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!
GMan, where do wet dreams come from? Why do I never get laid in mine? Is there something actually the fuck wrong with me?
Q-Dawg, 30ish – Boulder, CO
Q, wet dreams come from the Sweet Baby Jesus. Seriously. This is how it happens: He’s just chillin in his manger crib, suckin his mom’s titties, when the “energy” builds to an uncontainable level and shoots out to the good little boys and girls all over the world. Well, not all at once. Unlike Santa, he only has enough “energy” to give about 100k wet dreams a night. Good news is that he does it year round and forever. #Woot!
The reason you never bust a nut in yours is a little more disturbing (and it should be obvious). The Sweet Baby Jesus’s “energy” comes from sucking on his mom’s titties! I know, I know, fucking gross. (I’m not making this shit up—just passing it on.) Since that shit is gross and incestuous, he has to give US the wet dreams instead of busting a nut in His Holy Diapers. But that’s not enough to make it NOT gross. We also can’t have sex in our wet dreams because the sins of the father are delivered upon the son or whatever. Thus if we had sex in our wet dreams, we would be fucking the Virgin Mary. And that shit is just wrong.
One time, I had a wet dream in a room full of 23 (black) dudes who had just gotten out of prison, which makes me think that the Sweet Baby Jesus doesn’t have control of his “energy” or more likely, He hates me. You can imagine the terror of busting a nut in my draws in such a situation, but thank god, everyone slept right through it. I dreamt I was flying, cape and all, while drinking a beer and smoking a joint. Anyway, it totally sucked because I had no more clean draws and had to go commando for my last three days of prison rehab.
Hope that answers your question!
Dear Mr. Man, I want to know your thoughts on non-conventional lube. More specifically, Crisco vs. Olive Oil. I personally like the solid Crisco because it’s entertains me to watch it melt on the skin, the white blob becoming clear. I love the way the skin feels after the Crisco melts. Olive oil is ok in a pinch but the skin texture it creates leaves a bit to be desired.
Theodore, 53 – Dallas, TX
Holy Shit! What the actual fuck is wrong with you?!?!? You say “skin” way too much and it makes you sound like a fucking serial killer/rapist. Go turn yourself in RIGHT NOW…unless your question is bullshit, which I think it is. We all know that Crisco has a melting point of 117°F - 119°F (47°C and 48°C) so that shit is not going to melt on any live human pussy skin. If you’re heating up your chicks in a microwave—fucking sick! Never mind.
For all of you out there still reading, I suggest buying some normal-ass lube product that makes your weenie tingle. I personally like Trojan Super Duper Helmet Flash.
Get some help, Theodore!
Hey G, I’ve recently started to question my masculinity. I joined a Fantasy Football league. I’ve also started chopping wood and talking about my sex-life more openly. I also bought a grill. I don’t really like doing these things but it seems to be the only way to be manly. Do you have any other manly ideas for me?
Kevin, 28 – Corinth, TX
Kevin, yeah, I have a manly idea for you: STOP DOING ALL THAT SHIT YOU DON’T LIKE! A “real man” doesn’t give a fuck if other people think he’s manly or not; he just does his thing. If you like Broadway musicals and fucked up French films, skip the football and watch that shit instead. If you like dancing, stop chopping wood and dance. If you like watching football, watch the fuck out of football. And stop talking about your sex-life, especially if you’re in a committed relationship. It’s uncouth and it makes you look insecure. There are exceptions, like you and your girl tried some crazy new shit. If you want to tell your buddies about that in a classy way, go for it, discretely. If you just slayed some stripper ass, tell your buddies. That shit is awesome, as long as you sound grateful and not like are the “King of the Pussy.”
In case you’re wondering, gay dudes can be super manly if they do the shit they want to do and don’t give a fuck. A lot of gay dudes are probably manlier than straight dudes, because it takes balls to be gay and it takes balls to be a man.
I will admit that defining oneself as a man in our time is tricky. There no rites of passage besides war and most dudes my age didn’t have a war. And though war may be an obvious way to define yourself as a man, it is not always so clear. Tim O’Brien, author of The Things They Carried, for example, seems to think he would have been more courageous had he NOT gone to Vietnam. He is a great example of the struggle in modern masculinity. He went against his values and went to war. One could argue that he lived up to society’s idea of masculinity by going to war, while at the same time degrading his masculinity by living up to those same expectations. It’s a lose/lose proposition.
Why the hell do you want to define yourself anyway? For whom? These are the questions you should be asking yourself. It’s a great question and one you need to stop asking if you’re really going to be a man.
