Thursday, October 30, 2008

I could have joined the NSA, but they found out my parents were married - blogathong

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 14 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



When approaching anything in life, we have to keep a clear understanding between what we like and what is good.

I understand that you think your wife, girlfriend, or daughter is plenty attractive, but that doesn’t mean they would make a great pornstar.

If we fail to remain objective then we’re worse that those religious zealots who assume they know the answer to everything just because they read it in a really old book; that same logic means that your grandmother is the supreme authority on blowjobs by the simple virtue that, during the Great Depression, she gave so many of them.

On the interspecies objectivity scale, human beings rank somewhere between plankton and krill.

That’s why I’m not surprised when I hear peoples’ picks for the top ten movies of all time.

I recently went back and watched some of the movies that I adored when I was a child or an adolescent, and, not surprisingly, many of them no longer seemed as genius as they once were.

So, I present to you, the top ten most overrated movies of all time, but, before I get into that, let me talk about my selection criteria.

I’m looking for overrated movies, that is, movies which were critically and commercially successful and yet still suck. If the movie won an Oscar, broke a record for box office earnings, and appeared on the AFI top 100 list, then you can bet it’s probably going to take a drubbing.

Of course, I’m not going to stop at the big budget Hollywood titles; anyone can make fun of popular entertainment because it takes itself so seriously that it’s like beating up a retarded kid for his milk monkey and making fun of religion, any idiot who can string a few nouns and verbs together can do it. While commercial success is one of the criteria by which I’m selecting movies for this list, I will also include a list of independent and art house films held in high regard by a significant portion of film critics and aficionados.

In addition, just to show you that I’m not throwing feces in my toilet paper house, I will also include two top five lists of my own, one highlighting the movies that are technically proficient and deserve praise for their ability to fire on all cylinders, and the other a list of my five favorite films that I like despite, or because of, their lower quality.

Keep in mind that the list is not an indication of the film’s overratedness.

With that in mind, let’s get to the list.

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Sex Mahoney’s Top Ten Most Overrated Films of All Time




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Apart from special effects, there’s nothing particularly special about the first Star Wars; it’s the same old story that theater goers were tired of seeing in Westerns and War films; however, the addition of space seemed to convince people that this was somehow different than John Wayne and Audie Murphy killing Injuns and storming the beaches of Iwo Jima. Star Wars comes first on the list because there are a lot of people who like this movie, but refuse to admit that it’s poor, even by 1970s standards.

I do like Star Wars but it is a terrible movie, and, more importantly, it paved the way for other terrible movies to come after it; I know it’s unfair to blame a progenitor for their offspring, but people still throw bags of flaming shit at my parents on the street, so I feel perfectly justified in trashing this intergalactic garbage.

Star Wars inaugurated the long line of bloodless action films, where people get shot, die, but never bleed. If you’re going to have a lot of death in your movies, then show a little bit of gore. I’m not much for realism in art, but there comes a point when it becomes too ridiculous.

There’s a reason why wipes went out of fashion in films.

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This film is overrated for more or less the same argument as Star Wars, but so much longer. The battle scenes are pretty sweet, and I thoroughly enjoyed them when I played video game versions of the movies, but the long, pointless dialogue in which characters appear in extreme close-up to reiterate their unchanging desires or motivations make the whole series a nine hour snoozer.

If you must watch these films, skip the middle seven hours; watch the first hour of the first film, and the last hour of the last film. It actually makes a decent movie.

I have sat through some crappy movies in my time, but when, the first time I watched the third installment The Return of the King, I saw that there was over an hour left after the ring’s destruction, I bowed out and fast forwarded through the ensuing inaction. I did give the series another chance in 2007; I rewatched the whole thing, including the ending that missed. Still shitty.

*

I used to love The Godfather… when I was thirteen. As a grownup, the movie seems poorly constructed, badly written, and only decently directed. The biggest problem with the film is Michael’s sudden turn from college boy to cop killer to mafia don. The reason is falls apart is the film’s expression of time. Events happen over a few months in the first half, skip over a few years in the middle, and end with the events of a few months in the second half. This is what happens when you adapt a book to the screen, change almost nothing, but cut out the things that explain what happens in the end.

The story is nothing spectacularly new; it had appeared in medieval dramas throughout the middle ages and renaissance. In fact, The Godfather resembles a Shakespeare play, albeit one without much of a plot.

I can’t think of a single, decent drama where everyone dies in the end. Even Hamlet suffers from that lackluster, and unoriginal, way to end a story. When mass death resolves the dilemma of the main plot, you can bet that it’s because everyone involved in the production was either so full of themselves that they thought they were being original (which is what happened when I wrote a book about a boy who travels back in time in a mid-80s Delorean to save his alien friend from artificially cloned Dinosaurs who run amock in Chinatown) or they were so tired of working on the movie that they just killed everyone and called it a night.

The most important thing to remember about The Godfather is that it is a fictional story that closely resembles the Bush family’s history in America, and most people, even the ones who like The Godfather are sickened by the Bushes.

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Isn’t it weird how all the money in the world can’t buy you happiness? That’s the entire movie.

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Remember the good old days when watching a spoiled, rich, racist delude herself into thinking that the gayest looking white man in the history of acting is her one true love, was considered a fun way to spend thirty five cents at the cinema?

I’ve known plenty of men and women like Scarlett O’Hara; they make me sad.

*

White man goes to the farthest reaches of the world to battle other white people while using various brown people as either tools or human shields… but with Judeo-Christian overtones.

Again with the wipes. Enough already.

*

Take any crime drama. Pop the DVD into your player. Set it to play the tracks randomly. Genius.

*

You know, it’s strange. Sometimes something will happen that changes the way you look at the world, and you want to try to make sense of it, but there’s no explanation for why bad things happen to good people, or why some good people turn bad for the littlest things.

May I hit you with my bolt gun?

I like the Coen brothers, I really do, but not when they try their hand at straight up crime drama. Fargo was genius but only because it didn’t take itself as seriously as this long winded melodrama.

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Apart from seeing Jennifer Connolly go ass to ass with a nameless, warm body, there was nothing in this movie that was different from any after school special your local board of education made you watch in health class.

Extreme close-ups and fast cutting ensue.

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Take the scene in Animal House where Tom Hulce is talking to Donald Sutherland about being in a universe that’s a tiny speck of dust on a giant’s fingernail, or something along those lines, add Keanu Reeves and everything that you learn in the first few weeks of Intro to Philosophy and you’ve got yourself a movie.

Just don’t think about the plot too long or too hard, or your brain might burst inside of your fitted baseball cap.

Sex Mahoney’s Top Five Best Films




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The entire movie takes place inside one room, but moves along at a nice clip. It’s just people talking, laying out an argument, and it goes down smooth.

This is one of the most technically proficient films in the history of the medium. They got everything just right.

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This is one of the few movies where a director going nuts with the camera actually works without distracting the viewer from what’s happening in the film.

Plus, you can practice your Orson Welles impersonation.

*

This is an example of solid writing from start to finish. Instead of wipes, they use interstitials as if the movie were a book, which works well with the voice over narration, and who among us can say we never fell in love with our adopted siblings.

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This movie is ungodly boring and long, but I watch it every time it comes on TV. With a bare, minimal story, this film captures a claustrophobic feeling and builds it into a healthy paranoia. HAL 9000’s death scene is the most non-graphic, disturbing thing I have ever seen.

Why don’t you open the pod bay doors?

*

Good allegory is one of the hardest things to write, particularly for the screen, since ethereal concepts like Good and Evil often play out like ham-fisted caricatures of real people, but here, those caricatures are the people. When they mix in with folks from the real world, they seem garish and grotesque by comparison. Throw in a few washed up movie stars and directors to add a touch of morbid realism and this thing stays solid throughout.

This is the American dream at its most threadbare.

Sex Mahoney’s Top Five Favorite Films




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I hated this movie as a child because I didn’t understand it. Now I understand everything except for why that watermelon is sitting there. Plus, the whole thing is set in New Jersey; not actual New Jersey, but movie New Jersey, which is really Canada.

