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.

Bitch: The Code Word for Cool

If a man dominates the business meeting, he’s confident; but if a woman takes command, she’s a bitch. When a man drives a Ferrari, he’s successful; but when a woman drives a Ferrari, she’s a golddigger. If a man pees in a urinal, he’s normal; but if a woman pees in a urinal, she’s weird. These double standards retard social progress and sodomize civilization with a strap-on of unlubricated prejudice. That's why when I saw the matter so eloquently addressed on this Youtube ad, my balls spontaneously voided into my colon.

Man, does that soundtrack drive the emotional nail or what? You could film Elton John taking a dump to it and generate more tears than Schindler’s List. Brilliant! But alas, there appears to be some copycats sneaking onto the poignancy gravy train. Just watch as these sleazy bastards xerox the creative endeavors of feminism. (You don’t have to sit through all of them; just note the plagiarism in the background.)

One band was so inspired by the seamless combination of meaning and music, they did a cover. Not as good as the original, but admirable nonetheless.

Anyway, you get the message: Confidence in men -- under the lens of sexism -- is seen as bitchiness in women. In reality a confident man and a bitchy woman are the same thing, but we've been blinded to truth. Allow me to illustrate the stigma:

Woman: Honey, if I masturbate you with my feet, would you drive Conner to his transgender pottery class?

“Bitchy” Woman: YOU GET YOUR LARD-SHEATHED COCK IN THAT SEDAN OR YOU DIE!

And now, the privilege:

Man: Babe, if I rub your back, could you go down on me during the electrocution scene in The Green Mile? It's always been a fantasy of mine.

"Confident" Man: IF MY DICK ISN’T BASTED WITH SPIT WHEN THEY THROW THAT SWITCH, I'LL WITNESS TWO EXECUTIONS TONIGHT!

As you've noticed, a man (especially a white man) can bayonet a black infant without a zygote of condemnation. Indeed, if Hitler and Mussolini weren't men, textbooks might have labeled them tyrants instead of visionaries. For a female, however, this is inverted: A lash for each IQ point over 90, and all her virtues are vilified. If only God hung some lunch meat between Rosa Park’s thighs, she’d be hailed as a hero! When will we understand that the difference between confidence and assholery is a matter of gender and not interpersonal respect?

Any honest person will tell you: The more a woman is called an asshole, the more awesome she really is. This principle is explained in a chart I made all by myself.

Media must continue to equip women with anger and fear. It must stress the maliciousness of men; that blame is an ally and personal accountability a foe. That life is an endless competition between genders reconciled only by casual sex. That what we need isn't love or cohesion, but things. Lots of things. Expensive things. Shiny things with cameras and wifi so we can tweet pictures of our things to create envy. Die with the most followers and you win.

Women, don’t let sexism stop you from being as ruthless and wasteful as men have been; you're every bit as able to become as unhappy as they are. Remember: Your level of worth is determined by what you own, and how well you display it.

Intelligence is Stupid

It’s unnecessary to say that we men find knowledge repulsive. Subjects like literature, art (the un-naked kind) and quantum mechanics consume time that should be spent on gangbang marathons or methane appreciation. Still, every so often a black sheep infiltrates our herd to sabotage the beer fueled football chants. Maybe he’ll use words not found in TV Guide, or be carrying a book without pictures. He -- if you can call him a man -- comes in many guises; and it’s imperative to ostracize him for the sake of your masculine integrity. Observe:

Bitchface: “Do you attribute Ashkenazi g to favorable genetics or economic circumstances?

Steelpubes: “Go jizz in a Bunsen burner, Tesla. Hey Barkeep, get this clit zit a Cosmopolitan!”

-- Fuck Yeah

THAT’S how you deal with these dickless dissidents, my comrades. But beware: Matters aren't always so straightforward. What if, by some twist of fate, he’s your friend? And you, being a man, were too busy pondering anal in a bouncy tent to notice his prior faggotry. “Impossible,” you say. “I’d never barhop with such human garbage!” Ah, my dear reader; this situation is more typical than you think. I’ve even provided video proof. Here’s the scene: It’s Tuesday night, the gang is slap-happy on Sam Adams, and this walrus diaphragm starts espousing the sexiness of education! Chaos ensues.

