Wednesday, July 30, 2008

South on I-95


Koreans believe in an urban legend called Fan Death.

There’s a Wikipedia article on the subject if you’re interested in reading more, but, to summarize, if you leave a fan running in a small, closed room, it will create a vortex and remove all the oxygen thereby causing you to suffocate.

Another explanation is that the fan blades eventually chop up all the oxygen particles until there are none left to breathe.

The official government position is that, if a body is exposed to electric fans or air conditioners for too long, it causes dehydration and hypothermia, plus, an increase of carbon dioxide in the blood stream.

Upon first examination, this kind of urban legend seems particularly harmful, untrustworthy, and downright fraudulent, but when you consider that people all over the world have been shoveling Jesus down other folks throats, sometimes at sword/gun point, it doesn’t seem that bad.

Besides, just like evolution and human-caused global warming, that fan death does not occur has never been conclusively proven; similarly, no one has ever shown that going swimming within thirty minutes after a meal causes debilitating stomach cramps, but there are mothers all over the world still peddling that load of horse manure.

In the old days, it was incredibly hard to tell this difference between an urban legend and a scientific fact, but, in these modern times, things are much easier.

If you receive an email with the character string FW:, then everything contained therein is probably untrue. Anything that attributes a particular phenomenon to God, Jesus, or a ghost is improvable at best and a damn lie at worst. Feel free to further disregard anything with the word conspiracy in the title or body text.

Of course, not all disinformation comes through your inbox; much of it originates in advertising and is then appropriated as truth by people who don’t know any better.

My wife and I argue about advertising all the time. She thinks it’s a harmless way for artists to produce work, and I think it’s a conspiracy created by God and the ghost of Jesus to sell more American cars.

Trinatorial scheming aside, the Tipper Gore in me would like to silence advertising to protect people from their own idiocy, while my wife thinks that anyone who buys a Ronco Rotisserie Grill deserves the severe scalding and financial penalty they eventually receive.

Advertising puts me in a difficult position, since I’m ordinarily in favor of free speech, even to the detriment of everything else. I don’t see anything wrong with a veteran call girl graphically describing her sexual history to a room full of six-year-olds, but that’s mostly because the call girl isn’t trying to convince the children to give her money for sexual favors. The second she does, then we have a problem.

It’s not that I don’t understand advertising, people have useless shit to sell and they need suckers to whom it can be sold, and that is generally harmless; I don’t particularly care which brand of toilet tissue you use on your backside just so long as I don’t have to unclog the soggy, scented, double-ply mess out of your toilet when the damn things backs up; however, when I am crushed to death beneath the massive bulk of your SUV because you’re both too insecure in your masculinity to settle for a minivan, and too stupid to figure out how to use the Bluetooth headset that you had to have for Christmas, then I’m far less likely to sympathize with advertisers.

There’s no point in punishing a driver for their negligence, because people are like dogs; yes, some of them will learn if you repeatedly shove their face into the steaming pile of love they leave on your living room floor, but most of them just bow their heads until you’re out of sight and go back to licking their assholes clean.

Then again, if I blame advertising, doesn’t that make me just another whiny, crybaby harping about the media’s responsibility for society’s ills? Just how responsible can you expect a species to be when it took them 20,000 years of social-evolutionary development just to realize that their coming often represented a death knell for any large edible animals in the area? We couldn’t even get a society going without inventing an imaginary, all powerful father figure to watch over us and justify our ruthless aggression.

In the end, I have no other choice but to accept advertising as yet another screening process so that, when I hear people explain to me how their new oscillating fan also ionizes their air, I can turn my brain to more important tasks like replaying old games of Frogger in my imagination.

I guess I’m just a little sad when I sit down with an old friend, and rather than talking about new books we’ve read, movies we’ve watched, or hobos we’ve stabbed, we talk about new commercials we have both seen. Plus, it’s too much, eventually advertising wears us down until we’re standing in a supermarket trying to decide between the classic or the old fashioned seasoning.

Just make sure you turn off your air conditioner before you sleep tonight.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Traffic and Weather
by Fountains of Wayne

Monday, July 28, 2008

Lay down their bandanas and complain


I masturbated today and it was glorious.

You’re probably asking yourself: “Why would Sex Mahoney, a semi-virile, young man, with an attractive wife announce, as glorious, such a pedestrian event?”

Well, for the last few weeks, my wife’s sister has been staying at our apartment, and my apartment only has two rooms, the bedroom and the bathroom; the conflux of these two unfortunate circumstances has me curtailing my regularly scheduled autoerotic activities.

Once, I snuck into the bathroom with my laptop to see if I could squeeze out a quick one, but my wife popped in. Some of my female friends recommend that I pop into the shower and do it there, but, as my male readers will attest, masturbating in the shower is only one step up from drunkenly feeling up your own grandmother at your sister’s wedding on the sadness scale. Not only that, but, the masturbator is often the same person who has to unclog a mass of his coagulated semen and hair from the shower drain at some indeterminate time in the future.

So, during the last two weeks, for the first time in my adult life, I haven’t been able to masturbate.

Sure, there have been other times when masturbation wasn’t an option. While backpacking around Europe, I couldn’t sneak away to whack off; plus, I spent most of my time in hostel dorm bunk beds with anywhere between two and ten other people. The first time I tried, everyone got a little uncomfortable, especially when I asked a pair of college aged women from Michigan to kiss each other a little.

This masturbatory dry spell has been unique in several ways.

For one, I am in my own home with all of my favorite pornography just lying around waiting to be watched; unfortunately, my wife’s sister is a little uptight about sitting around and ogling ‘Baker’s Dozen,’ a porn series in which one girl takes on twelve men.

Which brings me to today.

After spending two weeks as a virtual prisoner in my own home, my wife and her sister left me alone for two days to go down to Busan.