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I poo-pooed this movie when it came out, but ended up watching in on September 14th or 15th, 2001 at my friend’s downtown Manhattan apartment while tripping my balls off on mushrooms. I laughed so hard I think I threw up. This is the funniest movie ever made.

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If there’s ever a moment when you feel completely jaded by the political process in America, watch this movie. It teaches us the valuable lesson that, if you never give up the fight, eventually your enemies will feel so bad about their dirty tricks that they will try to commit suicide in the Capital building.

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When it comes to love stories, they don’t get much better than this, plus it’s packed with laughs. Quite possibly the best movie of all time; there’s nothing special about it, but it works on every level.

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This movie has become a cliché of itself, but there’s a reason why it’s as well known as it is… its copyright expired and TV stations like movies they can show for free, but it’s still good. While most people remember it for the Clarence the Angel schmaltz toward the end of the movie, that is but a small portion of the complete film, and, the setup for that famous sequence actually makes the sap work. Every time I watch this movie, I cry; that doesn’t happen often, so I only watch it once a year. If a film can elicit a genuine emotional response from me, quite possibly the least emotive person I know, then it’s doing its job.

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So that’s the list. Please feel free to tear it apart, add your own, or argue with me about the validity of my assertions.

I always think that doing a blog like this will be much easier than my usual shtick, but it always takes so much longer. You think I would have learned my lesson by now.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Sneakers
by Phil Alden Robinson

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

She'd roam the hallways half asleep - blogathong

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 15 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



On my way to work, people look at me like I’m a psychopath.

To be fair, they do that most of the time in Korea; to a society that is 98% racially homogenous, a blue-eyed honky is as bizarre as if you saw Elvis strolling down 5th Avenue with Adolph Hitler and Tupac Shakur; however, the reason that, at this time of the year, they’re staring with particular bewilderment is that I’m dressed in a t-shirt.

Everyone else is wearing heavy coats.

I even saw two women who wore scarves and gloves.

For the last week, the outside, afternoon temperature has been holding at a steady sixteen degrees, which, for you folks in the Fahrenheit part of the world is about sixty.

Sometimes, that is a little cold, but once you start moving around it’s actually quite pleasant; plus, after suffering through a long, hot summer, I need some cool down time and I’m not going to spoil all the perfect, chilly weather by wearing a jacket.

Today is one of those beautiful fall days that kicks summer square in the ass.

Well, not completely in the ass, but enough of an ass kicking that you can tell summer is beaten, even though it’s still got enough strength to get in a few more good punches, it’s only a matter of time before summer goes slinking back to the hot, humid depths from whence it came.

And it can take its sun with it. Oh, how I can’t stand the sun. For the last several years, the windows of every home in which I’ve lived have been blacked out to prevent it from bothering me.

My dream is to one day own a house in both the Northern and Southern Hemisphere so I can go from fall to winter and then back to fall again, and never experience another summer… ever.

Cool fall weather is the highlight of my year.

I like watching things fall apart, that’s why I’m so excited to get back to America.

Every new news story I read about America makes it sound as if fire and brimstone is ready to fall from the sky. I mean, things sound absolutely awful there. The last I heard, there were evil grandmothers kicking puppies into the streets and the sky was literally falling… a little chicken told me.

The real question is whether or not the US will collapse; it has to happen eventually, Newton’s first law is that whatever goes up must come down, or something like that. America was once on top, someday it will be on the bottom. You can’t get to the top without signing a contract that you agree, at some point, to be on the bottom. It’s only fair. That’s why you fellas should never pressure your girlfriends into anal sex unless you’re willing to let them fist you in the ass as well, and you ladies, don’t expect a man to lick your pussy unless you occasionally give in to his demands to let one of his friends videotape you having sex with a black guy. Quid pro quo.

The mistake that America, and most people, make is that in prosperous times, they tend to be quite liberal with entitlements and handouts, but, during difficult times, quite conservative with the same.

As America gets ready to elect a new president, we need to rethink that behavior pattern, because it really is, for lack of a better term, quite stupid.

When times are tough, that’s when it pays to be liberal, because things are already going badly, so the only harm in trying something new is that nothing will get better or things will get a whole lot worse; either way, you don’t have as much to lose. If your significant other complains that you are sexually inadequate, don’t keep humping away like you have been, go out and buy yourself something big that vibrates; they’ll thank you for it in the long run.

When things go well, that’s the time to be conservative, because good times never last, and you never know when you’re going to need all that largesse you’ve been so cavalier about showing off. If you’re giving your lover mind blowing orgasms with the your old moves and technique, don’t go shaking things up by breaking out that thing your Uncle Ronald taught you behind the shed at a family reunion when you were eight years old, save that for when you need it.

As best I can tell, things seem to be shitty in America right now; so, we’ve got to start acting more liberal in what we are and are not willing to do; it’s the only way we’re going to keep our country strong enough to continue acting like the assholes that we are.

From now on, let’s all wear fish hats. Get yourself a big, old salmon or tuna, cut a hole right down its belly, and wear it on your head all day long. I’m not exactly sure what that would accomplish, but it would be damn funny to see.

Perhaps the most novel of all new ideas would be to elect a third party candidate for president; you know someone who isn’t beholden to the exact same donors, for the exact same amount of money as the Republicans and Democrats. It pains me to see people arguing over Barack Obama and John McCain when the only real difference between the two is that McCain takes his anal sex with a side of sadism, while Barack Obama likes to rub his ass in chocolate cake while he tosses salad.

The previous joke brings me to my next point; for a change, let’s not treat the candidate we arbitrarily choose based on emotion or party affiliation with the kind of free ride that we usually reserve for a close relative who invites themselves into your home, borrows a ton of money, and teaches your children what words like rim job and fisting mean. Political candidates couldn’t give a shit about you or your family, which is why they only mix in with the regular folks surrounded by security. Until you see a politician turn down secret service protection, don’t expect them to do much for you or your babies; in fact, stop letting them touch your babies all together. If they want to politicize infants, they can fuck their frigid wives and make their own.

The current system isn’t dead yet, but it’s sinking and it’s only a matter of time before the whole damn thing falls apart. The trick is recognizing when the tide turns and, like those wise rats, flee the sucker before it drags you down. Republicans and Democrats may have a few more tricks up their sleeve, but the old way of doing business just hit the mother of all icebergs and, if you listen closely, you can faintly hear a string quartet playing “Nearer My God to Thee.”

Now that America is collectively being flushed down the world’s largest shitter, it’s time for all of us, Americans that is, to pull together and do something more liberal than anything we’ve ever done before by voting for a third party candidate. There are a few good ones out there, but you all know my position on this issue…

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Keasby Nights
by Streetlight Manifesto

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

I'm all right jack keep your hands off of my stack - blogathong

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 16 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



If there’s a better example of how little it takes to get a human being to degrade themselves than gainful employment, then I don’t know what it is.

Unfortunately, work is something we all have to keep doing.

I once attended a pyramid scam sales pitch where the manager told us the difference between a job and a career. He said a job is something you do for money, but a career is something you do for life. He added something after that, but I can’t remember what it was; it was hard to hear him over the IRS agents reading him his rights and hauling him away.

Either way, that little tax cheat was right; a career is something that we do for life.

Only, you often don’t get paid for doing things that last for life. You should, there’s no reason why a father shouldn’t receive compensation for all the food and shelter their children enjoyed while growing up, and what court wouldn’t award monetary damages to a mother for all the vaginal tearing their children caused?

Of course, becoming a parent is a trade off. In order to afford the things children need, like food, medicine, and the occasional chew toy, you have to go to work; which means that the only way to have and provide for children is to spend large amounts of time away from them.

As a childless, non-breeder, I’m free to while away all sorts of time not working and pursuing the activities which please me the most, such as growing a beard on half of my face, marking the neighbors lawn to keep away other transients who might want to set up a fort in their shrubbery, and inserting filthy images in Bob the Builder episodes that I then distribute online.

The irony here is that I have no one with whom to spend my time. My friends all work, and my wife wants nothing to do with me when she’s sober.

Sometimes I think it would be pretty sweet to have a child; they have tiny hands, so they can sneak into places that adults can’t; plus, their fingerprints are not yet on file so the cops can’t catch them and when they see the tiny prints, they’ll assume it’s a midget what did it.

