I’ve Moved (Onto A Big Black Dick)
Howdy folks. While still a work in progress, I have moved this blog from the convenient and free WordPress.com site to a more expensive and cumbersome site. You can find all of my updated picture stories by traveling through this link:
or you can continue to subscribe to updated material here:
I appreciate your time and your support. If you have any questions, suggestions or comments, feel free to suck on my balls. Once again, thanks for that.
Look for www.theboysclubformen.com coming now…
The Cat Threw Up
We’re all so proud of our offspring when they accomplish something monumental. For some, it’s graduating from college or narrowly escaping an arrest for public indecentcy. For me, however, monumental is measured in bodily discharges and today I am brimming over my cat’s vomitty achievement.
I admit that some of my most shining moments come at the bombastic release of gas from my body. I’m even more proud when the gas turns solid in a process called sh*tting my pants. The sight of a giant, ghastly poop will cheer me up any day of the week.
But when I look down and see with thine own two eye parts what my cat, Tookie, has done today, I shed a tear of pride. Today Tookie puked a heaping helping of cat guts and it was huge. It was chocked full of Friskies, dead mice bones and his favorite treats, Whisker Lickens. This kid has talent and I’m proud to say he’s mine. Good work, cat.
A Couple Of Jokes
The Ol’ Boy called me today from his work van and said he was watching a guy trim his ear hair with a pair of scissors in his car. The Ol’ Boy said the guy wasn’t being very safe…he was clearing his fairy land hair forest, causing devastation to all the little hair nymphs and earwoks.
Ted P.’s parents thought their computer would catch a virus so they covered it with plastic.
My wife asked me why I spend so much time jerking off alone at the computer. She said that it would be sensual to masturbate with her and I said, “Every time I do that, you wake up screaming.”
I was at the store and I saw a guy happily buying his son some candy. Confused by the gesture, the kid looked at his mom and asked, “Mommy, what’s wrong with Daddy?” To which the mother replied, “Oh, he’s just sober.”
I put the trash out last night when I saw my rather large neighbor pull up to her house with take out food in her hands. “Take out again?” I asked. And she replied, “Rrrrraaaaawwwwrrrr!!!!” Stupid fat bitch.
Do you refer to conjoined twins as one of those or two of that?
Oh, man. I got nothin’…
Increase In Gas Prices
"With our Juggies full and our gas real cheap, GallonMart's savings are yours to keep"
Well, the yeas have it! According to a recent poll I cast last week, an overwhelming 67 percent of you wanted to hear about the increase in gas prices. That’s more than half of the people who voted! Can you believe it? I can…’t.
Our incredible yet believable story begins where any true story begins; at a store. This isn’t just any store, though. This is the GallonMart off 104th. In case you don’t know, the GallonMart is a warehouse superstore where all products are sold by the gallon. It’s no Costco or Sam’s Club because it’s worse; free samples are in gallon increments and it’s always stuff you’d never consume like Pork Points and Lye Milk. Management at the GallonMart has its employees empty prepackaged consumable items into recycled gallon jugs known as Juggies. The store apparently saves money this way because of the huge savings offered from manufacturers for buying in bulk.
Although it’s not true, GallonMart also claims to have the largest assortment of crap in gallon form on the planet. They are so proud of this fact, that their slogan reads: “If we don’t have it in a Juggie, we’ll send you to Mars.” The slogan is then followed by a disclaimer that argues all claims of interplanetary travel will not hold up in a court of law.
However bizarre the store’s concept, it’s the business model that’s really interesting. Since GallonMart guarantees the lowest wholesale prices on obsolete items like Robert Milsap’s Malt Flavored Turkey Burst, Ibuprofiend Pain Reliever (highly addictive; popular with teenagers), and Red Bull Elephant Energy Drank, it has a difficult time meeting their projected profit margins. Can you honestly tell me who in their right mind is going to buy a gallon of Elephant Drank? Ech, gross!
To offset costs, however, they sell one product that people absolutely need: gasoline. GallonMart has recently built a filling station. They figure that people who actually stop in and shop are happy to fill up their cars with seemingly discounted gas. Even though GallonMart’s marketing strategies would suggest otherwise, their gas is not discounted at all.