WARNING: The following video is intensely disturbing. It’s advisable to wear sunglasses over your oxygen mask

Unfortunately they cut out the last part, where Porky’s ex-cronies pour lighter fluid down his dick and force him to eat a hooker’s ass. Isn’t it maddening? The matter of feminine appeal is raised and correctly answered (tits and ass) within stanza one, but Lambchops can’t cage the yen to broadcast a comedy of errors from his flapping gravy chute. Instead of answering as a man would, he begins a tirade that’s not only unethical and insulting, but boring as fuck. The soliloquy introduces itself with a fatal dose of alliteration, followed by slews of insults and declarations of self-superiority. I didn’t notice ONE stripper.  To top it off, when he discovers the assmeat he’s been appraising isn’t single, he doesn’t even try to fuck her in front of her boyfriend. What a waste.

I’m surprised his speech wasn’t curtailed by a barstool to the teeth. With lines like “I’m not trying to call you a chauvinist”  (I bet you didn’t try to start going bald, but you did anyway) I don’t know how those innocent bystanders endured. Intelligent women? Who wants to date those? When was the last time you screwed a cerebral cortex, or ate out an amygdala?

Man, this was so putrid I had to play Mortal Kombat for six hours just to get  my boner back. Hopefully, some day, this lard lizard will realize that poetry sucks and tits rule. Until then…

Whoops, You're a Sexist!

Just when I thought I had scraped all the cheese from my chauvinistic foreskin of ignorance, a wise academic tapped me on the shoulder to remind me I'd missed a spot. This remarkable story poignantly illustrates that you can never be too careful when it comes to your sexism. If you’re an American man, prejudice lurks in everything you do; but especially in everything you say.

Last week, upon receiving my essay from my professor (who resembles a slightly deflated beach ball),  I noticed she had indicated a ‘sexist word’ with a red marker, and circled it. My jaw dropped, awestruck by her thorough administration of justice. This generous educator, in the name of female empowerment, karate-chopped her “break in case of sexism” kit, ripped off the marker cap, highlighted my heresy, and CIRCLED it with a pen (also red). It was one of those fucked up wavy circles, too. Like Michael J Fox drew it during the Parkinson’s Christmas party. I had to fight the urge to make out with her loafers.

It's a good thing she circled AND highlighted it; I might have overlooked the bar of toxic ink that had bled through my entire essay. I almost asked why she didn't accentuate my error with an neon arrow; alas, I was paralyzed with regret. And what, you ask, was this leprous string of letters? What plague-carrying lexical ghoul did I summon from the ninth circle of Webster’s Dictionary of Perdition? Gosh, I’m a little embarrassed to say. Well…okay. Here it goes

I used the word  “authoress”

“There’s no difference between what a man writes and what a woman writes.  Both of them are equal and implying otherwise is considered sexist language.” -- My English Professor

My God, I feel dirty just typing that word. Somebody dip my head in the Ganges and baptize my nuts with delousing powder! O how the aforementioned noun is a source of endless shame and self-loathing for me. To think I had no concept of the genocide I was implying! Indeed, I should have reminded myself that how someone writes reflects their sexual discrimination; that this putrid tongue of patriarchal English, unfit to lick an alleycat’s asshole, slings more slurs than a Texan grandmother. Slurs like “Men at work” and “Man on the moon” and “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Why can’t she be a jolly good fellow? And does having tits disqualify you from walking on the moon? Of course not! They’d bounce around like crazy and it would be cool as shit!

By the way, if anyone is looking for a nation devoid of sexism, consider purchasing desert property in Iran. The Persian language is genderless, which means there’s no sexism whatsoever. You’ll never have to worry about unequal pay or getting gang raped for not concealing your eyelashes. I hear the minefields are pretty scarce this time of year! Do I smell a Noble Peace Prize for Ahmadinejad?

The Face of Sexual Liberation

When a group of college freshman shake their thonged pussies into a basement camera, my eyes projectile vomit geysers of admiration. O country and kin, witness these crusaders twerk free the chains of patriarchy and breathe fire into the face of oppression! (With their vaginas.) Be warned: This display of sexual liberation is so profound, your sperm will prostrate inside of your balls. Can you feel America’s misogyny diminish with each choreographed buttclap?

These femme fatales are so effective because they understand the function of their junk: Self-lubricating social justice. Is it coincidence that Virginia Woolf, the 20th century’s most eminent feminist, had a first name suspiciously similar to Vagina? No wonder she was a keynote in the history of women's rights. “It’s because of her brain,” you say? Nonsense! You can’t gyrate that to rap music. It don't have a clit, so it ain't worth shit.