Much love, brother,
HI HI HI!!! I LOVE your writing so much! OMG! I really hope this one makes it. The other day, I was at North Park Mall with my girlfriends—I HAD to have a new pair of Uggs and a new Northface jacket—and we were all drinking Pumpkin Spiced Lattes (Super Yummo!) and talking about what we are going to wear for all the Halloween parties this year! There was a debate about “slutty” costumes and we ALL want to know your opinion!!! LOL #CuriousMinds #PumpkinSpice #CandyTime #NewDietNovemberFirst
Ashley, 24 – Dallas (Up Town) TX
Holy Jesus, Ashley, are you really that excited about EVERYTHING?!?!?! #Really? Before we get to Slutty Holiday Wear, let’s talk about your choice in beverages. Pumpkin Spice Latte = lame/disgusting. #QuitIt. Unless you really like that shit, which I doubt. I have been in line behind some hot fucking bitches who instantly became strugglin whores when they ordered the Pumpkin Spice Shit. #IWouldRatherFuckThePumpkin
I personally LOVE the slutty costumes at Halloween. That shit makes me so fucking horny. It’s kinda like the titty bar but in the real world. On the other hand, most of the woman I know, including my Fabulous Fiance, hate that shit. Of course, the women I know don’t drink #PSLs, so I don’t know if they’re a good indicator of what you and your buddies should be wearing. But, chicks are sometimes really shitty to other chicks, so keep that in mind. And as much as I like looking, I sure as shit wouldn’t want FF to wear a slutty-ass outfit. Do you have a boyfriend or are you just looking for a cock with a popped collar? If you’re looking for the latter, you should go full-blown sluttastic! Otherwise, dress like Jane Austin. Fuck it, I don’t know. My dick really doesn’t want to tell you not to go slutty. AAAACCCCKKKKK!!! Fucking melt-down in my brain right now. Ok, if you’re hot, go slut. If you’re not, don’t.
Don’t be so basic, Ashley (Send pics!)
I can barely believe it; it doesn’t make much sense. Yesterday, I wrote a blog about crazy pictures I saw on Twitter and my reactions to the pictures. More specifically, it was about seeing a thumbnail and clicking to get a more detailed version. The first pic was of a cheerleader pooping during a jump. No nakedness in that one, thank god. The next one was of this black chick taking a naked selfie in the mirror. Looked pretty wild, but also beautiful in its way. The lines were good. A Matisse line drawing wouldn’t be far off. Anyway, it looked so strange that I didn’t even notice that her vagina was out. How do I not notice something like that in a blog about taking a closer look at pictures? Retarded!
I always love it when my site gets banned for pornographic or adult content, though up until yesterday, it was a “Fucks Per Page” issue and had nothing to do with naked people. I like titties and ass as much as the next guy (or girl) but not exposed ones on my website. For some reason I find it inappropriate to post uncovered pussies, nipples, and (sometimes) buttholes. Other people can post that shit all day long. I might even enjoy those nudies from time to time, but I’m not going to put them out there. If I was going to do that, I would have posted pics of the famous naked chicks on my Celebrity Nude Special Edition blog. I wouldn’t even post pics of my own dick and I used to show that bad boy to EVERYONE. The only reason I can think of for my inattention to detail yesterday is the monster anxiety attack I was having. Fucking miracle I got anything done at all.
Two nights ago, I had a freak out about writing, or so I thought. I was worried about whether the writing was ever going to go anywhere. I was worried about how long my streak was going to last. (They always end.) Maybe more importantly, I was worried about how many HR people were NOT giving me jobs because they read the nasty shit I write. That’s fucked up place to be, considering that writing is the dream. I hate that word. I don’t just write about nasty shit, but that’s what’s been coming lately. I do have a very serious story in the works, but that’s neither here nor there. See, I’m defending myself already. Fuck that. I went to sleep with a tightness in my chest—more specifically around my literal heart. I woke up in the middle of the night that way. I woke up in the morning that way. I drove to work that way. Etc, etc. As the day went on, I started to think that my anxiety was not really about writing. Writing was just the “real problem” my sneaky chemical anxiety wrapped itself it. Anxiety always cloaks itself in something real. Asshole anxiety.
I was going through all the pain-in-the-ass shit it takes to post a blog—the editing, the links on FB, Twitter, getting the pictures right—and I missed the goddamn vagina. I know this was due to anxiety fucking with my brain. I wanted it to end. I wanted all the drugs and alcohol. I was tired of going back and forth. Just tired. I was rushing the work—forcing it. Like I said before, I know that when I pause, I have no clue when I will start again. This is the case with running, going to the gym, and all sorts of other shit. I’m in an even more dangerous situation now because of the fear. Fear can kill writing. When I was younger, I did not believe in writer’s block, but now I’m sure it exists. Its name is Fear.