Not only can I now whack off with impunity, but I don’t have to constantly worry about keeping my boxer’s fly buttoned shut for fear of phallic floppage.

Yes, I like to walk around my house with my penis and ball hanging out. You have a problem with that?

Shortly after cleaning myself off, I realized that this, my empty apartment, is what life will be like after my wife wizens up and dumps my loser ass.

It wasn’t that bad.

Then again, I only experienced twenty minutes of it before I had to leave for work; so, there might be some crying when I do it again tonight.

Then again, I might just like it so much that I change the door code to my apartment.

It’s not that I don’t love my wife, she’s a great lady: I’ve never met anyone who could fit that many marbles in her mouth, and she’s the only person I know who had the strength and courage to put up with a guy a like me.

Still, there are times when I find myself wishing that I was single, so I could eat dinner standing over the sink, never wash or change my underwear, and make dirty, late-night calls to phone numbers I find scribbled on bathroom walls without having to worry about waking anyone.

Like so many people out there, I’m never happy with what I have until I’ve fucked it up so bad that it takes out a restraining order against me and I never see it again except through a pair of binoculars.

I suppose that, if I ever do run for president, then I will probably need to have a wife, since even Ben Franklin couldn’t pull that one off, and he got off easy by having his wife die. It’s much sloppier when you have to show up in court and your wife’s attorney reads all those text messages you sent to her attractive friends.

Then again, if America is ready to elect a black president, who is also a secret Muslim, then perhaps they’re ready for a bachelor president. One who will show up at press conferences with strange smelling women they met online in a Battlestar Galactica forum and introduce the nation to his creepy mother, in whose basement he recently lived before moving to the White House.

In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy these two whack filled days while I can, and, if she asks you, just tell my wife’s sister that her pillowcase is so stiff because I accidentally put cornstarch in the washing machine.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Highway 61 Revisited
by Bob Dylan

Friday, July 25, 2008

Ply me with drinks


Health advocates say that you shouldn’t cover your mouth with your hands if you’re coughing or sneezing.

It’s not that you shouldn’t cover your mouth at all; it’s just that covering your mouth with your hands does about as much good as holding a newspaper in front of you to stop a mudslide. Not only does most of your sick mucus get thrown out into the atmosphere, but you end up with snot all over your hands.

They recommend coughing and sneezing into a tissue or, if one is not available, your shirtsleeve.

I don’t know how you feel about this advice, but I welcome the advent of snotty biceps.

Of course, there will be some people out there who say that they’ve coughed into their hands for years because it was the way their parents taught them to cough, and that’s fine enough. Don’t shake hands with any of these people during flu season.

There are always people who don’t want to change just because it requires expending a little bit of effort. From the politician who can’t stop lying to the public and stealing their money, to the pedophile who can’t stop plying children with lollipops and teaching them what causes the strange noises emanating from their parents bedrooms on early bedtime night.

The United States was that way once, which is why it is still one of only three countries in the world that doesn’t know how to measure distance in meters.

It also explains why people are so reluctant to give up their superstition and mythology. Superstition is an irrational belief that comes from ignorance or fear; a myth is an irrational belief that attempts to explain a natural phenomenon.

Believing in heaven is a superstition; thinking that God has a plan for everyone and that’s why they die when they do, that’s a myth.

Modern religions are a mix of superstition and mythology, the same as any other old timey religion; they difference is that the only reason people know about Zeus, Wotan, Hamburgler, and Set is so they can pass a class on ancient Greek, Nordic, McDonaldsian or Egyptian history while people know about Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, and Buddha because their parents passed on the same mythological superstitions that their parents told them.

There is nothing more dangerous than unquestioned custom; just because your daddy, and his daddy, did it, doesn’t mean that it’s right to do; otherwise, a family of cannibals is as justified in practicing their culinary curiosities as any faithful person is in tithing whichever imaginary deity demands ten percent of their gross income.

Custom is a great, and easy, way to impart knowledge, especially to children; life is so much easier if those little bastards conform to our ways of shitting in porcelain bowls, not shaving our pets, and learning to keep their fucking mouths shut during playoff season; however, most problems in this world come from people who take custom and mistake it for sound learning. Each generation must examine their parent’s customs to decide which ones stay and which ones pass into the forgotten annals of history like nickelodeons and the hully gully.

It’s called evolution and, even if you don’t believe that we evolved from the same common ancestor as Koko the gorilla, evolution, it’s real.

Taking the easy route has never been the American way; we’re a country of people who would drive our cars backwards all the way to work if we didn’t have the money to have our transmissions fixed. It’s about time that we stopped using custom to teach our children, explain the reasons behind all the stupid things that we, as people, do and stop relying on that age old adage our parents taught us: “Because I said so, that’s why.”

We can start by explaining why inflammable means flammable, and recruiting doesn’t involve cruiting again.

Actually, that’s exactly what humanity has done for most of its existence, and especially so in the last few hundred years; we try to explain all the new and complicated things we’ve discovered to our decrepit and immutable parents and peers, who still think that it is necessary to hide during an eclipse so that the snake who swallowed the sun doesn’t try to eat them too.

There’s not much difference with religion and its various mythological incarnations. Some of the rules are easy to follow such as, don’t kill anyone and fuck someone besides your own children, but other’s are outmoded and fall by the wayside, such as shellfish are an abomination and donkeys aren’t allowed to wear hats.

Religious adherence to a set of guidelines, last updated hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago, does not take into account the way society changes over time and it’s not a distortion to look at those guidelines and laugh at what ancient people thought were important issues, the regulation of which required codifying. Don’t ask me why it was illegal to buy bread on a Wednesday, but it must have had a good reason since it was punishable by stoning.

