Don't ever look through your girlfriend's phone.

Testicular size wanes with each new generation, and I’m starting to suspect it’s correlated to a crisis of integrity. It wouldn’t surprise me if fifty years from now, the average cumshot fails to fill a thimble. This testicular atrophy, on the rise since the 1960s, is both a physical and physiological problem; indeed, the gonads of the mind are equally essential to one's manhood.

In the past few months I’ve seen several friends snoop through their girlfriends’ phones. Though I kept quiet at the time, it was sad to see otherwise respectable men intentionally stuff their junk into a Shrinky-Dink Oven. Why, why, why do you care about her bumbling cellular bullshit? Men who pack healthy parties of two barely know what their girlfriends’ phones look like, because a woman’s technological broadcasts are duller than Barbie’s tits. (I’ve yet to see a single nipple.)  It’s not about respecting her privacy, either; who the hell cares about that? It’s about respecting yourself.

When you burrow through her Inbox, you say to yourself, “I should be cheated on.” Why else would you winnow through a megabyte of OMGs and superfluous final letters while she’s taking a shit? It’s only you, poor pansy, gazing into the birth canal of your nascent vagina. If you were a real man, you’d know that a girl who cheats on you is retarded. You’d never commit to a bitch who’d fool around; in fact, you’d have a hard time committing to even a fantastic woman, and be shit testing her constantly. You’d be sure you’re first committed to yourself; then, that the woman is committed to you. Afterwards, you might decide to invest something meaningful.

Alas, you’re more obsessed with validating your insecurities than being an apathetic asshole, which is what God intended you to be. This indicates you’re either dating a funky hoe, or, more likely, your self-esteem is garbage. Let’s make it clear: The problem is you. The wussfag who snatches his bitch’s android while she wipes her butthole. Go find a BlockBuster and rent a copy of Honey, I Shrunk my Dick. Director’s Cut.

Phone excavators are factories of paranoia, always finding bullshit that seems incriminating but isn’t. Thought process:  “Holyfuckingshit. She’s sending ‘I love you’s’ to him almost every night... ‘Dad’ must really be a codeword for Dan! That crafty fucking bitch!” Dan ruminations increase your suspicions, and soon, the spying becomes habitual. You log onto Facebook, open her friends list, and pound ‘Dan’ into the searchbar. By 3AM, you know the address of every Dan in the country; and they’re all probably fucking your girl.

And what if you DO find something, huh? What if it’s a video of Dan in a Boston Market uniform screwing your girl in the face? What if he’s sucking mashed potatoes off of her titties while she pumps gravy into her own ass? You’ll probably break up with her -- which you should have done anyway -- and blame yourself.  At least it’s a step in the right direction.

Media vs Men

Sexism against men is a rampant cancer that ransacks every organ of American media. Watch TV for ten minutes and you’re bombarded by hordes of cock-scratching dimwits who scorch Thanksgiving turkeys, set fire to microwaves and fail to comprehend Greek yogurt. The shrewd wife, looking on in smug bewilderment, swoops in and once again saves her pet simian from jamming his boner in the electric toaster. Buy a new Hyundai today! The Y chromosome adjusts its dunce cap as feminists everywhere cream their jeans.

In this commercial we find man in his natural habitat: stupidity. Observe that for ten pitiful seconds he fruitlessly searches the fridge for nonexistent key lime pie. Never mind the assorted yogurts -- which DEPICT the desserts her face hole obnoxiously announces -- sticking out like a lunchlady’s lip mole. (Oh, Lawrence! Everybody knows that men are only capable of noticing pornography and Sports Illustrated.) Nope, he stays clueless as dried glue.  

And listen to this cuntbanshee enunciate her ‘ahs.’ If I were her husband I’d be funneling strawberry Yoplait into my ears by the gallon. General Mills would need to open a yogurt plant next to my studio apartment. Again, this voice is so odious you could use it to castrate a Nigerian pimp. “YAH! YAHSterday I ate some YAHm pudding and it was sooo fucking YAHmmy! My toolbag husband is too dumb to know that I’m YAHmerring on about yougurt! YAH!"  Why is the husband looking in the fridge? Your gun is under the bed, buddy.

Finally the pandemonium is halted. Our vigilant heroine observes her fumbling husband and asks,  “Babe, what are you doing?” Not “What are you looking for,” which is the response of a woman without locusts in her uterus, but “What are you doing?” The sort of thing you’d say to a slave fiddling with his padlock. “Ooooh I ain’t doin nuffin masah, just tryin to find me sum kee lam pie! I show izz sorrah, yessum!” Naturally he won't reply with the sensible “Getting food that I paid for,” or the even more reasonable “Go burn your bra while you’re wearing it, harpy." That isn't his place. He just sulks like he failed to get it up during a lap dance, and another pink harpoon is driven into the mangled corpse of masculinity.

Need more evidence? Here’s something that requires no explanation.

I've got an idea I'm thinking of sending to Samsung. It's called " The Evolutionary Wife." Picture this: A husband comes home from the firm after a particularly tiresome day only to be lambasted by his bathrobbed and moderately overweight wife. (Who's wearing that weird cucumber facial mask.) Our hero dodges a steak knife, reaches into his suitcase, and pulls out an evolution kit. Suddenly, she transforms into a hot, flexible cheerleader he knew in college. You know, the one who gave him a handy behind Denny's but doesn't remember. Oh, wait, Samsung wouldn't air that -- Lee Kun-hee would wake up to find his dick in the Jack Lalanne Power Juicer. If there's one thing Samsung will NEVER air, it's a sexist commerical.

