I’ve never read a “man’s magazine” ever, which I think AskMen.com is the online equivalent of. I dunno. I think it’s one of the ones I see as I pass by in the supermarket, always promising 6 pack abs without exercising in the same manner that Cosmo always promises earth-shattering orgasms without plugging yourself into an outlet and inserting an enormous sex toy inside you while your pets look on in a state of confusion. All these magazines make me giggle and feel sad at the same time. Giggle, because they’re obviously silly, selling themselves with bold-font side-show promises. Sad, because people buy them.
Oh, fucking pro-lifers make me want to spread death. I can’t stand these placard-waving bastards. Happily, in my own Socialist Wonderland of Scotland, abortions are available without this low-strain of humanity clogging the street. Indeed, abortions are available 24-7, all year ’round – you only need to show that you have clean fingernails or something. Anyway, if I was confronted by these idiotic placardeers I doubt I’d be able to keep my head on to the extent where I could stand in the street and argue with them without screaming. Especially if my wife just had to abort her child at 16 weeks, like this guy’s wife had to.
Not content with planting little horses filled with dangerously high levels of nothing in playgrounds frequented by children of a young age, Al-Qaeda’s reign of terror today extended to Brevard County in the make-believe state of “Florida”, where a box of kittens left outside a government office was treated like an overnight mosque built entirely out of beards and dynamite. It turned out that the box full of kittens only contained kittens. But wait.
Before embarking on my current(-ly stalled) career, I worked in a large, public university library for four years. Like, eight floors’ worth of books, and hundreds of thousands more in storage. Although we were there primarily for use by students and faculty, we also had a lot of community borrowers, since anyone who was a resident of the state could get a borrower’s card. The community borrowers were, by far, some of the weirdest fucking people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.
I will shower with Dove. I will meld the remaining sliver from the last bar on
the top of the new one. Some Arctic Breeze deodorant the lady picked out for me.
It’s got an orange top and it’s not the gel stuff I like. It’s that hard white
stuff that looks like powder later on, if you look, if you give a shit. But hey,
it’s better than nothing. I will sweat as soon as I get out of the shower.
Always foggy in the bathroom when I’m done because I turn the water hot enough
to make me red. The smell of cut grass and gas from the lawnmower won’t leave me
for days. Sometimes when I kill lots of ants I feel them on me as if their dying
gasp is a hundred temporary psychic ant bites. It’s the same with the grass. A
million felled blades have fired telepathic chlorophyl stabs at my brain. This
particular pair of crumpled jeans never fades from green at the bottom of the
legs, stained from the eternal yard holocaust.