Sunday, April 29, 2012

Death By Squeezed Testicles

Just when I thought it was safe to roam the Internet without any convulsions of pain I came across the story of the woman in China who squeezed a man’s testicles so hard he collapsed and eventually died. All this ball squeezing was over a dispute for a scooter parking space. Oh yes, the ball squeezing crazies are still out there.

Seems that the woman wanted to park her scooter in front of the man’s market so she could pick up her child at the nearby elementary school. The man protested and she got pissed. One Chinese word lead to another and the attack was on. She even summoned her husband and brother to help beat up the shop owner.

Parents of the Chinese New Year!

In the midst of the fight the woman was able to reach her motherly hand between the shop owner’s legs and squeeze his testicles with all her might. He collapsed. He died.

Did his testicles pop out of the scrotum and bounce like ping pong balls along the busy market place? Do testicles actually bounce when released from the scrotum?

Mine have always been living in the warmth comfort of my scrotum, and have never been squeezed that hard.  Testicles can only take so much squeezing before the moment of pleasure turns painful, and I can only imagine the pain that poor man felt.

I’m sure years down the road the family will gather around the wok stir frying pea pods and chicken reminiscing about the mother who’s now shacking up with Big Bertha and the father and uncle shacking up with Big Bubba in the nearby prisons.

Hopefully Bertha’s squeezing the mother’s boobies so tight nightly the nipples bulge like too-filled water balloons ready to burst, and Bubba and his prison gang are squeezing the father’s and uncle’s testicles nightly hard and long enough to make them squeal like pigs.

She should’ve left the scooter at home and taken the bus.

Monday, April 23, 2012

She’s So Beautiful Let’s Rip Her To Shreds

Samantha Brick, the British writer, has written an article called “Why Women Hate Me for Being Beautiful.”

Yes, beautiful.

Samantha thinks she’s beautiful.

Her Daddy told her so.

It must be true, right?


This poor bitch has an overblown ego.

Have you seen her? I laughed when I saw her picture. She’s not a circus freak. She’s average at best.
Let’s face facts, she’s not an erection-inducing beauty. She’s got wimpy blond hair, vacant eyes, a dumb blond ass smile, and what appears to be a little pot belly and overly large hands.

She’s Strip Mall Pretty on a stormy day when the electricity goes out. In other words, she looks best in the dark.

I hate to be so mean, but when someone proclaims to the world they’re beautiful they're opening themselves up to hear the truth.

Samantha’s not beautiful.  Beauty comes from within and her ego is ugly, ugly, ugly.

Other women would like her better, I’m sure, if she tucked her ego into her panty drawer and never took it out.

Making absurd proclamations about herself only fuels everyone’s desire to rip her to shreds.

But me... well... I’m handsome, damn it. My mother told me so. She did. She really did. And I believe her.

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Happy Friggin’ Birthday Co-Worker

I love cake.

Chocolate cake. Vanilla cake. Carrot cake. Prune cake. Tres Leche cake. Rum Cake. You name it, I love it.

I hate office birthdays.

I hate gathering around a co-worker and surprising them (really?) with a birthday cake singing that dreadful “Happy Birthday” song. It’s usually sung out of tune, and the chorus of co-workers usually makes it sound like a dirge rather than a joyous ditty.

It’s a waste of good cake.

It’s a waste of my time.

Don’t even get me started on birthday candles and the tradition of blowing them out. Why do I want the gross germs from my co-worker when they blow all over the cake? Can I have an extra large slice of germs, please?

Does anybody genuinely laugh when some office idiot decides to use candles that cannot be blown out?

Years ago I worked with a woman who used to experience multiple orgasms (the only kind I’m sure she ever had) when it was someone’s birthday. The eve of a birthday she’d secretly stay late and decorate the person’s office/desk area like it was New Year’s Eve in the sub-basement of a suburban home. Glitter, noise makes, silly hats, streamers, balloons, and even more glitter.

Why? Why? Why?

At the end of the day there’d be frosting and glitter stuck to the carpet which would stick to your shoes and get trampled all around the office... and into your car... and into your house.

Vacuums don’t get all the glitter all the time. It’s there like a nuisance long after the “happy” festivity.

Damn birthday glitter. Damn birthday frosting. Damn co-worker’s birthday.

I much prefer celebrating Ground Hog Day.