ass that no one dances the “Electric Slide.”

Just like churches and hippie drug dens, weddings require those bells and whistles to keep people nice and distracted from the simple fact that they, and everyone around them, are pissing their time and money down the drain on a pointless endeavor.

I will say that at weddings, unlike church services, you do tend to get cool prizes like waffle makers and penis shaped ice cube trays, but, unlike both, it’s much better to just sit around and get stoned… even if it means listening to hippies explain their philosophy.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Dog Problems
by The Format

Monday, September 22, 2008

We'll walk along the water holding hands


This has been a disappointing rainy season.

The last time I was in Korea, the rainy season, or Jangma, lasted about a month and it rained more in those thirty days that it rains anywhere in the US during an average year.

This year, we’ve had a few light showers here and there, but nothing about which to write home.

I feel let down.

Not only that, but I was so impressed by the rainy season that I told everyone who would listen about how insane it would be, and now they all want to kick my ass for falsely raising their hopes.

That’s the story of life; we always arrive a day too late. Everything is in a constant state of decay.

You kids have it so easy these days with your Easy Mac and your Xboxes, and your cheap access to quality pornography. Why, in my day, if we wanted pornography, we would have to watch our own parents doing it through their bedroom windows, and we were grateful for it.

I guess that’s entropy for you.

Of course, if everything is always on the decline, then you are currently living in the greatest moment history ever produced; unfortunately, you were too busy to notice it because you were reading this sentence. Don’t worry, though. Here comes another one.

Knowing that every minute things are getting worse puts a lot of pressure on the immediate moment so that an aging hippy, trying to “live in the now” must constantly focus their attention on the slowly deteriorating condition that is reality.

People everywhere advise you to use your time wisely so you don’t waste your life, but a life is an impossible thing to waste. If what you like to do is nothing, then doing nothing fulfills your life’s goals; granted, there probably are few people who, on their deathbeds, turn to their loved ones and say “I wish I had played for video games” but give it time. When the Nintendo generation turns fifty, I’m sure it will become much more common.

Senior citizens who issue death bed recantations are not noble souls who caution the youngsters to make the most of their remaining time; they’re bitter fogeys experiencing buyer’s remorse.

While bland clichés like “Live your life without regrets” may inspire insipid managers to buy nature themed posters with bland slogans printed on them, life is nothing without its regrets.

In fact, the less you regret, the less you’ve lived.

Our lives are a series of choices that lead from one to another in semi-random patterns; until, finally, one of our ungrateful children makes the choice to unplug our expensive life support machines to preserve our dignity, and remaining, inheritance-related, cash reserves. Whenever we make one choice, we restrict ourselves from following the infinite number of other choices that could have taken our lives down different paths. Taking the easy way out and dumping the dead hooker’s body in the river caused you to spend fifteen months in prison, but that’s where you met the current love of your life, your cellmate, Vito.

A life well lived leads to regrets, and it’s not just the big things like failing to fuck the homecoming queen when she passed out drunk in your car, hitting on your wife’s sister while you were drunk at your wedding, or buying lots of lottery tickets and vodka while your children slowly starve to death, it’s an infinite world of possibilities on which you turn your back every time you do everything. Why, brushing your teeth extra hard this morning might lead to your untimely demise at the hands of a rabid pack of chimpanzees ten years hence.

Chaos theory aside, our personal choices, while appearing limitless and free, are actually restricted by who we are, with whom we surround ourselves, and the circumstances under which those choices are made. It might seem, looking back on it, that we were free to fuck, or not fuck, the homecoming queen, but don’t overlook the fact that she was only in your car because she lived next door to your plain, homely girlfriend; you hit on your wife’s sister only as long as you were reasonably sure that your wife, and her sister’s much larger, more athletic, and attractive, boyfriend were out of earshot; you bought lottery tickets and vodka because your children were, before they died of malnutrition because they were, ugly, slow witted losers who wouldn’t have amounted to much anyway with a parent like you.

Choices are not made in a vacuum, and, once they are made, you can never take them back; so, it’s impossible to live without a lot of regret, but to wallow in it makes it difficult to remember that every second of your life is another in a long series of choices, the outcome of which could make you a millionaire or land you in prison; however, that doesn’t mean once you learn the lesson, you should take it easy on people who haven’t.

The next time some senior citizen starts to tell you about how good things used to be in the old days, casually remind them that the old days, much like their friends, family, and casual acquaintances, ain’t coming back, watching your parents have sex is no substitute for double penetration pornography (unless you are a child of the 70s and your parents were into that sort of thing with their swinger friends), and it doesn’t matter how much it rained this rainy season.

