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!