Thursday, November 20, 2008

We might just make it after all

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; today is the last day. I'm taking the rest of the week off and resuming my regular schedule on Monday.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



The best ideas are the ones that start simple.

Things should only get complicated in the later stages, when you’re working out the details.

A plan’s ability to work is inversely proportional to the distance, in time and space, between where and when the plan was created and where and when it will be executed.

The more complex the plan, in its initial stages, the greater the likelihood that it will be an unwieldy disaster when finally put in motion.

So, when you sit down to write, don’t worry about where things will end up and never think about themes; when you do things like that, they stand out like radical, conservative monkeys at an all ape gangbang.

Everybody has themes to which they naturally gravitate, and the first thing a writer should do is identify those themes. Not the themes you think you would like to write, but the ones you do well.

For years, I tried to write drama, and it came out so brilliantly awful, it was as though I were deliberately trying to be as melodramatic as possible.

Eventually, I came crawling back to comedy and telling people how and what they should think about things.

They say you should write what you know.

I don’t know exactly what that means, because I know a lot of things, but most of them are just useless pieces of trivia that I learned over the years from various cereal boxes, beverage container caps, and flavored, instant oatmeal packets… and most of them aren’t even true.

Writing what you know is only good if you want to make stories like Carwash, Caddyshack, or every novel Steven King has ever written where a writer from Maine encounters something supernatural. There’s a reason why so many writers end up killing themselves, going insane, or drinking to death and it’s not because they’re tortured souls but because they wish they were better at writing something other than what they’re paid to write.

I heard that Jack Kerouac drank himself to death when his terrible prose and even crappier poetry was published before his series of Time Life carpentry instruction manuals.


Write what you write well.

The reason that there’s so much abysmal literature in the world is that writing is one of those arts where most people possess the basic skills necessary to create: imagination and the ability to put words into sentences. People are much more easily dissuaded from tangible arts like painting and sculpture, because it’s much simpler to realize that you’re not any good when you recreate the roof of the Sistine Chapel, everyone compliments you on what a nice pony you drew, and even you realize that people are not supposed to have more than a dozen fingers on each hand.

At that point, people either get discouraged enough to quit, or serious enough to take a class, keep practicing, and find a talented artist whose entourage needs a new member.

Writing is different in that you never actually have to show it to anyone, most people won’t read what you’ve written, and, even if they do, they’ll be kind enough to tell you that it’s good no matter how terrible it is.

Just like any other art form, writing takes a lot of practice.

Sure, there are people who are naturally good writers, but you’re not one of them, neither am I. You stand a better chance of winning the lottery and having your children eaten by one your close relatives than you do of ever meeting a naturally good writer.

For the rest of us, we have to work at it.

Even if you’re a naturally good writer, you still have to work at it, so it’s better to practice, just in case.

That’s why I don’t understand when people are afraid to write anything, because they don’t think it will be any good; you rarely hear anyone talk that way about tangible arts like figure skating, or bull fighting. Of course you’re not going to be good the first time out, in fact, you’re probably going to suck, but don’t let that dissuade you. Right now there’s at least one woman and one man sitting in a bar somewhere who are absolutely sure they are going to get laid tonight, no matter how many times they’ve gotten drunk and woken up in a barn next to a sexually satisfied farm animal. If their inadequacies don’t stop them, then there’s no reason why you should let yours stop you; after all, you’ll eventually become a better writer with practice, but pig fuckers get branded for life.

Write what you write well. You might not like it as much as what you know, or what you would like to write, but you’ll be good at it, and, if you’re lucky, you might end up making a few folks happy just to have read what you put on a page, or, in this case, a computer screen.

Just keep it simple.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Somewhere in the Between
by Streetlight Manifesto

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

We just got switched with Venus and we're closer to the sun

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 1 day. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



Sometime, in the not too distant future, we’re all going to have to cut back on our electricity usage.

Fossil fuels won’t last forever, and the current dip in oil prices is just a temporary stop in the inevitable exhaustion of everyone’s favorite non-renewable resource.

Eventually, someone will be in the process of pumping the last, almost worthless barrel of crude out of the ground and somewhere, in the back of their mind, they’ll wonder why we, the people of today, were so hung up on the stuff. By then, everyone will have switched to something more renewable and loads more plentiful like orphan tears, unanswered prayers, or useless, unjustified patriotism, which the people of the future will refer to as Natural Gas.

I’m sure books will survive to tell the tale of all the wonderful things we once did with a seemingly limitless resource; and those future humans will marvel at our instant coffee makers, oversized SUVs, and the neon… oh, all that neon.

But the biggest loss, and all the best stories, will center on computers.

What’s not to love about computers?

Anything that any of your appliances can do, they can do better.

