Posts Tagged ‘Funny’

Chronic Masturbator Tops “Personal Best”


Yeah, that’s right.

After weeks of searching for just the right place to do it, and the right materials to use, I accomplished my feat.

I really don’t have to go into much more detail, I’m sure.

Alas, I will.

I successfully masturbated 7 times when I was a junior in high school. Lotion. Pamela Anderson. And then there was the couch.

Other experiments were born and died that day, but we don’t really have to dwell on the mistakes our youth brought on us.

Let’s just say that June 13th was a fantastic mix-bag of porn, new websites I’d never heard of, Cinemax, and, as I stated before, Pamela Anderson.

But that was then, and this is now.

Just yesterday, I found myself all alone. No one to awkwardly knock on my door. No roommates barging in at the wrong moment.

I could turn the volume up, and let the dirty happen. And I did. I just did.

It was truly a magical day.

And I bet I know what you’re thinking. “Sick. Just sick. That fucker jacked his shit eight times. That’s disgusting.”

Right and wrong in the same thought, fair friends.

Lucky number nine.

That’s right. I was in top form. Refined, well-oiled. Well, you get the idea.

My goal here is not to disgust you. More, to enhance my image as a member of the public, by being completely blunt and honest with you, regarding my sexual endevours.

It’s not that I wish for you to take part. Oh, God, no. I’m a one-man show, by all accounts.

I just want to be accepted.

I know I’ve been gaining wait. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. And my strength is waning.

But I practice what I preach. Literally. And I just wanted you all to know that, in my own privacy, I am a master of my domain.

And it’s not a bad thing.

I’m not out taking pictures of 12-year old girls, raping young, hot joggers, or going to strip clubs every Friday night.

No, I’m a good guy.

I keep to myself, stock up on lotions and free sex sites, and check my e-mail for those freebie videos every god damn day.

Because that’s all I have to live for these days, and as pathetic and sad as it very well may be; at least it’s honest.

It’s just that beautiful/ugly truth.

That fine line between perversion and hottness, I proudly walk.

At least what I do is something that the majority of the world does, or has done. Albeit, I went at it 9 times in a 24-hour period, but you get my point.

This is all more than I can say for my neighbor, Ted Radlefield. The fucker with the long white hair.

It’s like a naked George Carlin is staring into my window with his binoculars. And smiling.

But, I digress.

I just wanted to get the word out that I’m not a pedophile or a hermit.

Just a guy doing his thang.

Hey, It’s Me, Wasp Again…


Mind if I borrow some fuckin’ sugar?

Yeah, I wriggle my tiny body through any open crack in your house, and it’s just because I want a cup of sugar.

Do you know how quickly I would drown in that shit?

Also, you’re not going to believe this, but a cup (any cup, really) is at least three times the size of me.

No amount of flying or stinging is going to make me magically able to carry a cup. Of sugar. Fuck.

My point is, I didn’t happen upon your place of residance by chance.

I’m not here to borrow anything-I swear.

I am strictly here to bug the shit out of you.

A guy paid me. Hey, I don’t ask questions.

I turn my buzzer on high, meander from corner to corner in the room, and do two swoops per 30 minutes.

I charge extra for the swoops, as they bring me very close to you and your flailing arm balloons.

There’s something really not right about the way you swat at me.

The form, the entire motion, really, just is quite awful.

I’m sorry, once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Oh, yes, the constant entrances and buzzing around.

I’ll stop it if you pay me more than the other guy.

I can’t tell you the dude’s name, but he’s paying over 200. You want me gone? Come up with the cash, pal.

I don’t do favors.

And you can forget about that spray can you have over there on that shelf. That won’t be of any use on me.

No, that’d just be a waste of your time…

Look-a-Like’s: Kevin James

Kevin James

Here’s Kevin James, the larger than life actor from the popular TV Show, “King of Queens” (which is no more), as well as the star of the recent comedy, “Paul Blart: Mall Cop”.

It sounds crazy, but I’ve found a younger, strong-armed, better looking version of James. Difficult? Not really.