Let’s get rid of the churches, and stop reading the bible for practical advice; it’s about time we set religion adrift on an ice floe. I’m not saying that you have to stop believing in God, if I can go on thinking that I’m attractive and witty, then you’re entitled to your ridiculous beliefs too, it’s just that there are better ways to spend your time, money, and spare thoughts that don’t involve eating up your entire Sunday morning and wearing stupid hats.

Sometimes a custom is an honored tradition that imparts practical wisdom from previous generation on to their intellectual and spiritual heirs, and sometimes you just end up with snot on your hands.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Just a Girl
by Dubstar

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

You just did what you're supposed to do


In Korea, they don’t put air fresheners or sanitizers into their urinals; they just throw a bar of soap over the drain.

Walking around the here, you’ll sometimes see white stains on rooftops and sidewalks that radiate out like remnants from a paint bomb. For the longest time, I didn’t realize that they were the melted remains of urinal soap bars, until, one day, I saw a group of children throwing bars of soap out of a 10th story window.

And yet, they call me dirty when I come into work without having showered for days. I may not wash, but that’s far less likely to spread disease than grabbing pissed on soap bars and chucking them around with your friends.

Sometimes you just wake up and you’re sick, but there are those few, rare occasions, when you can feel it coming days in advance.

There’s nothing more pathetic than a human being’s mind in those moments.

We go over all our negative behaviors and promise to change them: we brush our teeth anytime a foreign object enters our mouths; we promise to stop drinking things we find in stray Petri dishes; and we take our vitamins like good boys and girls.

None of these things are ever effective.

Well, that’s not entirely true; there is one effective remedy out there, but it goes by many names.

It all depends on how you like to take your placebo.

Of course, it doesn’t stop with medicine; each of us is perfectly willing to find miracle cures and signs everywhere, for ailments both physical and mental. The only prerequisite is that they meet our poorly defined criteria and allow us to read into them as much as we want without bogging us down in reality.

We all like role-playing games; some of us just prefer to use dice and hit points, eat Funions in our mother’s basements, and have our closes friends call us Qzilgnar the Destroyer.

At some point in our lives, we consciously decide how much reality we want to accept and that’s about the level in which we live from then on.

There are distractions along the way, tragedies that interrupt our television schedules and masturbatory habits, but, for the most part, we put our wheels on a nice mental track and start shoveling coal into the engines.

The longer we keep doing this, the faster the ride starts to go; time starts to disappear.

Eventually, when we are aging fast enough, we break through any and all barriers until every day is exactly like the one before it and it’s impossible to tell in which direction time moves.

Some people call this state dementia, but it’s as close to eternal life as we’re ever going to get.

Now, I know there are those of you out there who are convinced that you’re different, that you’re not in a rut, or doing the same things over and over again, especially if you have live in an exotic locale, have sex with anonymous strangers in poorly lit, highway rest stops, or take part in a particular, non-mainstream lifestyle; unfortunately, wearing cowboy boots to your job as an insurance salesmen, moving to East Crud Bucket, Nebraska, and introducing yourself to all the conservative Christian Republicans in town doesn’t make your life any less rut worthy.

Doing the same thing, day in and day out, with the exception of major holidays, is what makes most lives rut like, and there’s no amount of regimented behavior that can change our situation.

To truly break free, you’ve got to float through life wherever the wind takes you, say yes to all those experiences you’ve been too afraid to try, ring people’s doorbells and run away before they answer.

I realize that constant change is stressful, especially to those of you with young children, but your kids are much more adaptive than you can possibly imagine; since they’re so young, they have the ability to incorporate anything into their world view and move on… that’s what makes them such efficient killers.

Don’t be afraid to mix things up. Try something you’ve never done before: eat your neighbor’s dog, have sex with one of your less attractive coworkers, rob a bank.

The idea is to keep everything in such a constant state of flux that time progressively gets faster and faster, to the point where you can no longer distinguish between one day and the next; that way, when they ask you to take a polygraph, you want have to worry (besides, those things are almost never admissible in court).

Just don’t let yourself get to a stage where you’re afraid to put your hand into the urinal of life and pull out your own bar of fragrant soap to throw out the window.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Blonde on Blonde
by Bob Dylan

Monday, July 21, 2008

Just say you love me, one last time

Women can get away with wearing demeaning, stereotypical phrases on their shirts.

I’ve seen women walking in skirts so short that their cellulosic cysts hung out the bottom, and that seems more respectable than wearing an article of clothing with slogans like, The guy I’m gold-digging paid for this shirt, cum dumpster, or I slept with your boyfriend.

The only catch is that they have to print all such phrases and slogans in a girlish script… it also doesn’t help if the letters are outlined in glitter. Without the glitter, it’s just cheap and tawdry.

It makes me think that shamelessly flaunting our least attractive qualities is a profitable business. Maybe my line of men’s t-shirts, emblazoned with slogans like Date Rapist, Deadbeat Dad, and Domestic Abuser, wouldn’t have failed miserably and cost me a ton of money, if I surrounded the letters in… well, not glitter, because men aren’t so big on that, but maybe sports team logos.

I can’t think of any other group that could flaunt their stereotypes so blatantly and not feel the least bit cheap about it… except for maybe rednecks.

It makes me have a lot less sympathy for women in general when their attempts to own their labels puts them in the same camp as the people most likely to make them victims of domestic abuse.

It’s not helping their cause; still, it’s nothing that can’t be forgiven.

If women want to objectify themselves, then there’s nothing the rest of us can do but shove dollar bills in their pants and offer them drugs in exchange for sexual favors.

It all comes back to that hideous double standard.

No, not the one that everyone talks about, the one that makes it okay for a man to have sex with lots of women, but not the other way around; I’m talking about how every man wants to have an intense sexual relationship with a deviant, female freak, but balks when his daughter embarks on that particular path.

All because of some sick desire that people have to torture themselves.