GallonMart’s gasoline prices are off the chart. It averages fifteen cents more per gallon than that of the next highest purveyor of fuel. What’s worse, is that the self-filling stations are vending machines stocked with Juggies full of gas. Forget pumping your own gas. As the customer, you’re expected to “Pour yourself an old one (they play the age of fossil fuels on the old adage ‘pour a cold one’)”. Surprisingly, people are lining up around the block as a result of the unique filling methods and supposed convenience and reduced prices. They feel it’s kitschy and fun. And in order to recoup lost business, other gas stations are raising prices.
Hopefully, like most things, this is just a passing fad. If it is not a fad, then this is my warning to you people: stop pouring your gas! It’s expensive and wrong. It’s costing this community a lot of money. Additionally, you’re being lied to. If you’re going to shop at GallonMart, please buy other essentials like Gallon-O-Tripe or Rubber Wash and stay away from the gas. It’s watered down, anyway.
This message brought to you by the BBB (big bawling bitch).
Nicknames
Yesterday I was riding in a car with my friends Ty and Chris. Everyone knows Ty and has called him Tito since high school. One time his dad f*cked up and called him T-Bone. Luckily it never stuck. In college, Ty proclaimed himself as the Spoon and then eventually the Mayor. This came after he Youtubed three hours of old McDonald’s commercials featuring Mayor McCheese. He loved it. These days, I call him Ty D but he prefers T. Jackson or The Hate F*ck (it was his facebook name until it was censored) or The Ol’ Boy. Whatever you call him, he is a lovely and fair skinned gentleman.
Chris, who was also in the car, was once known as Dolph Lundgren after his uncanny resemblance to the Siberian Bull from the movie Rocky IV. Recently and unknowingly he was nicknamed Carrots by my wife, J-Dubs. J-Dubs has been called Wooten or Hot Pants and J Maz. She has a myriad of friends like Skirt Steak and Droopy Nipple. Droopy Nipple used to work at Applebee’s where she rated highest in customer satisfaction. Apparently, her tips reflected her performance and she became known as Boosty Tipple or BT for short which evolved into Burny Tits and then Swink.
My other friend is Sizzle Bok who dressed as a Mexican named Johnny Gomez for a costume party. My brother is Milhouse, Milkill, Milshoe, Shoe, Shoehouse, Millie and, from a misspelling on his high school letter jacket, Millhouse. I know Jim Jam and Rik. I have a friend Jake the Snake. One named J. Pa. and Blum (sounds like bloom). Blum hangs out with Nelson and Steve B. Gary is one. Teens is another. Goldy, Chesty and Slitty Wrists. S Mas and his son, X Mas. J Leezy for sheezy. Drary. The Boss, Champ or Curty. Petey and Wheels and Lamby Poo. Jay Nev. Teddy Po. I saw J.R. Swish on TV. Oh, and for me…they call me Wolsamnoraa (not really, though) which is part Russian and, as I found out today from my mother and her husband, Papa Paul, part French which translates as Special Boy. And that’s all I can think of right now. Did I miss one? Fill me in.
This is where I got the name McStainy. My dry cleaner, Mr. Wong, is such a goof.
Look At This Damn Cat
This is how Tookie gets home on the third floor of a condo building. What’s weird is he goes outside all the time but I’ve never seen him come in until today.
[qik url=”http://qik.com/video/3499330″ width=”425″ height=”319″]
He does it all of the time, once with a dead rabbit in his mouth
[qik url=”http://qik.com/video/3499360″ width=”425″ height=”319″]
Once he gets to my patio he comes inside through a dog door. The cat weighs almost 20 pounds…This is amazing to me.
You Know Me
I’m one of those guys that likes to make lasting impression. It’s the main reason for my lack of tact and complete disregard for prudence. Talk of coat hanger abortions, dead hookers, and pants that smell like horseback rides are all part of making my image last. As much as I love storytelling, I have to admit that the effort I spend lodging myself deep within you is multidimensional. One of my favorite memory makers is pictures. In this digital day and age, everyone wants to capture memories 377 KB at a time. Pictures are just as easy to delete as they are to frame bedside.
But making a great picture takes time and coordination; all skills that I possess and everyone else lacks. So, when the perfect moment needs to be captured who, you may ask, do people turn to for the best snapshots? Well, me, of course. But it’s more than that. I am the two-for-one guy. In an attempt to forever captivate the attention of any person, I will shoot a picture of that person and then one of me. If that person feels the need to delete my photo, I will sneak into the background/foreground of a carefully orchestrated scene. Here are a few times when I wasn’t deleted from other people’s cameras (thanks for the memories)…
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| Make a Smilebox postcard |
10 Reasons You’re Here
This takes the phrase "baby dumps" to a whole new level.