I wish I could take my own advice. I give my patients tips on fear, anxiety, and depression when they start getting better. Mostly shit I learned from my therapist and the one good sponsor I’ve had. I’m not talking about dumb shit like yoga or taking a walk or just pulling yourself up by your boot straps. More like, “Don’t try to run a marathon. Just put your shoes on and see what happens.” Most of the patients appreciate these tips because they know I’ve been where they are. I lie to them on my bad days. I know these things work because I’ve used them all. Well, actually, they start to work when your depression starts to go away. They don’t work worth a shit when you’re in the depths. None of those things seem to be working for me right now, though it’s still way better than it was before.
I’m better today and I doubt I’ll accidentally put any naked vaginas in my blog. I’m seeing my doctor on Weds, thank god. Hopefully, he’ll work some magic. Hopefully, I won’t miss any more vaginas.
And just in case...
As many of you know, I’m on the hunt for fame and fortune using #SocialMedia to promote my nasty writings. I’ve done research and most of it is working. You also probably know that I don’t like #SocialMedia for my non-work entertainmentings, which makes it a pain in my balls. Usually these promotional activities are relegated to #PoopTime, #SmokeBreaks, and #WellYeahThatsAboutIt. Sorry about the hash tags. The GMan made me do it. Anyhoo..last night I was looking at the goddamn Twitter for funny shit when I ran across some fucked up pics. Being new to the Twitter, I was surprised at the range of subjects I saw. You might not believe this, but it’s not all just titties out there.
Here’s what I saw first:
Fucking cheerleaders! Yay! I love cheerleaders. Those goddamn skirts! I get all tingly inside when I see them, pretending I’m 17 again. After a slightly longer gaze, I noticed that these girls were definitely not 17 and had some really fucked up looks on their faces. What’s all that about, I asked myself as I clicked on the pic. Then I saw this:
Holy shit shitballs, I thought! That poor girl. Her life is ruined. Seriously. Instantly everyone in her high school is going to know that she shit the sky. Five minutes later…the world. That chick might not even be able to get a job after college, if she gets into college at all. There are only so many cripple kids you can help to boost your college application. And you know none of those bitches are going to catch her ass, so she’s going land hard in a puddle of her own mud. She’s probably going break her ass bone and get some taint lacerations. (Forgive the tense switching. Sometimes I’m thinking that the picture is in real time and sometimes I’m thinking that I’m seeing it months later.) Anyway, that girl is fucked. I was actually moved by this poor girl’s misfortune, but then I realized something: WHY THE FUCK IS THAT CHICK NOT WEARING ANY PANTIES?!?!
Usually a cheerleader with no panties on would be pretty exciting, but this was/is completely different. I dated a cheerleader back in the day and I’m pretty sure I know the panty/bloomer etiquette. She told me they wear panties AND bloomers, so as not to have any flap slips. Of course, there are some slutty ones who want to show their shit, but she said that didn’t happen very much. Get caught commando and you get kicked off the team. Moral of the story? If you don’t wear your panties and bloomers to the big game, you’re going to shit the sky and get taint lacerations. Your life is fucked temporarily, if not permanently, and you’re a slut.
After I wrote that last part, I realized that I may not remember the cheerleader panty protocol correctly. I may have been drunk at the time. For the sake of accuracy, I just texted the ex-gf, ex-cheerleader to see if I remembered the panty protocol correctly. My memory was “cleaner” than the truth.
Me: So…this is going to sound like a dirty and inappropriate question but it’s blog research. I promise. When you were a cheerleader did you wear panties AND bloomers? I won’t mention my source.
XGFXCL: Stop being dirty. You’re engaged!
Me: I’m serious. This is research and you’re the only ex-cheerleader I know. AND I’m going to show my Fabulous Fiance these texts so no one gets the wrong idea.
XGFXCL: Ok ok. Just bloomers. You can site me.
Me: Saw a gross pic on twitter and had to write about it.
XGFXCL: Sure you did.
XGFXCL: Yeah yeah
Me: Do most cheerleaders do it that way?
XGFXCL: I don’t know about other girls or what they did.
Me: Shit. (This lack of info about other girls kinda ruined the Cheerleader Locker Room Panty Fight Fantasy I had as a boy.)
Me: Thanks! You’re the best!
XGFXCL: You say that to all your ex-girlfriends
Panties or no, the bloomers should be able to catch flying poop. Remember that, ladies!
