Don't Read This. It's Boring.
Coming up with new content every week is not as easy as it may seem. I'm out of shitty recipes and no one has asked the GMan any questions in weeks. I have one sad story that isn't quite finished and there's no way it will be finished in time for this week's post. Shit.
Right now, I'm staring at a Chick-fil-A cookie and sending pics of robots having sex to the dude in the next cube. (It's a bad idea to Google "gay robots" at work, by the way.) He just threw a clown nose at me because that's the kind of dude he is. The back of the clown nose resembles a vagina, if vaginas were bright red and had no lips. Sometimes he turns it sideways and raises his eyebrows. He's trying to goad me into saying something racist about Asian chicks, but there's no way I'm going to say something about Asian chicks' vaginas at work. Plus, I'm not sure if I've seen any Asian vaginas in real life.
I'm avoiding editing this boring ass article about online Master of Education programs, which is usually a great time to write something for myself. Not today. Today seems like a good day to…I'm not sure what. I was going to say "nap" but every day is a good day to nap. I also thought of saying "drink on a patio" but that also works pretty much every day—and I actually don't feel much like drinking, even if I did still drink. Ok, maybe that's not true. If the Sweet Baby Jesus said, "Trey, you can drink now. Yay!" I would probably get immediately SuperDrunk. I also thought of saying it's a good day for a road trip. Again, that's every day. I'm just going to go with "nap." It's a good day to nap.
I left my sandwich and chips at home today, so I had to buy Chick-fil-A (thus the cookie I'm staring at). I may have given myself a mild-to-medium case of diarrhea, but so far it has been worth it. We'll see how that goes as the afternoon progresses.
I found out this morning that my cousin actually likes the Oxford Comma. What the fuck? I usually don't engage in such debates, because duh and the people who debate such things usually don't know what the fuck they are talking about. But I respect my cousin, so I commented. He majored in journalism. I majored in English. Journalism majors are lame. [insert sarcastic/ironic emoji here] I have to leave those commas out at work, which used to piss me off. Now, I could not give two flying shits about the Oxford Comma one way or another, though I still use it in my actual, non-work writing, because, of course, it is a superior construction. So lick it, suck it, and eat it, AP Stylebook.
Man, these motherfuckers around me won't stop talking about work. (They aren't actual motherfuckers. I like everyone who is around me right now. No, seriously. That bitch in accounting hasn't been by since this morning. She said her fake "How are you doing this morning?" and kept walking before anyone had a chance to answer. "My morning would be a lot better if you would shut the fuck up!") Where was I? Oh yeah, people around me are blabbing about work and distracting me from this piece-of-shit post.
You might be wondering—if you're still reading—why I posted this stupid shit. Well, I have a goal of posting one blog per week, no matter what. This is what "no matter what" looks like. I also have a goal of at least one post on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter every day. I'm also trying to make myself interact with people on the social media at least five times a day on each platform. Why? I'm trying to drive readers to my fabulous writing so I can get rich and famous and then be able to use commas any way I fucking want. And tell people to eat a dick. Actually, I mostly want to tell people to eat a dick.
Have a good weekend, guys and girls! I promise I'll have something super fucking awesome next week. Or at least some poop/dick jokes.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 and Instagram @edgeman3000.
Editor update: My editor hasn't stuck anything up his butt for a week, so hopefully he will get out of rehab next month.
Ladies love a man who can cook. No fucking secret there. No matter what they say, chicks like to eat. And fuck those "I'll-just-have-salad" bitches anyway. Salad chicks—not vegetarians—probably have stinky vaginas.
Where was I? Oh yeah, cooking. The problem with cooking a great meal is that it takes time, time that you may not have. Maybe you're watching the game or going to happy hour. Maybe you're sitting on your patio smoking cigarettes wondering what the fuck happened to your life, counting the days until you DON'T retire because you can't afford to because your crippling student loan debt doesn't leave you enough money to invest (the ROI on that degree was terrible because you're an editor and not a doctor, lawyer, or baller business dude) and you're probably going to get cancer anyway so fuck it.
You need a way to impress your lady friend without spending a fuck-ton of time in the kitchen. Good news, buddies, the GMan's got you!
Step one: Go to the store.
Step two: Make a mess in your kitchen.
This may be the most important part of impressing your lady friend. A meal surrounded by a mess means you worked hard. (A mess on its own means you're a fucking slob and should probably clean your kitchen. And also, she might equate the cleanliness of your kitchen to the cleanliness of your butthole, so that's something else to consider.)
Cut up the tomatoes and throw 90 percent of that shit in the trash. Leave some seeds, juice, and bits of skin lying around on the counter. Repeat with the onion and garlic. Throw some of your new herbs and spices on the counter and leave the jars out.
Pull out your stand mixer with the pasta attachment. (Borrow this from your mom if you have to. Kitchenaid mixers make all the panties drop. Except your mom. That's gross.) Crack some eggs into the sink leave the shells where your girl can see them. Throw some flour around. Spill a little milk. Make a paste and put some in the mixing bowl.
Step three: Cook the actual food.
Pour your store-bought sauce in a pan and heat it up on low. Follow the instructions on the box of pasta and cook that shit. Mix some of the garlic you threw in the trash with some butter and let soften. Right before you eat, put that on the fancy bread and heat it on a grill pan. The grill marks make everyone horny as fuck.
Step four: Your lady friend shows up for dinner.
Your lady friend walks in and sees your fucked up kitchen and the food on the stove. She assumes you made that sauce from scratch. SPLOOSH! "Wow! I can't believe you went to all this trouble. It smells great. WE ARE LITERALLY GOING TO POUND TOWN AFTER THIS!" (I'm not sure where Pound Town is actually located, but she will most likely say "literally" because people don't seem to know what the fuck that means anymore.)
Then you pull out the salad bag and apologize. "Sorry I didn't have time to make my legendary Caesar dressing. I had some deliverables to deliver to the CEO of Google by EOB today." This adds a bit of reality that will make all the other bullshit believable.
Finally, you plate the food and eat. Wait thirty minutes to an hour after eating before hitting the road to Pound Town. Done. Boom!
Or you could just look up a recipe on the internet and actually cook all of that shit yourself. It will probably take you the same amount of time. Except the pasta. Fuck making pasta from scratch. It's weird.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 and Instagram @edgeman3000.