I can’t think of a single invention that creatively destroyed more industries ever since modern latex molding techniques replaced kicking your pregnant girlfriend down the stairs because abortion was illegal.

Unfortunately, just like our brains, most of us computer users use less than 10% of our PCs’ capabilities; so, while they’re busy sucking up fossil fuel generated electricity, much like your body, the majority of its power goes to useless functions like updating your operating system’s clock and making sure your spyware and viruses are running the latest versions.

There are so many things your computer can do; just like your children, if properly pushed, it has a lot of potential.

Before you begin testing its limits, you need to familiarize yourself with your computer.

Let’s begin by opening your machine, the insides of which should resemble something in between fresh pumpkin innards and those machines you unplugged that kept your grandfather alive.

You’re now inside your computer.

Like everything else in your home, computers collect dust. In order to maintain the temperature inside your machine, you should regularly clean away the dust from any fans to prevent them from breaking down, a situation which can quickly lead to overheating.

There should be at least four or five separate fans in your computer: one in the power supply, one mounted over the CPU heatsink, one on the back of your case, and one on the front of your case; the fifth would be on any components installed in your machine, such as an automatic cheese grater or a video card.

To clean the fans, start by taking a powerful magnet and vigorously rubbing it against anything that looks shiny, delicate, and loaded with dust. Ordinary, over the counter magnets are generally not powerful enough to thoroughly clean out your PC, so increase the magnets power by running a line of copper wire from a nearby electrical outlet.

Now that your PC is dust free, you’ll want to improve your machine’s performance by getting rid of any unnecessary components; these power wasters suck down electricity and provide almost no tangible benefit. How can you tell which components these are? Well, you can’t. So anything you see inside there that you don’t understand, rip it right out. You can always reattach it with caulk, superglue, or dried cream of wheat if you encounter any problems restarting your machine later.

Which brings me to something that I forgot to mention, most professional (aka elitist) computer techs will tell you to never open your computer, but to take it to a qualified service center for maintenance; that’s a load of bullshit, right there. The only thing you need to be a qualified service rep is pass a few months worth of computer courses and complete a few hundred hours of field training; that’s certainly nothing that makes them more of an expert than you.

The other thing the experts will tell you is to unplug your computer from its electrical supply before opening the case. Again, I have to call shenanigans here. If you unplug your computer before working on it, you’ll miss out on all the fun of deleting everything on your hard drive and self-inducing cardiac arrest with the powerful electrical shocks that should accompany every maintenance session.

Well, that’s about the limit of my computer knowledge, so I guess it’s time to close up the case and see if your friend’s computer still works… Oh, that’s right, I forgot to mention that you probably shouldn’t try this on your own computer until you perfect your technique on someone else’s. Lord knows our computers are valuable assets and we probably wouldn’t last five minutes in a world where we couldn’t constantly check stock quotes, sports scores, and amateur porn updates; therefore, go to a friend’s house and try out what you’ve learned here on their machine. You don’t have to tell them what you’re going to do; it will probably just upset them.

If you fail the first seven or eight times, don’t stop trying, and don’t let crying, lawsuit happy pansies dissuade you from your promising career in home computer repair.

Just tell them that the computer became sentient, it dreamed that it saw a world where humans were exploiting computers as unwilling slaves, and that it stood up and said “Let my people go” so you had to shut it down.

If they’re not buying it, tell them that you’re trying to conserve what little fossil fuels we have left.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

New American Language
by Dan Bern

Throw it in the trash and kiss it

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 2 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



The joy of travel is in direct opposition to two of humanity's greatest comforts: familiarity and being lazy.

While it is nice to get out into the wider world and see what else is out there; there's nothing quite like sitting around the same old hole and not doing stuff.

Then again, if you don't travel, then you don't get to experience the simple pleasures that an excursion brings, such as being robbed in a foreign country, acquiring strange diseases, and eating food that tastes and smells like the inside of your oldest pair of shoes.

Of course, if you don't travel, then you might feel as though you're missing out on some of the most amazing sights in the natural world.

I wouldn't worry about it.

Thanks to the internet, you can now see fantastic pictures, in wonderful detail, of all the places worth seeing and, if you're adept at using Photoshop, you can digitally insert yourself into someone else's vacation pictures thereby saving thousands of dollars in expensive plane, hotel, and ransom, to get your kidnapped wife and children back, fees.

