Dolores: Who isn't? Though I kind of fear that's just our generation's new bullshit religion. The amount of rich smart ashkenazi-ish fuckable chill 28 year olds who aren't religious at all has reached some critical mass and so like all these kinda depressed, terrified of their mortality as they start to slowly bald or bloat atheists who know there's no afterlife have collectively and virally spread this "singularity theory" pseudoscience meme in order to give some sort of magic hope to our faithless lives.
Matty: Yeah, on some level I think you're probably right. Though that makes me pretty irredeemably sad.
Dolores: Me too.
Matty: Want to get an ice-cream after this? There's this place I think you'll like. They do the whole salted caramel thing really well. I know that's no longer cutting edge. But I still like it.
which lead me to conclude that the guy seriously overestimates the social value of sperm motility.
Anekdote #1: Rob has been living at his parents house right up to age 29. Doing nothing. Getting fat. Playing online poker gainst other fat fatties. Being totely financially and emotionally cannibalistic. Women can smell his fear and fungus-riddled scalp. Kay, so the guy buys this (dave) letterman's jacket with the word "motile" on the back and the number infinity, and when he doesn't get laid off of that like by all the mad hot 14 year oldz he used to stalk outside his old high school, he str8 up used a creme blu-ray flame thrower thingy to torture a neighbor's beloved parrot "Maggy" to death.
Anekdote #2: Rob's at BestBuy, picking up the latest bullshit Xbox 360 250gb eat a dick iteration. AmEx Card gets declined. So natch he whips out his dicky. Cummmms onto the lil credit card swipe screen. And exclaims, "But them shits is mo-TILE, what's your name, Brandi. Look at that momomotility." Poor black Brandi flipped out, ran away, and Rob ended up just walking threw (misspelled on purpose, bitches!) the parking lot, snapping antennas off the jankiest Hondas he could find cuz he figured he could more acutely hurt poor working class folks who are already sadder & more terrestrial radio-reliant ta begin with.
Anekdote #3: And this one's super sad. So Rob apparently committed suicide a few weeks ago by doing a combo thingy where he ated like 20 vicodins and coke and even meth and shit. Left some email draft on his Samsung Galaxy where he was all "Gone 4eva. Sperm no longer motile in the least. cosmic joke? i like to think so. Also, I hope all homeless people are carted off to death camps. DEXTER 4eva. Love that show. All haterz are herbs. And I love bangin out russian birds. Chicken chicken goose monkey beard tendon piss."
SO what's weirds to me is that like a mad normal reggin (ni**** backwards) like Rob who's all happy and balling and like branded chill by his boys and reverse cowgirlable by bitches from that coast to these coasts and always did the right thing by God and his moms again and again until the very end just chooses to early check out like that and all because he somehow got brain-twisted bout how much sperm motility mattered in startin' to decay but the pussy's still poppin even though the stocks be droppin twenty-ten America.
I'm white. Have excellent credit. A steady job. A lot of cash on hand. Have never missed a payment. But whenever I walk into a local bank with a jar full of acid and a necklace made of woven rat tails, my loan modification request is summarily rejected.
... or is my sex-obsessed pathological liar acquaintance Doug Feldman still a sex-obsessed pathological liar?
You be the jury:
Last night -- prompted by a Facebook Message several days ago from Doug Feldman which included the claim that Sapna Sethi, a prim Indian gal I used to work with, was a deviant anal-sex addict who would frequently have anal gang bangs with any and Doug meant any willing participant during lunchtime and then proceed to walk back into the office sans panties but with little droplets of jism running down her leg -- I took Sapna out for drinks at a no-longer hip craft beer bar.
At said drinks, I respectfully waited until the mood was right and then violently grabbed her vagina under the table and asked if she'd like it if I organized a group of guys to rampage her butt senselessly. Sapna threw a pint of hoppy ale in my face, called me a "deranged asshole," and stormed out in tears.
Don: "Say, anyone want to pool some cash together to open up a Baskin-Robbins or a Ben & Jerry's in a gourmet gelato-saturated alt/hipster neighborhood that's becoming more health conscious by the day?"
Don: "Wish eToys would reanimate so I could once again watch my son's college fund shrink to oblivion thanks to a flashy 1.0 insolvent toy purveyor."
Don: "Anyone want to make fun of my tiny dick while I buy shares of an extremely low-risk mutual fund?"