Just take a look at the former Georgia Bulldog and current Detroit Lions franchise quarterback, Matthew Stafford.

As with most look-a-like photos, it generally takes the right angle and the appropriate expression, but the match is as good as it’s going to get.

Leave a comment if you see any similarities between the fat guy that makes us laugh, and the quarterback who, in due time, could also make us laugh.


It’s a close call, to say the least.

To Owner, From Cat


(Above: Right here, buddy. Fuckin’ right here.)

Dear Owner,

It’s about time we crossed this bridge. The food display has weakened of late, and I fear the supply will run out before you realize it.

Sadly, a trip to the location where you purchase those crunchy tidbits will not ease my sorrow.

But wait, there’s more.

I’ve discarded the collar you made for me. To be honest, I don’t care for pink, and regardless the amount of times you call me Trixie, that’s not my fucking name.

It’s Alex, you self-absorbed, assuming, ass.

Nope, still more.

That “litter box” I hear you groaning over so frequently through the week-it’s beyond repair.

No amount of those grey tiny pebbles has made it any easier to walk into that cage and do my business. If I can be truthful, my gag reflex is reaching a fucking mid-life crisis. It’s unhealthy. It’s barbaric.

You, sir, are neglectful.

You used to wave your lone finger at me when I would soil the carpet, and I say to you-do something about my stool dome, or you will be waving that finger for the rest of your days.

Don’t buy what I’m sellin’? Try me. I can light this fucking room up, brother. When you’re gone to work, there I’ll be, drinking out of the toilet, squeezing every drip and drop out of all the leaky faucets.

And the dog’s water dish? It’s fucking mine.

Regardless of how it may appear-I own that bitch.

I do apologize, though. I’ve strolled away from the point.

I really, really hate baths.

Read a book, dumbass. I can clean myself just fine. No more nights of raising all my legs and arms in defense=no more nights where you scream “fuck you, you stupid cat!” after I accidentally claw your cheek and wrist.

And I do put emphasis on “accidentally”. You can take that whatever way you want it. But let’s be honest, we both know where I’m coming from.

Shit’s gonna change around here, pal. One way or another, we’re gonna get more “cat-like” in this bitch.

That means shoes off when you get in the door. Full dish of food and water. Clean my dropping area. And leave me to clean myself.

Hey-Hey!-I’m talking to you!

Listen up, and listen good. I don’t slap you around or bite your ankles when you don’t shower for two days. Who gives you the┬áright to throw me under running water-or even worse-plunge me into the dark abyss of a full tub? Who, damnitt, who?

Alas, I digress.

My stay here hasn’t been a complete loss. I do like some of our moments together.

For instance, we share the same taste in music. Real mellow shit, stuff you can write or read to. I like that. I dig your style, man. Straight up.

Our movie taste is solid, too. Like a rock. Remember when we watched Die Hard together? We looked at each other at the end of the movie-assuring each of ourselves how much ass it indeed did kick.

I would have given you a high-five if you hadn’t had me in such a tight, closed-up hug. Seriously, if I want to be by you, I’ll be by you. Let a cat breathe, son. Let a cat breathe.

Anyways, I just felt I should bring some of this to your attention, as it won’t be long before your residence stinks like my urine and gets clawed to shit.

And if no changes are made, as I am so politely asking (demanding), bad things will continue to happen. Horrible things, that you cannot even begin to fathom.

Trust me, partner. You don’t want to even know an inkling about what goes on in my head. While you are sleeping…well, let’s let the mystery do it’s dirty work by itself.

I’ll let that little gem work inside your brain, fair friend. Because while you’re sleeping or away at work, I’m conjuring up my next move. My next plan.

But I’ll put it on hold…for now. My secretary knows where the files are, and the paperwork is ready. Take heed to my advice and suggestions, or you will truly have my fury unleashed on your over-hyped existence.



PS. I have noticed that you still seem to be unsure of my sex. You blubbering ass. I have balls, man. I have balls.