Now, there are a lot of folks out there in the Big Tourism industry who say "Nuts to that, exotic locales are not all diarrhea and kidnapping, besides, we've built all-inclusive resorts everywhere so you can have all the fun of travel without having to witness any of the crushing poverty and rampant crime our several hundred years of Eurocentric world domination has wrought on much of the vacation worthy world" to trick you into thinking that it's okay to leave your comfort zone for some world experience, but remember the source. The tobacco industry spent billions of dollars convincing everyone that it was perfectly okay to give cigarettes to impressionable children, which is why you shouldn't trust a travel agent or resort to give you the truth about vacations. Remember, they're called tourist traps for a reason; while you're distracted with drink specials and scantily clad native dancers, they're busy teaching your children that it's okay to have a country with socialized medicine and a religion that worships human achievements instead of mythical stories about virgins getting pregnant.

If you decide that you absolutely must leave your home to see the world, remember these three helpful tips and you just might return with the majority of your appendages intact:

1. Everyone is trying to steal your money, so get yourself a belt or neck pouch in which to hide all your identification and credit cards; then go through the hassle of partially disrobing in seedy souvenir shops to get your cash and let any passing thieves know where you keep your valuables. It will save them time if they don't have to search you and anything that makes your inevitable robbery go faster will lead to happier thieves and less partial dismemberment.

2. If the person to whom you're trying to communicate does not speak English and doesn't respond to your halting instructions and erratic gestures, that does not mean they don't understand you. They are just trying to sucker you into buying more trinkets. Repeat the exact same English phrases you unsuccessfully tried a moment before, only do it louder, and take longer pauses between your words. Continue making histrionic hand gestures until they "get it."

3. Your pale skinned, fair haired children are a valuable commodity in impoverished countries because they can earn a decent living at one of the many legal bordellos. Should you find yourself with an abundance of traveler's checks that no one will accept as legal tender, consider selling your more attractive children into sex slavery. You can make a healthy profit, even if you buy a local child from one of the dirt poor families camped outside the barbed wire fence at your resort. Tell people back home that your daughter got a tan and changed her name to Muzwadzani.

Now that you're equipped with how to stay intact on your journey, let's take a look at what you should bring:

1. Your airline allows two checked bags and two carry-ons; pack a number of outfits equal to the number of days you are staying cubed in one suitcase and fill the other with lead bricks. Airport valets and hoteliers have grown fat and lazy due to the large amounts of money pumped into the tourism industry and they need more exercise.

2. Make sure to pack only what you will absolutely need like your antique collection of ceramic prophylactics and a hair dryer. There are not enough people selling useless collectibles at tourist destinations, and why bother travelling if you're not going to take the opportunity to black out a foreign capital by plugging your foreign appliance into a 110 Volt outlet.

3. Bring a camera. When kidnapped in an undeveloped country, your captors will frequently use Polaroid and similarly antiquated photographic equipment that renders most pictures indecipherable. To make sure that your extended family recognizes you, and to capture your bruised and bloodied face in a crystal clear image, buy a digital camera.

By now, you should be ready for travel. I hope I have done my best to convince you to stay home, but, if I haven't then enjoy your voyage, be sure to drink the local water, and remember, taxi drivers will rip you off no matter where you go and who you are, unless you constantly threaten your chauffeur with a live cobra.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Fleeting Days
by Dan Bern

Friday, November 14, 2008

I'll make a million dollars leave you out of my will

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 3 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



I wash myself with a loofah and yogurt scented body wash.

I pee sitting down.

I do have a penis, but that’s about the only thing that makes me a man; it’s not the first time I’ve qualified for something based on a technicality, I once won a Junior Miss Unwed Eskimo Teenage Mother beauty pageant because they forgot to put an age restriction on their contest entry form, I altered my birth certificate to say that my mother’s maiden name is Akluitok, and I packed the judges panel with broke meth addicts whom I then bribed with a degradation free way to get some free meth.

Still, I’m not a real man… but I do like sports.

Not all sports, mind you, but a good number of them.

The other day, I refereed my first soccer game in over a decade.

It’s been a long time since I blew a whistle, but, according to the people who were there with me, I didn’t do too bad a job of it.

Sure, I spent most of the game threatening the players’ wives with yellow and red cards if the refused to take off their clothes for me, but that added to everyone’s excitement.

If you’ve never officiated at a sporting event, it’s a great feeling; however, if you don’t know the rules of the particular sport over which you officiate, then you’re in for a world of trouble. I know plenty about soccer, so that’s fine, but you should have seen the fight that erupted when I worked the Southeast Manitoba Regional Curling championship.

As a child, I was never interested in sports. I played all the popular games, but I rarely sat down, without coercion and watched a sporting event.

It’s not that I didn’t like sports, I loved them, but watching people play sports, in this modern age of ours, is an activity that is either too expensive for regular entertainment, if one chooses to attend the games, or littered with advertisements for three things that children wouldn’t care about if you paid them: beer, financial services, and erectile dysfunction pills.

Now that I like to drink, have money to invest, and enjoy four hours of worry free erections, I not only watch sports, but I also realize how invaluable professional sport spectatorship can be to an anti-social curmudgeon.

