Enlightening Nonsense

Oft I have walked along the streets of New York City and have come across a used condom lying about in the center of the sidewalk, as if it is taking a leisurely sunbath. How do these rubbers get there? Are they strategically placed at various locations, like a speed bump, to keep us safer as we walk? Would it be wrong if I collected them, blew them up, tied the ends and handed them out at children’s parties?

I’ve had sex in various places, from beds to parks to the kitchen sink (literally–which was convenient as she was able to wash my dirty dishes while I did her from behind.) But on a sidewalk in the city that never sleeps? This situation contains the danger of someone passing you by while your banging away against the parking lot fence and asking you, “Hi, sorry to interrupt. Do you know where the McDonald’s is around here?” to which you reply, “It’s–oh yeah, baby, take it like that–it’s right on 56th & 9th–yeah, that’s it!” and, frankly, that is not a risk I’d like to take, mostly because I don’t know the locations of McDonald’s, Starbucks or any other corporate distributor of toxic poison.

I then came up with a theory that seemed to answer this centuries old riddle. Perhaps, like in the movie The Shawshank Redemption, the condom was clandestinely discarded on the sidewalk to dispose of the damning evidence, that the actual screwing didn’t take place on the sidewalk but instead in the safety of an apartment: the man and woman were having an affair and understood that a used condom in the trash may be discovered by a significant other accidentally dropping a peanut in the garbage and then fishing for it, only to get a handful of ballooned semen.

My theory was destroyed by the thought that even the stupidest amongst us could figure out to flush the used condom down the toilet. But perhaps they didn’t want to risk the plumber telling them, [holding up condom]“This seems to be the problem. Someone flushed a used condom down the toilet.” Or maybe they were a visiting tribesman whose toilet of habit is a hole in the ground and is not used to indoor plumbing and that would explain the pile of shit on the floor that was blamed on the dog when you don’t even have a dog.

I know my “Shawshank Theory” has a few holes in it. Let’s just hope the condoms didn’t, as we don’t want the “fuck anywhere” gene being passed onto future generations, causing traffic jams, accidents at construction sites and delays at sporting events…not to mention used condom balloons at every children’s party!

I was very concerned that I was a gay man, as not only do I like to shove random objects up my ass but I also like to watch Justin Bieber videos. To my relief I was able to rule this possibility out and instead conclude that I was just a pedophile.

Justin Bieber is 16-years old but looks like he is nine. He is a cute kid and I think he has an excellent singing voice. Sure I find it a little ridiculous when he sings a line like, “Whatever you want, Shorty, I’ll give it to you,” partly because he’s like 4’10″ standing on an apple crate, but also because it’s like hearing some little black kid take the pacifier out of his mouth for a minute and sing, “You my nigga.” And when I hear these youngins sing about love, when the only love they have experienced to date is the love for their teddy bears and mommies, I take my notepad out not to write down love lessons from teenagers but to immortalize what will make me wet myself with laughter on the reread.

I also find it ridiculous how they dress little Justin up like a Barbie Doll. “We’ll give you pristine jeans that sag a bit, a colorful T, cover it with a button up shirt and give you a baseball cap and a hoodie to make you look like a rich kid from the suburbs who is playing ‘gangsta.’”

I have watched “One Less Lonely Girl” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHVhwcOg6y8] and “One Time” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHVhwcOg6y8] about 20 times each. “One Less Lonely Girl” is a cute video involving a girl is doing laundry while Justin just sits around drooling over her with his guitar, like a mouth-watering priest as he reviews the latest wave of altar boys to come through his parish. She drops a scarf and he sets up a bunch of signs and pictures and arrows leading her on a scavenger hunt to find her scarf that ends with him in a room with a romantic light set-up. When they dance as intimately as two kids at a Catholic school formal with Sister Superior enforcing the 1-Foot Between Genitals Rule, even I feel like a pervert watching this while masturbating, well, after I blow my load that is.