Then I saw this pic. I was on my phone, so the pic was tiny. I’m going to make it small here so you get the idea.
I don’t remember the caption—I have to start writing these things down—but it was intriguing. #AlienAss or something like that. I had to click on it. I’m kind of into aliens and I WANT to believe. I wish I had more to say here so that the full-sized pic would be farther down. Kinda ruins the joke if you see them at the same time. I hate not being in control my jokes or stories or songs or whatever. That’s when the shit gets not funny or people get really pissed off at you and think you’re a rapist. It’s fucking awful, but that’s how it goes. You have to create knowing that you’re not going to be there to explain. Maybe I should cuddle these babies a little longer. Ok, that’s about as much space-taking bullshit I have. Here’s what I saw:
My first thought was, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THAT? I showed it to my Fabulous Fiancé and she said, “What the actualy fuck IS that?” On even closer inspection, I realized that it was a black chick bent over taking a #SexySelfie in the mirror. I don’t know if it was “sexy” or not; I’m not one to judge. After the initial shock wore off, I wondered how I would feel if I came home and found my Fabulous Fiance in that position. I mean, she’s not a black chick or anything, but she does have a proper ass. Shit! I think I wrote myself into a corner. AGAIN. I can say this: I would not be as disturbed as I was by the pic on Twitter. I would probably laugh and then get after her stuff right there in front of the decorative coffee siphon.
If you have any crazy pics, send em this way!
Follow me on twitter @edgefiction101
GMan, yesterday I was outside my therapist’s office smoking when I looked up and saw a bunch of teenage soccer girls taking off their practice shirts and putting on the game jerseys. They were all wearing nothing but sports bras! I felt super uncomfortable and turned on at the same time. I wanted to look soooo bad, but I just stared at my shoes. Is it ok to look if it’s just out there for the world to see?
Kyle, 35 – Arlington
Ho. Ly. Sheeit, Kyle! That’s a terrible situation to be in. You’re not gonna believe this but that same shit happened to me last week. I did the same thing you did, but I didn’t want to. We have to admit that we’re guys, and guys like looking at titties. The girls I saw all had adult bodies, which made the entire thing a mental clusterfuck. If they were little girls, I wouldn’t have given the slightest shit, but they weren’t. They were full-grown, tight, smooth, athletes, with titties at their peak. #NipplesToTheSky And those asses were so tight. The legs were smooth and muscular ready to squeeze the GMan’s head off. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!?!?! I hate being a dude sometimes. Kyle, you did the right thing. (Those chicks’ dads, on the other hand, need to be slapped around. You know those dudes are looking at their daughters’ little buddies and thinking the same shit we are.) Smoke on the other side of the building and think of strippers or the pic below. That’s the only way.
Feeling your pain,
Hi GMan, seems like most of the guys I date are only interested in anal sex. How do you feel about anal? Is it ok if I do anal with these guys, even if I don’t really like it? What about ATM? I lot of guys are into that too. I’ve only done it three times and it’s kind of gross. Tell me what to do!!!
Carry, 18 – Houston, TX
PS. You can give me anal any time!
Thanks for the offer, Carry, but what the actual fuck is wrong with you?!?! Sounds like you’ve taken it in the pooper from a lot of dudes a lot of times. And you’re only 18. JESUS H. CHRIST. First of all, stop all anal activities #RIGHTNOW. I’m not saying you have to give up the anal forever, but your sweet young butthole is in danger of anal fissures and all sorts of other conditions of the dook-chute variety. Trust me on this. I’ve experienced the mud tunnel once or twice. Nothing wrong with it, but why would you choose that when the pussy hole is so close? After getting a chick in the butthole, you gotta wash all kinds of poop off your dick. One time I got a…never mind.
There are a few types of anally-obsessed dudes. 1. They want to dominate you. #BefoulYourBrownStarfish. Colonize that ass, so to speak. It’s not cool. Respect yourself and stop letting them in there. You can tell which dudes want to degrade you. These same guys probably want to bust a nut in your face and they probably never give you the reach-around. 2. These dudes may be slightly (or a lot gay). They are probably fucking you in the ass and imagining another dude. These guys probably NEVER want the pussy and don’t play with your titties too much. There’s no problem with a dude fucking a dude in the ass. #ILoveTheGays but there’s nothing in it for you, Carry. I bet these same guys like you to stick stuff in their butts. #OrganicCarrot Am I right? I thought so. 3. These guys might just be fecalpheliacs. These dudes may ask you to poop in their mouths at some point. Go for it if you want to. That shit is funny, as long as I don’t have to see it. 4. Some couples delve into assplay to spice things up. That is totally normal and awesome, but you obviously haven’t been fucking one dude long enough to need to spice it up.