I'm sitting in my cube thinking that I need more money and that I don't want to eat the lentils my wife made for dinner. (They are delicious, of course, but I'm not in the mood. I want a $40 steak.) I'm wondering where the fuck my promising writing career went—seemed promising in grad school anyway. I don't want to eat the turkey sandwich I brought for lunch either. I feel like I have to poop, but I probably won't be able to because of the depression meds I'm on. My blood sugar is too high even though I didn't eat any crazy shit. And mostly, I'm thinking that I'm underpaid for the fancy marketing editor job I have. Don't they know how important grammar is? Don't they know how important smooth, concise prose is?
Don't I know that I'm just editing and writing for a Google algorithm? But yeah, I'm thinking about money, so I start looking for high-paying editor jobs in Dallas fucking Texas.
I find one that pays about five grand more a year than I make now. That sounds ok, though I'll probably feel just as broke as I do now after I've had that job for a month. I click to apply. Of course, this isn't one of those simple fuckers that just takes my LinkedIn info. It does, however, take the shit from my resume and put it in all the wrong boxes. I look around to see if my boss is behind me and start filling in my info.
I went to school. I got a master's degree in English. I went to high school. Why the fuck are they asking me about high school? I fill in my previous employment info, leaving out a shitty job that I sorta got fired from; it wasn't related to writing or editing anyway, and fuck those people in the ass with an AIDS-infested hatchet.
I put in some references, wondering why they even ask. Am I going to put someone down who will say shitty things about me? Fuck no. Basically, that question is asking if you have friends who will lie for you. I do have friends who will lie for me.
So finally, I get to the end where it asks the Equal Opportunity Employment stuff. FUCK! I'm a fucking white guy and I fucking hate these questions. Where's my privilege now? Oh, I know, it must be mixed in with my unpaid student loan bills, or possibly my shitty credit report. Maybe I should drive around awhile and feel the privilege of not getting pulled over. That always makes me feel better.
Gender: Male, female, decline to answer.
I want to write, "Male, I guess," but there's not a box for "I guess." I check the appropriate box and look down disapprovingly at me wiener.
Race: It lists the races.
I'm still not sure what the fuck non-Hispanic white is, but it's most likely not me. I think about choosing the "two or more races" or Native American. While those may be technically true, they are pretty much true for everyone. I sadly—knowing I'm surely not getting the job after my first two answers—click the box for "non-Hispanic white." Ugh.
Protected Veteran: Yes, no, choose not to self-identify.
Well, fuck. This one just makes me feel like shit. My dad and two of my uncles served in Vietnam, and I've always felt guilty about not going to war. My dad and uncles are glad I didn't have to go to war, but the fact that I didn't go to war still makes me feel shitty. I check the "no" box.
Disability: Yes or no.
FUCK again! Goddamnit, I'm fucking sick of this shit.
But wait, they've taken the time to list the disabilities that an applicant might have. I look down the list and I have three of those motherfuckers! Depression, bipolar, and diabetes. Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus for giving me depression and bipolar disorder that led to alcoholism, which then led to pancreatitis, which led to diabetes. This job is mine!
Looking forward to your comments.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101.
Editor update: It looks like it will be months before he gets out of rehab. They went on a field trip—yes, you get field trips in rehab—and he relapsed. They went to Shady Lanes Bowling Alley. (All kinds of shit can go wrong at a fucking bowling alley.) Anyway, he was trying to impress a heroin addict chick by sticking a bowling pin up his ass. She freaked out and called for security, which happened to be a dude named Bubba. Bubba gave him two options: an ass-beating or the cops. Lucky for Dale (that's not his real name), the addict wrangler talked Bubba out of those options and took the whole group back to rehab.
"We are only as sick as our secrets." – AA
As you can imagine, I got a LOT of feedback on the last post about life hacks for dudes. GMan has a shitload of hot chick readers and they wanted to add to my list. Because they are hot chicks—and dudes are still total fucking tards—I decided that seven life hacks were not enough. (I will almost always take suggestions from hot chicks, and you should too. That's a free one, homies.) I may not agree with all of their tips, but, well…they are hot chicks. What the fuck do you want me to do?
But before we get to the suggestions from my ladies, I'll give you the recipe for the Best Burger on the Web: The G-Burger. This is sure to get you laid, so save room for dessert!
First, you need to buy a grill if you don't have one. Any grill will do. Charcoal, gas, firewood, whatever. But do NOT use one of those shitty disposable ones that come in the aluminum pan. Nothing dries out a pussy quicker than a disposable grill. (This is what I've heard anyway. I couldn't dry out a pussy with a hairdryer in the desert, and I sure as fuck wouldn't buy one of those gay-ass disposable grills.)
The cooking part:
1. Blondie69 (smoking hot) says leave the seat down/put the seat down. She's right but probably for the wrong reasons. You should NOT do shit just because some hot chick told you to. (Disregard any earlier advice saying you should [unless you're a total dipshit].) You should put the seat down for yourself. Imagine you have a nice case of middle-of-the-night diarrhea. Your stupid ass didn't put the seat down. Now your nuts are in the water with your diarrhea, and you're sitting on a pissy toilet rim. Fucking gross. So don't be a heathen and put the seat down after you pee.
Side note: James Bond doesn't do shit to get the pussy. He does shit for himself and the chicks give him the pussy because of it. Think about that.
2. "Gallison" (also hot) says you should handle up on your nose hairs. She's fucking right. I get my nose hairs waxed, and it's fucking great! It shouldn't cost more than 15 bucks and it's worth every penny. It doesn't hurt (unless you're a big-ass pussy). You'll breathe better and not have to worry about having a mini Sasquatch hanging out of your nose.
3. Gallison also says to not shave all your pubes off. "Y'all might think we look hot shaved, but y'all don't. You look like an assclown." Right again, Gallison! Get the trunk. Get everything off the balls you can without cutting yourself. Use no less than a #2 on the man triangle. You should be good to go.
4. Elle-Dawg—I think that's Trey's wife—says you should let her kiss you while you have food in your mouth. I'm not sure about this one, but Elle-Dawg is hot, too, so fuck it.
5. "Gigi" says you should learn to appreciate the arts—specifically ballet. That seems a bit specific to me, then then again, ballet chicks are hot. Expert tip: they like bouquets of red roses after they finish a performance. And maybe some cocaine. (I got this info from the movies, not Gigi.) WARNING: Watch out for those psycho-murdery ballerinas like in Black Swan. You don't want to wake up dead with her eating some other hot ballet chick's pussy out next to you on the bed. Trust me.
6. From Leighbirrrrddd: "BE ON TIME for the date! I mean, so I really have to say this? Due to recent experiences, YES. If for some reason you get held up, hit traffic, hit a deer on the way to the date and will be late, let her know. We live in a time where you can't sneeze without it being texted to someone or put on your Instagram story, so for the love of God, text her. And then apologize again once you get there. And if you invite her to "drinks around 7"...she's gonna be there at 7. Because she's classy. You show up at 7:30 and you are officially not worth her make-up."