In “One Time,” Justin is playing video games with his friend in Usher’s house. Usher calls and says he won’t be making it home until later and so, unbeknownst to Usher, Justin decides to throw a big party in his house. When he puts his arm around some girl, I cringe at how awkward he looks only in part because she is like three feet taller than him but mostly because it reminds me of my high school prom when I first threw my arm around my date Lestina and thought to myself that if the roles were reversed, I would never give any cooch to this jackass. So when Ninja came in the room and I was lubricating my computer monitor with the white clumpy grease, I thought quickly on my feet, like Maxwell Smart from the old “Get Smart” television show. “Would you believe that just like how divers rub spit into their goggles to prevent fogging, rubbing jiz into the monitor prevents oil smudges when you inadvertently brush your cock against the screen?” She wasn’t buying it, partly because I had already used the old, “It breaks down oil” excuse to justify cumming in her face. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Hd2e_tRBlY]

She walked out in disgust, thinking me perverted for wacking off to 15-year old girls. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was rubbing one off with the young, nubile Justin on my mind. And I certainly didn’t tell her that the reason I was with her was because with her buzz cut hairstyle and flat chest she makes me think I am banging a 9-year old boy and when I shout out during orgasm, “Take it, you cute little Pampers boy!” that I am thinking about a cute little boy who wears Pampers.

I hear of wars and famines and global calamity. I remain unphased. Murder, mayhem and other expressions of low-level consciousness. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass. But the state of our sense of humor is at such a dilapidated expression today that if it had made a Living Will it would have written, “Do not resuscitate. Do not apply emergency procedures. Just put me out of my misery—or rather, Swami X’s misery.”

It was 11:00 p.m. and I was walking home with Abandon from the park. I was behind three girls about 30ish, fantasizing about banging them in a four-way when one of them told a joke and the only banging I wanted to do at that point was to bang their humorless skulls together!

“What’s Mozart’s favorite fruit?”

“What?”

(Sang musically) “Ba-na-na-na.”

“That’s good!”

First of all, no it’s not. Secondly, that’s Beethoven’s 5^th Symphony, not Mozart. I mean, what’s next? Are we going to have a country singer win an award on the mostly rock and pop Mtv Awards? God forbid that ever happens, I hope we have a jackass like Kanye West to disturb her acceptance speech (hey, don’t hate me—that’s the word used to describe him directly from of our Lord and Savior, Barack Hussein Obama.)

Thirdly, that joke may be mildly amusing—if you were in like a 3^rd grader. I mean, I was telling dick jokes by then myself but I suppose a few kids were still on produce at the time. Seriously though, when I was in 3^rd grade, if someone told a joke like that, I’d probably beat the snot out of him and steal his lunch money for the rest of the year. And that would be letting him off easy!

Here’s how I would tell a joke like that:

“What’s Mozart’s favorite fruit?”

“What?”

“It’s Frederick, the piano tuner. Every time that fruity bastard swishes by, Mozart gives him a smack on his ass!”

Granted, some grammatists out there will say, “In that case, it should be ‘who’ is Mozart’s favorite fruit, not ‘what.’” But lucky for me, I don’t count any grammatists among the three readers of my un-blog. If I did, I wouldn’t even attempt to tell a joke to those humorless wankers, whose idea of sex is flipping to the dirty words in an unabridged dictionary. Fuck ‘em—Mozart did. Now that’s humor!

Barack Hussein Obama may be the savior of this country.

Jesus Horatio Christ may be the savior of our souls.

But, by gum, I’m willing to go tooth and high water to be the savior of comedy!

Cartman's disguise to enter the Special Olympics

I was walking with Abandon along the 8^th Avenue street fair when some goofy retard shouts out at me from an uncomfortably close distance, “CAN I PET YOUR DOG?” It’s as if they have permanent headphones blasting loud music into their ears and they can’t quite figure out that their decibel level is running just a few dozen notches too high.

Because I am what some call a “humanitarian,” I extend my compassion to all creatures that can fall under the category of human. After a few minutes of analysis, I figured out that this bozac wasn’t a plant or insect and because of his bipedal locomotion and similar features to a human—minus the grotesquely large and open mouth and the spastic hand and leg motions—I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he was human, although if a cage were handy I would definitely vote “Yay” to have this freak locked up.

After the ringing in my ears from his vocal blast quieted to a slow hum, I readjusted his drool cup so he wouldn’t bathe my dog with his mouth elixir, risking infection from the retard virus, and then said, “Sure.” He stroked her head like Lenny from “Of Mice And Men,” too hard to really be called a pat and not quite hard enough to be called a beating. Abandon looked up at me and her eyes said, “Now I’ve put up with you half-starving me to death on rabbit food but letting this goofy little retard have his way with me is pushing the whole ‘man’s best friend’ thing a bit too far!”

