I arise at 1:37 PM, and eat a vigorous breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, with Sailor Jerry’s rum, in lieu of milk. I also enjoy Cap’n Crunch Berries with vodka. Sometimes if I let the soggy, vodka-laced “berries” soak in my mouth long enough, until they dissolve like my once-fervent optimism, I may even forget, just for a moment, that I lost my wife, my job, and pretty much my will to live.

I had a stable, albeit stagnant job as a supply chain analyst at Proctor & Gamble until MY WIFE LEFT ME FOR A 32-YEAR-OLD BLACK PERSONAL TRAINER AND I FOUND OUT ON FACEBOOK. My job performance plummeted, culminating with my unceremonious shit-canning two weeks before Christmas. They didn’t even give me a token invite to the company Christmas party, denying me a golden opportunity to drink myself to death on someone else’s dime. Fuckers.

Now I’m sucking on the soggy unemployment tit at a significant reduction from my former salary, the bulk of which goes to alimony, child support, and a portion of the mortgage on the house which my wife now owns. With the paltry remainder of my funds, I cover my core physiological needs – industrial toilet paper to service both my excretory and cowardly masturbatory functions, and simple microwaveable meal substitutes, deepy saturated in preservatives, and pay the rent for this shit hole apartment, where I attempt, in vain, to numb myself with Lean Cuisines and bottom shelf alcohol. I am woefully, irrevocably divorced.

My dignity and self worth permanently surrendered and obliterated, I agreed to document my tortuous divorced existence for this repugnant, scatological web site that nobody reads, in exchange for a premium porn subscription to Brazzers.

I’ve been watching an inordinate amount of black-on-white gang bang videos, as you can imagine. Also, surprise, surprise: cuckold videos. My only complaint with this particular breed of niche porn is that there isn’t a split screen of the husband hard at work, or otherwise engaged in an earnest activity, like perhaps at an antiques store in the country, picking out wicker furniture that would remind his wife of her beloved, deceased German grandmother, Bertilda. This would likely increase my ejaculatory PSI ratio by at least 17%, and perhaps even bring me closer to the memory of multi-erection days gone by, but beggars can’t be choosers.

In place of a hopeless online job search, I watched “Never Been Kissed”, in its entirety. A marvelous film, if you pretend you’re a terror suspect in Guantanamo, and it’s playing in the background as you’re being relentlessly waterboarded. And you’ll tell them what they want to hear if someone will just hurry up and kiss the bitch.

Then I ate some old Pizza Hut breadsticks I found in the back of my fridge, from MLK weekend. Didn’t even heat them up. Just shoved them in my mouth, washed it down with the last dregs of the Sailor Jerry’s bottle, then popped a Vicodin, rectally.

I used to want to own a sailboat. Sometimes I would even dream about it. I was the captain, Captain Dan, with my family by my side. And the clouds, if there were even any at all, were always fluffy and symmetrical. And my wife would drink sweet tea as we’d stare into the unfathomably vast horizon, overflowing with possibility, and talk about our future together.

Now I’m rapidly expunging every minuscule fiber of remaining hope from my hollow soul, like a jolly homeless savage evacuating his bowels in an empty mall food court, and the only visceral thrill I am capable of experiencing is slathering my dormant, freckled penis with cocoa butter in the shower. On the rare occasion that I bathe, that is.

After my candlelit dinner – unseasoned ramen, off-brand balogna, and half a jar of pickles, I built a giant heart out of stale Nilla Wafers. Then, overcome by the blistering totality of my lonely troll-like existence, I smashed it to bits with my fists till they turned raw. Momentarily pleased with myself, droplets of unfortunately-HIV-negative blood trickling out of my furry knuckles, I took an instagram of the smashed, bloodied Nilla crumbs, tossed a sparkly filter on it, then masturbated at the kitchen table, toggling between the wafer carnage instagram and a romantic photo of my ex-wife and her very strong, very black lover, Malik Jones, which I pilfered from her home after installing a key-logger on her computer when I retrieved the last remnants of the shattered life I built with her. A life that I was proud of, and treasured, despite my bouts with erectile dysfunction, and her perpetual, cutting disapproval of my floundering career path.

I have two visceral, recurring dreams every night. In the first, I’m being cuckolded by my wife, her black lover, and the 1992 “Dream Team”, except for Larry Bird, Chris Mullin, and Christian Laettner. Only the black players, and Chuck Daly blowing his whistle and scowling at me. And my wife’s wearing their gold medals as they run a ferocious Olympian train on her, while I cut up orange slices for them and watch in mystical, aroused horror.