A family works best when its members support one another; so, if you’re daughter wants to become a stripper, then a dedicated father should be all for it… because I certainly will, and if your daughter isn’t getting the support she needs from her parents, then she’s much more likely to turn to a guy like me for solace.

I don’t know if taking advantage of an emotionally distraught stripper’s daddy issues makes me a bad person, but it certainly limits my political career’s distance.

Our politicians could never get away with saying half of the things I do, because I’m not currently running for political office; however, I do plan on someday joining the rest of the self-deluded crackpots and throwing my hat into the political ring, so I should probably watch what I say now… only I can’t do that. I could no more clean up my writing than George Carlin could keep telling jokes now that he’s dead.

Perhaps all politicians start out as comedy writers, and they work on their jokes for so long that they eventually forget that they’re joking; the next thing you know, they’re standing on the Senate floor demanding that the cafeteria change the name Fried Chicken to Fried Freedom, because the word chicken embiggens the terrorists.

Everybody would like to think that they’re not a joke, but at some point in time, it happens to everyone; the smart thing is to try to get ahead of the joke, so that you come off looking affable and friendly, but the even smarter thing is to pick on someone who can’t defend themselves and get so busy laughing at someone else that they don’t notice when photos of you and Karl Rove taking a dump in Rush Limbaugh’s mouth surface on the internet.

That’s why, to so many bullies, politicians and women make excellent punching bags. Sure, you may not see me on COPS in my yellowing jockey shorts, screaming at the police about how my bruised wife is nothing but a common liar, but, by picking on politicians, I’m not much better.

Some of you are probably thinking to yourself that politicians deserve it, that they were asking for it, that if only they would make sure that our pipes are packed, our dinners hot when we get home, and our clandestine homosexuality overlooked then none of this would happen; but the truth is that we can’t expect our politicians to do everything for us.

That’s when politicians get desperate, and they start spouting all kinds of ridiculous things like Iraq has weapons of mass destruction, I never said Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, and the tape you have of me saying that is a lie, or I swear the kindergarten teacher told me that her students were all eighteen when I paid her seventy dollars a piece for them; you know, the kinds of things I say all the time, and it costs them their career because we’re just waiting for them to give us an excuse so we can slap them around like that time they told their cousin about that thing we like them to do to us in bed.

So, when I run for president, I’m just going to take all of the awful, ribald things I say, print them on t-shirts, and cover the whole mess in a glitter font. That way, people give me the same level of respect they would ordinarily only reserve for a redneck… or a whore.

Sex Mahoney for President



Currently listening to:

Regrets
by A Clear Blur

Friday, July 18, 2008

If you don't cry, it isn't love


I can't think of a single thing to write.

Sure, I've always got a few jokes on the back burner, but there's a reason they didn't make it into the first edition. I only have them around for those times when I'm really running out of material.

Things aren't so bad right now that I have to go to the unused material archive, but they're bad enough that I'm sitting in front of a computer, staring at the clock, and making deals with myself about how long I have to sit here without writing anything before I can leave. Each of the words in this paragraph delays the inevitable where I get up, go outside and shout obscenities at passers bye because I can't think of anything to write.

Ordinarily, I try to stay as productive as possible and, since I can create or research for hours on end (research, in this case, consists of looking at semi-nude Myspace pictures posted by girls with low self esteem), I rarely venture away from my PC; however, when I literally have nothing else to draw, animate, or write, then I start doing other things.

No, I don't get up from the computer, because, even if I'm not writing anything, there are still plenty of other PC tasks that keep me busy, such as sifting through the massive pornographic archive sitting on my computer, resampling and renaming downloaded movies and music, and coming up with new passwords made up of various words for genitals from all of history's best, dead languages.

My current password is the Latin word for vagina.

Only when I've completed all tasks will I get up from my computer and mix with the outside world.

Sure, there are times when I'm forcefully dragged away from the PC to spend time with you normals, but my company isn't much sought after and I can usually hide by turning off my phone and occasionally firing shotgun blasts whenever the doorbell rings.

So what is one to do when they can't think of anything to write?

Well, believe it or not, this kind of thing happens to me all the time; in fact, my trademark style, where I start talking about some mundane activity, like brushing your teeth or international arms smuggling, and then compare it to a relevant, controversial topic, came from this very method. You just start writing, throw in a few dick and farts jokes here and there, and see what comes out the other end.

Luckily, I have a nice buffer that allows me to do this kind of thing and get away with it, since I generally write blogs about four weeks before they appear on the internet. This gives me enough time to go back over the things I write, to fine tune any jokes, take out things I don't like anymore, and add new material; however, most of the time I forget about it for a month and hastily proofread it the night before it's published.

Plus, this buffer allows me to completely scrap a blog if it's so terrible that even I don't want to read it. At any given time, I have three to six half pieces that are just introductions about engaging topics such as current weather, people who brush their teeth right before going to the dentist's office, or why men like to have sex with virgins. That belly button lint piece… yeah, it was one of those.

Now that I have this big comfortable buffer, I have no idea what to write because, for each of us, there is a comfortable zone in which we do our best work; just like when you had to do homework back in grade school, there are some people can't work until the night before everything is due, and some like to get it done as soon as possible so they can have lots of free time before they have to present their material. Perhaps I've overshot my comfort zone, and my brain won't turn restart until I feel the deadline is more pressing.

I suppose I could hire a marketing consultant to make my blog more extreme or something equally inane like family-oriented. I wouldn't feel good about myself, but maybe it would help me find a niche. One of the biggest obstacles to my writing career is that I'm not easily marketable. I could probably write family-oriented material, but the last script I submitted to ABC Family Judy Rapes Her Cousin was rejected and the studio executives sent the police to my house. Plus, I have no idea how to promote myself. Last weekend, I tied a bunch of my essays to bricks and threw them through people's living room windows. I would go about a more traditional route, but how are you supposed to get a permanent address for Random House.