Still, I guess that, living in Asia, if there’s not going to be a catastrophic flood to entertain me, I can always hold out hope for a Godzilla related attack.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Heads Are Gonna Roll
by The Hippos

Friday, September 12, 2008

You are just like a pornstar and I suck your cock like a whore


Something about the phrase dick sucking lips rubs me the wrong way.

Once you put a penis between any set of lips, they automatically become dick sucking lips, but, more importantly, lips don’t do any of the dick sucking while a person sucks dick. Lung muscle contractions create suction, the lips just form a seal around whatever it is upon which their owner happens to suck, which doesn’t have to be a dick, although that does seem to be the thing that people suck on the most.

So the phrase dick seal lips should replace the phrase dick sucking lips in the popular vernacular, that way I can mount a justifiable defense in the civil suit Sea World filed against me.

Don’t judge me; someday, you too might have sex with a pinniped, in what you think is a secluded tank right before some idiot tour guide raises a curtain thereby exposing your genitals to a group of field tripping students, and need a logical argument with which to convince a jury that you had a good reason as to why you were in the seal tank in the first place.

Sure, I know that dick sucking lips, in the common usage refers to a woman or man with particularly robust lips, and said lips are highly sought after by men looking to have their dicks sucked; I suppose that’s because the bigger the lips the softer the sucking, but you don’t see nearly as many men clamoring to have old ladies and crack heads take out their dentures and give them gummers, but that’s understandable since the latter is visually appealing even if big lips are no indication of oral sex abilities.

Still, you hear men, and women, repeat this phrase because they learned it through common usage… which is exactly why we should avoid it at all costs.

Common usage teaches us all kinds of useless things, like tip your waiter, spay or neuter your children, and don’t wear white shoes after Labor Day, but the truth is that white shoes always looks good, children are a scourge that we need to stop, and people only get tips for exceptional, or special request, service.

I will gladly tip a waiter for jerking me off while I eat my Bloomin’ Onion, but if all they do is bring it to the table and then give me a bill, that fucker ain’t getting shit.

The best thing about common usage is that, if enough people believe it and repeat it, whatever idiocy you’ve cooked up becomes the next best thing to the god’s honest truth: rumor.

The current common usage, concerning illegal Meso and South American immigrants, is that they are necessary to the US economy because they do the jobs that Americans don’t want. We know that because someone did a study and the news media reported that statistic to us; of course, we’re far too busy to read the actual study, so we’re basically relying on the news reports to tell us the truth; however, if the answer sounds like the one we want to hear, then that answer is good enough… that’s what a team of geniuses figured out over at Fox News.

What I don’t understand is how people know that Americans don’t want to perform menial jobs for low pay with no benefits or safety precautions? For the last fourteen years, most states have elected Republican politicians who would like to keep the minimum wage low and excuse employers from providing expensive medical care to people who purposefully mangle themselves on unsafe equipment in the workplace so they can sue their decent and not at all negligent employers; therefore, at least fifty-one percent of the population must want to do the same jobs as illegal immigrants.

We can’t trust the common usage.

Of course, that does beg the question: “Why do patriotic businessmen hire illegal immigrants if there are Americans who want to do those thankless jobs?”

Given that employers are more likely to hire an employee with experience and education, coupled with the American public’s disdain for high fallutin’ elitists, I can only surmise that people have ignored their education for so long, or pursued the wrong kind of education, that most Americans are now too dumb to pull oranges from trees, butcher cattle, or shampoo the semen stains out of hotel bedspreads.

It’s time that public schools stopped teaching all that Shakespeare and calculus hogwash to focus on subjects that will help children reclaim the jobs stolen by immigrants, once those immigrants’ children have become doctors, lawyers, and corrupt politicians.

Most of my readers come from America, so it’s understandable if some of you, by now, are angry that I’ve called you stupid; the rest of you are scratching your sloping, pronounced brows and wondering just how the machine, in front of which you are sitting, can make words and pictures appear without using some kind of magic. Don’t worry, eventually things in America will become bad enough that staying will be worse than leaving, and then we’ll get our chance to be some other country’s down trodden immigrants. It might sound bad now, but it’s actually a lot of fun: people think that listening to your crappy pop music makes them more enlightened, the police keep a close eye on you to make sure you’re safe at all times, and you somehow know where to find all the best drugs.