One of the studio dancers, agitated by the ambivalence with which her performance was received, posted the following:

“I just don’t understand why people are so threatened by feminine sexuality these days! Can’t they comprehend that you can love your family, read classic literature, be successful AND express sexual liberation at the same time? We need to grow up!”  -- Some Bitch

Time to pass the tampax torch: Feminism’s next messiah has descended from the heavens! Well, at least her ass has descended; and then reascended, and then descended again at a quickened pace, etc. Just read her luminary line on the congruity of twerking and classical literature. Absolutely sublime! In fact, noticing the way she spreads her labia at 0:32, I’d wager she’s a voracious reader of Faulkner’s post WWII works. It’s surprising she doesn't mention Jane Austen’s twerk fiction, or the role of booty shaking in bringing women the right to vote.  Still, her reply left my prejudices decimated. After the boner receded into my Tang-stained boxers, I wept for all the times I had ever objectified a woman. (Yes, you can still buy Tang)

“But Lawrence, don’t feminists protest when these “twerks” are used in rap videos?”

Yes, astute reader -- and rightfully so! Allow me to illustrate the matter:

The first photo depicts a group of sexually liberated young women. The second tells a sad tale of sexist exploitation deserving universal censure from all social/political institutions. Observe this smug patriarch sipping his crunk juice as young women are mercilessly objectified. Contrary to what Lil Jon may say, this is not at all ‘OH-KAY!’

Finally, we must ignore the notion that your mind is the ultimate weapon of liberation. This erroneous philosophy has absolutely no place in modern feminism. Who’d be able to make money off of that shit anyway? The essence of feminism is between the legs, not the eyes.

AAA: Boner Management

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
CAN BONERS STRIKE AT ANY TIME?             
THE ANSWER IS YES!

Picture this if you will, dear readers: Tim and some relatives are carrying grandma’s coffin towards an idling limo when suddenly his dong swells up like a fiery baptist preacher. Mortified, he waddles past rows of mourners as the uninvited pallbearer wags beneath 200 pounds of freshly-embalmed crone. In a desperate attempt at subterfuge, Tim thigh-swings his kidmissile sideways and knocks over a lighted candle. The funeral is ruined and his grandmother goes to hell.

Unfortunately, situations like this are all too common. Spontaneous erections can be tricky business, and men frequently flounder in dealing with their phallic affairs. That’s why I've done everyone the favor of inventing AAA: The greatest 3 step solution to boner shame in the universe.

Step One:

(Apologize)

Everyone appreciates a swift apology, so it’s essential to deliver one at once. The next time your shorts get a surprise elasticity test, approach the nearest person and say, “Excuse me sir, but I have an erection. I apologize for any disturbance I've caused you.” Close with a firm handshake (or a kiss on the cheek in some cultures). When addressing foreigners or the hard of hearing, commence the apology by pointing at your erection with both index fingers. Bend backwards for extra emphasis. Speak slowly, and be prepared to repeat yourself.

If you’re a guest at a large gathering, such as a wedding or (in Tim’s case) a funeral, request everyone’s attention and offer a collective apology. Stand in a well-lit area where your violation can be visible to everyone. Make a carouselling motion if you’re standing in the center of a group.

Step Two:

(Abscond)

Follow up with,“I will now isolate myself to prevent further discomfort,” then get out of there! While it’s tempting to sweep things under the rug and continue with the baby shower, many people will still be in shock. They can’t recover if you’re standing around with the minute hand stuck on midnight, so give them ample space for recovery. While absconding, avoid exposing your boner to other bystanders; otherwise, you’ll have to start the process over again. Lastly, if in an elevator, classroom or area where quick escape is impossible, matters obviously become more complicated. It’s still imperative to conceal your erection, though, so face a corner and ride it out. Take as long as you need, and remember that it’s okay to cry.

If Tim were as wise as you are now, he would have ditched the coffin and retreated to the church basement, thus evading a lifetime of embarrassment. Once alone, he'd go to step three.

Step Three:

(Admonish)

Penises are childish and act up just to get a rise, so discipline yours as you would a cocky toddler. Don’t arouse more chaos by just ejaculating curses; you’ll only make it harder on yourself. Still, remember to be firm. “What you did was unacceptable! How do you expect me to transport a coffin like that? You better set yourself straight and grow up,” is acceptable in Tim's case. After its head is hanging in shame, put it into ‘time out’ for the rest of the week.   

NOTE: Some psychologists advocate the practice of ‘spanking’ your boner, but I personally find this ineffective and cruel. My grandfather beat his boner daily and would often cry afterwards. I know this because I'd hear him pounding it, and he'd always leave lots of tissues lying around his bedroom. Proof that violence is never the answer.

Congratulations, you are now master of your own boner! Please send all donations to antigravitypie@gmail.com in the form of precious gems or sex.