That has to be the best, and lamest, joke I've written all year.

I suppose things aren't so bad. I'll go back to making fun of myself and my country soon enough. I thought I needed a rest, but, apparently, I can keep writing about nothing for an awful long time.

And you get to read all about it.

At least my secret plan to steal people's valuable time continues unabated.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

69 Love Songs
by The Magnetic Fields

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Andy would bicycle across town, in the rain, to bring you candy


It’s hard to be funny when it’s so hot.

I want to end every comment with a witty rejoinder or a hearty chuckle, but humidity is more potent than the world’s strongest marijuana, apathy-wise.

Even the traditionally funny is robbed of its luster. Last night, I watched Terms of Endearment and I didn’t laugh once.

In the summertime, you can’t get too mad at the heat, because it’s always there, and you know, just like visiting in-laws, it will go away eventually.

These days, I don’t get too mad at anything. It’s just too hot to waste the energy.

Besides, I know what’s going to happen. I get mad at something, I question its motives, then I question my motives, a lot of time passes, and before you know it, I just don’t care anymore and I’m not mad. Instead of going through all that angry time, I fast forward to the end and just forgive everyone right away.

It really is quite liberating.

When you hold a grudge, there’s all this revenge planning that constantly occupies your mind; plus, you always have to be wary of any blood feuds you might have going but just forgot about since none of your body parts or close family members have gone missing in a while.

If you forgive people right away, they usually don’t kidnap your family.

Of course, this doesn’t work all the time, which is why action heroes like Mad Max, Con Air, and Superman 2 have to give up their peaceful ways and once again take up the figurative sword because evil threatens their family/mass manufactured kiddie toy/Margot Kidder.

People will be nice to you if you’re nice to them; they won’t do anything really nice for you like suck your dick or give you money, but they will treat you like dirt and abuse your kindness for all it’s worth; however, if you take the high road and forgive them right away, then you have the option of having the inflated sense of righteousness and self-worth that entitles you to criticize everyone you meet.

Like most things in life, there has to be a careful attribute balance so that you stay in the comfortable area between doormat and tyrant.

Nobody wants to be dumped on and treated like a piece of sub-human garbage, but no one wants to be responsible for enforcing their will on all the sub-human garbage with which they are constantly surrounded; which is why, sometimes, you find yourself about to set fire to your neighbors’ barking dog in front of their young children and you stop yourself to make sure that you’re not being rash; or, you watch as your wife, or daughter, slips the pool guy a sawbuck, complaining that her cunt feels like it’s been attacked by hungry wolverines, and you wonder if you shouldn’t say something to the handsome stranger as he says goodbye and asks you for your wallet.

Sometimes, it’s so hard to know what to do.

That’s why, in all situations, I make sure to keep a picture of Lindsey Lohan in my pocket. Whenever I’m unsure how to proceed, I take a look at her picture and it gives me strength, because that’s what celebrities are supposed to do… they’re supposed to be role models for the rest of us.

Okay, flashing my genitals at a reporter for the Port St. Lucie News did nothing to distract him from the disembodied stripper I was feeding to that alligator, but it probably didn’t make things any worse.

There are those people who make it their business to be nasty to everyone they meet: they bring a safety pin to the pharmacy so they can poke holes in all the condoms, they write letters to television shows and complain about things that no one finds offensive, they keep buying ranch dressing.

When you meet someone who has made it their business to hate the world, the only thing you can do is enjoy their company while it lasts, because those people don’t come around as often as you might expect. There are billions of nice people in the world, but a good asshole is hard to find; so, when you find an asshole worth your time, it’s best to burrow your way in there and get a good seat, because everything is much funnier if you have a place to sit down. That’s why you never see people standing at a comedy club.

Except for the comedian, of course.

The more people you have standing together, the more their body heat will raise the temperature in a given space. You have to give them chairs to make sure that they’re spaced far enough apart because it’s hard to be funny when it’s so hot.

Sex Mahoney for President



Currently listening to:

69 Love Songs
by The Magnetic Fields

Monday, July 14, 2008

Don't take any wooden nickels when you sell your soul


When it comes to penises, some men are luckier than others.

The prevailing parlance is hung like a horse; however, a horse’s penis isn’t that large in comparison to its total body size while the Argentine Lake Duck has a penis that is as large as the animal itself when the damn thing is fully erect; still, I suppose I should stick with the classic and compare boys to horses since most men wouldn’t cotton to being referred to as hung like a Duck.

I am hung like a duck.

Unfortunately, for the women with whom I’ve slept, not the Argentine Lake Duck, but the more common variety of plain old mallards which have penises that are big enough to get caught in a keyhole, but too small to do any real damage.

It’s not so bad, having a tiny cock. I developed my comedy to offer people something other than a gargantuan penis and sure, you’re restricted to all but the most self-conscious and unattractive of all women, but enough about my wife, let’s talk about marijuana.

If my dick were marijuana, it would be four times more potent now than it was back in the 70s. Now, I’m not so great at math, but zero times four… well that’s gotta be much better than the puny, semi-limp disappointment with which I’ve tortured many a sorry lass over the years.

In a recent article about an increase in marijuana potency, weed scientists says that the pot of today is 9% THC, while 70s pot was only about 4%.

I can understand why some people might want to keep an unregulated, psychoactive drug illegal to preserve the public order, but it’s far more dangerous to make smoking a relatively harmless substance a criminal act because hippies are not at all prepared to defend themselves against the honorable scum one meets when shopping on the black market.

Besides, there’s a certain group of people who are naturally drawn to illegal activities, just for the illicit fun they promise to deliver. Ever since my hometown passed an anti-gourdophilia bill in 2003, I have had the strange urge to have sex with the pumpkins I see lining my mother’s street when I visit her for Halloween.