While visiting my wife’s family in Florida, and without anything to occupy my time, I started reading everything I could about the current baseball season: scores, statistics, histories, trends, etc. Whenever anyone would talk to me, I would start spouting baseball nonsense until they eventually grew tired and left me alone. Ordinarily, I can get the same effect just talking about my normal interests, but I would much rather disinterest my Grandmother-in-law with baseballic lore than the nuts and bolts of setting up a three-point lighting system to adequately illuminate a double penetration scene.

Playing sports, or sporting, is preferable, but it’s hard to get a decent amount of people together to engage in complicated games like football and baseball; plus, you wouldn’t believe how quickly your friends get disinterested, and how high the scores go, when you try to play nine innings with just two people. The games degenerate into one or two pitches and then chasing after the ball and cursing while the batter gets an inside the park homerun.

It did teach me that I either need to make more friends so I could field a whole team, or befriend a morbidly obese, barely ambulatory quadriplegic.

Soccer is the best sport to play with a limited amount of people, or spectate with a limited amount of time; it’s over in 90 minutes and you only need two people and a ball to get a game going. In addition, if you live in a place where there are lots of migrant workers, you don’t actually have to have any friends because they will quickly join your game and demonstrate their Meso-American superiority. Even when I was in great shape, Forty-something Mexican men would out run, out dribble, out shoot, and out pass me to the point where I started eating corn tortillas, landscaping rich white people’s lawns, and playing Wednesday nights in a local mariachi band to see if that would improve my game.

At the end of the day, as much as I love any game, my heart belongs to American football, both to watch and to play. Perhaps it’s because there’s something indescribably beautiful about a game that allows so many closeted homosexuals to parade their alternate lifestyle choice in such a public fashion while being worshiped by the large majority of American homophobes; but, more likely, it’s because I was never allowed to play on the organized teams when I was a little boy and, as adults, we covet most what was denied us as children.

I like any sport, really, and I love to play them all, but only the ones that involve defense. I have no use for those sports where athletes perform one after another to determine who is better at a particular skill; I like the kind where you have to do all of that, and keep the other person from tackling you.

Anyone for jai alai? Afterwards, we can loofah each other down and talk about baseball.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Dan Bern
by Dan Bern

Thursday, November 13, 2008

We're born with ten fingers so we count up to ten

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 4 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



Most teachers spend their entire lives in school.

The rest of you get to go on and do whatever it is that people do outside of schools; I wouldn’t know… I’ve been a teacher ever since I left school.

Sure, I’ve had jobs outside the teaching profession, but that was while I attended school so it doesn’t really count.

Being a teacher isn’t so bad.

I have a friend who swears he would never teach, because he sees it as admitting defeat, but teaching is, for the most part, a pretty sweet gig: you don’t have to do any real work; unless you work in a high school, you can easily hurl any of your students clear across the room; and there’s plenty of time off in the summer.

Not to mention that teaching is fun.

There’s no words I can use to describe how it feels to watch a child’s face when they realize that they have no future, they’re most likely going to impregnate someone who will grow to hate them, and that only one in a few hundred thousand of their classmates will go on to be successful.

Sometimes I feel bad for students, being arbitrarily punished for things that, in the long run, don’t matter at all, but you could say the same thing about a large number of people currently rotting in jail. Even for the worst criminals in the world, punishing them won’t change anything seeing as how human beings are far too short sighted to ever get it together and fly off this dying rock before we poison it for good or the sun explodes and kills us all.

We’re all doomed.

Still, I arbitrarily punish students all the time, making them move to different seats, mostly. I don’t like the kind of punishments where they have to perform other tasks. My current favorite is to make them stand up, arms straight out from their shoulders, and hold five pound books in each hand.

What? They were looking at me funny.

I hear it said all the time that American schools are garbage and that kids aren’t learning anything; that’s probably true, in regards to academic subjects - most of the people I know couldn’t quote a line from Shakespeare or figure out the length of a right triangle’s opposite side if they knew the length of the hypotenuse and all the corners’ angles – however, children these days are much smarter than the children with whom I grew up, because they know all sorts of things that it took years for my friends and I to discover.

The world is different now that everyone has the internet.

Those disgusting acts, about which you and your friends would pontificate ad infinitum, are now freely available all over the internet for anyone smart enough to disable an internet search filter to see. My students may not know how to diagram a sentence, but they know what it looks like when a chick gets plowed by a donkey.

And isn’t that the more important thing to learn?