It’s too bad that children are distracted by shiny objects, or they would make great thieves.

I would also like to teach my child to say horribly filthy things to express frustration like, “Fuck a cunt” and “Well that just smears my smegma” so that it’s peers and elders would recoil in horror, but the said reality is that the kid probably wouldn’t last too long keeping that up before the other children started to avoid it, and I got a visit from whatever state agency is in charge of keeping children away from people like me.

Instead, I fill my spare time by making money spending time with other people’s children.

I’m a teacher.

At least, I am part of the time. When I’m in Korea, I’m definitely a teacher, because if I wasn’t they would kick me out of the country; I don’t know what I am in America. The last teaching job I had, while working for a high school, lasted about a month until one of my students found this blog (which was then posted under my real name), someone told their parents about it, and then I got a visit from a police detective and a junior DA who wanted to know if I liked to touch children and whether or not I was ever abused as a child. I don’t know that any school would want me back after a situation like that.

The more important question is whether or not to threaten my paying career with my non-paying one.

Luckily, I don’t have to make this decision until at least January, which is over two months away, and, if George W Bush has taught us anything, there’s no sense worrying about something until it’s too late to do anything about it, that way you can use the timing as an excuse for your failure.

I don’t know if I’m part of the small group of people that thinks they’re going to make it and does or in the majority who fritter away the best years of their lives producing the kinds of things that you get for free when you purchase a slightly chipped set of plates at a yard sale, but I know that, no matter what, I could never stop, because I like doing it. If, tomorrow, a doctor told me that I was suffering from a rare skin disease that can only be cured by not masturbating, I would immediately call my friends and family to tell them that I will not be able to attend their various social functions and gangbangs.

I love to do what I do in the way that some people love children; the kind of people who spend much of their lives locked away from the rest of society, and are forced to notify their neighbors upon moving to a new neighborhood. I want to take this blog into my cellar, feed it sedative laced grape juice, and take Polaroid pictures of it in compromising positions that I can use to bribe my way into the next Republican party presidential nominating convention in 2012.

Just like people with children, if you want something bad enough, you have to make it work, even if it means degrading yourself to the point where you spend your Friday evening listening to Rafi and cleaning another human beings shit off your face because your baby learned how to projectile defecate. It’s a selfish way to live, but if human beings can’t be selfish, then I don’t know what’s become of us as a species. We may as well just call ourselves moose and move to Canada.

You can bet your ass that a moose would never wear a tie and call an idiot “sir” for fifty thousand dollars a year and medical benefits.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Dub Side of the Moon
by Easy Dub All Stars

Monday, October 27, 2008

My shirt is so comfortably lovely

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 17 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



I know exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life.

The problem is that I can’t find someone who wants to pay me to do it.

In the meantime, I’m sticking to recession proof industries with good benefits and a robust retirement plan… drug dealing, prostitution, and lion taming.

Long-term, I only know two things: I want to see every single human being naked at least once, and I want to smoke a lot of pot.

That’s not too much to ask, is it?

It would seem as though it is, because most people don’t want you to see them naked. They usually start screaming about privacy laws while their virile boyfriends beat you about the head and face with your own binoculars, which is an insult on two counts since binoculars are a lot more expensive than they by all means should be.

Even if people let you see them naked, they usually demand ridiculous concessions like a long term relationship, carte blanche for their insanity, or to be untied.

It’s much easier to just smoke a lot of pot.

Unfortunately, smoking pot puts severe restrictions on your career path since most employers randomly drug test their employees and marijuana is the only drug such tests are adept at catching. It would make a lot more sense to be a junkie, or snort a lot of cocaine, but clean needles are much harder to procure than you might imagine, and I’m not rich enough to develop a sincere cocaine addiction.

On the other hand, anyone with twenty bucks and some dirt can grow an inexhaustible marijuana supply for the rest of their natural life.

Life just isn’t fair.

The real trick to getting through unscathed is not in desiring what you don’t have, but in enjoying that which you already possess.

If you’re the kind of person who instantly regrets what you order from a restaurant upon seeing what everyone else is eating, then I’m talking to you.

With few exceptions, such as finding out your high school crush is working at a strip club, learning to play the bagpipes, or discovering a meal between breakfast and brunch, nothing is ever as good as you expect it to be; in fact, the longer you anticipate something, the more it’s going to disappoint you, that’s the real cause of postpartum depression. If you don’t believe me, then just think back to summer 1999 when you first say Star Wars: Episode 1 – The Phantom Menace.

If you never anticipate anything and have no hopes or dreams, then you’ll be pleasantly surprised when something nice happens.

Imagine how good you’ll feel if your enlightened attitude attracts a stranger to the point where they feel the need to suck your dick right then and there; I’ve got more than my fair share of public bathroom, hobo blowjobs that way.

Of course, I don’t mean for this to be an inducement to give up on everything. What would we be without hopes and dreams? Humans went from being the Cindy Brady of the class mammalia to the Sun Microsystems of apex omnivores; without our hopes and dreams, we would have never given up our comfortable, gazelle chasing, nature loving, hunting-gathering lifestyle and moved to our overcrowded and over exploited city and country sides where problems of our own making threaten to wipe out all life as we know it; would we? Absolutely not, we’d still be sitting around in tackily decorated caves, staring at the pictures on the walls and dying of easily preventable diseases, instead of living in our mortgaged homes, staring at our wall mounted flat screen TVs and dying of easily preventable diseases.

I’ve always thought that the creationists’ major fear of evolution was not that the stories in their favorite novel turned out to be fabricated out of whole parchment, but that, by logical extension, any one of the animal kingdom might one day hold dominion over the earth. If there’s one thing that keeps me awake at night, it’s thinking that my descendants might one day have to answer to dirty, stinking apes.

You can’t ever give up on your dreams, because that’s what keeps us going, despite the fact that we’re too stupid to ever get off this rotating sphere before the sun blows up and kills us all; so let’s all take a page from the creationists and keep hope alive.

No matter what your opinion on the subject, you have to admire creationists for their tenacity, because no amount of logic, rational thought, or beatings can ever convince them that they’re wrong, and if a family of shoeless hillbillies has the wherewithal to answer universal questions about the origin of life, then there’s something admirable in that, even if they’re more likely to procreate with a member of their immediate family.

I don’t mean to give the creationists a hard time; all of the major religions deserve at least a modicum of respect. Hell, they’ve been waiting for doomsday or a messiah for thousands of years; if someone is more than ten minutes late to meet me, I give up on them and masturbate instead, because there will always be other times to see your friends, but there’s only so many times you can masturbate in our short existences.

I guess I do know what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Barabajagal
by Donovan

Friday, October 24, 2008

If you might die when you're 20 then you're old when you're 15

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 18 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



Fuck Scrabble.

While most board games are plenty dull, Scrabble combines the worst parts of them all, plus there aren’t even any dice which you can use as to induce suicide should the game stretch into extra innings. I’ve tried alternately choking on, and gouging out my eyes, with scrabble tiles, but some consumer safety advocate made sure that, at most, they would just remain lodged in my throat for years. Occasionally, I still hock up a spare I.

I just don’t understand how I, a man with a vocabulary that makes the SAT jealous, can lose at a game where a word like sesquipedalian is only worth ten points, but the word foxes, when properly placed, can be worth three hundred points.

Now, Monopoly, there’s a great game; sure, it goes on just as long as Scrabble, but a dedicated player can find dozens of ways to kill themselves with Monopoly accessories.

In the last month, a departing colleague took us to a free game bar; they have free foosball, free pool, free air hockey, tons of free board games, and even, to my dismay, free Scrabble.

During a particularly heated game of foosball, we started talking about what makes the perfect game: games that rely heavily on chance or games that require a fair amount of skill.

Personally, and only because I like to see everything as a metaphor, I prefer games that involve a fair amount of both but that are heavily weighted against the player. I also scream dead President’s names when I’m about to orgasm, so you can read as much into either of those confessions whatever you like.

Politifilia aside, games that go sixty/forty in the luck to skill ratio are the ones I love the best; they work out just like life. You can plan all you want, but, in the end, using a six-sided random number generator to determine who falls prey to the mousetrap is enough to both delight and frustrate all parties involved.