A White House spokesperson, John Walters, took the increased potency discovery humorlessly, saying: “Marijuana potency has grown steeply over the past decade, with serious implications in particular for young people," Walters said. He cited the risk of psychological, cognitive and respiratory problems, and the potential for users to become dependent on other drugs like cocaine and heroin.”

I can’t remember the last time that I met anyone who opposed marijuana decriminalization

To be fair, most of the people I meet are pot heads, or are around me when I’m smoking pot, so it could be like the one guy who pretends he’s a pedophile when he accidentally gets dragged to a NAMBLA convention and doesn’t want to look uncool in front of his child raping friends.

Either way, we’ve all heard the arguments for marijuana decriminalization but I don’t often hear people arguing the contrary position, so it’s always strange when public officials reiterate disproven drug myths about weed.

It’s almost as though there were still people out there who genuinely believed in Bigfoot, Jesus and the Loch Ness Monster.

After a certain point, we have to look at the rational arguments for maintaining the status quo, and if there is no data to support our current position, then we need to revise our understanding of the law and how it works.

When it comes to pot, criminalization does more harm than legalization could ever do.

Sure, it is possible that, upon legalizing marijuana, lines might move even slower than they already do, there would be a nationwide Twinkie shortage, and a stoned president might accidentally fire all of our nuclear missiles at Belgium for refusing to provide free samples at the world summit on beer, chocolate, and waffles, but if you think any of these hypothetical situations are possible, then you’re obviously stoned because pot heads can’t get government jobs, no one eats Twinkies, and, in order to be elected president, you first have to prove to the American people that you’re the biggest square to ever walk the land.

Just as there are mythologists on the criminalization side of the argument, there are equally stupid people on the legalization side. Marijuana will not open the doors of perception to see past the unimportant, trivial matters that eat away at your life any more than getting drunk will make you more eloquent and sexually appealing to members of your preferred sex, but, while getting stoned may impair your judgment to the point where you think I make a lot of sense, it won’t lower your inhibitions to the point where you’ll have unprotected sex with a little dicked, amateur writer.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Daisies of the Galaxy
by The Eels

Don't take any wooden nickels when you sell your soul


When it comes to penises, some men are luckier than others.

The prevailing parlance is hung like a horse; however, a horse’s penis isn’t that large in comparison to its total body size while the Argentine Lake Duck has a penis that is as large as the animal itself when the damn thing is fully erect; still, I suppose I should stick with the classic and compare boys to horses since most men wouldn’t cotton to being referred to as hung like a Duck.

I am hung like a duck.

Unfortunately, for the women with whom I’ve slept, not the Argentine Lake Duck, but the more common variety of plain old mallards which have penises that are big enough to get caught in a keyhole, but too small to do any real damage.

It’s not so bad, having a tiny cock. I developed my comedy to offer people something other than a gargantuan penis and sure, you’re restricted to all but the most self-conscious and unattractive of all women, but enough about my wife, let’s talk about marijuana.

If my dick were marijuana, it would be four times more potent now than it was back in the 70s. Now, I’m not so great at math, but zero times four… well that’s gotta be much better than the puny, semi-limp disappointment with which I’ve tortured many a sorry lass over the years.

In a recent article about an increase in marijuana potency, weed scientists says that the pot of today is 9% THC, while 70s pot was only about 4%.

I can understand why some people might want to keep an unregulated, psychoactive drug illegal to preserve the public order, but it’s far more dangerous to make smoking a relatively harmless substance a criminal act because hippies are not at all prepared to defend themselves against the honorable scum one meets when shopping on the black market.

Besides, there’s a certain group of people who are naturally drawn to illegal activities, just for the illicit fun they promise to deliver. Ever since my hometown passed an anti-gourdophilia bill in 2003, I have had the strange urge to have sex with the pumpkins I see lining my mother’s street when I visit her for Halloween.

A White House spokesperson, John Walters, took the increased potency discovery humorlessly, saying: “Marijuana potency has grown steeply over the past decade, with serious implications in particular for young people," Walters said. He cited the risk of psychological, cognitive and respiratory problems, and the potential for users to become dependent on other drugs like cocaine and heroin.”

I can’t remember the last time that I met anyone who opposed marijuana decriminalization

To be fair, most of the people I meet are pot heads, or are around me when I’m smoking pot, so it could be like the one guy who pretends he’s a pedophile when he accidentally gets dragged to a NAMBLA convention and doesn’t want to look uncool in front of his child raping friends.

Either way, we’ve all heard the arguments for marijuana decriminalization but I don’t often hear people arguing the contrary position, so it’s always strange when public officials reiterate disproven drug myths about weed.

It’s almost as though there were still people out there who genuinely believed in Bigfoot, Jesus and the Loch Ness Monster.

After a certain point, we have to look at the rational arguments for maintaining the status quo, and if there is no data to support our current position, then we need to revise our understanding of the law and how it works.

When it comes to pot, criminalization does more harm than legalization could ever do.

Sure, it is possible that, upon legalizing marijuana, lines might move even slower than they already do, there would be a nationwide Twinkie shortage, and a stoned president might accidentally fire all of our nuclear missiles at Belgium for refusing to provide free samples at the world summit on beer, chocolate, and waffles, but if you think any of these hypothetical situations are possible, then you’re obviously stoned because pot heads can’t get government jobs, no one eats Twinkies, and, in order to be elected president, you first have to prove to the American people that you’re the biggest square to ever walk the land.

