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.

10 Axioms To Live By

We’ve all ventured out into the expanses of the world gleefully returning full of knowledge.  Such life lessons always prove to be invigorating and help guide us through life’s meaningless journies.   Here are 10 tidbits that I’ve picked up along the way that I remember everyday:

He ate a bunch of rabies-filled clams and wants a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10. “Wild animals don’t make good house pets” – We tried keeping a wild raccoon once.  His name was Ricki; Ricki the Raccoon.  He ate all of our mollusks and gave our cat the worms.

9. “Rock always beats scissors” – I learned this the hard way…watching a Bud Light commercial.

8. ”Poop stays in the toilet” – It certainly does not belong in my hands or mouth.  It took me months to get the stains out of my moustache.

7. “Gay-for-pay is straight” – Life is about doing what you love, not loving what you do.  Don’t define yourself based on one experience you had during your “best years”.  You’ll just end up confused; ass-a-throbin’.

6. “Pack it in, pack it out” – Showing respect for the world outside of yourself will convey just how incredibly unselfish you are.  And isn’t that what it’s about…You?

5. “Cock, step, punch” – I learned this playing high school football.  You have to stay low and maintain good technique.  Don’t forget to throw out some “pass” and “ball” calls, too.

4. ”If she looks like a man and she talks like a man, she’s alright with me” – Expanding your horizons starts with accepting people for who they are, who they’re not, and who you thought they think that they thought you were.

3. ”Two hands when you’re learning” (thanks Brandon!) – Whether it’s riding a bike or dishing out your first “blowie”, two hands when you’re learning will keep you working hard towards your goals.

2. “Always come prepared” – Preparation is the key to success.  Just like bringing a joke book to a gun fight, kids are a terrible mistake.  Wrap your (or your partner’s) ding dong up in a condom and you’ll avoid my mother’s 3rd and 4th mistakes (me and my twin)

-And Finally-

1. “There’s no such thing as too much lube” – Designated lubricants like veggie oil, silicon based slickers, lotion, spit and telephone books all exponentially increase fun.

Dead Rabbits

Tookie is my cat and we live on the third story of a condominium building.  He is extraordinary in every way.  He is cute and fun like a small human.  He bites hard and sleeps well.  Even the way his huge craps stink is immaculate.  Unfortunately for him, he is an outdoor cat trapped inside a indoor cat’s house.  Sometimes, however, he is allowed out when I leave the house and the neighbors are gone.  And this is where one of his best features kicks in.  In order to get back into the condo after I let him outside, he doesn’t just wait at the front door making a scene for no one to hear like all the other idiot cats out there.  No, he’s better than that.  Using pure prowess and power, grace and skill, he scales the back side of our building with his cat-like claws and incredible strength.  He jumps on our back porch and comes in through a dog door I paid for with my mother’s retirement money.  This morning, I let Tookie outside a little earlier than usual so that he could exercise his handsome feline features.  Which he did.

Tookie sometimes reminds me just how close to nature we actually live.  We are a mere 20 yards from open space and, because of this Tookie and I have an agreement:  He may only take memories and leave only footprints.  Today he violated that agreement.  He caught, maimed, killed, carried up the building, sat down on my kitchen floor with, and devoured the head of a baby rabbit (otherwise known as a cutie or a babbit).  It’s pretty incredible what my cat is capable of.  It’s even more incredible how much he can just kill an innocent creature with no remorse only minutes after I fed him.  But I’m not even mad; I’m actually a little proud.  Look what he can do!  Commit murder?  The thing is I just don’t want to clean up his pukes.  Maybe if I leave it, my lover, JDubs, will clean it up with a trash sack and spare me the trouble.

Tookie eats rabbits like a man juggles; with balls

Shaving My Balls

These are just  some of the reasons I shave my balls:  I pride myself on being clean and proper; I also try to keep myself current with popular trends; my lover really appreciates round, smooth and hairless objects (she has allergies); if my pubic hair gets too long it pulls when it gets caught in clothing or between me and a chair.  Additionally, long pubes are harder to clean than short; trapping moisture, dingle-berries and, consequently, smell.  The way I see it cleanliness is pleasant.

As much as I like my balls well kept, I find that it’s a chore to get them clean and shaved.  However, I have developed a system that allows me to shave them like the dickens and gets the chore out of the way quickly.  I find that timing is everything.  I schedule my shavings around my face razors.  When they get too dull for my face, I take them directly to my nuts (nothing’s too good for my ball sack).  The hair cutting process is a two-parter which includes the trim and the shave.

(1.) The Trim – hover directly over a toilet with a set of hair cutting sheers, hips pushed forward to get the clippings into the toilet, grab a hand full of nuts, keep your head down and go to town.

(2.) The Shave (post trim)- sit in a bath tub, dull razor in hand, legs up and out, ass cheeks spread with butt hole puckered right up to the cold cast iron tub, balls lifted, shaving cream slathered all over, hot water running slightly, get shaving mister.