Seriously dudes, listen to her! Late people are infuriating. And like all my lady readers, she's fucking hot. Imagine you're the one sitting there at the cool place with the Edison lights and appropriated black people food (i.e., chicken and waffles, shrimp and grits). It's about 15 minutes past the time she's supposed to show up. You like this girl. You're excited. Then all of a sudden, you have to pee, but you don't want to because what if she shows up while you're in the bathroom and thinks you didn't show and she leaves. That's fucking terrible! So you sit there about to pee your pants, trying not to drink too much because you're nervous. When she finally does show up, you run to the bathroom and she thinks you had some pre-chicken and waffles diarrhea! What the fuck?! Why the fuck would you possibly do this to someone. Don't be a dick; show up on time. P.S. This goes for you too, ladies.
7. "Bekka" says clip your finger and toenails. Seriously, dudes. I didn't need "Bekka" to tell me this one, but she's right. And she's hot. So pay attention. Long fingernails make you look like a serial killer or a classical guitarist, which are often one and the same. Also, long finger nails are likely to get gross shit under them. Picture yourself as a girl. You're making out with some dude. You pull your drawers down, ready to get fingered good! Yay! But then you see him coming at your sweet poon with some dirty-ass fingernails. Who the fuck knows what's under there? Do you want an unknown brown substance in your pussy? I didn't think so.
I've always known this, of course, but if you don't believe me and Bekka, Google "how to make a chick squirt using your fingers" on the interwebs. Find a reputable site like Yoni.org. Something with Sanskrit in the URL. Don't go to Pussipedia.com. That shit is not a reputable source. A good "How to Make a Chick Squirt" article will explain how finger-banging a chick with long fingernails is basically the same as getting jerked off by Edward Scissorhands. Do you want scissors and knives and shit around your dick? I didn't think so. Trim your shit.
Ok, I think that pretty much sums it up. Hopefully you will take these tips and be less of an embarrassment to your gender. And as always, don't be fucking rapey.
Leave your comments or questions, and the G will be sure to answer you…most likely.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101.
I visited my editor in rehab the other day, and he seems to be doing OK. His counselor told me it would be another three to nine months before he gets out. (I don't think it was legal for him to share that info with me, but people tell me all kinds of shit they shouldn't.) #Praying4ASpeedyRecovery #TyposandShit
When you look past the "ALL dudes are sexist, rapist, racist assholes" shit, you'll notice that the prevailing thought in 21st century America is that dudes are all borderline retarded. At first, I thought this was bullshit. #FakeNews My buddies and I aren't borderline retards most of the time. But listening to women around my office and elsewhere (and men), I've realized that maybe dudes are fucking dipshits.
To help the male population be less dipshitty, I've compiled this listicle of essential life hacks for dudes.
1. Learn to feed yourself. Buying a burger or taco or pizza doesn't count. I was surprised to learn how many guys can't even make a sandwich. (Or worse, they can make a sandwich but pretend to be absolutely helpless so their wives/husbands/girlfriends/boyfriends do it for them. Maybe it's a control thing. Guess what? You're not a pimp. You're a fuckwad. This is not the 50s and you've proven nothing but what a fuckwad you are.)
I'll give you a starter recipe, but after that, you need to start looking shit up for yourself.
Recipe for Grilled Chicken and Green Shit with Fancy Bread.
2. Wash your dick, balls, taint, and asshole. You may be thinking, But GMan, I already wash my dick, balls, taint, and asshole. No. You. Don't. Soap on your hand is not going to get the job done. Use a fucking wash rag! Chicks can smell that shit. They don't like it. (There are probably some nasty bitches who do, but you don't want them.) They will be way more likely to suck your dick/balls/taint/asshole if it's clean down there. Side note: Shave the hairs on the trunk of your cock. That one is more for your own peace of mind.
3. Read a book. (You can tell, this dude lives in Poundtown.)
4. Get off your phone when you're on a date. Actually, get off your phone when you're talking to anyone in person. It's not just rude; it's stupid. If that's what you want to do, go home and stop wasting people's time. If you are on a date and the chick is on her phone the whole time, tell her to go fuck herself and leave.
5. Stop listening to EDM, Bro Country, and anything requiring an explanation of the genre, like Laptop Death Cuddlecore Psychedelia. That shit is stupid. (EDM is ok if you're a gay dude, I suppose.) Google the top 100 albums of all time. Listen to those. Some of those albums suck ass too, but you'll be on the right track.
6. Pay attention. Watch and listen, always. At the very least, this will come in handy in fights later on. For example, your girl—or whatever—starts bitching about some random pee sprinkles on the floor by the toilet. If you were paying attention, you would have noticed and remembered that last November she left a giant shit streak on the toilet bowl. A monster, in fact. If you were paying attention, you could say, "Fuck you, nasty whore! You left a giant shit streak on the bowl on November 16th last year."
7. Stop sending pictures of your dick. You may be thinking, GMan, you're old as fuck and everybody sends dick pics these days. And that one chick that one time asked me to send her a picture of my dick. That's fucking stupid. If everyone stuck flaming dildos in their asses…?
No one really wants to see a picture of your dick. If a chick does ask for a picture of your dick, don't give it to her. Here's why: 1) She probably also thinks that's the thing to do these days, and is thus a dipshit. 2) She's a fucking weirdo. 3) SHE CAN USE YOUR DICK PICS AGAINST YOU IN COURT. Even if she sends you a pic of her titties, still don't do it.
A number of things will go through her mind if you don't:
Bonus Tip: Don't be fucking rapey. Seriously. Otherwise, you're a piece of shit.
If you use these seven essential life hacks for dudes, you'll be way more awesome and less of a dipshit than you are now. You might just get some extra pussy, and at the very least, you might feel just a bit more like a man.
More questions? Post them here, and the GMan will answer!
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101
Author's note: It has come to our attention that many of you think the GMan and Trey are the same guy. We are not. My name is Johnny Lassiter Jr., Aka, The GMan. Trey and I met at a gay-ass writer's conference a few years ago. We both liked drinking, smoking, and titty bars, so we hit it off. (I still like those things, but Trey has calmed down, and in my opinion, become a bit of a pussy.) Because both of us hate the internet, we decided to have one website; that way we could split the work. If you have any more questions about this, ask Trey.
Also, the fucked up formatting, etc. in this is not mine.
Also, turns out my editor is not a lazy bastard. He's been in rehab for sticking things in his butthole. One day at a time, buddy. We love you.