Nothing should ever go exactly as you plan.

Of course, the real games are not the ones we play on computer screens, Parker brothers cardboard, or our lovers, but the ones we play with ourselves… all day long… inside our heads, the ones we’re too ashamed to admit to any other human beings because they make us sound lamer than an evening spent reviewing slides from your second cousin’s annual trip to the cracker factory; and yet, like so many of our behaviors, it’s something we all silently share, even if we never tell another living soul.

No matter what you do for a living, whether you’re a librarian or a quality assurance tester at the condom factory, it will eventually get boring; so, one of the many ways we hairless apes pass the time is to invent little games for our workplaces.

As a teacher, my favorite is seeing how many children I can make cry in a week.

Maybe a good number of you also play these kinds of games outside the workplace, but I’m not sure; if you don’t, then I offer my congratulations on your exciting life, or advice to start playing some of these games to pass the time if, like me, you’re the kind of human with whom other folks consider it a chore to interact.

What I don’t like are the social games that people play with one another to establish dominance. Couples do this sort of thing all the time. I prefer games wherein competition lasts only as long as the game itself, at which point we can all go back to doing the important things that we need to do like dislodging whatever it is that was stuck in our nose during the three hour meeting your boss called to discuss font selection for the office newsletter, building large balls out of the rubber bands that are on our morning newspapers, or adjusting our testicles until they are in the perfect resting position.

Still, I respect people who turn serious endeavors into childish games; which is why, at least in this regard, I have the utmost respect for President Bush and the Republican party of the last decade.

Games are intended to relax us in our leisure time, but there are a few resourceful people who take the game home, study it, sleep with it, and breath it until they understand the intricacies better than any of us ever will. These are the folks who win rock-paper-scissor and Donkey Kong championships; or, in Bush’s case, the White House.

The only problem is that the amount of time you spend learning the game decreases the amount of time you have to understand the prize. This is no big deal when you take home the giant boulder, shears, and industrial poster board from the rock-paper-scissor championship, but when your prize is the White House, then winning can be the absolute worst thing to receive since you’re not entirely sure how you got it, and you don’t really know what to do with it.

And so, the last eight years have gone by like some kind of a hellish nightmare for a good many people, due largely to the fact that the Republican party of the 1990s was superb at playing the game, but not so hot when it came to actual governance. There’s no reason to learn how the world works and establish solid policy plans when you can just call your opponent a fag and be done with it.

I’m not saying that it was all bad. There were a whole few years there when we barely even had to think, let alone question compassionate conservatisms probably outcomes because the press releases and the photo ops where so good that it actually seemed like winning in politics was the same as winning at international global relations; unfortunately, the sad reality is that it doesn’t matter how well you play the game, because knowing a lot of big words won’t do you any good if you can’t put an x on a triple-letter score square.

I can’t believe I ended this with a Scrabble metaphor.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Paullelujah
by MC Paul Barman

Thursday, October 23, 2008

You're always home in bed by half-past eight

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 19 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



Always be nice to strangers.

There’s a reason why the adjective developed from the noun stranger, because you never know of what someone you don’t know is capable, which makes sense because if you know their capabilities they wouldn’t be a stranger unless you are the possessor of some kind of magic superpowers.

Strangers are liable to snap at any moment and, at least in America - the only country I’ve ever seen where you can buy guns and liquor at the same store - there’s a pretty good chance their outburst will prove lethal to anyone foolish enough to give them guff.

I think about the way I would like to die all the time, and being shot or beaten to death by someone I don’t know because I was too busy to hold a door, or feign interest in pictures of someone’s estranged children, is at the bottom of that list right after being eaten alive by a sloth and being jazzercised to death.

To your friends, you can be a complete and total douche bag.

That’s why people make friends, because they’re so tired of being nice to all the potentially lethal strangers that they need someone around whom they can relax, be themselves, and relentlessly torment with an unending barrage of insults and practical jokes.

That may seem harsh, but… yo’ mamma.

For most of us, our friends are the only people for whom we don’t have to pretend to be something we’re not; namely, upstanding citizens with morals, a sense of decency, and the ability to handle our liquor.

That time you and your best friend woke up in a pool of your own vomit and smelling of Vaseline jelly aside, our friends are there, not as people in front of whom we must comport ourselves as we do with the rest of the world, but to watch our backs when we, as we invariably do, get ourselves into trouble.

There’s a great scene in a lackluster movie where a quiet, sensitive guy picks up a telephone and bashes Tim Robbins in the face just because the aforementioned actor was boning a friend’s girlfriend and acting smug about it. That’s true friendship.

The world is such a disingenuous place that we need friends if only to tell us when we’re being stupid, because, most of the time, other people aren’t going to do it for you.

Sure, there are a lot of outspoken folks out there who will stand up to certain, obvious behaviors, but we’re generally at our worst in private, no matter how annoyingly visible all those public assholes may seem.

Your friends know you as you are, and not what you want to be, which is an important element in staying grounded. You’ll notice that in the novel, Jesus befriends a bunch of strangers in his 30s, tells them he’s the son of god, and not one of those fools thought to question him about it, even after his walking on water in stilts gag, and when he tried to fool all those people into thinking that water, poured into wine jugs, is actually wine.

Not only will friends keep you from becoming an asshole yourself, but they oftentimes prevent you from surrounding yourself with assholes. Should you shack up with a domestically abusive, relapsed junkie because he bought you a sno-cone, read you poems about your pretty eyes, and has a cock like a tree trunk, your friends should be there to douse flame retardant on your burning genitals and bring you back down to reality. Of course, if you’re already friends with a bunch of assholes then they’ll probably just use you for their own selfish ends, but they will protect you from other predators that come sniffing around their mark; the same way that your prison boyfriend will keep your asshole safe so he can make good use of it at night.

Perhaps the most important aspect of friendship is in that we can choose our friends, and they teach us how and who we want to be at a time when your family’s ability to socialize you wanes.

Home schooling children is one of the worst things you can do for a kid.

I feel sorry for children whose parents hermit them away during the years when they should mix with kids their age; sure, it’s a dangerous time when your twelve year old son or daughter could come home high as a kite or with interesting stories about not-so-fun activities that take place in the local ice cream truck owner’s basement, but those are necessary risks taken to ensure that your children don’t grow up into maladjusted, socially awkward, crying little pussies.

The most recent year for which I can get data is 2003, at which time, 2.2% of Americans home schooled their children for various reasons, but, if anecdotal evidence (aka the best kind of evidence) will suffice, let me take a minute to tell you about an old friend who was home schooled until university. The last time anyone saw him, he was running naked down the street in February, screaming about being a contestant on America’s Next Top Model.

Let your children get mixed up with a bad crowd at school; I won’t lie to you, a lot of them will end up degenerate alcoholics and drug addicts with underweight babies and parole officers, but that’s probably going to happen to them anyway; at least, this way, the ones that make it out will be tougher, stronger, and better equipped to handle the kind of shit a friend like me dishes out to the people foolish enough to get close to him.

Plus, they’ll know to be nice to strangers.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society
by The Kinks

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

We are not two we are one

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 19 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



People believe some of straight-up stupid shit.

If it’s not alien abductions or Cosmopolitan magazine’s ability to improve your love life, then it’s that there are more important things in life than eating, breathing and fucking.

Aside from those three things, everything else is secondary.

If it wasn’t true, then baby boys wouldn’t get erections and baby girls wouldn’t learn how to slide down the banister before they learn to drink from a sippy cup.

Now fucking and breathing we can do on our own; sure, it’s nice if we have some help, say from a few extra set of genitals or an iron lung, but most of us will spend more time diddling ourselves than we will being diddled.

Eating is the only necessary activity for which we need other people.

Some of us are self-sustaining in that we live on farms, grow all our own food, and marry ourselves, but, for the most part, we’re stuck in this boat together and we depend on each other for food.

If nothing else in our society, it is food that holds us together.

Familial bonds may be strong, but I don’t know a human being alive who wouldn’t turn on their parents, or children, if food became scarce; hell, it’s a good thing that human meat tastes like breakfast at Denny’s or we would have started farming ourselves long ago.