I usually reserve this activity for non-public showers with locking doors.  I feel awkward doing it and, to onlookers, I probably look like I border on the side of auto-erotic masochism.  Whatever.  I like the way it makes me feel.  I also like when my lover esses my dee.  Unfortunately, she won’t go near me when my pubes are as long and as thick as night crawlers.  Do I have a choice?

The Last Time I Crapped My Pants

Yeah, I shard.  So what?  If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too.  Have you ever been on a bus?  This isn’t about that.  This is a story.  And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old.  It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon.  I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple.  At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers.  I was proud then.  It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos.  They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people.  I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.

My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age.  During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house.  There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two.  We never needed outfielders.  Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house.  Like I said, it was a defunkity sac.  We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp.  There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun.  Actually, it was a lot of fun.  Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.

At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues.  They had organized a game that we all knew well.  We got on to playing.  As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus.  I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt.  Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass.  It was coming on slow but steady.  I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.

So, like most people do, I weighed my options.  I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences.  Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat.  It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right.  For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy.  I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way.  After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”

I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch.  So, I sat on a pitch.  And another.  And another.  And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far.  The pitch came and I took a cut.  It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me.  Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed.  The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants.  As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete.  I did it.  I crapped my pants.  And the driveway, too, apparently.

My Life

Guess what, friends.  You’re hired!  Not really, though.  I want to tell you a little about my life.  It all started at the beginning when I was born.  I was a twin then and still am today.  My wombmate, Milhouse, as he is referred to by no one is one of the largest men that an ant has ever seen.  During my youth I grew up.  I marked all of my belongings with urine and shared everything I had including bath water.  My mother was an earth science teacher on the moon and my father was half lemur and three-quarters poet.  We climbed great heights together.  I went to school in reverse order and Milhouse attended in normal sequence.  We met once in 6th grade.  Elementary school was a breeze.  That’s the time when we lived on an island.

I became very strong playing ball sports under coach Lifton.  I was younger then.  It was then I learned a sad story; my best friend died before I knew him.  He was a quadriplegic.  He had no arms or legs and but he played in the grass.  His name was Russell.  I had a dog with fleas and a hamster with thumbs.  After graduating kindergarten, I joined the Peruvian circus in Brazil.  I was a flutist and I made delicious crepes.  That was a long time ago.  I met people like Biz, the singing ninja.  Almost everyone heard him coming.  He was married to a deaf princess from Albany named Sheila.  I met her too.  We used to take pictures of each other and watch them age.  It took forever.

After the circus I lived on an escalator for a short stint.  At the top I met a girl.  We were wed.  She grew into an ogre and ate all of our house plants.  She had a way with squirrels.  She would eat them, too.  We grew older every day.  We had children.  A boy and his sister.  She died shortly after the kids in a salt water bath I had given them.  I learned that ogres can’t breathe under heavy rocks.  It was her anniversary.  I didn’t celebrate holidays then.

I lived alone after that.  I liked short stories and to pass the time I read a lot of booklets.  I briefly took up smoking and then stopped.  It was one of the hardest things I ever did.  I got older and my breath got worse.  I bought a boat and sailed around a buoy for a year.  It turned out that my anchor was stuck.  I ate a lot of fish then. 

I am sick now.  I’m getting older and my bones are getting shorter.  I’ve grown as much as I have shrunk and I think that I’ve learned more than I’ll ever know.  I’m in a bed and the sheets are wet.  I guess that makes it my bed.  Would you like to join me?  You’re hired.  Not really, though.  I already said that.

Big Ballin’

This tiger is an insanely intense ball handler (in his mouth). Look at all that sweat!

What’s your story?  Actually, don’t tell me.  I have something better to waste time with.  I’m a basketball player.  Why, though, huh?  I put the ball in the hole.  People want me on the team so they can pass me the rock.  I post up in the paint.  I’m a big  huge monstrously gigantic dude and I’m all athletic like an agile freak.  In the weight room, I can bench and squat press over 400 times.  When I get out on the ball court, it feels unnatural as hell.  That’s why I excel.  People always ask, “Why are you sweating so much around your nipple area, are you lactating?”  No, not really.  That’s grossly inaccurate and sick.  Here’s a little factoid: nipple sweat is sourced from pure adrenaline.  Try this: Put a tiger on an airplane.  He’s going to get nervous and then maul a pilot and then land the plane and then save everyone else on board and then they’ll all make their connecting flights, probably.  It’s unnatural, but heroic.  He’s excelling, he’s nervous.  You didn’t know this until right now but tiger’s nipples sweat big time.  When tiger nipples are sweating hard, I’m competing hard.  I’m heroic-ish.  Pounding the boards, inbounding the stone, eating an apple.  That’s what I do.  That’s why I play shooty hoops.