The Marketing Group
Employee Performance Appraisal Form - 2017
Employee Name: Johnny Lassiter Jr.
Manager: November Smithfield
Department: Content Marketing
Overall summary of goal achievement for 2017:
First of all, this is a stupid-ass waste of time, and you should all go fuck yourselves. Except, you November. You're awesome!
There is nowhere to go in this company, so I don't even know why you're asking me all these questions. I have a fucking job to do! You're welcome!
I set my own goals this year, and of course, I fucking slayed them.
Also, I heard that none of us are getting raises this year, which makes this thing extra fucking stupid. Maybe if you did more of that fancy C-suite MBA shit then the company would have more money to pay us more. Anyway, I'll get to salary situation in a bit.
I haven't given this to November yet.
Employee Competency Assessment
Builds Internal and External Customer Relationships
I don't have any customers, and if you knew who I was and what I do, you would fucking know that. Stop asking me all these goddamn questions.
I am a trusted advisor. If someone here wants to know the difference between a conjunctive adverb and a subordinating conjunction, I'm the dude to ask!
I don't have any goddamn customers! Get that shit through your fucking heads. Jesus!
I can't wait to see what November has to say!
Sets Appropriate Priorities
I'm about to assess the fuck out of some "urgency, importance, time, and impact to determine priority of work to be completed." This particular piece of horseshit I'm writing right now is not urgent, important, and has no impact. By the way, "time" in this case is not parallel to those other words in that list. And speaking of time, I don't have time to do dumb shit like this; I could be doing my actual job, which is correcting the grammar and prose of various dipshit freelance writers. Fuck them, too!
I am definitely not spending time on what is important right now.
I'm trying to focus, but it's hard when the English language is being raped all to fuck around me. E.g. Hey, Bill, what's the ask? Excuse me, John, what's the spend on that? I'm about to barf.
I'm urgently trying to get this shit done so I can go back to fixing shitty writing.
Problem Solving Abilities
Innovative thinking doesn't apply to my job. I look shit up on the internet when I don't know. Restrictive and non-restrictive clauses always fuck me up for some reason. And fuck the AP Style Guide.
The root cause to most of the symptoms I deal with is fuck-tarded writers. Actually, no. The root cause is that some fucking asshole told these people they can write. Guess what, fuckos? You can't.
I could make recommendations, but you people don't give a flying fuck.
I'm working to resolve this piece of shit review—without delay!
Exhibits Drive and Initiative
I don't know what "SMART" goals are. I asked the MBA-types fuckers around me and none of them were sure either. Go fuck yourselves.
(And speaking of retarded shit, someone needs to clean the fucking bathroom. I would also suggest some continuing education on poopoo and peepee skills. Expert tip: Shit and piss don't go on the floor. What's the ask? Stop being a fucking heathen.)
I always have a positive attitude, and I'm very enthusiastic about the continued success of this company.
I have high standards of performance. Unfortunately, I'm the only one meeting those motherfuckers.
Go fuck yourselves.
While I would like to say that I have a "continuous improvement mindset," I must be honest and admit that my improvement mindset is continual, not continuous. There's a difference. I'm not thinking about improving my work performance while I'm sleeping or beating off. But yeah, over time I have a continued desire to improve, though it is more incremental than continuous. Look it up.
I suppose that if one could truly "own" an issue or problem, then I do. However, I must add that I don't create issues or problems. Those usually come from assmuncher VP MBAs who have bad ideas about metaphorical language.
I take responsibility for outcomes. But only mine. A lot of these other people are dumbass dicklickers, so there's no goddamn way I'm taking responsibility for that shit. By the way—you don't know me or what I do, so I know you don't know this—my outcomes are always fucking awesome. You're welcome.
I follow through on commitments.
Yeah, I measure my progress, but I never need to make adjustments because I'm fucking awesome.
(And by the way, mind your own fucking business.)
Effective Communications – Oral and Written
You must be fucking kidding me. I listen with the intent to understand, but the way you spray diarrhea on the English language makes it difficult. Certain words were meant to remain verbs. Look that shit up.
"Speaks with truth, candor, and transparency." Yeah, eat a dick.
Ok, I was trying not to judge your shitty writing too much but I've had enough! "communications are delivered…" Not only is that passive voice, it's the opposite of concise. Just say "communicates." Don't nominalize some shit and add an extra verb. The goddamn verb was there in the first place until you turned it into a noun. (This is not the same noun/verb problem noted above. Look up nominalization.)
I am always positive when receiving and giving messages.
Career Development: Discuss 1-2 year career goals
What the actual fuck are you talking about? Are you fucking serious? Next question.
Employee Overall Comments/Feedback:
Finally, the good shit: If don't get a raise after this—and I'm not talking about some 2.5 percent bullshit—I'm going to sue your asses for all the sexual harassment going on at this company.
Suzy in Accounting, for example, is always rubbing her nasty-ass titties on me. She likes to hug me from behind when we're alone in the elevator and rub them on my back. She also stands really close to me when I'm making coffee so my upper arm is stuck between those sag bags. That shit happens like every day. I have a girlfriend, for Christ's sake! I take the commitment to my girlfriend seriously, so if somebody's going to rub their titties on me, she better be smoking hot with some awesome knockers!
But whatever, I'm a dude. The problem is that Suzy from Accounting happened to mention in passing the other day that she could "accidentally" forget to process my paycheck. What the fuck? You can't titty rape some dude's arm and then threaten his measly paycheck.
Somebody better handle that shit!
And then there's Gay Larry in HR. I don't have a problem with Gay Larry in HR because he's gay. I mean, me and my buddies jacked each other's dicks all the time in high school. Who doesn't? Anyway, this isn't some homophobic shit. Jesus, it's a pain in the ass that you've got to write dissertation about you and your buddies jacking each other's dicks before you can say something about gay people without other people getting all pissed off at you and calling you a Nazi.
Ok, back to Gay Larry in HR. He's always looking at my pecker while we're peeing. I don't mean that he takes a glance. I mean he straight up looks at my dick. And he rubs my shoulder while he's doing it. What the fuck? And if you're not getting my point (which you probably aren't) Gay Larry from HR is in charge of HR. Who the fuck am I supposed to talk to about him looking at my dick and giving me shoulder massages while we're peeing? As much as I love November, she gets uncomfortable when I talk about my dick. Again, handle up on that shit.
