Handsome (For a Jew)

Over the last couple weeks I’ve been looking around at various internet dating sites. I mean, as hot and romantic as my right hand is, she and I have an open relationship. And every now and then, I like to spice things up with a hand orgy. Or even add in a mouth and vagina just keep things interesting. Hey, variety is the spice of life.

I had narrowed my options down to two sites: match.com and JDate. Here are the pros and cons of each:

Match: There are more girls available, and they are probably way sluttier than their Talmud-toting sisters. However, there is also way more competition.

JDate: The girls have way fewer options to choose from, so as a result I look way better. Unfortunately, they might not want to sleep with me until I get a medical license, move to Long Island and cut a hole in a sheet.

Obviously, it was not an easy choice. Because each allows you to create a profile for free, I decided to give them both a couple weeks to woo me one way or another. In the end it wasn’t even close. The Jewish girls are three times more desperate than the match.com whores. And if I'm to stand any chance of deceiving a woman into having sex with me, I need them as desperate as possible. Which is why most of my exes are hobos.

This proves my theory that I am handsome for a Jew. Which is sort of like being tan for an Irishman, tall for a midget or fast for a paraplegic.

JDate is a weird place. Hundreds of Jews lured into putting their names on a list. Wow, where have I heard that one before? They could have just exploited Hitler’s master list for marketing purposes when they started up. Sure some of the people would have been dead, but chances are good the survivors were single again.

The site does not actually require its members to be Jewish. I mean, it’s not like they asked me to send in a picture of my circumcised cock to join. Which is good, because that would have gotten very depressing very soon on a Jewish dating site. I believe Lisa Lampanelli said it best when she said, “The only thing shorter than a Jewish guy’s dick is a black man’s to-do list.”

My Muslim friend asked if he would be allowed to join. That would make for some interesting dates. I told him that he should wait until he was inside her to break the news. There he’d be, sliding in, she’s getting all into it and then he yells at the top of his lungs: “Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!”

Or maybe that high-pitch yodel as if he’s about to slay an infidel.

As an alternative, he could strap a bomb to balls and assure the girl that either he or the bomb were going to explode in 5 minutes.

I have another friend who has a huge list of sex accomplishments he wants to complete before he dies. There’s some good stuff on there: MILFS, midgets, Asian twins, a celebrity, and probably 99 other things that escape me at the moment. But if he really wants a challenge, he should try to get an Israeli girl and a Palestinian chick in a three-way. There’s something symbolic about an American fucking a Palestinian while an Israeli works his balls.

Worst Superpower Ever

I’ve been reading a book called “Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story” which is about death and rock n’ roll. A paragraph in particular caught my attention:

“There is an entire cult of disciples (led, I believe by Minnie Driver) who inject the knowledge of [Jeff] Buckley’s demise back into his work, and what they hear on songs like ‘Drown in My Own Tears’ is something that couldn’t exist if he were still alive. It’s a simple equation: Buckley is dead, so [his 1993 Album] Grace is profound. But this is reverse engineering; this says more about the people who like Buckley than it does about his music.”

The idea I found interesting is that events that happen after the work was created have influenced how people interpret the album. And in a way, it’s sort of what’s been going on in my life.

What follows is ENTIRELY the work of my own neurosis, but I’ve begun working up a case on whether or not my ex was cheating on me. Logically, I know she wasn't. Well…I suspect that she wasn’t. I guess no one can ever really know for sure. But logic has no place in my interpretation of past events based on our eventual split. Every conversation we had now takes on a new meaning.

Example:

Me: How was your day?
Her: fine.

Translation:

Me: How was your day?
Her: I’m fucking other guys.

Now, I’m already aware that it’s unfair, unhealthy, and completely stupid. But right now, those three words are a pretty good description of me. Seriously, my mind is doing really bizarre things with this new perspective. Relatively simple facts all seem part of some sinister master plot for my ex to sleep with hundreds of dudes.

Example:

She wanted to move to Pittsburgh. Men live in Pittsburgh. Therefore, she wanted to fuck the starting offensive line for the Stealers.

Unfortunately, my weird irrational imagination also extends to current actions. Meaning not only am I misinterpreting past events, I sometimes manage to convince myself that I have ESP strictly localized to my ex-girlfriend’s vagina.

So I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, utterly certain that she’s doing reverse cowgirl with the guy from the brawny paper-towel commercials. No one in the history of the world is having more unbelievable and mind-blowing sex than my ex…in my imagination.

I find myself praying that it’s only my sick mind and that I haven’t somehow inherited the shittiest superpower ever. Although, the creation story for said gift would probably be pretty amusing:

Once a mild-mannered gynecologist, Clit Vaghammer’s life changed when exposed to gamma radiation while elbow-deep in Miss Cleo. Now, he roams the earth, talking in a crazy accent, righting the wrong, and obsessing over his ex’s vag.

I really need to get out more.

Fantasy Sexball

Now, my recent decent into the single life has been depressing, not only in its soul-crushing familiarity (Jesus…this is what my life used to be? How did I not kill myself?) but the inescapable fact that it’s likely going to be here for a long, long time. At this point, I’m looking for a relationship with less of an emotional connection than a glory hole.