Sometimes you wake up in a dingy hotel room soaked in hooker juices and vomit and you wonder, “How in the world did I get here?” While this is a valid question, the word “here” reaches above and beyond your current predicament. The mere fact that you exist at all is interesting in itself. These 10 reasons explain the lucky fortunes that befell you on your road to being “here” (where ever that may be):
10. Your father was spreading his seed during the War.
9. Your mother was a whore.
8. The gentleman operating the coat-hanger apparatus botched the abortion.
7. You chewed threw the garbage bag that was to be your casket and survived on the contents of a China man’s dumpster.
6. Until your mid-teens, you were raised by a small team of success driven rats.
5. You earned a decent wage soliciting sex from bar hopping youngsters who struck out during regular bar business hours.
4. Using the lessons taught to you by your rat kin, you turned your hard earned money into drugs and nesting materials.
3. On a quest to stardom and fame, you sought a career as a Hollywood actor (possibly to find your real parents?).
2. Unknowingly, you were cast in the movie “Saw VIII: Jigsaw’s Outtakes–Sluts, Gays, and Krab Cakes”.
-And, Finally-
1. Years of smoking methamphetamine have left you toothless, talentless, and desperate. The mob takes care of you in the only way the mob can; this time, however, you are unable to gnaw your way through the garbage bag that is to be your final resting place.
Do you feel that I may have missed a detail in your coming to be? Please feel free to share in the comment section…
Losing My Pills
"Oh great! Now the pills are all poopy, hun!"
I tend to error on the side of caution. When I step out in the rain, I bring a wooden umbrella. When I fart in the sheets I don’t wiggle around afterward. So it troubles me to tell you and the rest of the world that I’m frickin crazy. I’m not crazy like gang bang my virgin asshole and cum on my face with you and twenty-eight of your closest associates. My friend did that once; that sh*t is nuts and now I she can’t ride a bicycle. I’m not even homeless people crazy or cat-lady crazy.
No, my problem is that I am starting to losing my mind. It started a few months ago. Mentally, things just didn’t seem right. I was having hallucinations and fondling my poops in the toilet. I’ve never done that stuff that much. Just to make sure that I was really going mental, I gave it a couple of months. Similar to your Alzheimer stricken grandfather, I’d have good days and bad days (I got gang banged, remember?). The test worked. After three months, I figured out that I hadn’t been feeling right.
I told my wife and she confirmed my senility and suggested/demanded that I seek help. I did. I went to a doctor and she gave me some pills and advice…”don’t take all the pills at once.” It was funny, you had to be there. I began taking the pills just the other day when I lashed out and had a huge fight with my wife. She was so angry and frustrated with my new crazy behavior that she grabbed my pills and flushed them all down the toilet (against the doctor’s wishes, no less). Today, I’m without my pills and the toilet has been vomiting all night and I can’t stop fondling the poopies that come out. I need assistance. I’m sick! Sick I tells ya’!
Do you think I’m crazy? This stuff has really been happening. What do you think I should do? Help, please.
What Up, G?!
This was me at a young evolutionary age
I was a kid for a while. That was a rough time for me. I grew up in a tough neighborhood near a Sizzler. The kids in my neighborhood were violent and they wanted me to join their gang. They made me do all sorts of gangster things like steal cigarettes from my parents. I was told if I wanted to join the gang, I had to build a hideout. I used all of my allowance to build a pillow fort in my basement. I used thumb tacks to keep the sheets pinned to the wall. It was hard-core. They told me that if I wanted to join their gang, I’d have to commit a crime. “I stole a car,” I said. Lying was the crime. I was in the gang. I was slanging drugs and banging thugs. I held my Nerf suction cup dart pistol with a sideways gangster grip. It was tight…the grip, I mean; I didn’t want to lose the gun. I was the original, genuine thug; an OG…T. I didn’t even own a belt so my pants would always sag gangsterly (the point at which they would fall off). One day, a Catholic priest called me and said it was time to hang it up and cut the crap. I said that my gangster friends would do harm unto me and my sheet fort if I left. He offered me full protection in his house of worship and a job at the Sizzler. The priest was banging, alright; banging all the boys. I quit the gang. They said they were going to miss me and that they were sad to see me go. To tell you the truth, I miss them, I miss them a lot. Word to your brother.