Professional Sluts for America!

We achieve well-being by using our talents to benefit others. An entertaining musician is praised regardless of drug use or pedophilia. Smooth talkers occupy infomercials, persuading viewers to buy a washing machine that dispenses gumballs. A few devote themselves to simply beating the shit out of people, or talking about how hard it is to be black.If these are considered respectable trades, why is it taboo to be a professional slut? 

If you don’t live in Somalia, examine your neighborhood’s businesses. You’ll find that most of them address a carnal urge: restaurants for hunger, police for safety, clothing stores for looking presentable. These are lucrative industries because they satisfy desires almost everybody has. An enterprise grows by responding to our urges; and in almost every case, the intensity of the urge produces a corresponding economic presence.

But what about sex? You could say that advertisers use tits like nerds use reference humor. Majorska sales would plummet if their billboards didn’t depict Russian models posing for a facial. Still, corporations are not selling sex the way a restaurant sells food. It’s beneficial for them to imply that buying a Hyundai will get you laid, but don’t expect a refund if the Sonata doesn’t drive you straight to pussy paradise. In short, companies will give you a boner, but it’s up to you to manage your blue balls. Where in time is LEGAL and LEGITIMATE sexual service? Sluts, forced into shame (usually by other women), are the answer.

An idiot might say something like, “Why do you want professional sluts? Can’t you go get a girl for free, or are you just an ugly cockmole?” Firstly, no woman offers herself for free. As for not wanting to find a willing woman: If I were to hand you a .22 and drop you in a patch of woods the day before Thanksgiving, could you kill a turkey? Maybe, if you’re a skilled hunter. If you’re like most of us, however, the poultry aisle is a simpler option. Understand that we pay for convenience as well as products.

So why don’t we have a hooker union or a blowjob delivery service? (If you don’t cum in 30 minutes, it’s free.) Because it would be disrespectful to women? Listen buddy, when a girl rides me like Cowboy Troy, I’m already inclined to pay her. She is a sexual artist -- a source of carnal ecstasy, and hopefully not herpes. Is it irrational to suggest that artists deserve pay for their work? We’re talking about one of the most autonomous careers in existence! Do away with the fucking street pimps; make her the pimp.

Let’s bypass the sententious bullshit and admit we’re all down to fuck. So long as you’re careful, the matter would be as simple as going to a restaurant. That not romantic enough for you? Go get married. (Good luck with the divorce.)

I watched 25% of the vagina monologues.

I watched 25% of the vagina monologues.

I like performances to know what they're getting at. So when an entire act is an ode devoted to a pervert named Bob who worshiped women's vaginas by staring at them for hours, the play is probably unaware of what its own message really is. Something about reclaiming femininity. (It was lost?)  

To disinterested men like me, however, its theme is clear: Nah-nah! Our vaginas are cooler than your smelly dicks. Pshaw, I say! You might as well run a laugh track over Schindler's List. Having a dong kicks ass; in fact, that’s why you produced this play. Because you know that, anatomically speaking, ya got the short end. What this theatrical drivel really is is a bunch of vagina Celts wardancing before their battle against Phallic Rome. It boosts morale, but the resistance is still doomed from the get-go. You’ll recite your useless vaginal voodoo and stick pins in penis figurines. Maybe afterwards, you’ll direct The Clitoris Strikes Back in 3D. It won’t change the truth, which is that having a dick takes zero effort and is superior in every way.

If you’re passing a children’s hospital and you notice a fire on the exterior of the Newborns wing, can you brandish your vagina and put it out? No, because your vagina aims like James Bond in Goldeneye 64. For Christ’s sake, you’d burn several hundred calories struggling to write your name down in the snow with it. I, on the other hand, can target the precise location of any fire and extinguish it at once. And concerning writing my name in the snow using urine, I’m probably the most talented person in the world. One time I reproduced the entire Declaration of Independance (signatures included) with my piss. Moving to the constitution, I wrote most of the amendments in WingDings. Vaginas cannot do that because they’re structurally inconvenient.

Don’t you bleed out of it for like, three weeks or something? And there’s all these esoteric creams and brushes and tropical fragrance wipes. I think tampons are spiked with acid -- it explains the frightening psychological intensity of modern women. Walking around with a plastic dildo in your vagina for a week while bleeding and tripping balls? Must do wonders for the psyche.  I’m surprised I never see you flagellating yourselves.

Don’t get me wrong: I think vaginas are awesome. But that’s because I have a penis, making me impervious to SO many sexual annoyances. Vaginas, for example, consistently make men happy. But some cocks are so tiny that Plankton from Spongebob has a better chance of hittin’ dat shit juss right. We’re satisfied after one orgasm (usually), but the hunger of the cunt rages until it has consumed the entire world. If we ejaculate too soon, you shake us like we’re vending machines that ate your change. Inevitably, you’ll seek gratification elsewhere.  So it follows that while a dog is man’s best friend, a woman’s is an adjustable and removable showerhead. (That's why the water bill is so high...)

Pregnancy? Vaginas. The threat of impending rape? Vaginas. Surprise yeast infections? Poonani. But as for men? We walk around HOPING a woman rapes us in an alleyway, preferably if she’s a brunette with killer sex moves and a rope. Regrettably, This almost never happens. Really, really regrettably.

I thank God for blessing me with the lifestyle of phallus ownership.