Merry Fuckin' Christmas. I'm so gonna burn for this one. On an express elevator goin' straight down to hell.
So lets get one thing straight. About everything. We get what we deserve.
Friends. Enemies. Acquaintances. Work. War. Peace.
Life on the whole.
So here we men are, out here, having a whinge about how there's only crap women to be had.
So here the women are, out here, having a whinge about how there's only crap men to be had.
I get feeling that all this fucking bullshit would be done with, finished, gone, over. Within five years. If us men actually started acting as though we had a dick in our pants.
It's easier to complain on the internet.
It's easier to sit at the bar and sip on our exquisitely micro-brewed craft beer.
And fuckin' whinge.
Women don't have a fucking clue what they want. And us men - well, we have no fucking clue what women want. The reason: they only tell us the nice, socially-acceptable shit. And we listen 'cause there's nobody else to tell us. Even to teach us by example.
Here's a radical theory for ya. World War I and II killed off an appreciable fraction of men.
Yes, men. Not the pussies of the modern generations. Men.
Not the "I never knew my father" crying to the psychoanalyst generation. Men.
I look back on the generations of my Grandfather and Great-Grandfather. They were men. They did shit. They knew how to do shit. They didn't question it, they didn't get all angsty about it, they didn't pussy out and say "oh I'm afraid of trying" it, et fucking cetera. They dug in and fucking did it, even if they sucked at it. They were men.
They weren't soft like us.
Take that as you may. Just think about it though.
We already know that women want to be dominated by their man. They don't really want to be a ball-breaking slut.
So I wonder where that idea came from.
No, wait. I think I can guess. "A goil wit moxie." Ah, good old criminal days, immortalized forevermore.
Tastes like liquid pain.
Gentlemen, we seem to have bred for liquid pain. After all - that's what we go for. So we get it. And more of it, as we like it, protestations au contraire.
Hey. If a girl wants to get some action, she'll do what it takes. We let 'em go for it. We didn't say anything even close to resembling: "Stop."
We didn't say it, let alone shout it.
We like our liquid pain.
So here we are. An endless, joyless, sweating intertwining of bodies. An inane, meaningless copulation eternal. A twisted and passionless nothingness - where we attempt to hurt each other and ourselves to feed the bottomless void within.
Another drink? Go ahead.
Another drug? Go ahead.
Another girl? Go ahead.
Have another cigarette. It brings you one day closer to death? Have two then.
Have a couple of donuts. No, seriously. Yes, that white sugar is pure death. Go on, slug down a dozen.
I have some questions for you.
Do you actually have any passion inside you?
(Other than for the next chick you want to fuck - of course, it's "I want to be elsewhere" once you're done busting a nut into her.)
Do your friends actually have any passion inside them?
Do you know anybody who has any passion inside them?
The vast majority of people don't.
Their lives are an endless treadmill. Eat. Work. Fuck. Sleep. Eat. Work. Fuck. Sleep.
Eat work fuck sleep.
Oh sure, little flecks of momentary pleasure. Holidays. Time with friends. Partying. Fucking another chick. Between bouts of tedium.
Now it's the weekend.
99% of humanity could be wiped out in some great catastrophe.
History could look back and scream: "Oh my God! 99% of humanity was wiped out in X catastrophe!"
Go on. Name them. Name the dead.
"But. That's 99% of 7 billion people!"
Yes. There'd be about 70 million people left. Name the dead.
"But. My God. That's a terrible loss of life!"
You can't even name the dead. Seriously, stop the crocodile tears. The bullshit. The idiocy.
6.93 billion people could die and you would literally not give a flying fuck. At the most, it would simply make your life harder.
No more fuckin' iPods.
Seriously, it's to fuckin' laugh. 99% of people dead, 6.93 billion bodies to bury, and the survivors miss their latest iPod gadget from Apple manufactured by slave-labor in China.
The next generation iCrap was gonna read your emotions, play appropriate music. Fuck. That ain't never gonna be developed now.
You need a sense of the ridiculous to truly appreciate this.
No strength, no passion, no life, no soul. More importantly: no fuckin' iPods.
Just people endlessly, joylessly, breeding.
Because we don't know what joy is. All we know is the taste of pain.
We complain that women are hedonistic sluts. Strange that. Aren't we men the same? After all, we just bust a nut in some random and then head out the door quick-smart. Send that text, specifically so that she replies with a text along the lines of: "Wow that was awesome!" Kaching! Safe again! No false rape allegation from this one!
Then the next, the next, the next. Another endless cycle around the washing-machine.
We don't care what they are like. So long as their physical beauty is good, everything's good. They got three holes to receive in, They drop out some insanity, we drop them and find another one. They got no personality - well, we didn't select for that. Eventually they bore us. Drop them and find another one.
We get what we want. We get what we deserve.
We don't know what a good woman would be. Neither do they.
Turn the mincer handle once more. Grind it up a little finer. Everything's the same, when it's ground down to a paste. Wrap it in a plastic skin, put it on the skillet, toast it a little - have a bite - chew it down for a bit - then finally, spit it out and throw it away.
Everything's the same when you're the same. Just another guy, looking to bust his nut into the nearest available hole. Here, this one's making itself available for you. Go ahead. Fill your boots. Or more accurately - fill her holes. The more the merrier.
Gangbangs! Bukakke! Mooore cooooock!
Is there a difference between you and her?
You could train her to become a "good woman". If you wanted to.
She'd soon stop her insanity if she realized that the true man of her dreams, the true life of her dreams, required her to actually shape up.
Same goes for you.
Oh dear, this sounds like another "man up" article. Perhaps it is.
And perhaps the truth fuckin' hurts too much for us pussies to accept it.