The best part is that, no matter how thick or thin your lips are now, everyone will think you have seal lips since getting a blowjob from you is exotic.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Wet Dreams
by Soko

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

What’s a few broken bones when we all know it’s good clean fun


Everybody wants to be the first one to discover something.

It’s the next best thing to doing something unique and creative of which everyone wants to be a part.

It’s easy to find folks who will tell you that they were there the first night that Nirvana played some shitty dive bar in Seattle, or wrote code with Tom to develop this myspace monster, and I’m willing to bet that if you traveled back in time, you’d find an early human who’d swear to you that they were there the night that Ahk-Tang discovered fire.

That’s why most men want to date virgins; there’s a certain excitement in being the first explorer to enter a new land, even if that means having to deal with unfriendly natives, or overly tight vaginas.

I don’t understand that obsession. It’s not as though you, upon finishing with a virgin, get to take off your SCUBA gear, plant a flag in their vagina, and say “I claim this land in the name of (from wherever the hell it is you came).” Sure, it builds character to travel the road less taken, but there are many benefits to the beaten path. I prefer to date women who were previously in abusive relationships, because nothing I do will be worse than what their previous boyfriend’s did and it’s not at all hard to pick up women in police stations, hospitals, and non-profit shelters.

When it comes down to it, most people really don’t want to be first, and, if you don’t believe me, then walk into your local pharmacy, strap a fifteen inch dildo to the end of a pneumatic jack hammer, and hang a sign around your neck advertising 25 cents a ride. No one will want to go first… which is why you should also bring along some kind of powerful nerve gas or a rubber mallet.

There’s a lot of pressure being someone’s first sexual partner, which is part of the reason why I never sleep with virgins; the other reasons being that, I don’t want my perverse degeneracy ruining anyone else’s sexually explorative journey and I don’t want to spend my recreational hours teaching anyone anything.

I teach for a living, so I’m not interested in imparting knowledge to anyone unless I’m financially compensated for my expertise.

No matter what your job, any oft repeated activity sullied by money eventually becomes a soulless, mind numbing punishment for failing to listen to your parents advice and choosing a career in whatever earns you your daily bread rather than law, medicine, or, in the case of my parents, emu farmer. Pornstars don’t want to come home from a long day of fucking and get fucked, police officers don’t want to come home from a long day of stereotyping minorities and watch BET, and the last thing on a religious leaders mind, after a long day of performing their godly duties, is raping children; for the same reasons, I don’t want to teach in my spare time.

It’s not that I abhor learning, absorbing knowledge is one of my favorite activities and I’m glad that my brain possesses the ability to decode the random scribbles we have unanimously decided create sounds into messages, I just don’t want to be the one to do it.

Most people’s first sexual partner sets the tone for them in much the same way that a school teaches them how to learn, and the damage done by your inaugural penis or vagina, just like the psychotic ramblings of your tenth grade history teacher, can take years to undo. The only difference between them is that you’ll have at least ten to eleven years of history crammed down your throat, but no one thinks it’s necessary to teach children how to fuck in school… that and you won’t get any tater tots or steakums from the person who pops your cherry.

Like any other vocation, fucking is an important social, and economic skill, even if you prudes don’t want to legalize prostitution, there are men and women out there who will need to know how to show a wealthy widow or a quadriplegic Texas oilman a good time in the sack because they have no other valuable skills by which to earn a living.

It’s about time that schools focused on the important things like teaching kids how to fuck. That way, they will not only emerge from their adolescence with the necessary skills to get them through their first four years at university, but all the pressure of their first sexual encounter will take place at school under a trained professional’s supervision.

Teaching children how to fuck will demystify all the hoopla surrounding their virginities, so that they won’t think twice about giving it up in the back of their parents’ car now that they’ve already been deflowered by a middle-aged government employee.

Besides, when it comes right down to it, there’s nothing special about going first, you’ve just experienced something before the hordes descended upon it; so even if you were there to see Nirvana play their first show, that doesn’t make their music suck any less.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

I'm the Man
by Joe Jackson

Monday, September 8, 2008

She's out of my league, I'm insane


It’s a lot harder to shit your pants than most people admit.

Sure, when you’re sick, watch the movie The Notebook, or eat a pound of chocolate flavored elephant laxative, it’s much easier, but that’s not what I mean.

Most of you are probably reading this sitting down, as it is difficult to read and carry a laptop, plus there are all those pesky trees, light poles, and unfenced interstates that get in the way; so, I challenge you, right now, to try and shit your pants.