God Loves Gays And You Should, Too
The ultimate sign that some all-knowing Godish being/sea monster exists is evident in the concept of fate. Fate says that your path is chosen for you ahead of time. There’s no evidence against it, my friend. You will be born and die and what lies between is filler. If you’re a crazy person, the filler might be intermittent murdering sprees and jail time. If you’re ambitious, your life’s filler might be a rise to power followed by jail time. And likewise, if you’re gay, you’re going to have filler, too. Granted a gay person’s filler is more likely to include a butt full of c*ck and then jail time, but the path is predetermined just the same. There is nothing wrong with that. Discovering the person that you are is a feat that most people will never accomplish. Realizing, accepting and living your designed path despite an onslaught of social criticism is even more remarkable. Gay people have shown true courage. Uncovering their true nature takes a lot of balls. In some cases, two sets or more. For that, I commend you, gay people. You can take a licking and keep on pticking. You show what the rest of us how hard it can be to conquer your ambitions in the thickness of adversity. Gays have been granted the biggest challenge and over cumming it is one that the-one-you-call-God can appreciate. After all, you’re doing his dirty work. I couldn’t be prouder. Good job.
Big Savings At The Mall Of America
This account of how I thwarted a terrorist plot to destroy the Mall of America was generated by voters just like you using my poll (located to the right). Feel free to vote for next time…
I was shopping at the fifth floor, east wing Gap Outlet in the Mall of America last year when I told my life partner that I was sick of shopping. She said we needed a break and suggested that we take a romantic ride on the Ferris wheel at one of the mall’s many fine amusement parks. I agreed due to the fact that it wasn’t shopping. As we waited in line, I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation between two bearded and toweled gentlemen standing in front of us. Their conversation sounded very Arabicish and hateful. I could tell something bad was about to go down due to the anti-Semitic tone, the angry amount of phlegm in their speech, and the mysteriously unmarked, black duffel one man was carrying. Their brownish skin was also of interest. As not to spoil the day shopping or come off as a racist profiler, I let my worries slide. After all, I hadn’t taken or heard Arabic since my bar mitzvah meaning there was a good chance my translation was flawed.
My life partner decided she didn’t ride “big rides” and decided to let me ride alone. I hopped on board a four-person gondola seated across from the men. All of the passengers were loaded on and the Ferris wheel began for the ride of my life. Unfortunately, my shopping sickness turned into motion sickness and I puked all over the Arabic men. These guys were pissed despite having the lucky fortune of having brought their own towels. They started shouting obscenities and making a ruckus as I tried my best to apologize in their native tongue. I may have misspoken and said some rather insulting things. Instead of saying, “I’m so sorry,” I literally vomited again.
Upon witnessing this disturbance, the ride conductor stopped the wheel and escorted us off. Mall security showed up just in time to assess the damage and realized that inside the mysterious black bag were a lot of explosives. The cops showed up after that. The men were arrested and sent to another mall ( probably in a more ghetto mall). I later heard on the Minnesotan local news that the men were plotting to destroy the mall to prove a point about the evils of corporate American Jews and their capitalistic thievery. I wish I would have known. Aiding them would have surely ended my day shopping.
Hand Puppets
He's only smiling because he wants to take your hand to a sick place. He's sick.
If there’s anything that I need to tell you it’s this: hand puppets are a disease. Not only do they scare the bejesus out of little kids and animals, they are gross. From the cheery sentiments of Mr. Roger’s, Daniel Tiger, to South Park’s, Mr. Hat, hand puppets are a sick attraction. Who wants to watch as a grown man or woman grotesquely shoves his or her hand or hands into the inner workings of the representation of a cute animal? Not me; I’d rather just have the real animal. In Lamb Chop’s case, I want to eat lamb; not watch Sherry Lewis stick her filthy mitts all up in it.
It is with the heaviest of hearts that I explain my angst, for it is a story in which I know all too well. This story is one of a small, 20-year-old boy who is curious about his body and eager to explore. He unknowingly took his pleasurable show-and-tell outdoors. His exploits were deemed deceitful and gross in the public’s eye. He became known as a masturbation artist, a shank scraper, a pee-board artist or dick wrestler, a ding donger, a jerk-off, a cock-a-rub-a-do, and a stay-at-home dad. He was terrorized by the ridicule. He escaped to his home. In a purge of suppressed memories, he remembered a time when, during his parents divorce, he was asked by his therapist to role play with hand puppets. These furry representations of his parents relived all of the pain he had wished to dismiss from his parents tumultuous relationship. The boy, now older, was distraught that his penis had become his makeshift hand puppet. Bereft of hope, he was only barely able to finish masturbating with his tears.