Finally, let's talk about sweet little Lyndon in Social Media and how the CEO is always trying to finger her. Don't get me wrong; who doesn't want to finger Lyndon in Social Media. She's super hot. Like, I'd let her rub her 23-year-old titties on me all fucking day. Jesus Christ, her titties are awesome. They just seem so fresh, like when you pull that brand new jug of milk out of the cooler at the Kroger and you know it's not going to expire for months. So fresh, so clean. Goddamn! And I'd let her look at my dick every day. Sorry, got off track there for a second.
The CEO tries to finger her at least once a day and everyone knows it. Obviously, Gay Larry in HR fucking sucks at his job. The point is, old rich white dudes cannot just run around grabbing girls by their pussies. That shit is not right. (Not to mention, it gives regular-ass white dudes who don't try to finger rape hot young millennials a bad name.)
I know what you fuckers are thinking: Prove it, GMan. Well, guess what. I have multiple attempted-fingering videos on my phone. Suck it.
Now that I think about it, the CEO better stop trying to finger sweet Lyndon or I'm going public with that shit whether I get a raise or not. #MeToo
I'm going to break this whole thing down for you to make sure you get the message:
Johnny Lassiter Jr.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101
Author's note: My editor is still a lazy fucker, so I apologize for any typos, etc. I missed.
My fans—all 0.000274 million of them—always ask me why I don’t write serious stories anymore. The short answer is that I think I have lost the ability to give my sad characters any kind of redemption. I beat them bloody in front of a small crowd and walk away.
Sometimes I think it has to do with sobriety. Sometimes I think it has to do with mental health.
I wrote a much longer intro, but it's all really bullshit.This is one of those instances where it's better to show than to tell.
The process, if you want to call it that, goes like this:
I’m walking through the food court in the building where I work, going for smokes or a diet Coke or whatever. It's a good day and I remind myself of where I really am. I am an editor in a nice office downtown. I am not a pizza delivery driver with a master’s degree who lives with his mom. Gratitude.
It’s 2 p.m. and relatively quiet. There are rectangular pools two feet high spread throughout the space. There are plants. There’s a New York style pizza place and a convenience store. There’s a burrito place and a place for smoothies. Sometimes you’ll see children being wheeled around on a cart thing. The cart is always pushed by a slightly overweight woman of any race.
As I pass by the salad place, I see a guy sitting alone with his late lunch. On his table, he has a McDonald’s hamburger—the little one that isn’t on the menu anymore. The original one that probably cost a dime when the restaurant had just a handful of locations. He has a can of Dr. Pepper. He has an individual-size bag of Kroger brand potato chips. He has two bite-size Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. That kills me. I could have handled the rest of it, but I saw the peanut butter cups and I start writing this sad shit in my head.
Jimmy woke up that morning at 6:32 a.m. like he did every weekday and Saturdays when he had to work. He doesn’t remember why his alarm is set to 6:32 a.m. and doesn’t ask himself. His name is actually Jimmy and not James, though he’s now forgotten that he hates that. He’s 43 years old. He lives with his father. He’s about 30 pounds overweight and his belly is hard.
He walked to the bathroom to take a piss and looks at himself in the mirror above the toilet. I need to get that gym membership this weekend. When he gets out of the shower, he can hear his father moving around in the kitchen. He goes to his room to finish dressing. It’s the bedroom he grew up in. The posters of girls in bikinis and Lamborghini’s have been taken out, and in their place, there are pictures of grand landscapes he’d cut from magazines, framed poorly in frames he bought at Hobby Lobby. He chooses a pair of Dockers and one of the polos with his company’s logo on the chest. He takes his time because he doesn’t want to talk to his dad this morning. If his dad is up, that means he’s in a good mood and he’ll want to talk.
Jimmy lives with his dad because his dad has MS and spends most of his time in a wheelchair. Jimmy doesn't know why his dad has his good and bad days. Maybe he's bipolar, or maybe some days he has more energy to devote to being happy and normal and as functional as possible. Or maybe it's the depression that comes with MS.
“Jimmy, I'm packing you a lunch,” Jimmy's dad said, looking over his shoulder from where he was preparing a sandwich at the counter. The height of the wheelchair made it an awkward position in which to make a sandwich.
Jimmy felt the love from his father and the lunch he had packed. And he hated him for it. Hated him for his MS. Hated him for still being alive. He hated himself for feeling this way. Jimmy missed his mother.
His father put the sandwich in a brown paper bag with the contents listed on the side in blue ballpoint pen, the script almost illegible.
1 x bologna sandwich
1 x bag potato chips
1 x can Dr. Pepper
2 x Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups
$1.08 in case you want to get a hamburger from McDonald’s
“Thanks, Dad,” Jimmy said, grabbing the bag and putting his other hand on his dad’s shoulder. “I’ll see you after work.”
“Have a good day, Son. I love you.”
Ok, that’s all I can write about Jimmy and his dad right now.
Here’s the one I thought of while I was camping.
I’m walking through Wal-Mart in Burnet, TX, looking for an air mattress. Mine finally gave out and I basically slept on the ground last night. I think about being 41 years old. My hip hurts.
So many products in Wal-Mart. So many shitty products. I think about America. I think about the reasons for Wal-Mart and why it makes me feel this way. Wal-Mart is necessary. Sometimes, it’s the only thing you can afford. Sometimes, it’s the only thing in town. Sometimes, you just need an air mattress. Maybe you’re a little lonely want to be around people. I think about how I could buy anything in the store. I think about how that’s not true.
I walk passed the lingerie section and think, Man, the lingerie section usually makes me kind of horny, but not here. If I’m in Target, I think about hot college girls buying bras and panties. It's some Girls Gone Wild shit in my head. If I’m in Macy’s, I think of slightly older women buying those things. These women are always pretty. They are always sweet and innocent and just a little bit dirty. They have money from their parents or from their first jobs out of college. Either way, they feel fine about where they are. Proud maybe. But not at Wal-Mart.
The girls I imagine buying bras and panties at Wal-Mart aren’t proud of it. Or maybe they are, which makes it even sadder. My pity embarrasses me and I feel guilty. I'm an elitist asshole. Then I think of Sally.
Sally drank half a box of wine the night before, watching TV in the converted barn apartment she rented for 75 bucks a week from her cousin Angie. Her cousin was married to a nice man who had inherited the Ford dealership in town. Her cousin had always been just a little bit better than Sally. Better at sports. Better at school. Better at everything, but just enough so that Sally always thought she would be able to catch up if she worked a little harder. Maybe should could have at some point.
But Sally—her daddy used to call her Sallymander—wasn’t thinking of any of that today. It was her day off from the tractor supply store and she was buying some new clothes; it was time. John had been gone a year and she knew she needed to "get back out there." Everyone told her so. "Get back out there." She didn’t believe it, but she knew she was tired of hurting. She knew that John would want her to be happy. She knew that.