See, you couldn’t do it.

That’s because our social conditioning is so strong that only trauma, such as eating an entire five gallon tub of olestra or mental illness can break our deeply ingrained habits. It’s also hard to piss your pants on purpose, but not as hard as you might think.

Human beings, given the right training, can grow accustomed to just about anything.

Just ask the eight-year-old, child prostitute children of the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands who exchanged sexual favors for the privilege of making bound for the US textiles in sweetshops and they’ll tell you that you’re a prude for holding on to your virginity until you were nine.

Or take the Republican congressmen, who were so used to making money from kickbacks and bribes, they made sure that, as a protectorate of the United States, clothes made by those sex slaves had Made in the US of A tags on the back and no troubling legislation made it illegal for those honorable slavers to do their patriotic duty of offering 15% price reductions in textiles to God-fearing, red state, Americans.

Yup, people can be trained to do just about anything… but that doesn’t mean they’re amateurs.

An amateur is someone who has no particular training in a specific field, but who dabbles in that bailiwick anyway; like the father who carefully edits videos of his family’s vacations into professional looking, but still boring, fodder, or the woman who only gives blowjobs on birthdays, Christmas, and at funerals.

A professional is someone who knows what they’re doing.

That’s why I’m not impressed by the Olympics, and I fully supported a boycott of the 2008 Beijing games.

While there are some sports which allow professional athlete participation, the Olympics prides itself on being an amateur competition when nothing could be further from the truth.

An amateur competition would be if your cousin Larry, the one who plays basketball with you at family gatherings as an excuse to touch your backside, was on the Olympic team; it would be an amateur competition if I tried to do triple back flips on the balance beam; it would be an amateur competition if the people competing hadn’t trained their entire lives to be Olympic athletes.

Plus, while many Olympic competitors are forbidden from competing if they’ve previously competed for money, but endorsement deals don’t count as competing for money; so, if you still consider someone who started training from the moment they left the womb and receives money for what they do, an amateur, then you’ve learned nothing from your time as an amateur philologist.

Just like every other human endeavor, the Olympics keep up a façade to keep people from realizing what an enormous waste of time and money it is to watch our fellow hairless apes twirl themselves around uneven parallel bars to win rocks dug out of the ground and shaped into little circles.

Recently, there has been quite a stir over athletes disqualified from the Olympics for steroid use, because of the harmful negative consequences associated with shooting your body full of synthetic bull hormones; however, as Mary Lou Retton can attest, little girls who train as gymnasts remain midgets for life and, unlike the movie Gymkata suggests, there is no international fighting force of gymnasts to save the princess of Parmistan from evil Communist Ninjas. Let’s pump these athletes full of steroids; it might make the Olympics more interesting to see two female gymnasts beat each other to death.

It’s about time that regular folks stood up to those Olympic committee punks and sent them a strong message by not watching and not attending this year’s Olympic games in Beijing… and this isn’t about Tibet, fuck Tibet. I have no sympathy for a religious group that wants to be free from oppression so they can go back to oppressing their own people.

Don’t watch the Olympics, don’t go to the Olympics, don’t buy any Olympic related merchandise, and, when athletes come back from the Olympics, spit on them as you would common dogs, because that’s the only way that humans beings are ever going to learn… by conditioning.

Just don’t forget that I’m only talking about the 2008 Olympics. If my petition to the Olympic committee to have pants shitting recognized as an Olympic sport for the 2012 London games, then I expect you to honor me as a hero when I come back with my gold medal.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Heads are Gonna Roll
by The Hippos

Friday, September 5, 2008

You're so damn hot


I used to say that religion, like farts, is best kept private.

While it is a good slogan (if you don’t mind, I’ll just suck my own dick in front of you for a moment), it’s a piece of advice that I can’t really follow.

Sure, I don’t have a problem keeping my religion to myself, since I don’t have a religion, but, when it comes to farts, there’s nothing I like more than sharing them with others, particularly on elevators. Of course, my farts don’t ask you for money or tell you that you’re going to rot in hell for all eternity if you don’t like them, but intruding is never polite, no matter what form that intrusion takes. Even though they are both equally fun, it’s in just as poor taste to run up to a car stopped at a traffic light, drop your pants, and rub your genitals on the drivers window as it is to sneeze on the back of someone’s head in a movie theater.

I have accepted that I’m an asshole; it’s my lot in life. I don’t want to make any new friends, or be nice to anyone. I just want to challenge the existing social order until I’m either locked in jail or dead… expect me to change my opinion if I ever come into money.