Last night, 2 hours after a steak dinner that had momentarily rendered me too fat to fuck, I was watching 404 with a girl when, noticing our digestion was moving right along, we decided to turn off the 46" LCD and have sex instead. Being inside another mammal proved more stimulating than watching an actor inside an electronic rectangular prism pretending to be a sociopath named Pete pretending to harbor genuine human feeling over his fake actress wife's fake off-screen zygote.
And that's when it hit me. The only reason meticulously crafted shows like Mad Men exist, or cable television in general, or like the totality of human culture itself... is that sometimes guys can't get it up. And sometimes even when they do get it up there's a long 1 hour cable drama refractory period before they can get it up again.
"My favorite part of this film without question is the beyond beautiful conception of a world rendered edible! What an imaginative catharsis this was for me as a toddler in the late 70s -- the material universe itself becoming a consumable product completely attuned to the emotional rhythms of my young life. I'm not going out on a limb here when I say that the clear adulthood analogue to this -- and most grown men would surely agree with me whether they're ready to admit it or not -- would be a world made entirely of penises. Just imagine, you reach for a door knob, it's an erect male member. You turn on the faucet in a stadium restroom... thick gobs of semen jet out. You know when I was a teenager watching VHS porn for the first time, like most adolescent boys I would take pieces of duct tape and arrange them on my father's television such that all aspects of the image -- the beautiful breasts, the glistening limbs, the quivering lips both facial and vaginal -- such that all aspects save the hard-on proper would be masked by the tape and thus rendered irrelevant. Is there an adult man reading this who can't relate to a similar experience? If you can't, it's time to embrace the zeitgeist. For times they have a-changed, my friends. The old models of sexuality are out. In a recent uncontrolled but very rigorous study out of Thailand, it was found that as much as your average man enjoys taking a woman from behind and giving it to her doggy-style, that male will invariably prefer performing that same exact act on a man. There is just a base universal sexual pleasure associated with taking down the stronger of the two sexes. Some of my friends at colleges and institutes throughout South East Asia at large are telling me that we are on the verge of a radical systematic reevaluation of what it is that specifically constitutes male sexual attraction. The old model -- that men are attracted to young fertile women, certain breast-to-hip ratios, symmetry, female sex pheromones undetectable by the human nose, etc., is simply on its way out. What we're seeing is a paradigm shift toward a new model in which the chief attributes that men seek out in sexual partners are strength, size, power, and masculinity. Does this mean we're headed toward a future in which homosexuality becomes the norm? Absolutely not. In fact, this new model of attraction posits that women are now more than ever almost unbearably desirable to men. For human women are decently sized, relatively strong, have moderate levels of testosterone coursing through their veins and such. In fact in this modern world we all find ourselves inhabiting today, the ONLY thing more carnally desirable to your average adult male than a woman will of course be another man."
Have you ever noticed that the vast majority of kids with Down's Syndrome uniformly have artless Asiany bowl haircuts, wear too big polyester-blend Ross-purchased polos, and sport tragically unflattering cargo shirts and thick ill-fitting nerdfag glasses?
This is so fucking wrong. Imagine you're a parent with a child who has a debilitating brain disease. How inhuman can you be to then compound your kid's problem by forcing him to wear the classic Down'sbitch uniform. Buy that lil fucker some expertly crafted casual preppy clothes. Not J. Crew. Splurge for the Steven Alan. Dude's brain is a fucking disaster. He's been fucked in the ass by chance. The very least you can do is give him some stupidly expensive boat shoes, a calf-skin rag & bone messenger bag so classically designed it'll have all the Down's girls wondering if he's gay or just hot, a sense that yes this life is a non-stop grind toward embarrassment and death but we are capable of -- in fact we are obliged to do whatever we can to make this infinite mess endurable and pretty.
and busting on a girl seems so raw/nasty/dominant/dehumanizing in porn.
IRL it's more like okay I can't get this girl pregnant so I'm going to shoot on her back because I don't want to soil the bed we're about to sleep in and cumming into my own hand would be super messy and beta so here I go wow this feels great but I do wish I were still inside as that would be more physically and psychologically stimulating but wow there's a lot of volume here and now we're both laughing oh shit her back is slightly slanted what if it flows onto the carpet this could be bad she's asking me to get a towel I suppose it's the least I could do so I grab a heartbreakingly soft one from her spotless bathroom, come back, pat her down, check with my hand a few times to make sure her back's not too sticky, say something sweet and awkward exhale walk into the kitchen and grab a Perrier.