Sally knew she needed a new bra but was really self-conscious about her breasts. They were small but saggy. One boy in high school had called them flapjacks and that word entered her mind any time she had her clothes off, even alone. Well, that's not exactly true; she never felt self-conscious when John was still alive. He made her feel beautiful. Magazine beautiful. But now he was gone and that word was back.
She’d seen an inspirational quote one of her friends posted on Facebook that morning: "I am in charge of how I feel and today I am choosing happiness." Sally was choosing happiness. No more letting the past define her. Today was going to be a good day.
She walked into the Wal-Mart, straight to the lingerie section, her head held high. Her head sagged a bit when she got there, but she remembered that quote. Today I am choosing happiness. Other ladies were in the section, some in pairs and some alone like her. Sally was happy that she didn’t see anyone she knew.
She was looking for something both conservative and sexy. White cotton with a bit of lace? Yes, something like that. After browsing for a moment, she found what she was looking for. She was officially a small B-cup but usually wore an A. An A was tight enough to keep her boobs from flopping over. She hated the feel of skin on skin, the roll underneath. She chose three—one white with lace, one pink with lace, and one that was a see-through black. She wouldn’t buy the black one, but she figured trying it on was a step in the right direction.
It was Saturday and the dressing room was a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere, in the corners and hanging over the stall doors. I wish they would keep this tidier, she thought. She felt a little melancholy creep in, or maybe it was down the block, but either way, it was coming. Sally told it no. Not today. Today I am choosing happiness. She looked under a few doors to find an empty room and finally found one at the end of the row. Discards in there, too. Discards.
I'm not sure why these stories always go this way, but writing them makes me even sadder than thinking of them.
Maybe it's an explanation of why I write about dicks and poop so much.
Of course, I know that I am both Sally and Jimmy.
Anyway, maybe I'll figure out a way for Sally to have a realistic happy ending. Jimmy is probably fucked.
Dear readers, I know it's been a long time, and I apologize. All kinds of shit has gone down since the last post. Being a badass marketing dude ever has taken a lot of time and energy. It's kind of soul-sucking actually.
Note: My editor is a lazy bastard, so this is probably going to have some typos and shit. Not only is he lazy, but now he wants to get paid. Fuck him.
G Maing! Here's my question. I heard about this thing called a "Pussy Snorkel" on the Wheeler Walker Jr. podcast, but he didn't really explain it. What is it and should I buy one? Thanks again!
Joel 17 – Frisco, TX
Joel, thanks for the question. (Do kids really say "maing"?) Dude, you're 17 and should not be worrying about pussy-eating products. Just eat the fucking pussy wherever and whenever it presents itself. It's not like you have a lot of warning when you're going to be eating pussy in high school anyway (or maybe you do these days). Are you going to carry around your pussy snorkel in your backpack? What if your mom decides to pack you a sweet lunch and sees that shit? Come on, buddy. That being said…
I also heard about the pussy snorkel on the WWJr podcast, and I didn't really know what it was either. I know that's fucking shocking since I know pretty much everything about pussy paraphernalia, but it's true. You'll be happy to know I did some research.
The ad copy says, "The Pussy Snorkel allows a man to continue breathing while performing oral sex on a woman in a spa, bathtub or even a bowl of green Jell-O. Insert the breathing apparatus into your nostrils, rub the clitoral stimulator against your favorite reef and start with the tongue action. With the Pussy Snorkel, any man can be a dive master."
There's also a disclaimer that says you could probably drown if you're not careful eating the pussy under water. Well, no fucking shit. (I must point out that that copy assumes a heteronormative user, which I find offensive.)
When it comes down to it, the pussy snorkel is just fucking stupid. Eating the pussy underwater may be fun for a bit, but water is not a great mix with pussy juice. It washes that shit out and makes the pussy squeaky, and as great as a squeaky pussy may sound -- especially if you're 17 -- it sucks for everyone involved, especially if you're going to take so long that you need breathing apparatus.
The only thing the pussy snorkel really seems good for is eating the super stank pussy, which I don't advise. Imagine this: You start making out with a new chick and she gives you the sign to go down. You're like, Ooo-wee! When you slide her drawers down, you get smashed in the face by the worst stench you've ever smelled. Rotting fajitas and dead hamsters. But she's hot and you want to eat it anyway. Plus, you're a nice guy and don't want to tell this sweet girl that she's got the bacterial vaginosis and needs to go to the doctor pronto. And we all know that sometimes you just have a bad pussy day or a bad balls day or a bad whatever day. Stop being so judgy! Jesus.
Where was I? Oh yeah…so, are you going to reach into your backpack (past the nice lunch your mom packed for you) and pull out your pussy snorkel? Is that how you're going to do it? DO NOT DO THAT. She will cry and run away. She'll need therapy and probably never let anyone eat her pussy again. Once you commit, you fucking eat it like a man! No fucking pussy snorkel.
So, to answer your question, no, you should not buy a pussy snorkel.
Peace little bro!
What up, G? I met this hot girl at the club the other night and took her home. Dawg! I hit it and split it! She's pretty cool and she can fuck. And did I mention she's hot? The next morning I got up to piss, and as I walked back to the bed, something strange about her panties caught my eye. There was a gray square stuck on the butt strap of her thong. It looked like this:
I checked to make sure she was still asleep and then bent down to get a closer look. All of a sudden -- please don't judge me -- I had an uncontrollable desire to sniff the gray pad. It was a horrible idea because it smelled like a thousand farts trapped in that 2x2 piece of cloth. It gets worse. I smelled the front. Couldn't help myself. It was not the best idea I ever had.
Under normal circumstances I would straight up ghost, but she's really hot and I like her. She likes minor league hockey and cheap beer! Where else am I going to find a girl like that? So I guess my question is, what do I do?
Landon, 31 – Charlotte, SC
Landon! What the actual fuck is wrong with you? You're old enough to know better than to sniff some fucking panties after a girl has been drinking at the club all night. Jesus. But due to the strange item you found attached to her panties, I'll let it slide.
First of all, what you found is a Subtle Butt Reusable Gas Neutralizer. While I applaud this girl for handling up on her farts, I have to question her judgement on buying a reusable fart filter. Fucking gross. But on the other hand, maybe she's having a rough time financially, which makes it ok, I guess. I also find it strange that she attached it to the crack strap on her g-string. Doesn't seem like it would be as effective as it would be on some regular panties, a nice boy short perhaps. Also, it seems like it might fall off easily. Imagine: She's dancing around, farting up a storm, thinking it's ok because of her Subtle Butt Reusable Gas Neutralizer, but little does she know she's stankin up the dance floor. Obviously that didn't happen, but you get the idea.