The strange thing is that you will most likely never see me on a pundit show giving my expert opinion about assholes because there are enough assholes in the world, and most of them wind up pursuing careers as pundits (the rest of them get jobs as your boss); however, religious leaders are brought on television to give their expert opinion whenever there is a morality question before the public such as when a politician gets caught with a prostitute, a celebrity gets arrested for drugs, or a middle-aged minor celebrity appears in an ad wearing clothes that symbolically supports terrorism (Seriously? Rachel Ray’s scarf? That’s the most objectionable thing the news media can dig up on a woman who systematically kills vagrants then cooks them into thirty minute meals?).

Leaving aside the more important question of “Why is the news media talking about morality when they could be reporting the news” for a moment (we will come back to that), my first question concerns people’s belief that religious figures somehow have a monopoly on morality.

Morality is relative, and, while we, as a society, might share certain moral precepts, we determine our morality on a situation by situation basis. When Batman beats up his mother and sister, he’s a monster; when we do it, we had a damn good reason.

At best, a religious leader can come on television, spout a few verses of their poorly translated holy book, and then hawk whatever cheap wares they’ve come on television to sell. If the news is so interested in what religion has to say about a particular subject, then why not just throw up a few bible quotes and call it a day. It’s easy to find a quote in the Christian bible condemning or praising any manner of behaviors, and don’t worry if you need to change your position later, because there’s most likely an aphorism that contradicts the first one you used.

I know that everyone likes to point out that the hardcore religious are both pro-capital punishment and anti-abortion, but what no one ever mentions is that capital punishment is like ten abortions in one because that recently executed male prisoner could have sired thousands of children. Life begins at conception, which for any person on this planet was when, four generations back, your paternal and maternal great-great-grandfathers forgot to pull out of your paternal and maternal great-great-grandmothers.

The real question is why the media concerns itself with morality. The news media is a business that is concerned with selling product, which makes it all the more telling when you consider that there are exponentially more pedophilia stories in the news these days. It puts a whole new twist on that old adage: “Sex sells.”

Besides, why would you trust anyone who changed their given name to something like Stone, Wolf, or Bill O’Reilly? Changing your name to make yourself more marketable shows a remarkable lack of respect for authority and disdain for family values since most people receive one of their names from two people who care for and bring them into this word… the other name just comes from the dude your mom was fucking at the time. How are we supposed to trust people who use aliases in public?

For that matter, why put any faith in a religion that rebranded its mascot?

Believe me, I know plenty of carpenters named Jesus, and sure, they have got their crazy religious superstitions, but they’re generally nice guys who know where to find good bud, and they send most of their money back home to their families in Mexico. That the Christian community thinks of their savior as an English speaking white guy who can bring them eternal salvation and pancake breakfast fundraisers is just one more example of their untrustworthinessitude.

Unfortunately, pundits and religions easily dispense well meaning, but difficult to practice slogans; they look nice on t-shirts and bumper stickers but they’re damn near impossible to carry out in real life. What’s not catchy about, “If a soul commit a trespass, and sin through ignorance, in the holy things of the LORD; then he shall bring for his trespass unto the LORD a ram without blemish out of the flocks, with thy estimation by shekels of silver, after the shekel of the sanctuary, for a trespass offering. And he shall make amends for the harm that he hath done in the holy thing, and shall add the fifth part thereto, and give it unto the priest: and the priest shall make an atonement for him with the ram of the trespass offering, and it shall be forgiven him” or Bill O’Reilly’s favorite slogan “Shut up! Just shut up! That’s it you’re cut off!”

They both look good on a t-shirt.

Religion and punditry are two subjects onto which people can latch because they provide smarmy answers to difficult questions for people who are otherwise unable to invent their own; plus, since both subjects can easily take up a large portion of a person’s available time, it’s hard to go through a day without sharing a little bit of that with the people around you.

I have no problem with such sharing, just so long as the sharer is aware, and fully accepting of their asshole behavior; if they have good intentions, or actively want to spread the word, then fuck them.

Sometimes you’ve got to let one loose, no matter how many people are standing in the elevator with you, just don’t try to kid yourself as to what doing that makes you.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

OK Go
by OK Go

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

16 25 24 19 33 25 34 46 37 33 42 40 37 34 49 73 46 45 45 5 26 28


It’s too hot to think about anything except how hot it is.

That and penis. I keep thinking about penis.