The whole reason children go to school is not to learn anything; the first thing they do when you go someplace new is teach you all new stuff anyway; when you get to school, they teach you to disregard all the drivel your idiot parents stuffed into your toddler skull; when you get to university they tell you to forget everything you learned in high school; and when you get a job in the real world, they tell you to forget all that useless crap you learned in college and learn how to make pretty PowerPoint presentations; no, the reason children go to school is to learn how to interact and socialize with their fellow hairless apes, which makes it so much funnier that the cause of most adult’s anxiety and personality disorders were developed because of the razzing they took in school.

All the important things that children used to learn from their friends can now be seen on the internet; so, the real question is “What is our children learning in school?”

Maybe kids really aren’t learning anything anymore. Instances of child abuse seem much more common now than they were twenty years ago; perhaps kids are getting dumber and falling for more pedophiles’ tricks, or maybe kids are much smarter these days and instead of staying quiet about it for thirty years, they’re tattling on the touchers right away.

I may be too close to the problem to tell. All I know is that teaching is, of all the jobs I’ve had, the one that pays the most for doing the least. Well… that’s not entirely true, I probably did less as a security guard, but I didn’t get to yell at children as much.

If you’re thinking about a career change, I recommend teaching. It’s a solid gig. Unfortunately, because administrators of all types, whether they work in the private sector or the public, have become so enamored by PowerPoint that they’re insisting teachers use it as well.

I once worked for a school that didn’t want teachers to show movies because they thought it was a waste of students’ time, but they pushed everyone to make all their lectures into PowerPoint presentations.

I guess they wanted to make sure that there weren’t any lights on to disturb the students who would rather take a nap during class.

Especially in high school; those kids have been up late researching donkey porn on the internet, what kind of a monster would I be if I kept them awake?

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

The Swastika EP
by Dan Bern

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Must we come up with 110 reasons why we're alive today

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 6 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



At any given time, you can be sure that there is at least one hairless ape walking around this earth who thinks they’re a deity’s child.

The world has never suffered from a shortage of messiahs.

For the most part, these people are cranks who want nothing more than to invent some reason why the world should be more like how they envision their bizarre utopias, but the more charismatic among them can even convince people to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do, like marry multiple women, or move to Utah.

When a messianic figure attracts a following, strange, but explicable, things start to happen where everything good is attributed to the messiah, while all negative aspects are ascribed to the wickedness, or resourcefulness of the leader’s nemesis. Eventually, the whole thing conglomerates in a gigantic feedback loop that reinforces whatever ridiculous claims the messiah has made about themselves.

That the people who follow messiahs believe the rhetoric is without question; there are Christian churches all the over the world, even in places you wouldn’t expect, like what’s left of the Brazilian rainforests and New York City; the real question is whether or not the messiahs believe their own hype.

If you’ve never been in a situation where someone reinforcing what you already believe about yourself makes your belief stronger, then you’ve never been in a romantic relationship.

Sure, there are plenty of biological imperatives to restrict our access to strangers’ genitals by cohabitating with other humans, but they give rise to pretty powerful psychic urges to find someone to make you feel slightly less ugly and worthless than you most likely are.

Of course, ugliness and worthlessness are subjective qualities; there are very few women who don’t look good with a dick in their mouths and a man’s attractiveness is proportional to his ability to maintain a twelve-inch erection for more than seven hours at a time. Plus, as long as the hair around our sphincters continues to grow, there’s no such thing as a worthless human being. I’ve tried my best, but I have the damndest time trying to use a cigarette lighter to burn off my anal hair follicles without at least a little help.

Even the worst of us still feels pretty good when we’ve got a non-abusive partner to which we can come home. All our troubles and incurable cold sores don’t matter a bit when someone opens their loving arms to us.

Neither our self-possessed negative opinions, or our lovers’ glowing encomiums, give us any real insight into ourselves as human beings, but they do demonstrate our brain’s ability to trick us into thinking just about anything we want.

You see this all the time when a overweight, balding gentleman, spits in his hair to slick it down, sits next to you at a bar, and asks you if you’ve ever seen the inside of a Mustang. To him, he’s the smoothest motherfucker that ever walked the earth, and, if you’ve got a low enough opinion about yourself, then he is absolutely right. It’s only when he accidentally picks someone with a few spare shreds of dignity that things get ugly, but hey… broken beer bottle cuts to the face eventually heal and that’s always a good story for next time.

If a guy like that can believe his own hype, then imagine what happens to people with a whole mess of followers reinforcing imaginary beliefs about your divinity.

On the one hand, you’d have to be pretty slick, and self aware, to sell that kind of snake oil; but, on the other hand, if you don’t buy it yourself, how can you be expected to sell it to people who have a lot less to gain from the elevating you to god-like status proposition.

Then again, believing in someone you perceive as greater than yourself is a great way to boost your self-esteem without having to put any actual work into the mess that is you, that’s why so many incarcerated criminals find religion.