Just as there are mythologists on the criminalization side of the argument, there are equally stupid people on the legalization side. Marijuana will not open the doors of perception to see past the unimportant, trivial matters that eat away at your life any more than getting drunk will make you more eloquent and sexually appealing to members of your preferred sex, but, while getting stoned may impair your judgment to the point where you think I make a lot of sense, it won’t lower your inhibitions to the point where you’ll have unprotected sex with a little dicked, amateur writer.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Daisies of the Galaxy
by The Eels

Friday, July 11, 2008

His hopes were filled with sand


Whenever I read a piece about abortion, especially on the internet, the author generally includes an admonition, warning all of their commentators to stay civil.

I say fuck that.

When you’re talking about abortion, you have to take all arguments to their logical extremes. Even though it might not be pleasant to think about a small fetus, a la 2001: A Space Odyssey, opening its eyes at the exact moment that its first and last vision is filled with swirling fan blades; we don’t deserve the privilege if we’re not willing to think about the negative consequences with which it comes.

Granted, there are some activities with which I disagree, such as war, American I-dolt, and pre-teen beauty pageants, but I would be far less disinclined toward those events if the people running them were more honest about their intentions.

If George W Bush had the balls to go on the news and say “We don’t really care about the Iraqi people, and we know that our invasion has not made America any safer than it ever was, but we REALLY want their oil” then I would still disagree with the man’s politics, but my opinion of him would be much higher; similarly, if the Fox Broadcasting company issued a press release saying “We’re not trying to help singers create successful music careers, we’re just conducting a sociological study to see how long it takes for people to realize that Simon Cowell is actually composed of reconstituted fish parts” then I still wouldn’t watch American Idol, but I would stop covering Randy Jackson’s house in toilet paper and sending wave after wave of break-dance fighters at Paula Abdul.

About certain subjects, while we might not want to reduce complex arguments to simple, amoral terms, we must if we are to make rational decisions. A sixteen-year-old girl, who still thinks that Zac Effron is the bee’s knees, can probably take care of a baby, if she has help from her parents, or a similar source of income, but should she have the choice to mutilate the undeveloped fetus growing in her uterus if she thinks she is ill equipped to take care of another human, or her delivery date coincides with the release of High School Musical 3? Absolutely.

If you’re worried about abortion’s moral implications, then move to a country where they are illegal or don’t get any, it’s as simple as that.

Of course, to fully debate the issue, we would have to take the argument to its logical extreme in the opposite direction.

If legislatures criminalize abortion, more people will turn to alternative forms of sexual intercourse such as anal and aural. We live in a world where dwindling oil supplies and a peak in oil production have already driven petroleum based product prices sky high, including oil based lubricants such as Vaseline, mineral oil, and vegetable shortening. As more people turn to anal sex to avoid pregnancy, the price of personal lubricants will restrict affordability to all but the wealthiest butt fuckers, while the poor will suffer from an increase in the frequency of rectal tearing; plus, nine out of ten otolaryngologists advocate keeping all objects, even cotton swabs, out of the ears, not to mention penises; besides, the treatment for poor people’s anal tearing and ear drum punctures will be unaffordable without universal healthcare. So, if you’re one of those socialist, hippie types, then, by all means, keep pushing to criminalize abortion.

But this isn’t really about abortion, it’s about argumentative civility; unfortunately, the term doesn’t hold much weight, since, if you’re arguing with someone, they will be too busy tearing down your logical reasoning to have much time to for incivility, and if the person with whom you want to argue keeps calling you dirty names and suggesting you go to hell, then you’re talking to a jerk, not arguing.

Once you realize that you’re talking to a jerk, there are a number of approaches you can take.

You may continue reasoning with the person, ignoring their suggestions that you do unholy things with your mother or that you’re underarms smell. This is called the pussy approach.

You may cease arguing with the person and put your breath to better use like making dirty phone calls to your spouse’s more attractive friends. This is called the Sex Mahoney approach.

Or you may conduct a terrorist campaign against the other person, firebombing their house, unleashing swarms of locusts into their bedrooms, and turning their relatives into pillars of salt until they give in to your demands. This is called the God approach.

On the internet, most people argue the same way that children choose which of them will become a sacrifice to their primitive god, by picking on the fat until kid he starts to cry; however, you’ll rarely see people arguing about sticky subjects like abortion in real life. On one hand, most people want to avoid the unpleasantness that goes along with arguing with someone about an irrational belief, but, on the other, the internet allows the semi-intelligent a chance to research their subject, build a logical argument, and present their case so that they sound like they’re informed.

These people usually find their voices drowned out in a cacophony of hooting, obscenity and hollering because, when it comes to arguing with people on the internet, anti and pro-abortion advocates have already taken their virtual curette to logic and argumentative civility.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Swagger
by Flogging Molly

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Center of the sunbeam, light show, flower seed


Belly buttons make great lint traps.

I’m not exactly sure how lint collects in your belly button, or where lint comes from, all I know is that it has something to do with stray clothes fibers, dead skin cells and body hair migrating up from the underwear through a process known as electromagnetic lintinization, beyond that, I’m as much in the dark as anyone else.

All I know is that, at the end of the day, when I check my belly button, there is almost always lint in there; that is, unless I break down and remove some lint during the day.

If you try to pick your lint too soon, then there’s nothing there, and if you wait too long, then there’s a chance it will fall out and you’ll be left with nothing to do while you’re masturbating.

You know, this belly button lint crap really isn’t doing it for me. I thought it would be funny, or at least a little disgusting, to talk about belly button lint and then compare how waiting just long enough to dig out your belly button lint is just like wisely investing your money; but I don’t think I have the heart to do that. Besides, if you don’t vary it up every now and again, you start to turn into a parody of yourself.

It happens to everybody sooner or later, there’s only so much original material that each of us has in us, in a way, it’s a lot like DNA; we can only think of four funny jokes, but we can combine them into endless pairs and build something funnier than what boobs, jerking off, molesting children, and Ashlee Simpson could ever be on their own.

It’s all a matter of when you peak.