Is it just me, or have there been a lot more cocks in movies over the last year. Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, Cock Man: The Cockinator are all movies that feature a healthy amount of flaccid male genitalia.

Hell, last summer’s Superbad featured a character whose quirks was repeatedly drawing penis after penis.

It’s awfully nice to see some nudity if mainstream films besides breasts and ass. Don’t get me wrong, I like breasts, but, without a little variety, everything gets boring.

Besides, in a world where every national landmark is shaped like a giant penis, or dedicated to people who have them, wouldn’t it be nice to see a little more vagina?

I’m not talking about pubic hair, there’s plenty of that in movies, and when have two men, or a man and a lesbian, while sitting around talking about women with whom they’d like to sleep, ever said “Oh man, she’s so hot. I’d eat thirteen tons of shit to see her pubic hair.”

Of course, there are bound to be some people out there who are really into pubic hair, so I cheerfully retract the previous comment and leave you nether-hair fetishists to your short, curly interests.

Just because I can’t understand something doesn’t mean that there aren’t a lot of people out there who really get into it; personally, I don’t understand why people would sit in traffic to go to the beach, aka the world’s largest ashtray, just to swim in fish and medical waste, but that’s just me.

I’m reasonably sure that there is at least one person out there for every possible fetish; the best thing is that, most likely there’s a magazine for it. If you’re into phone sex, and I’m not talking about the pussy kind where you talk dirty to someone over the telephone, but the kind where you pry the numbers out of your phone and fuck its circuit board like there’s no tomorrow, then don’t worry, because, for only fifty dollars a year, you can get monthly issues of Dirty Ma Bell, delivered to your house in non descript brown paper packaging.

The hard part is finding someone with whom you’re sexually compatible, because, it’s not enough to find someone who also enjoys phone sex, but someone who wants to share their fetish with you.

Part of that is selfishness, but the majority of privacy issues stem from people’s inability to recognize similarities between themselves and the other mostly hairless apes because, for most of their lives, they’re told that their genitals need covering.

Blanket genital censoring tells children that there’s something wrong with their penis or vagina, so that they feel dirty if they whip it out at the local Laundromat, or ride the escalator banister at the local mall.

While I can understand a person who gets turned on by pubic hair, I can’t understand the point of censorship, particularly in this, the internet age, when anyone with even a dial-up connection has seen at least one human being shitting in someone else’s mouth. From what, are children being protected?

Seeing a penis or a vagina is never indecent, because decency shows regard for the people around you. It’s highly indecent to urinate on an unsuspecting stranger who has not requested you do so, but it is never indecent to watch someone pee on another person… in fact, that can be quite funny.

What’s even more absurd is that most states have an age of consent somewhere around 16, which means that there is a whole group of children out there who can happily have sex with anyone they want, but they can’t spend ten bucks to go see it on a movie screen. If it is harmful for a child to see a penis, or a vagina, then it makes sense that they should wear diapers until they reach the legal age of consent for the particular state in which they live, at which point, their parents could safely let them examine their own genitals; however, just like Laius and Pelias, who met their fate while trying to avoid it, the longer you restrict someone’s access to a pleasurable activity, the more zealous they will become upon discovering the hitherto unknown gratification.

I once knew a Mormon boy who wore a chastity belt until he was 21 years old, and, upon having it removed, masturbated himself to death within a week.

People always talk about vaginal odor, but penis odor is often overlooked, just because women emit a constant musk from their genitals; however, take a whiff of a cock after a long day of walking around in the summer heat and it smells just as bad, if not worse, than the most yeast infected vagina I’ve ever seen. Vaginas also get awful smelly in the summertime, but unless the woman to whom it belongs is also menstruating, it’s never as bad as a fetid cock. Vaginas don’t smell like your grandmother’s apple pie either, and keeping both trapped inside clothes all the time just makes them smell worse, which means that the person who sticks their face into your smelly genitals after a summer night out on the town is receiving a healthy dose of indecency just because some puritans say you can’t expose your genitals to a cool summer breeze.

So keep your eyes open as you walk through crowded summer areas, and never forget about all the disgusting, sweaty, stinky genitals on all the people around you, at sporting events, firework displays, religious services, and barbecues, that are, right now, soaking in a pool of sweat, dead skin, and pheromones, which, for some reason, people think it would be wrong to free from their textile prisons and air out.

In this heat, it’s a necessity.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Year by Year Home Run Totals of the Great Barry Bonds
by Dan Bern

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