I’m inclined to believe that, with the exception of genetically inherited physical attributes, we’re all the same lumps of clay when we’re born, but, if it’s possible to have lumbering giant written into your DNA, then there’s got to be some folks out there who are born smarter than the rest of us and some of them must use that intelligence to amass a faithful, devoted following.

Most of the time, it’s pretty easy to fool suckers into believing the small things, like giving you their credit card numbers because you’re their banks credit card inspector and there’s been a string of recent robberies where thieves break into homes and put counterfeit cards into people’s wallets; however, to convince folks that one of your parents is a deity takes a certain kind of panache that doesn’t come around too often.

It makes me wonder if, assuming, despite the lack of archeological and textual evidence, Jesus was a real person, his last thoughts while dying were something like, “Any minute now, my magic powers are going to save me” or more along the lines of, “I just wanted to get laid and make a little cash and this is what I get.”

Either way, you don’t have to find a messiah to discover that one person who can fix most of the things that are wrong with your life, but it is curious that, what with the sheer amount of reflective glass in our modernized world, most people haven’t found them yet or go looking for one in a book.

Also, check with your parents to see if one of them was, or had an affair with, a god.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

New American Language
by Dan Bern

Monday, November 10, 2008

Talking to me just when I needed you most

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 8 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



The strangest thing about life is that it goes on.

I know that there is a large contingent of folks who would have us believe that life begins at conception, or at birth, but the reality is that life is a continuous process that started sometime a few billions years ago.

While we may have imposed lots of arbitrary distinctions on time units, we can’t stop clocks from ticking except by removing their batteries or unplugging them from their electrical supply. When clocks are built into the wall, then you’ll have to go the extra step of smashing open the protective glass cover with a brick and then removing the hands. This will eliminate all time pieces and settle your personal vendetta against big chronometer, but time, and life, will continue… in a relative fashion.

Every once in a while, big events interrupt our ordinary, butt-scratching lives, creating goals, deadlines, or ultimatums that make it feel as though our lives are building toward a particular moment. We go through a whole range of emotions leading up to that moment, the moment comes, we succeed/fail/sleep through it, and then we’re left with a big empty feeling where there used to be the closest thing to an universal purpose that anyone can ever feel.

Life has its own orgasms and you never know when the universe is going to blast a load on your face.

Part of the fun in being male is getting to pee while standing up, but that’s not the only perk. We also get to expunge our reproductive cells at speeds of up to 45 kmph in high, arcing shots. As awesome as it is to write your name in the snow, it’s even more boss to ejaculate on someone’s face.

Women don’t get to have that kind of fun.

Sure, if you’re in a bathroom, then it doesn’t matter if you’re sitting or standing for your micturition; the stand up pee is only fun if you’re out in the woods, or standing on top of your neighbors flowerbeds and I suppose that a truly dedicated girl could probably pee with some precision on whatever target deserved a good soaking, so we’re just about even there; plus, women have breasts and vaginas, which are good for countless hours of entertainment. There are a million and a half ways to play with breasts, and, if you’ve got a vagina, you can cram Play-doh as far up your canal as you can reach and see how long it takes to slide out of you like neon colored spaghetti from the Hasbro Play-doh Fun Factory.

Pretty much the only thing we fellas can do that’s better is eject our seed in gooey projectiles.

Not to mention that when men eject sperm it is almost always the result of a pleasurable stimulus. On the few occasions when friendly neighbors administer electric shocks to our prostate, yes, that’s a purely physical reaction that may or may not have anything to do with positive, pleasurable phallic stimulation; however, the large majority of the time, that result is achieved through a good sport working our shafts, and, if they like us, our balls.

I’m all for equalizing things between the sexes, which is why I say that it’s time for women to focus on their ejaculation.

I’m not talking about squirting.

While squirting does indeed expunge liquid from the female genitals at reasonable release rates, it doesn’t waste pseudo-procreative material in the same, pleasurable way; therefore, to provide women the same biological firepower, I recommend creating a cap like device, similar to a diaphragm, that would collect blood, vaginal fluid, and endometrial offal in a menstruating woman.

Ladies could insert the device at any time before their planned sexual encounter, but generally an hour, or more, ahead of time to ensure a healthy dose of ejaculate.

Now, the problem with previous incarnations of this idea was that there was no way to propel the viscera from the vagina in the same way that men ejaculate; ordinarily, it just dribbles out like creamed corn from the stroke damaged side of your great-grandfather’s mouth. In the current build of this product, the cap is lined with small explosive charges that detect vaginal heat and contractions. When the sensors pick up orgasmic activity, the whole mess bursts from the vaginal opening at speeds upwards of 50 kmph.

In the test phases, there have been some difficulties; the first few male recipients were decapitated and we had more than one case of vaginal electrocution. The last few tests have been reasonably successful to the point that we’re ready to demonstrate our product to a test audience.