ATM: Fucking gross! See #1.
Ok, Carry, I hope that answers your question. Not all guys are into anal, so don’t believe the hype.
GMan, I just got sober a week ago and my sponsor says I should let him suck my dick when I feel like relapsing. He says it’s the only way to stay sober. I’m not comfortable with that but I’m scared to death. They told me that AA is the only thing that can help me and I’m going to die if I don’t go every day for the rest of my life and accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. What should I do?
Greg B, 28
Greg, what the fuck is wrong with your sponsor? I’ll tell you what’s wrong: he’s a fucking sick asshole who preys on people at rock bottom. If you send me a private message, I’ll be happy to go fuck him up. I know some guys. Better yet, tell a mean-ass “old timer” about your sponsor—ideally a Vet. #VetsKickAss He’ll make shit happen. Then, you need to go find another AA group. If anyone tells you that they need to suck your cock or fuck you in the ass, punch them in the dick and leave. If anyone tells you that you need Jesus to stay sober, tell them to go fuck themselves. While AA is a great program with the right people, it can also fuck you up big time. Find a good sponsor, do your 90 in 90, and then make a decision.
Trust me; I understand that fear, but you’re going to be ok. You won’t feel like this forever.
Hit me up for answers to your most probing questions!
This is a fat/hilarious pic of me when I was fat as fuck. There’s lotion all over my buddy’s back. There’s lotion all over my front. Pretty gay, but it gives you an idea of my former fatassedness. I covered my friend’s face because he would not want to be seen losing a game of Guard the Glory.
I gained a lot of weight when I got sober. (I was on a lot of Xanax the night of the Gay Lotion Hump, which felt relatively sober compared to large vats of Jack Daniels and Bud Light.) My normal weight has always been between 165 and 175. When I got sober, I gained about 50 lbs within a couple of months. Like two months. I was pretty sure that was because I hadn’t eaten for a year or two. A slice of pizza here. A boiled egg there. Sometimes people had to bribe me to eat. “If you eat this burger, I’ll buy you some beer.” That’s fucking sad, now that I’ve written it down. I got sober-ish finally and started eating like a motherfucker. I consumed a lot of sugar, which is pretty common for people who just quit drinking. But 50 lbs?
There was this girl at group therapy for drunks and junkies who I was completely (aesthetically) in love with. She was a reason to live and stay sober. The only reason I had at the time. I got a gym membership and started working out like crazy. I didn’t lose any weight. I only got bigger and stronger. It was terrible. Anyway, that’s how I got fat and that’s how I didn’t get thin.
None of my shit fit anymore. I cut slits in the waist bands of my jeans. I wore a lot of sweat shirts. Finally, I bought some new shit—well, my mom bought me new shit. My motherfucking fat clothes. It was terrible.
I had this job interview during my fat period where I had to wear my suit. I got out of my car and tried to button my jacket. Tried. I got drunk as fuck the next day. I was convinced that a fat sober dude who lived with his mom would NEVER EVER get the pussy again. A month or two later, I ended up in coma. I lost all the weight plus twenty lbs. Jesus, this is taking me a long time to get to the point. I’ll have to cut this down later. Or not.
It’s been about five years since I got out of the hospital and I’m normal sized again. Here’s me normal size.
(I paid for this picture)
I noticed (again) that my jeans are sagging like a motherfucker this morning. The thing is, I didn’t buy these when I was fat. I was just used to buying fat jeans and bought the same size. I still have shit left over from those days that I don’t want to throw away. Maybe most people do this, thinking, I can wear this in case I turn into a fat fucker again. I don’t know if that’s what I’m thinking or not. I tell myself that I don’t want to buy new shit to save money and that my balls fit well into these baggy jeans. I have khakis that are way too big. I have Polos that are way too big. I’ve gotten rid of most of my fatass t-shirts, but t-shirts are cheap. And what if I end up fat again? I’ve moved passed the habit of buying fat dude pants, but I keep most of the fat stuff I already have until it is unwearable. Then I buy stuff that fits.
I still gorge myself on sweets to fill whatever hole we’re all trying to fill, even though I’m diabetic. And since I’m not running—due to laziness, work, whatever—I have a great fear of my fatness coming back.
It seems kind of defeatist to keep your fat clothes in case you get fat again, though it may just be realistic, like buying a carton of smokes instead of single pack. Does anyone else do this? What are your reasons? I use the excuse of my nutsac and my low budget. What excuses do you use? Do you keep them? Throw them away?
What the actual fuck is wrong with me today?!?!