at a border crossing in peru a chubby young woman adorned with stretchmarks and an underdeveloped labia was caught attempting to smuggle drugs by stuffing a roll of them in her cunt. those drugs ended up becoming the 44th president of the untied states, mr president barack hussein obama II. lets play the prime time news drinking game every time they twist the reality narrative to suit the advertisers you have to kill yourself. the brain tumor might be cancerous i dunno cant afford the brain scan that i need to get it checked out anyway the less you know the less likely you are to die more or less
Post coital regret is the number one cause of 98% of all shemale prostitutes getting beat up. Post coital regret is usually when i write my best autopsy reports. Shakespeare wrote huck finn after post coital regret. Alien jews built the pyramids after post coital regret. Karl Bischoff designed auschwitz after PCR. The list goes on and on. Shameful, regretful orgasms are a hallmark of modern masculinity, just like building a hotrod or killing gooks and hadjis with your bare hands.
the McDonald’s mating dance ritual is when you go to McDonald’s and like a predator, like a hound toothed sexual predator, you scope out the trashiest, thiccest milf you can find. Once you’ve identified her, approach cautiously and walk around her in a counterclockwise fashion (but always mindful that you’re facing mecca) with your hands on your hips (flamboyant sassy gay black guy). Walk around her in a circle like this for 5 minutes. If she hasn’t called the police yet, go behind her, drop to your knees, grab her hips and shove your face DEEP into her ass. Once your nose is firmly planted near her asshole, proceed to take deep, huge, greedy breaths of air. If she farts on your face while you’re doing this, then congrats! she has accepted you as a suitable mate. Go to the cashier and ask for the Manager, Cedric. For a nominal fee of $666 he will grant you a marriage certificate, full SNAP benefits and one complimentary session at the St. Obama Fertility Center of the People’s Republic of New York.
the security guard says, “sir, you cant smoke here, this a hospital”
i say, “nigga, please, its the cancer ward, these mothafuckas are on their way out anyways, lemme have my smoke in peace, damn.”
“nah sir, due to like laws and regulartories, the, uh, policy say you no can smoke here so like, you gotta put it out.”
“oh for the love of gay jesus, fine” i put out the cigarette on my forehead then swallow the butt, “see? happy?” i say, showing the toothless guard my empty mouth.
“that is like, uh, very good comply sir, at this like, uh, current conjuncture”
i walk through the cancer ward and maybe its because im wearing a white doctors coat but everyone keeps stopping me and asking me dumbass doctor shit. there are some parents of terminally sick children in the cafeteria and as i crunch up three percocets to snort some of the parents come up to me and ask if poor old johnny or suzy are going to be OK and of course i lie and say, “yea sure, everyone’s always going to live forever” and i don’t lie because im mean or want to give them false hope but simply because im trying to hurry up and snort these fucking percs before i start to feel actual feelings again.
“thank you so much doctor” they all say as they bathe and kiss my feet, even some of the milfs wink at me seductively while tugging at my crotch but jokes on them, my government mandated castration prevents me from getting erections. i still get turned on and stuff, i just cant cum or anything.
i bet youre one of those guys that listen to music. i bet youre one of those guys that jerk off to porn of women having sex with men. i bet youre one of those guys that ejaculates semen. i bet youre one of those guys who eat 800 calories a day and sleeps for only 4 hours but always has an abundance of energy and everyone wants to be your friend. i bet youre one of those guys with horns and a tail and on sundown every friday you drink the blood of a pure, flawless baby while your man slave counts the rent checks of the poor people you slumlord over.
for a second there i thought i saw blood in my semen but it was really just a sauce stain on my hand from pizza last night. i ate an entire large pie with pepperoni. the menu said the pie was ‘family sized’ which, if you know me, is very ironic. i sleep walked through the first 6 slices like they were nothing. it wasnt until i took the first bite of the seventh slice when i started to feel insanely dizzy and nauseous and the pizza started to smell like dirty homeless pussy. at that point i put slice #7 down and seriously contemplated suicide. i tried thinking of a reason not to jump out of my 6th story window and the only thing i could come up with is that there was a tiny chance i might survive the fall, which would be a fate both worse than death and worse than my current state of life. so i googled ‘odds of surviving a sixth story fall’ to which i got an answer of roughly 80% chance of death which were not odds i was comfortable with.