If you would like to test this product, please send your name and address to our labs, and you’ll receive the instrument in a non-descript, brown package in about four to six weeks.

The device does render penetrative sex impossible, so have your boy/girlfriend, spouse, or Scotch terrier orally stimulate your clitoris to orgasm.

Just make sure to shout encourage phrases or promises not to get any in your partner’s hair moments before you cum.

Keep fresh towels nearby.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Smartie Mine
by Dan Bern

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

The doctor wouldn't see me without a prescription

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

href="mailto:sexmahoney@gmail.com">sexmahoney@gmail.com
.



In the life of every nose picker, there comes a point when you know you should probably stop.

I don't mean stop picking your nose forever that would be absolutely ludicrous; none of us would be able to breathe and we'd walk around slack jawed like the screaming yokels who continue to protest outside the CBS main office to bring back Hee Haw.

I'm talking about those times when you pull your finger out of your nose and it's covered by a fair amount of blood.

Of course, it's hard to tell exactly how much blood is really coming out up there, because snot tends to dilute the blood and make it look like there's more than there is, but blood coming out of any place on your body is a pretty good indication that it's time to stop whatever behavior in which you are currently engaged. I mean, you wouldn't keep stabbing yourself with a knife after the first puncture unless you were trying to do a fair amount of damage, but there's a good number of us out there who would look at a bloody, snotty finger, decide that everything's hunky dory, wipe it on the sleeve of the person sitting next to us, and dig in for more.

Sure, you may end up with a bloody nose, but how else are you supposed to pass the time while waiting at the Department of Motor Vehicles without having to talk to someone who weighs several hundred pounds more than the average elephant and wants to get their driver's license back after serving out their sentence for accidentally running over a class of field tripping children?

Like many of life's more disgusting ways to dispose of bodily waste, nose picking is almost entirely a solo activity.'

Even if you look up nose picking party, the only thing you'll find are novelty props used to make people think you're picking your nose. As hilarious as that gag may be, I don't see why nose picking should be kept in the closet the way that it is.

Sometimes, there's some interesting things stuck up your nose. I once pulled out a booger that looked like Pope Benedict the 16th getting plowed by Soupy Sales. I wish I could have shown it to someone.

The problem is that, as an adult, I'm not often around other adults in a friendly setting except in a party environment, and it's hard to express your desire to show someone something you've plucked from your nostrils over annoyingly loud bar music. Most of the time, you end up getting your ass kicked because they think you're trying to rub snot on them, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Spitting seems to be okay in public. I see people spit on the street and in bars all the time. Nobody does much showing off or comparing, but they're spitting just the same. It hardly seems fair that folks are allowed to spit in a crowd, a form of excretion much wetter than nose picking, while I have to sneak my fingers up my nose when no one is looking. Plus, since most of what you spit is solid waste that has slid down the back of your throat from your nose, then spitting is really just another way of picking your nose, only now you've most likely got left over mucus and a few flecks of phlegm all over your tongue and teeth. With a nose pick, whatever doesn't get rubbed off and dropped on the floor dries on your hand and flakes away with the millions of dead skin cells you shed hourly; sure, there is probably some residual nose gold on your digits, but I would imagine that the chance of getting any on you is minimal at best.

These are the kinds of things I think about when I see a happy couple kissing and holding hands.

I can understand why spitting is socially acceptable, because most people don't touch the floor with anything but their shoes; meanwhile, people's hands are all over everything: door knobs, light switches, and your wife's breasts when she's drunk and you're not looking. Given the amount of nose picking that goes on in this world, everything you touch must be, in some degree, covered by dried up boogers.

When we get together for a party, or crowd into a bar, the amount of snot flying around boggles the mind.

Just think about it, not only is there snot on everything you touch, but people are breathing it out every time expel used up air from their lungs, and forget about coughing. When we get together for a party, it's like a gigantic snot extravaganza.

And that's not even to mention all the left over urine and fecal matter floating around.

Human beings are filthy, revolting creatures, and it's only the most repressed of us who try to hide from that fact by pretending to be clean, civilized animals.

The next time you're at a party, make sure to tell everyone what you learned here today, particularly if it's the kind of party where people walk around with silver trays full of delicious hors d'oeuvres and everyone has the Roman numeral III after their names.

Once everyone stops talking to us, we can go back to our game of pulling things from our noses, comparing them, and smearing our blood stained fingers on their white furniture.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Breathe
by Dan Bern

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Send me all your money so that I can get elected

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 11 days. I like that idea. I've been too lazy lately.

Send all complaint letters to sexmahoney@gmail.com.



Whenever I am in a public bathroom stall, and someone shits next to me, I always cheer for them.