Hand puppets account for over six percent of hand accessories in the US and its crooked North American cousin, Canada. Hand puppets are half as cute and twice as deadly as hand puppies. Users beware: hand puppets are awful things. They are dreadful and weird. Please heed caution in your future encounters with these monsters or else you, yes you, might end up alone in your house masturbating.
How Fun It Was To Spend Time With The Indians
My Indian pals invented the game of monkey cruise trash toss
I’ve got a few friends that are Indians; dot Indians, not feather Indians because the department of corrections said they’re nearly extinct. Boy howdy, let me tell you, they are the most fun people in the world. That’s a good thing because they have over eight billion friends in their Now Network. They make me do all sorts of fun sh*t. We watch porn with our friends in them (they seem to know everybody). They are always saying in their thick, Indian accents, “Oh, I could watch this until I got bored then I would wait ten minutes and watch it again, good golly. She is so hot.” And then we watch them again. We eat a shit ton of spicy curry food. They catch their farts in pickle jars and make me smell them. I can’t stress enough how badly these people smell. They make spreadsheet software and I do my taxes. We talk about marketing deodorant in India and we laugh because it would never sell. Good times. No matter how much fun stuff we do, they always get the best deals. The Jews and the Indians always get the best deals and have the best times. I love you, JPa. Come home soon.
10 Reasons I Get Up In The Morning
- “Chop wood naked”
There is seldom a time when I just pop out of bed. The anticipation that most days will undoubtedly drag on with mindless chores and endless Charles In Charge reruns justifies at least a half dozen strikes of the snooze button. Some days, however, have potential to be the best damn days I’ve ever seen. When I was a kid, for example, I don’t think I was able to sleep a wink the night before Christmas and I’m a big, fat Jew. I just love something about those elves…I think it’s what landed me on the federal child sex offender list (talk about a reason to get up…all those little minors). Here is a list of ten other reasons that give me a rise in the morning:
10. Breakfast…Yeah, breakfast has it all and it’s absolutely worth getting up for. Not only is it the most important meal of the day, it’s the meal that keeps on giving. Typical breakfast fare (cereal, eggs, bacon, pizza, milk shakes) account for over ninety-two percent of my daily calorie intake. The other eight percent…cat food sandwiches.
9. Cat’s Hungry…Tookie’s my cat and he get’s hungry for breakfast, too. Unfortunately, in the animal kingdom there aren’t nice little cravings to remind you that you’re hungry. What Tookie has are urges (usually for flesh). He keeps what he kills, and today it’s Friskie’s. Some days I just wish he’d learn to sharpen his claws opening cans of cat food instead of my face. He’s a real cutie.
8. Internet Porn…It’s free of charge and as viscous as milk. Internet porn (or pornography for art) changes so often, if you see the same video twice in your lifetime, well sir, that’s amazing. The other thing that gets me jazzed before I get jizzed is that you never know when you’ll be hit with the urge to splurge. It’s usually when I’m at the mall or a day care. Thank God for the 3G network.
7. Court Date…(see above) Sucks. Don’t even get me started on the parole hearings…who the hell is up before 10 in the A.M? Lawyers, that’s what.
6. Vacation…It’s worth getting out of bed in tropical paradise when the hotel room is hotter than a jungle and it’s as humid as the ocean. Nothing says “seize the day and explore the world” like swatting at mosquitoes the size of small owls in your room.
5. Bachelor Party…Get up? I never went to bed. Besides, I can’t trust a bunch of dudes that get drunk, strip down to their dicks and ass, endlessly chant “chop wood naked”, and dance around an open fire pit. I couldn’t make this stuff up.
4. Halloween…It’s like a modern-day Christmas. Free candy…check. Ghosts and ghouls…check. Slutty girls dressed in nothing…check and check. Halloween Eve (or Hallow’s Eve Eve as the Christ lovers exult) is like waiting for your son to be born…so you can finally touch him (see above).
3. Election Day…It’s the only day I know of that I get to choose which minority I sympathize with the most without giving money, the blacks or the retards.
2. Beer…If I know I’m going to be drinking at any point during the day, you can bet your sweet, fat ass I’m waking up. Put it in my coffee!
-And Finally-
1. Work…I f*cking hate work. I f*cking hate it!
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