Korean people place huge cultural importance on their food so much so that the country has a national dish that everyone eats at every meal (if you’ve never had kimchi, it’s disgusting, but it grows on you and now I eat it on everything, when I’m back in America I miss it terribly, especially my kimchi ice cream); I would like to do the same thing in America, but there’s only so much apple pie I can eat in a day.

I can’t figure out why Koreans are so proud of their traditional food. Most of their dishes contain spicy red peppers, which weren’t even introduced to the country until relatively recently and the same peppers provide the flavoring for thirty-three percent of Korean food. There is not much variety in the Far East; I’ve sampled almost every dish on the Korean menu and the only flavors I can discern are spicy and salty, sour and salty, and salty and salty. I have never seen such a high sodium diet in my life; if you think Americans eat a lot of bacon, each of Korea’s fifty million plus citizens consumes an entire pig every day.

As an immigrant in a foreign country, I am cut off from my people’s food and that is the greatest source of culture shock I experience out here. I do miss my family, and it would be nice to see them every now and again, but I’d gladly go another whole year without them if I could just get my hands on one decent hamburger.

Now, I know that many of you think a hamburger is a hamburger is a hamburger, and you’re mostly right, but a good one is harder to find in the international market than I’d like; however, there’s a good chance that, no matter where you are in America, you can get your hands on a pretty decent burger; unfortunately, there are many regional foods that don’t travel as well; when you couple that with most Americans’ travel reticence, then you end up with a whole host of people who are missing out on a whole host of deliciousness.

I admit that there are not many good reasons to travel: it’s expensive, people speak in strange languages and dialects, you can, at a much lower price, steal other people’s vacation pictures from photobucket and digitally insert yourself, and it’s damn near impossible to find a voltage converter for your old, wall-plug powered vibrator.

At the end of the day, there is only one reason, and one reason alone to leave your comfort zone and go abroad and that is the food.

Nothing breaks my heart more than knowing that people who have never been to the New York/New Jersey area have never eaten a decent bagel or pizza pie.

For the best fries in the world, go to Brussels.

Eat the old cheese in Copenhagen.

Try okonomiyaki in Osaka.

I’m sorry if the jokes are a little slim in this selection, but food is a subject about which I am dead serious at least three percent of the time, and, for the last few months, I have though about nothing else but going back to America and eating myself silly. I don’t care about politics as much as I do about food, so fuck you with your abortion and gay marriage debates; let dead fetuses marry all the homosexuals they want, just don’t delay my gluttonous consumption for even a minute or I will fuck you so hard that you will never need another d&c.

So get off your duffer and get out there before it’s too late, or you’ll never know how a Thai hooker’s asshole tastes.

And, no matter what you’ve heard, drink the water; it’s an interesting experience.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Lola vs Powerman and the Moneygoround, Pt 1
by The Kinks

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

We are the skyscraper condemnation affiliate

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 20 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



Your clothes tell a story.

Mostly it’s a story of your poor hand eye coordination and what you’ve eaten, but that’s nothing of which you should ever be ashamed. Wear your stains with pride.

In fact, the longer you keep a particular article of clothing, the more it ceases to be an external object rather than an extension of your being. In the same way that people show off their scars, they should also brag about their stains.

The shirt I’m currently wearing tells the story of the great spaghetti incident of aught six.

Sometimes, even I feel the need to quickly wash off a stain that appears on my clothing, usually it’s because said stain is the result of incontinence or crotch related damage, such as when I spilled a plate of fettuccini alfredo on my penis, or the time I sat through an entire episode of Project Runway and literally shit my pants in horror.

There’s no sense worrying about other stains; particularly, the ones on your feet. A good pair of shoes is priceless because, with the possible exception of accidental disembowelment, there is nothing more painful than blisters on your feet; so, even if you’re performing a back alley abortion and you spill chopped up baby bits and reluctant maternal tears all over your footwear, you should never do anything that might alter a comfortable pair.

Provided that the rest of your outfit is not made from sack cloth, more than any other article of clothing, your shoes should be comfortable.

I know there are a lot of folks out there who like to wear fancy, or flashy shoes, to match their outfits, showcase their personalities, or protect their feet from raw sewage, but if your shoes aren’t comfortable, then you may as well go barefoot. Don’t worry about broken glass and snake bites, eventually your soles will harden into blackened steel.

Either way, it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to pick out a decent pair.

Shopping should never be an all day affair.

Sure, research should last a while, but it’s hard to research purchases within a store. I’ve been to plenty of shoe stores and the almost never have any information about the source or production methods of said footwear. Forget about looking into a prostitute, they never tell you their credentials, even when you ask for them well in advance.

At best, shopping should be like a tactical military strike with the bulk of the attack spent gathering intelligence about the target; after which, you get in, grab what you need, blow up a hospital, and get out before anyone knows you were even there. It helps if you don’t even pay for what you purchase; just find your intended item, pelt the first store employee you see with a fistful of cash and get out of there while you can.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been shopping, so maybe I’m remembering it wrong, but, at the time, it seemed the most boring thing since The Lord of the Rings trilogy, only no one offered to give me a handjob in the dark while on any shopping excursions.

I understand that people need clothes, not for any practical purposes, but because the fashion industry has successfully lobbied the government to make going without a crime; that is why we should always do our best to make clothes as functional as possible.

In some industries, there is a place for form, but not in fashion. Our clothes should all come with cool features.

I’m tired of living in a world where the only thing a shirt does is hang on your shoulders like slug. I want a shirt with built in speakers, or a generator into which I can plug my portable blender. There’s no reason why, in the 21st century, I shouldn’t have constant access to ice blended mocha drinks without having to enslave myself to the Starbucks Corporation.

Unlike what I’ve seen in America, Korea has yet to catch on to the all-in-one superstore where you can buy food, clothes, and guns under one roof; most clothing stores are still their own, individual boutiques; however, every once in a while, you get to see a rare and special sight.

On street corners and subway stations, there will, from time to time, appear a truck, out of which come two or three guys with boxes of clothes. The clothes are either an assortment, like the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a church’s clothing donation box, or a large supply of one item, like socks or tube tops.

When the clothes appear, there follows a mad rush of Korean housewives, old ladies, and young does, ready to haggle with the vendor for as little as pennies on the dollar. They pour over the items, grabbing fabric in huge handfuls and flaying anyone foolish enough to get close to them or their finds.

If you’ve ever been to the zoo, it looks just like when the gigantic, radioactive ants break loose and eat everyone not smart enough to run away.

That’s how people should shop, as if their lives depended on it.

I guess what I’m saying is that every sport is a lot more fun if there’s defense. When you turn shopping into a leisure activity, then people take all day trying on outfits and perfecting their style. If I could see people battle one another to the death in the middle of the gap, then I would have a little more respect for someone who’s foolish enough to pay fifty dollars for a pair of jeans when you can get perfectly good ones from those donation boxes I mentioned earlier.

Sure, they might be a little stained, but that should give you an opportunity to make up a story.

Let your pants be a novel.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

The Village Green Preservation Society
by The Kinks

Monday, October 20, 2008

Cream rinse and tobacco smoke

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 21 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



The other night, I woke up and said to my wife “The C Game gives it away every time, when you’re Apu.”

Now, we weren’t having a conversation about The Simpsons or cunt games, so I don’t know to what I was referring, but it didn’t make any sense then, and my wife laughed at my incomprehensibility until I went back to sleep.

I must have been dreaming.

Most of the time, I don’t remember my dreams and there’s probably not much point in doing so. Sometimes they play out rather cinematically, and I’ve written down the few dream ideas that might germinate into a full blown story, but, for the most part, I don’t pay much attention, even if I vividly remember a dream upon waking, for the same reason that I don’t try to store my farts for later smelling.

Some things are more beautiful when they’re fleeting, whether it’s dreams or farts.

Sure, you could fart in a jar, and save it for a special occasion, but there’s something visceral in a fart’s transitory existence that makes each one interesting, and the good ones special. Dreams are just another way that your body rewards you by expelling a pleasant concentrated version of all the crap you intake.