Because I’m unready for any interaction with the opposite sex that doesn’t involve a hole in a pay-toilet, I’ve been spending a lot of time on the internet. As a result, a thought dawned on me. Please consider these two seemingly unrelated facts:

1. The popularity of fantasy sports is simply staggering. According to Rueters nearly 30 million people play some fantasy sport in the U.S. or Canada. And many of them will probably do it on their employer’s dime.
   


2. Meanwhile, almost 7 million people a day watch porn on the internet.

A normal person would see these two statistics as isolated. But a genius such as myself sees an awesome opportunity to make some serious bank combining his two great internet passions into a brand-new past-time sure to take the internet by storm: Fantasy Sexball.

The premise is this: Each year, you’ll gather with your buddies and draft porn stars onto your team (or swinger party, if you'd prefer a term keeping with the milieu). For the next 12 months, you’ll follow your stars’ "sexploits" with points being awarded based on the following accomplishments:

• Scenes Recorded
• Threesomes
• Facials
• Anal
• Fellatios
• Fistings
• Double Penetrations
• Dirty Sanchezes
• Cleveland Steamers
• DV/DAs
• Blumpkins
• Autoerotic Asphyxiations

Obviously, this list could be expanded. I mean, given the amount of porn being filmed at any given time, chances are if you can dream it, somewhere the recipient of a bad titjob is doing it on camera at this moment. Or if you really wanted to get creative, make each team carry a certain number of male porn stars, midgets and ponies. My point is that this is a game that tests not only your level of perversion, but gives you the chance to get to take your knowledge of friends and coworks to a whole new level of creepy.

The only downsides are that it’s probably going to be much more difficult and/or risky to play in the office and after 12 long months, there’s a good chance that there’ll have been some serious chaffing.

Craig's A Pimp

Now that I’m single, I’ve spent a lot of time trolling the internet looking for girls. Yes, most of it is porn, simply because it’s sexual release without the cost of dinner and/or pretending to be interested in something a woman says, but I’ve also checked out a number of the dating sites. I can’t believe that it took me this long to discover the crazy world of internet pimping.

There are several different tiers of dating sites, or pimping if you will. First there are the high class call girl pimps of eHarmony and Match, then the second and third level rub and tug madams of Pure and Mate1, and finally, on the lowest possible level, just below mail-order brides and AIDS-ridden African whores, is craigslist.

Ah craigslist. How the hell did hookers in Rockland County make any money before craigslist? I mean, besides through my donations. I’m only one man, after all. Actually, I’m starting a new charity: the Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation. Adopt Some Sex-Workers Foundation (or A.S.S. Fun for short), allows you to get personally involved in the life of someone who needs your help more than anyone. For a small donation, you can make a difference in a whore’s life today and get her the clear-pumps, pleather skirts, and gonorrhea medication she so desperately needs. Our premium sponsors will even receive a personal visit from the girl they’re helping. I predict that it’s only a matter of days before my charity becomes the most donated to non-profit organization in the world. I mean, come on. How the fuck are Jerry’s Kids going to compete with that?

As founder of this charity, I’ll probably need to buy a pink Cadillac, a gold tooth and a cane. Sure it’s “hard” work, but when I looking at the asses of all the girls I’ve “touched” makes it allllllll worth while. Plus, it’s as close to a recession proof as occupations get.

My favorite section of the Craigslist Personal ads is the “Casual Encounters” listings. Holy Christ. It’s 100% ads for call girls, most of whom think they’re cleverly posing as real women. It’s outstanding. The amount of hilarity is almost too much to stand.

I like the ones that read something like this:

"Hot 28 year-old not getting what I need from my husband. Looking for some no strings attached fun tonight. I’m classy, quiet and shy. Please email pictures and credit card numbers."

And then there’s a picture of her vag. Classy.

I’m not sure why any hooker thinks it’s a good idea to try to advertise with photos of the cootch. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d hardly classify any fish taco as being “picturesque.” But after 15 years of paid-for abuse, it’s almost always a downright tragic view. It becomes, as I like to call it, “Chipped Ham.”



And with that awesome visual, I’m out to troll craigslist for a girl desperately seeking a substitution for daddy’s love. Or maybe just some mayo for her chipped ham.

Living Down To Expectations

To all the people angry with me for what’s written here, I urge you to let it go. That’s the wonderful thing about having this blog. I take all the darkest, least constructive feelings I have during the day, blow them up 20 times the size and then banish them from my mind to the internet. This way, they don't fester. The joke is that no one else can possibly be slandered on this blog worse than I slander myself through its authorship.

That’s the whole point of everything. Why would you possibly take anything negative I have to say about someone seriously when this whole blog lowers me below basic humanity?

I’d urge anyone angry with me over what’s written here to consider the inescapable point that I’ve already been punished for my many flaws and shortcomings: I’ve been kicked to the curb. Between the level I drag myself down to with each post and my ex’s utter rejection of every good part of my being, there’s simply not any compelling reason to waste your anger on me. I'm way below deserving your hatred. There's no possible way for you to make me feel worse. There's no endgame for you.

You want to know what the purpose of this blog is? To live down to her expectations. You shouldn’t get angry with me. I’m just proving her right.