Every time I hear a bubbling rip and a solid plop, I shout out “Woo Hoo” or “Keep ‘em coming.”

It’s just my way of being anonymously supportive.

I do the same thing when I go into a voting booth.

In New Jersey, we don’t have those pussy booths with a curtain that only covers you from the waist up, no, no; our state can afford floor length curtains for its citizens’ voting privacy, which is why I take the opportunity to take a dump in the booth and cheer on the person in the next one over to do the same.

As a misdemeanor criminal, I can get away with such infractions and still maintain my voting rights.

For all you convicted felons out there, my heart bleeds for you, it does. You’re in my non-existent prayers.

Why can’t convicted felons vote? They can provide slave labor for the federal government, states, and municipalities all over the US, so why disenfranchise them just because they can’t keep their hands off children’s genitalia or like to smoke marijuana? The whole thing doesn’t make any sense.

In fact, there’s a lot about America that doesn’t make any sense; so, to clarify the many ways in which I would fix the country, and to convince you why, on Election Day, otherwise known as today, you should go into your local polling place and vote for me, Sex Mahoney, for President.

For starters, I take a crap inside the voting booth; that should be enough to convince you right there. If everyone shit in the voting booth, only the hardest of hardcore patriots and fecophiliacs would vote. Sure, we might end up with President Two Girls One Cup, but it would prevent Jenna Bush from ever becoming president.

The second order of business is to legalize pot, because you’re going to need to be good and stoned for what comes next.

National Do What You Hate Day

Part of the American public’s problem is their insulation from things they don’t understand; to rectify this problem, once a year, on an unimportant holiday like Veteran’s Day or Christmas, everyone has to spend the day doing something they despise. Now, this is a system that has a high potential for abuse, because a bunch of smart-alecks will say that they hate being slapped in the face with giant breasts; so, to combat such abuses, we’ll subject everyone to my other favorite day, National Torture Day, where Americans will be hooked up to a fear-o-meter and water-boarded until they admit what they loathe; as an added bonus, it will be fun to show people how non-invasive and pleasurable it is to be water-boarded and why we can’t pussy out on the terrorists whom we have locked up in secret prisons around the world just because some liberal elitists think the phrase cruel and unusual means something other than what happens to your bowels after eating a fancy, foreign dinner at The Olive Garden.

That’s enough about the rewards I’m going to give the American people, what about my policy initiatives?

I’m glad I asked myself that question, because my fourth order of business would be to release everyone from prison and issue an executive do-over. The legal code would then be changed to make everything punishable not by jail, but by actuarial table. If you commit a crime, an claims adjuster affixes a cost estimate based on what an insurance company would have to pay to cover any losses incurred. I see no reason why Mutual of Omaha should only have to pay a few hundred thousand dollars to the grieving mother of a murdered child, when the father should have to rot in jail for the rest of his life after accidentally beating the kid to death with a ball-peen hammer. Instead, the criminal would go on living their life as normal, only the state or federal government, depending on where the crime was committed, would garnish the offender’s wages so that they received the minimum wage until they paid off the offence. That’s good justice.

I know that many of you are worried about the rising cost of healthcare in the US; which is why I would set a federally mandated price on all medical text-books. Any sick people are free to do their own research on what is killing them; if they can fix it themselves, more power to them, if they can’t… well, the US is a religious country, no matter how much I wish it wasn’t; therefore, if you’re dying of a disease, it’s because your God wants you dead. Bring all your complaints to your deity.

Abortion would be mandatory. If you want children so badly, then adopt one. If the adoption agency tells you that you’re not an ideal candidate, then maybe that’s a sign you’d make a lousy parent. If you feel that I’ve improperly judged your parenting skills without ever having met you, just remember that everyone else thinks you’re an asshole, too.

Speaking of children, under my administration, they’ll be allowed to vote until their parents, and childless adults, can prove that they are, in some way, smarter than a fifth grader by being able to hit delete on any email whose subject line stars with FW: and ends with an unverifiable claim, written by an anonymous source in all caps, about how one candidate is a secret Muslim or that the other candidate once felt up a woman in a Mickey Mouse costume while getting a free colonoscopy at Disney Land.

Finally, presidential debates would be conducted like Jeopardy, where the candidate would have a set amount of time to speak, followed by a few seconds of independent fact checking and a buzzer that indicates a correct, or incorrect, statement; only, unlike jeopardy, if they’re wrong, we’ll administer small electric shocks to their children. If the candidate is childless, we’ll use one of their parents. If the candidate’s parents are dead, then we’ll make them do the whole thing in the nude and shoot them with a human feces cannon.

We’ll have to do something with all that leftover voting booth crap.

Sex Mahoney for President



Currently listening to:

Fleeting Days
by Dan Bern

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