It never ceases to amaze me how often most people overlook farts particularly since there is a psychological school that places great importance on people’s dreams. Perhaps I would be more willing to lend their discipline some legitimacy if there was a competing school of psychologists that sniffed gaseous expulsions to determine the root cause of their anxiety or explain why some folks prefer sex with pumpkins instead of people.

Human beings are largely unimpressed with their bodies, and their disinclination to give farting the same status as high minded pursuits like singing, scholastics, or scopophilia is another symptom of our reluctance to trust the corporeal.

Look, our minds are wonderful things. Without them, we would have never discovered all the fun stuff in life, like masturbating, or convincing someone else to masturbate us with their genitals; however, the mind is nothing without the body, but the body can get by without the mind.

Our bodies provide all the thrills in this amusement park of life. Imagine if you went to Six Flags and instead of roller coasters and doughboys all they had were stunt shows, shaved ice, and people in oversized, sweaty costumes. If you have trouble imagining that, just go to Disney World; it’s just like an amusement park, only lame and boring instead of fun and exciting.

More importantly, you can’t trust your mind because it lies all the time; that’s why, when you listen to a recording of your own voice, you can’t believe how awful you sound, when you watch the sex videos you made, with that girl you picked up at the bus station, you can’t believe how bad your form looks, and why when other people see your children, they shudder and vomit.

Our brains trick us all the time; so much so, that there are human beings out there who honestly believe they have experienced a supernatural phenomenon.

Just like a deity’s existence, or the exact number of licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop, there’s no way to prove or disprove the existence of supernatural phenomena; however, we can limit the probability that such things exist by cutting apart the lies that our minds create to keep us happy and well supplied with new information, which is what the mind really wants.

Brains crave information and challenges. Just as your genitals, which are used for fucking or exposing to passersby, get inflamed when they are not put to use; so too does your mind start to throb, pulse, and coat you with sticky liquid in the night if you let it lay fallow. Exercising your brain decreases the chance that you’ll experience supernatural phenomena, which is why the majority of people who believe in ghosts, biblical inerrancy, and an informed, sober electorate making the right choice in a US presidential election, are generally the people who get no mental exercise.

Case in point, how many nuclear physicists have claimed alien abduction? You’d think that visiting aliens would want to learn something useful, not how to rebuild the transmission on a 1969 Dodge Charger and fuck their blood relatives.

There are advantages to letting your brain entertain you; for one, you no longer have to worry about piddling concerns like keeping your underwear skid-stain free, or figure out the answers to all those tough questions such as “What happens to the sun when the giant serpent in the sky eats it?”

One of the biggest drawbacks to completely letting your mind take over is that you no longer posses the ability to distinguish between truth and fiction, you think there are ghosts and conspiracies every where, everyone you meet speaks in soothing voices, and you have to wear one of those uncomfortable white jackets that ties up in the back.

So keep your mind busy, feed it regularly by not only injecting large quantities of knowledge, but analyzing and processing what you read, lick, and hear so that you’re not just an information sponge, but a sponge with a machete.

Otherwise, you’ll turn into a gibbering idiot like me.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Motorcade of Generosity
by Cake

Friday, October 17, 2008

Like testicles from rearview mirrors - blogathong

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 24 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



You wouldn’t think that there are more uses for the internet than the free exchange of hardcore pornography.

I mean, what else would you do with a global communication network besides send pictures of yourself fucking various fruits, vegetables, and common, household pets?

And yet, human beings are always ready to surprise us, whether it’s inventing elaborate conspiracy theories to explain what really happened on 9/11 or having the gall to mass slaughter animals in factories and still get up in arms when someone indulges their bloodlust by hosting dog fights.

That’s why I was amazed to see blogs take off on the internet.

In one way or another, I’ve been blogging since the late 90s, when I would post humorous essays on my old geocities account, but there weren’t as many handy tools for neophytes then like there are now; I wrote out the code for those pages by hand and created simplistic, but effective page layouts to spread my message to the dozens of people who saw that site. For nostalgia’s sake, I logged into my old account in the middle of writing this paragraph, and looked over such classics as How to Perform an Unwanted Abortion and Sexual Predation: The Ins and Outs – A Beginner’s Guide: volume 1 - playgrounds.

Boy that takes me back.

Nowadays, it’s hard to remember a time when blogging didn’t play such a big role in my life; since, for the last three years, I’ve spent upwards of two to three hours a day reading blogs by people from all over the Earth and hoping that they’re written by attractive sixteen year old girls with permissive parents and a strong desire to post semi-nude photos of themselves on their myspace accounts.

I started by reading other people’s blogs and leaving comments, that attracted readers to my blogs, then I started leaving breadcrumbs full of sedatives and laxatives to see, not only who would take the bait, but which would kick in faster. At first, I had fun watching people fall asleep while shitting themselves, but that got boring after a while, so I switched to a stronger narcotic, and now I enjoy twenty four hours a day entertainment as strangers on the internet find their way to my blog, pass out in a heap, and then crap their pants.

I’ve been writing for years, but the best responses I’ve received (well, to be fair, the only responses I’ve received from non-family members or dismissive publishers) have all come from this blog; so much so, that I have largely abandoned all my other writing to work on the style I have created here. Sure, I still do an occasional script every now and again, but I have largely laid fiction by the wayside.

Non-fiction is just so much more fun.

Well… my kind of non-fiction anyway.

When I was a boy, I loved to read fiction; couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Now, I rarely read more than one or two novels a year. Granted, those novels were all written several hundred years ago and are each longer than a thousand pages, but I’m not here to talk about Geoffrey Chaucer’s Guide to Bubonic Plague Weight Loss. I want to talk about blogs.

Most blogs are non-fiction… I think.

There’s no real way to know if what people put on the internet is true. For me, part of the fun is in never knowing what is truthful and what is a lie, which is why I treat everything anyone writes as a lie until it’s proven otherwise. You wouldn’t believe how often that ends with me pulling a kerchief off someone’s head while trying to prove to a room full of support group patients that someone doesn’t have cancer, only to reveal a bald scalp and my own ignorance. The nice thing about picking on cancer patients is that they generally don’t have much strength to fight back; the shitty thing is that their emotionally vulnerable relatives usually do and they are in desperate need of a target on which to vent their frustration; so, I guess my douchebaggery provides a valuable service to the soon to be bereaved.

I do my best to be truthful, but when you tell jokes, the truth only works when it’s funny, the rest of the time you have to make up shit to sell the punch line. You can rest assured that everything I write is 100% truthful at least 30% of the time.

All of us bloggers diddle away our time for any number of reasons, but the unifying factor, the one thing we all have in common, is a desperate need to have other people feed our already grossly inflated egos. Your comments and kudos serve to keep my head swollen like the Grinch’s small black heart when he heard the Whos singing in Whoville.

Eventually, we’ll run out of the natural resources necessary to keep this internet monster running and we’ll go back to typing or scratching our pointless ideas on plain old paper, but until then, it is an honor to live in a time when the world wide web allows people from all over the globe to share in the joy that is social networking and animal related pornography.

I guess this is my long winded way of saying thank you to those of you who found me. I don’t know how it happened, or why you stay, but it is, along with said bestiality, the best gift that any fledgling writer could receive.

I only hope that, in return for stroking my ego, I can bring a little joy and laughter to the time you spend reading my dick and fart jokes that would otherwise be wasted on useless claptrap like finding a cure for AIDS or improving on the Colonel’s original recipe of eleven secret herbs and spices.

Blog.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:


by Cake

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Cutting through jello with a very sharp knife - blogathong

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next 25 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.


I haven’t driven a car in over a year.

My driver’s license expired in 2006 while I was out of the country, and I haven’t bothered to renew it. The last time I remember driving, I did so illegally to pick up a friend at the train station. I only drove on the way there; I think I gave him the keys on the way back.

It’s not that I don’t like driving, piloting a two ton deathtrap can be exciting and interesting fun, it’s just that I don’t like motoring’s consequences.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of any time that someone got pinched when the cops randomly pulled them over and searched their bicycle. I’m sure it has happened – everything under the sun is bound to happen sooner or later (which is why I have a standing bet on the Chicago Cubs to win the World Series every year) – but it doesn’t happen all that often, and a safe gambler plays the odds.