There’s a lot of folks out there who had their best years early on, football heroes who knocked up their high school girlfriends at the prom and spent the rest of their vitality raising ungrateful children, Harper Lee, and that guy with whom you used to be friends in University who still calls you up every now and again, asking for money; for them, and for everyone, it’s important to know when to bow out and quit, and when to keep fighting.

Sometimes, you must go on.

Even if the only thing you have going for you is some puff piece about belly button lint, you’ve got to keep at it while there’s still enough piss and vinegar in you to sustain your resolve.

Or quit.

There’s no real shame in quitting, lots of people do it. Somewhere, there’s a young man who will grow tired of begging his girlfriend to touch it, go home angry, and jerk off into a pile of tissues. Somewhere, a young woman is dropping her newborn baby into a back alley dumpster and thinking about what she will wear to middle school tomorrow. Right now, you’re reading this blog instead of doing whatever it is you dream about doing.

I don’t see why quitting has taken on such negative connotations, people improve their health when they quit smoking or drinking, abused children breathe sighs of relief when their parent’s quit beating on them, and our eardrums will slowly recover when Madonna finally decides to hang up her hat.

Sometimes, there’s even honor in stepping down. Richard Nixon could have kept maintaining his innocence, but he chose to do the honorable thing. Napoleon could have stayed with his troops as they were slaughtered on the long march back to Poland, but he left with his retinue and traveled all the way back to Paris in style. Even George W Bush could have persevered, studied hard in school, and made something of himself, but, by quitting all of that, he went on to become president of the United States.

There comes a point when you have to look yourself in the mirror and ask yourself if it’s worth it to go on, and if you can still do that with a shred of dignity, then keep fighting; however, if, by carrying on the fight, you are about to make yourself look like a real asshole, then maybe it’s time to put away your guns, homemade bombs, and enemies list before things turn real ugly.

Who would you rather be, James Dean, burning up while you’re still young and beautiful, or Elvis, turning into a pill-popping lump and dying on the toilet?

I should have stopped writing a long time ago.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

Damn Skippy
by Lemon Demon

Monday, July 7, 2008

There are rooms in this house that I don't open anymore


As much as it pains me to say, I don’t make that big a stink.

Sure, I smell unpleasant most of the time, but you’ve got to get up close to get anything approaching nasty, and even then, not many people are willing to take a whiff of my ball, and everyone’s genitals smell the same when you’ve been swimming in raw sewage all day.

No, I’m not a stinky man, I’m a greasy man.

While my body odor isn’t particularly strong, at the end of the day, it is possible to lubricate your car engine on the sum of the sebaceous secretions my body produces.

I don’t have much acne, just the occasional pimple here and there, but I can easily slip away in a fight as my entire body often feels like a McDonald’s service counter.

It has come in handy on more than one occasion.

It probably doesn’t help that I save money on soap by washing my face in vegetable shortening, but I don’t know what else to do with my yearly soybean crop, and I’ll be damned if any of that produce is going to help feed starving children. It’s bad enough that I have to share my oxygen with those damnable orphans, but to share my food as well… not in this lifetime.

Some people call me a monster for my reluctance to help the poor, but I say: “Hey, I’d be perfectly willing to give their children jobs as international sex workers, but apparently that’s off limits to you prudes.”

One of the many benefits associated with oily skin in that, every once in a while, a little bit of dirt gets trapped in a pore and I enjoy a day or two walking around with a giant, throbbing pimple.

I don’t know about everyone else, but, to me, there’s nothing more fun than popping an overripe pimple, especially when they spray dead skin, bacteria, and pus all over the bathroom mirror or the person sitting next to you.

Still, popping pimples in public is generally frowned upon, so I compromise and do that sort of thing in the privacy of my own home, where I can video the explosion, replay it in slow motion, and show it to people just before I serve them ranch dressing salads, fettuccini alfredo, or pus burgers.

There’s nothing more vital to a healthy relationship than compromise.

Whether it’s cutting a plea deal to avoid a jail sentence for flashing cashiers at the supermarket, or agreeing to show up to work wearing at least one article of clothing; compromise is an important element of a stable, modern society.

Somehow, the American people have forgotten compromise’s importance when it comes to domestic and international politics.

It’s not surprising.

The only time anyone in the current president’s administration compromises is when Cheney lets Bush be on top for a change, but that has more to do with the vice-president’s game heart than it does with the deeper penetration the cowgirl position allows.

As the new presidential election approaches, republicans and democrats, liberals and conservatives, Sleestak and Pakuni all have to put aside their differences, pull together, and compromise.

As a concession to conservatives: schools can teach intelligent design, but only in literature classes alongside the DC comic series ‘Crisis on Infinite Earths;’ Fox News can still broadcast, but they have to provide credible sources for all information expressed on the airwaves; abortions will be illegal for anyone who doesn’t want one; and gay people can only get married Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Sunday.

As a concession to liberals: we can have universal healthcare, but the doctors will be largely incompetent, private gun ownership will be outlawed, but people will still be able to check them out of their local, public libraries if they can provide two forms of ID, pass a criminal background check, and dance the hully-gully; and Chelsea Clinton has to make a porno with Jena Bush and Lexington Steele.

Compromise is at the heart of change, and since every one of the political candidates is advocating some kind of change for the next four years, it’s only fitting that we give it to them.

After all, when you refuse to change, the same old political ideas get rehashed every two to four years by the same pundits with the same opinions. Eventually, all those tired old hacks starts to clog up the American pores, and, before you know it, we have a situation like the current one: where there’s a giant, oily pimple in the white house and everyone is too afraid of what will happen if we pop it.

It’s about time we squeezed the shit out of this thing and see what kind of garbage we can flush out.

Just let me get my camera.

Sex Mahoney for President


Currently listening to:

The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner
by Ben Folds

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