When old Reetzy had his fill, he didn’t say “Thank you” or anything indicating gratitude. I mean, even when I finish blowing my load into a whore’s face I usually have the decency to throw her a towel and say, “Clean yourself up, skank.” Because I am who I am, I forgave his rude manners, thinking he probably barely had enough functioning brain cells to jerk-off men in raincoats at the adult cinemas, let alone show appreciation for a humanitarian like myself.

At this point I dropped to my knees, as tears filled my eyes. As a God-loving man, I don’t care who or what is around me, when I need to connect to my Creator, I do so on the spot. I thanked God for not making me retard and for gifting me with a super-sensitivity that could brighten the day of a dimwit and make the world a much more compassionate place in which to reside.

Because many people look down on those silly freaks, I know it may not be politically correct to say it—but I’m not going to let public opinion stop me from expressing my compassion—I love those goofy little retards! At times I even think of adopting one and hooking him up to a leash connected to a clothesline in my back yard. That’s just the kind of guy I am. All heart, no brain.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PvdJFnb5spo&feature=PlayList&p=E9B19F2407A0AA2D&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=12

(“I work with retards” form Something About Mary)

Being with Roach is like being abducted by aliens: you seem to find yourself with a huge chunk of missing time for which you can’t account and an anal probe shoved up the old hoo-ha, for which you can account but feel the need to maintain plausible deniability. So when we parted ways and I took Abandon out to the park for our nightly walk, I was more taken aback that it was already 1:30 a.m. and not so much surprised that my ass was no longer cherry.

The last time I was in the park after hours a cop pulled her car up to me and asked for identification. I told her that I didn’t have any. She looked at me as if I was a non-Mexican dishwasher. “You don’t have any identification on you?” I told her that I must have missed the announcement that America was now Nazi Germany where we had to carry our papers with us wherever we went and produce them on command when a Fascist dyke asked for them. This seemed to work like a snake charmer and she gave me a blowjob and told me to be on my way.

I was hoping not to see any cops this time but instead of turning around I decided to carry on, my wayward son, figuring the worst-case scenario would be that I would be Abner Luima’ed and, frankly, as long as I get a reach-around I don’t mind a little ass play. Not a soul was in the park and it was quiet and peaceful, that is, until Abandon messed up our private sanctuary by wasting a raccoon and I decided that this was a sign that it was time to leave the park and that perhaps I should feed my dog more than once a week.

As I was crossing the little circle around which compulsive people repeatedly circumscribe like hamsters on a wheel in the name of health, I saw a parked cop car. She blasted over her car’s speaker system. “The park is closed!” I nodded in her direction and indicated that I was on my way out. “The park closed at 1:00 a.m. You must leave the park now!” I nodded again and this time pointed in the direction I was walking, making it even clearer that I’d be out of the park in just a minute. “You are considered to be trespassing. Please leave the park immediately!” This was the pestering annoyance that broke the camel’s back and was blamed on a piece of straw.

From my experience with cops through animal rights activism and my own personal street education projects, I’ve learned that no cop wants you to say anything but, “Yes, mass’er. I’m sorry, mass’er. I be going now, mass’er. Anything else I can do for you mass’er?” Since I was more of a “My name…is…Kunta Kinte” kind of activist, I often found myself in trouble with the law, a couple of times being led from the scene in handcuffs because I refused to be called “Toby.” But this intercom trigger happy cop was just pushing it and pushing it and…BAM! I lost it.

I shouted towards the car, “I’M LEAVING NOW! WHAT MORE CAN I DO?”

She ended up driving her patrol car in my direction but kept going past me and I thanked God for not only providing the stupid with something to idolize, but also for keeping me hassle and gonorrhea-free, at least for tonight. I thought better of going into my, “Yeah, keep driving!” routine.

I think it’s important to stand up for your rights and self-respect while working to maintain a polite, yet firm,  demeanor, but I decided to kept my “Yeah, keep driving, beeyotch!” routine to myself. I also think that a well-thrown molotov cocktail sometimes speaks clearer than words.