When I first started driving, gas cost about eighty-eight or eighty-nine cents a gallon, which is about thirteen cents a gallon in 1950s money. I stopped driving shortly after Hurricane Katrina pushed gas prices above the three dollar mark for the first time in my life. I could probably have afforded to pay for gas at that price, but it reminded me that there were grimmer times ahead and I didn’t want to keep pouring my money into a consumable energy source that isn’t fried, baked, or covered in powdered sugar.

Since I’ve been out of the US, gas prices skyrocketed for a while. I read some stories that said gas breached the four dollar per gallon boundary. If I had been in the US, that might have shocked me; however, I live in a foreign country where people regularly pay upwards of six or seven dollars per gallon, and they would think Americans are a bunch of crying pussies for getting some of the world’s cheapest gas and still whining about it.

They’re probably right, but that shouldn’t bother anyone. Everybody loves a little pussy every now and again, even if you have to put up with some crying to get it. Just as you’ll listen to a prospective girlfriend go on and on about how her uncles got her alone one Christmas and, while still in full costume and on their break from their seasonal jobs as department stores Santas, they held her down and forcibly molested her, just to relax her into letting you put it in her pooper; so too does the rest of the world take American braggadocio in stride as long as we keep the quality pornography, Hollywood blockbusters, and bacon flavored nicotine gum freely flowing. That’s why you Americans, myself included, shouldn’t feel bad, or angry, when the rest of the world calls us a bunch of pussies, because, for all our guns, gigantic trucks, and heavy metal, we can’t help what we are and people seem to want that part of our public image.

On the other hand, the rest of the world has every right to disdain us for our stupidity, because, as Americans, we are some of the stupidest people on the planet.

You know that things are in a poor state in your home country when a Canadian stops trying to recharge their Moose just to tell us how dumb we are.

When gas prices went up, everybody said that there was a whole lot less traffic on the roads because people were driving less; that makes sense, since the high gasoline costs would put luxury driving out of most Americans’ reach; however, now that gasoline prices have fallen slightly, people are taking to the road again in record numbers. If that’s not the height of stupidity then I don’t know what is, but you’ll have to tell me soon, because I’ll need to re-engrave the trophy I made for America.

Oil is a renewable resource; unfortunately for us, it takes so long to renew that by the time what organic material is currently converting to fossil fuels finishes the process, we’ll have long depleted our refinery knowledge and our descendents will be too busy hiding from the sun and making loincloths to remember how to use it. Given that it takes such a long time to create, you’d think that human beings would be a little more cautious with their oil usage.

Nope.

It’s about time that we got sensible about our gasoline and started burning it only at the bare minimum rate we absolutely need.

There’s no reason why you should drive if your destination is less than thirty miles away.

Thirty miles is the distance that an average human being can travel on foot if they move at the average rate of four miles per hour over eight hours… well, technically seven and a half, but you will probably need to stop and eat at least once during your excursion.

On Sunday, you could spend a relaxing morning with your family, and then set off on your weekly trek to the office. You would only need a few shirts, one or two pairs of pants, a pair of shoes, and a tent. Once you get in, just set up a camp somewhere in the parking lot, and shower in the bathrooms either early in the morning, before people come in, or in the evening after everyone has gone.

On Friday, you could pack up your things and head back for a relaxing day and a half at home before doing the whole thing again.

Okay, so maybe the idea is a little impractical, being as how it doesn’t make sense to pay for rent in an apartment where you spend only 36 hours out of a week; so, if you’ve got a family, you can rest easy knowing that your hard work and self sacrifice gives some spoiled, thankless brat a chance to grow up into a person that doesn’t have to sleep in an office complex parking lot, and if you’re single, that means you’re free to live at your office around the clock.

If that’s the case, forget the tent, just drape a sheet over your cubicle, put some old computer equipment motherboards on pikes outside the entrance, and sleep underneath your desk. It might take some getting used to at first, but when you build up strength, you can start taking over some of the other cubicles and recruiting man power for your fledgling chiefdom.

The important thing is that you’ll never have to drive again.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Prolonging the Magic
by Cake

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

All the dishes rattle in the cupboard when the elephants arrive - blogathong

This is an entry for the blogathong, which I heard about from Scary Scary Quite Contrary. I don't know many details about it other than people are expected to write a blog a day, Monday to Friday, for the next month. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately. So, for the next month, expect one blog per day.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.


On the surface, all art seems easy.

Since art involves creation and creativity comes from your imagination, then you don't even have to research anything before embarking on an art project. It's not even hard to make an artistic work, since it's usually a solo endeavor and what you do when you're alone is usually quite fun provided you've remembered to keep some cleanup tissues nearby.

The problems develop when you have to show your artistic creation to the world; that's when people get paranoid about what they've done. Art isn't like a child that everyone will love no matter how ugly, smelly, or stupid it is; people bring their prejudices to the art world, and, when it comes to artistry, everyone is a critic.

When I finished my first novel, my cousin told me that it was wordy, the plot was full of holes, and the whole thing reeked of melodrama, but I didn't expect anything different from an eight year old.

Of course, my art form is of the dying, antiquated variety. As long as the human race keeps chugging along like it does, and with my head buried safely in the sand there's no reason to assume otherwise, soon we'll have no need for the written word, because we'll have devices that can capture images at a hitherto unseen perfection level.

Once upon a time, it was necessary to spend a fortune on camera equipment and chemicals, but now, with digital media, we can reproduce everything perfectly for a fraction of the cost and with the added bonus of keeping all that deadly, delicious developer's agent from lying around where we'll accidentally, experimentally drink it.

Yes, with digital cameras of the still and motion variety now generally available to anyone who can maintain even a minimum wage job, we're all taking prettier pictures and videos.

Which begs the question: "Why the hell is there still such terrible amateur porn scattered all over the internet?"

I'm not talking about love handles, cellulite, and toothlessness, that's to be expected from amateur pornography, I'm talking about the hideous lighting, poor editing, and boring angles that show either a pendulous set of swinging balls or a couple fucking so far in the distance that it's probably easier to see the stage at a Rolling Stones concert from your nosebleed seat atop Mt. Everest.

Art may seem easy, but, if you don't learn the fundamentals of your craft, then there's no difference between your self projects and masturbation. If you folks were more inclined to let people watch you masturbate, or have other people masturbate in front of you, that wouldn't be a problem, but, as my arrest record and numerous restraining orders in greater Okeechobee County will attest, I know that you fuckers don't like to see that sort of thing in public.

Even among those of you who do like masturbating in public, I doubt there are many of you who would go out without first giving yourself a once over with a razor, some glitter, or a rag on a stick; so why is it crazy to assume that the folks who consider themselves amateur photogs and videographers should know a little bit about what they're doing before they turn on the camera and teach their partners what Cleveland Steamer really means?

First and foremost, change the angle from time to time, and don't hold the camera while you're fucking. There's nothing worse than wishing you had a better angle, getting excited when the assless C.H.U.D. grabs the camera en flagrante delicto, and then having to make out what little you can see as the image on screen has an epileptic fit. In a way, it's almost as bad as it was trying to get a glimpse of boob on the Playboy Channel before cable providers came up with better image scrambling technology. Buy a tripod, and, every few minutes, reposition the camera to get a different angle. You can edit it later.

You should also focus on highlighting your assets; that means taking pictures and videos that show off the best you have to offer and cover up the worst. For an example, take a look at many of the lady pictures you see on various social networking sites that only show cleavage. There's no point mucking up a perfectly good picture by showcasing that which makes us stomach-churningly ugly. This is an easy problem to fix, just head down to your local supermarket and ask for a few paper bags. Not only will they hide your blemishes, but they're also safer than plastic and more environmentally friendly.

Most importantly, you have to actually take the pictures of you and your significant other fucking and exposing your nude bodies. One of the worst things about amateur pornography is that not enough people are making it so that you often have to root around your attractive friends' closets, computers, and crawlspaces for years before you find the pictures, video, or, if you're from the older generation, 16 mm footage of them sitting and twirling on a traffic cone.

If you're squeamish about photographing or filming yourself in such a compromising position, then just send me you're address and I'll mail you a free Sex Mahoney Relaxation Shake that is guaranteed to lower your inhibitions and put you in the mood to fuck, or get fucked, on camera. It's chock full of sedatives and date rape drugs.