I say you stick it out with this girl for a little while longer. I mean, shit, she likes cheap beer and minor league hockey. She's hot and likes to fuck. You're not going to find that every day. If she's really cool, you can mention the fart catcher to her and suggest that she buy the disposable Subtle Butts. That's the kind my girl uses. Maybe even offer to pay for them if she's low on dough. And don't judge the stank on the front side. She was sweating it up at the club! I bet your taint didn't smell so great either.
Good luck, Landon!
Hey GMan, I'm wondering if my new girlfriend is fucking crazy or I'm just an asshole. Last night, she asked me if I would do her while she had a Goddess Vaginal Detox Pearl in her vag. This thing is supposed to clear out past emotional and physical trauma, and, I think, ex-boyfriend spooge. I'm totally down with dealing with trauma (and I guess ex-boyfriend spooge), but I don't really think Goddess Vaginal Detox Pearls are the way to do it. What is in those things anyway? Sage and baking soda? Sounds like a rip-off to me. And why do I have to take part in this? I read their website and it doesn't say anything about stirring up the sage pussy bombs with your new boyfriend's cock. Or maybe I'm just an asshole. Let me know, buddy!
Ian, 29 – Bakersfield, CA
Ian, first of all, I know all about the Goddess Vaginal Detox Pearls. Why? Because I know pretty much all things vagina. Your girlfriend is most likely crazy because all chicks are kinda fucking crazy. Like my old man used to say, "If it comes with a coochie, crazy is a standard feature." Not the most PC thing to say, I'll admit, but it is all-too-often the truth. Not the point. So, yeah, she's probably crazy, but she also sounds fucking stupid. A chick should never trust anything that says, "You want to have a vagina that is super fleeky." It also purportedly cures bacterial vaginosis (Goddmamnit, why does the subject of stinky vaginas come up in every fucking one of these?), yeast infections, fibroids, and other shit. Are you fucking kidding me? You know what that shit's made of? "Herbal ingredients." If a company is selling some shit that promises fleeky vaginas and won't tell you what the actual ingredients are, I'm not sticking my dick anywhere near it, and you shouldn't either. Hold on. I'm about to do more research.
Ok, they do list the ingredients and I haven't heard of a fucking one of them. You may not know this, but I'm a healthcare writer by trade, so I'm pretty much a doctor. My advice: DO NOT STICK YOUR DICK ANYWHERE NEAR THAT.
Now I feel bad about calling her crazy. Poor girl has probably been through some serious shit. Tell your girlfriend to go to a doctor and a therapist for her pussy and emotional trauma. That shit is no joke. Fibroids are fucking tumors -- not something that should be treated with some internet snake oil. These Goddess Vaginal Detox Bomb people are terrible humans. Anyone who tries to sell bullshit to people who have been through emotional and physical trauma should literally go fuck themselves with a chainsaw.
You are not an asshole.
Take care, buddy,
Leave me your questions, and I'll answer ASAP!
Hey GMan. I think you’re super hot, but I’m going to pretend like I don’t. Thanks! So, I’m “seeing” this guy. I mean fucking, actually. The sex is ok and he’s pretty boring. He is hot though and has a great body. Anyway, the last time we slept together (fucked), he laughed like a crazy person after he came. Then he said, “That’s all I fuck! Chimps and orangutans!” Then he said, “Hey, I got this coupon for Jack in the Box Munchie Meals. You hungry?” I asked him what the fuck he was talking about and he showed me the YouTube video of Dave Chappelle AND the fucking Jack in the Box Commercial. What should I do?
Maggie, 34 – Highland Park, TX
ALOL HAHAHAHAHAHA! I LOVE THIS GUY! Holy shit, Maggie! I kinda have a boner right now, but unfortunately, it’s a #shameboner. Why is it a #shameboner? I’m not sure. I just feel weird right now. I’m thinking of y’all fucking and I’m not exactly sure who I wanna fuck more.
You should marry this guy! He sounds fucking awesome! I have to admit that I always laugh my ass off right after I fuck a new chick. I’m not sure why; maybe I’m just that excited. Who the fuck knows? And one time, after my buddy and a finished up on this THOT from the club, I started laughing and rapping Nelly’s “Must Be the Money.” What the actual fuck was wrong with me? So yeah, do whatever the fuck you wanna do. You’re a girl so you probably won’t take my advice anyway.
Love you the most,
GMan, is it gay to suck my buddy’s dick if we get to have a girl stripper tag-team afterwards?
Jason, 24 – Arlington, TX
What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!?! Of course it’s not gay to suck your buddy’s dick in exchange for fucking two strippers. Seriously, kids today.
You may be surprised to learn that the Legendary GMan found himself in this exact situation a few years back. My friends and I used to go to the titty bar all the time. One night, none of our girls were there and we were kind of bored. We decided to tell chicks we were gay and just trying to see what the big deal was about. Pretty soon this pair of chicks came over. I hate it when chicks come in pairs. Someone always gets guilted into get a lap dance from the more struggling of the two. Kinda like banging the fat friend of a girl your friend wants to bang. You know what I’m saying. But these chicks were Fu King HOT! They asked us what we were doing and we told them about being homos and trying to understand about titties and shit like that. They said that seeing us “get down” would be the hottest thing ever. “I have to go to the bathroom, and I think you do to,” I said, looking at my friend. “Huh?” he said. Then, “Oh! Yeah, I do.” When we got to the bathroom, I said, “I’ll suck your dick if we get to fuck those bitches.” He said, “Dude, I’ll let you fuck me in the ass if we get to fuck those hos!” I said, “Word” and we went back to the table.
At two, the lights came up and it was time to make this non-gay, dick-sicking, stripper-fucking thing happen. They followed us back to our apartment and we cracked open a bottle of Patron we’d been saving for just such an occasion. And then…nothing else happened. We played Trivial Pursuit and didn’t do anything gay at all. It’snotgay!NOTHINGGAYATALLHAPPENED. Nothing happened. I don’t want to talk about it, ok? Seriously. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine.
Hi GMan, I don’t want my friends to know this, so please change my name. I am fucking obsessed with Meghan Trainor. I love her and her fucking music. My friends would laugh me out of the group if they found out. We listen to what you would probably call “Hipster Douche-Bag” bands. Ones you’ve never heard of who only do internet and festivals. I watch “All About that Bass” constantly when no one is around. I know you don’t listen to this kind of stuff either (besides JT) but is it ok to like her? Does it mean I’m a “Chubby Chaser” if I really want to fuck her? What do I do?