All you have to do is drink it and fall asleep. I'll take care of the rest.

See, I told you that art was easy.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Comfort Eagle
by Cake

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

That motherfucker he took everything we had


I used to brush my teeth before visiting the dentist.

I’ve met few people in my life who brush their teeth the ADA recommended five times a day, and I am no exception. Like the lackadaisical approach I take to most other forms of personal hygiene, I brush my teeth the minimum number of times it takes for my breath to smell no worse than the average pile of horse manure.

On one hand, I worry about my teeth, but I’m not that concerned because I have a whole lot of them and you really only need two, one to chomp into tin cans, and one to show off to the ladies; once my teeth start falling out, then I’ll go back to the dentist.

Don’t ask me why I brushed my teeth before going to the dentist; a cleaning is part of a regular dental checkup. Doing something for free right before you pay someone else to do it for you is the height of stupidity. The only time I can think of such a strategy working out in your favor is masturbating several times before engaging the services of a prostitute who charges by the orgasm. Looking back, I feel like my efforts to mask my lax tooth brushing were similar to those people who clean their houses before the maid arrives.

In other words, I was self-conscious about my teeth and I didn’t want the dentist to think that I was some kind of a bum.

These days, I’m a little angrier with teeth doctors, so I’d probably eat an entire bulb of garlic and a big bag of Cheetos before going to get my teeth cleaned.

It just doesn’t make any sense. You wouldn’t wash your face and hands before getting in the shower, just as you wouldn’t give yourself an enema right before appearing in a scene for scat porn, so why brush your teeth before going to the dentist unless you think you’ve got something to hide.

We all have something to hide.

Humanity’s universal condition includes hating all the things about other people that you hate about yourself, and there’s no better way to look down your nose at your fellow man than by inventing an unattainable living standard and doing your best to hide how little you fulfill that role.

That’s why so many conservative religious leaders and politicians are adamantly anti-gay and anti-abortion, because they know all too well that, given the opportunity, they’d suck every cock and abort every fetus on which they could get their lips or curettes.

The saddest reality is that there’s no shame in living below the ideal, because everyone does it, so it makes no sense to ostracize and malign the people who openly admit to it while protecting and reinforcing those who hide well. We’re supposed to be in this together, and if we’re not, then the first race of aliens that comes along is going to do to this planet what we would do to theirs if we got there first.

Besides, when you have an ideal behavioral standard to which you expect everyone to adhere, then society’s ultimate goal is homogenization and stagnation; however, if we celebrate people for their flaws then there’s no limit to the number of interesting people we can meet.

No longer will closeted chronic masturbators have to frequently buy new pants; they can wear their stains with pride. Politicians will no longer need to pretend that the dead hookers in their car trunks were put there by friends because prostitutes will be free to kill politicians with impunity seeing as how people in useless professions have no intrinsic value in society.

I have a problematic relationship with authority. On the one hand, I feel like anyone who tells me to do something has a motive for their actions which may or may not act in my best interest; therefore, no matter who issues the directive or sets the standard, I feel the need to oppose it until such time that it is proven beneficial. On the other hand, society has beaten its bizarre sycophantism into my head so that I’m only two pats on the head away from wholeheartedly wishing to please every kind authoritarian that I can find. In some cases, this is useful, like when I refused to get into that stranger’s car no matter how much candy he offered me; at other times, I’ve really lost out, because I end up being left out when the authorities get to do the really fun things that they love to do, and do so well, like getting away with vicious rapes because they play golf with the judge and the victim was a minority.

That’s why we should all do our best to avoid any kind of authority. We should make every decision with enough plausible deniability that no one can ever take us to task for our actions and so that we never hold enough power to do any real good or any severe damage.

Just like the government does now.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Somewhere in the Between
by Streetlight Manifesto

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

I don't mind falling down and scraping up my knees


I’m wearing a pair of shoes bought in 2001.

At the time I bought them, I didn’t realize that I would wear these shoes in over twenty countries, because you don’t think about things like that when you’re buying shoes. You think about how they feel on your feet and how much they cost. Maybe if your one of those vain people, you think about how they look, but rarely do we ever think about the places we’ll walk unless we’re buying shoes for an express purpose like hiking or attracting sleazy men.

It’s a shame really, because if more people thought about what they would do with the things they buy, then people would make more intelligent decisions before parting with their money.

I don’t know if that would make the world a better place or not, but at least there wouldn’t be as many people with life sized Superman statues in their homes.

Then again, who am I to talk? I made a fortune selling subprime mortgages to Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac and I blew the whole wad on exotic cheeses and Franklin Mint collectible plates. Your current financial problems stem from my inability to eat Roquefort off of any plate that doesn’t have a picture of John Wayne or Elvis on it.

Most people don’t know even know what money is; sure, we all know that it can be exchanged for goods and services, but none of the people I pretended to ask while researching this piece in my imagination could tell me. Frankly, I don’t really know what to make of the whole thing other than it’s something with which you can buy yourself a lap dance or the legal freedom to kill lots of people for profit.

Some people look at money the way that even more deluded folks look at their deities; they think money will fix all their problems, make their wildest dreams a reality, and teach them how to divide by zero. Other people look at money as a necessary evil, one that allows them to live their lives with a certain amount of freedom, but keeps them imprisoned in things like work, family, and mob debt. Then there are those who don’t understand money and don’t try; they live like kings during high times, and sleep under bridges the rest. Finally, there are folks who have no need for money; they’re a proud people called the wealthy, and they have more money than they understand so they pay the first kind of people to turn their money into more money so they can live like the third group without having to worry about outdoor sleeping accommodations.

I’m not a rich man, but I’ve never exactly been poor either. Sometimes I have more money than it seems like I could possibly spend, but, sooner or later, I’ve run out of money and I have to go get more. I know that I would eventually like to be my own boss, but so far I can’t figure out where I’ll get the money to pay my salary or how I’ll steal my own office supplies behind my back.

Lots of people seem to be in trouble these days because of something to do with money, but I’ll be damned if I exactly understand why. Actually, that’s not true, I understand why; credit is too much temptation to leave in a spendthrift’s hands and people have a hard time distinguishing between what they need and what they want. Your spouse gives you what you need, the person you drunkenly felt up at an office holiday party gives you what you want, and that woman you and your friend double teamed after posing as alcoholics to pick up women at an AA meeting gives you something about which you should consult your doctor.

Not all the best things in life are free, but the ones that end in orgasm usually are, or, at least, they should be, but we’ve gone and mucked up everything by building a spending culture around something that should cost nothing. Ladies, the next time a man takes you on a date, don’t refuse to have sex just because the only dinner he can afford is a picnic in the canned food aisle at your local supermarket; and fellas, make sure that you fuck her before the date, so that she’s either too dazed to care that you’re picking half eaten sandwiches out of a fast food restaurant’s dumpster, or too disappointed to get back in your car.

There is more to life than sex, and that’s where they really get you. Cell phones? I know they’re convenient, but convenience costs money, and in the no research I just did on cell phone plans, the cheapest one I saw was about thirty bucks a month. Basic telephone service only costs about ten dollars a month, but that’s all moot because, with an internet connection, telephones are more or less obsolete.

Besides, who wants to talk to people anyway? All people ever have to say are boring things about themselves and people they know, which is nice if I care about the person to whom I’m speaking or know the people about whom they’re talking, but if I don’t, it’s a real drag; the other day, I was talking to my mother and she starts going on about my grandmother being in the hospital after a vicious dog attack or something, and I’m like, tell someone who gives a rats ass and tell that bitch my birthday card was suspiciously light this year. Living on a fixed income, my ass.

I don’t have a problem with cell phones other than that they’re just another device that eats up more of my precious time. Now that’s a commodity I have in short supply. Money, sure, whatever, take my money and leave me the hell alone, but time is so much more precious than little bits of paper because we’re only alive for a short amount of time and if all these Christians are right, then heaven doesn’t exactly sound like the kind of place that has an enormous scat porn collection; so, I’ve got to get all my shit video watching done while I can.

I don’t have time to worry about things like talking to people or buying a new pair of shoes.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Parachute
by Guster

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