“Lance” 25 – Denton, TX
Jesus Christ, Lance! What the actual fuck is wrong with you? Fuck your friends. Shave your fucking beard, wax your taint, and buy some jeans that don’t cause testicular claustrophobia!
Meghan Trainor is the shit! You’re right. I don’t usually listen to pop music either, but she is fucking magic and I don’t give a fuck! That song is genius. My Fabulous Fiance introduced me to the video a few months ago and the shit made me tingle. I had to keep looking away and talking about the fat, gay fellow so she didn’t notice my bourgeoning infatuation. Then Meghan kicked her foot and slapped her heel, and I said, “Fuck Jessica Biel. This chick is my new Celebrity Freebie Fuck!” FF said, “Oh good.” (She sounds just like her mom when she says that and it’s so cute!)
FF had to work the next day, so I put that video on repeat and ogled the living shit out of her for a while. Then research mode kicked in. I found out that is 20. Jesus! In my head, she was 25 or maybe 30. I like to think of chicks I want to fuck in that age-range so as not to be super creepy. Not to mention that she’s talented as fuck for any age. I decided to make an exception on account of her singing most of the backup vocals and writing half the song herself. Then I found out she played football with boys! She’s just so goddamn cute! A few links down on the page I saw this article from The Independent, a UK publication I now hate, called “Meghan Trainor and Nicki Minaj's ‘booty songs’ aren't as body positive as everyone thinks they are.” The author of that shit is a retard. She talks about how the “booty songs” are not positive because they set up a binary of fat chicks and skinny chicks. Stupid ass bitch didn’t even listen to the lyrics! I might say more about this in a future blog. Anyway…
Here’s what I’d do if I got a hold of Meghan Trainor. (All of this would be consensual, of course.) Right when she walks in the door, I hug the fuck out of her, burying my nose in her hair cuz you know that shit smells awesome. Then I stand back and look at her for a minute. She’s wearing a blue/pink dress, tights, and those sexy-ass shoes from the video. Then I hug her again. Then I offer her a diet Coke cuz I’m a fucking gentleman. After that we get to it! I put her video on the big-screen—a version without the lead vocals. She gives me a fully-clothed lap dance and sings the fuck out of that song. After a few hours of that, she takes the dress off, exposing white thigh-highs, garter belt, and her awesome titties. She’s still wearing the shoes from the video. GODAMMMNNNNNNNNN!!! That’s when she tells me I’m allowed to touch her. I imagine Sriracha Twizzlers coming out of her butthole and Original Skittles dropping out of her sweet sweet pussy. (Sriracha flavor because of the razz in her voice and that dirty side that you know she has. Also, she has a magical butthole so the Sriracha Twizzlers don’t hurt her. Candy is obvious.) Then I eat it all the way up to her throat. I mean, I eat ALL OF IT! Like when people ask me how much I used to drink. ALL OF IT! She has about fifty or so orgasms—vaginal, clitoral, and G. Of course, G! I don’t stick my dick in her pussy hole, just because…I’m not sure why. Not worthy? Skittles in the way? Or maybe she can’t take it after all those orgasms.
So yeah, dude. Tell your friends to fuck themselves and rock out with your cock out to all the Meghan Trainor you want. (And no, it doesn’t make you a Chubby Chaser, retard.)
Nom nom slurp!
The Motherfuckin G Man
Hey Playa, my girl just sent me this pic. I ain’t tryin to see no selfies with dooks in the background. As you can see, she fine as a motherfucka, but I don’t know if I can hit that, all thinkin about that doodoo. Help a [N-word] out!
LeMarshawn, 27 – North Dallas
Oh Jesus! It took me a sec to see what you were talking about. I was looking on the floor under her turd cutter, then BOOM, I saw that floater in the commode! (By the way, I had to edit the “N-word” since I’m not sure you are one or have your card. Sorry.) That’s a tough one. If I really liked a girl, I could easily deal with a turd in the selfie, and even joke about it later. Actually, my Fabulous Fiance sent me a…just kidding. She didn’t. Anyway, if this chick is just some ho you’re boning, fuck it. Plenty of other bitches out there. Either way, I would suggest taking your own selfie. Make sure there’s a dook in the bowl and a condom and maybe some gummy bears in there. Why gummy bears? Cuz it’s fucking crazy!
GMan, is it ok to fuck a dead chicken? I mean, it’s dead, so no one is getting hurt, right?
Calvin, 17 – Durant, OK
What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Calvin? Fuck no, it’s not ok to fuck a chicken, dead or otherwise. Here’s the thing: Yes, no one is getting hurt by you fucking a dead chicken, as long as you’re not serving up some cream-filled fillets to anyone. And obviously, the chicken doesn’t give a fuck because she’s dead. (I hope you’re fucking a girl chicken.) The problem is that dead chicken pussy is the gateway pussy.
Wait a minute! Before I get to the gateway pussy, I have to ask what is the state of the dead chicken? For some reason I was picturing one from the Kroger, white-ish/pink-ish and slimy. If that’s the case, you must have a monster dick to feel anything in that cavity, which may be too big to fuck a live human chick. I guess it’s ok to fuck a chicken in that circumstance. But you might be fucking a chicken with all the feathers and shit on it. Which makes me wonder if you killed the chicken. Jesus! You definitely cannot kill a chicken to fuck it. #FuckingSick. Also it seems way more bestial if the chicken still looks like a chicken. (How the fuck did I get to a place that I’m answering questions about fucking chickens?)
Wait just a goddamn minute! Are you going raw dawg on these motherfucking chickens? You know you’re going to get the genital salmonella, right? You’re probably thinking, Whatever, dawg, it’s not like I’m eating it. Well, you’re a retard. Dick skin is way thinner than regular skin, so you can get all kinds of diseases by fucking things. Ever notice that no one gets herpes on their elbow? I thought so.
Anyway, gateway pussy. Once you think it’s ok to fuck a dead chicken, you’re probably going to start thinking it’s ok to fuck other dead stuff. Turkeys and Quail and shit like that next. Still not much of a problem…well you know what I mean. Now that you’re used to fucking all sorts of dead birds, you’re going to want to up your game. You’re on the fast track to fuckity fuckity fucked up! You’ll decide to fuck a dead sheep because you heard somewhere that sheep pussy is just like human pussy. I don’t know where the fuck you get a dead sheep, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to get one. Pretty soon, you get bored with the dead sheep pussy. Next thing you know, you’re fucking dead people. DEAD PEOPLE! That’s some sick ass shit, Calvin! DON’T FUCK ANY DEAD SHIT!