In the second dream, I’m the third child I always hoped I’d have (I wanted another son because I never had a brother growing up), except I have been burdened with my own adult memories and pangs of immeasurable failure. And regular me, Dan Mackelstein, is the near-future version of my father, and I’m suddenly aware that everything which once seemed possible to me now was simply an illusion, though I’m not yet prepared to accept it. I’m fighting it, I have to fight it. And ash falls from the sky.

I run out to the mailbox, crying. Ash covers the grass like fresh snow, before long I know we’ll all be wading in it. There is death everywhere, everything dies and I know it. I’m just a little kid, but I know it. And my dad is divorced as shit. And I’m running to the mailbox, hoping I’ll find something there. I don’t know what, a letter? Some decree from a higher power? A mandate to bring my family back together? To stop my mom from giving her sex to that smooth-faced dark man who calls me ‘bro’?

I’m having trouble running, I keep losing my foothold in the ash. If I fall I fear I’ll sink, down, down. And I’m hopeful there’s something for me in the mailbox. And I’m hoping, I’m hoping… but there is also dread. And the ash keeps raining down.

I get to the mailbox and fling it open. I see me as my father, in a dirty robe, watching me in the doorway. I stick my hand in the mailbox. And it’s filled with ash. I wiggle my hand around, sifting through the ash, afraid it will suck me in. Then I feel something cold, small, jagged. I pull it out, yank my hand out of the mailbox, slam it shut. I blow the ash off the object in my hand, and cough. It’s my mom’s wedding ring.

I close my hand around the ring. I glance back to see the front door shut. Then I lay down in a thick pile of ash in the street and cry.

And then I wake up. Sometimes the order of the dream is reversed, and I wake up stuck to my pants, from the vicarious thrill of my cuckold Dreamscape.

This is my life, every night. And each morning, I pray for AIDS to overtake me.

And every afternoon, as I begin to feel the full weight of another vexatious day of existence crushing down on me, I slither into the bathroom and part my hairy back with a comb in the mirror, desperately hunting for malignant tumors. I combed it twice today. Still nothing. Once again, my wants and desires are callously dismissed. My hairline recedes like perpetual low tide. My testes reduce their output, my virility vacated en masse like American manufacturing jobs. But the bodily decay I long for, the comforting finality of a terminal disease, continues to elude me.

Somewhere inside me though, lies the faint heartbeat of an old romantic. I used to kiss my pillow as a boy, pretending I was married to girls in the neighborhood. One of them gave me a handjob the day the Challenger exploded. All good things die. My handy was an aberration, an isolated departure from perpetual celibacy, before my wife took extended pity on me. Now that pity, her pathetic mockery of my love, is gone, and I’m that lonely boy once again. No, worse, far worse. I am a lonely, destitute man with dial-up internet.

I called my daughter to wish her a happy Valentine’s Day. Actually, I called her 13 times. She never answers. I think she hates me. I hate me. On my final attempt, I left a sobbing message. This is par for the course. I can’t help but wonder how many guys she has already slept with. Disturbed by where my despicable mind has taken me, I decided to power through a box of wine. Drink until I can’t think thoughts, can’t feel feelings. Maybe I’ll die!

I failed to consume the entire box. Midway through my manic guzzling, I became enraged at the thought of Malik teaching my son how to shave, and drive, and cuckold an unsuspecting, impotent waste of human tissue. So I ripped the wine bladder out of the bag and chucked it against the wall. The resulting wall stain strongly resembles a hippopotamus devouring its child. This pleases me immensely. I am never painting over it, unless huffing enough paint will drop me into a blissful coma. And I don’t have health insurance, so my ex will be saddled with the bill, and the daunting task of deciding whether or not to pull the plug, as my children begin to feel a deep void from my absence and pressure her into bankruptcy just to keep me kinda-sorta alive. Yeah, that will show her! My children don’t want me to die. Or do they?

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Swallowed, Snorted, or Inserted, these taste like shit

I’m sitting here alone on Valentines Day while my so-called friends go on dates. Some with their putrid excuses for girlfriends. Not even thirty and already sagging from the bones like wet clothes on rusty hangers. The others, out with the promiscuous goblins found in the dark, desperate corners of Plenty of Fish and Zoosk. My only prayer for them is that they wrap it up. By all means drown your single sorrow in the bowels of a soul-less internet harlot, just don’t come home with more than you asked for. No one wants an overbearing dinner guest, especially one indefinitely strapped to your genitals.

Fuck Valentines Day. I don’t need your hot dates and Hallmark cards, flowers and chocolates, fake laughs and broken dreams. I have everything I need: I got a gift bag from my mother today. See guys, someone still loves me. Nevermind that she’s required to.

I threw away the card without even opening it. God knows what kind of sappy shit she wrote in there. I’m already 3/4 of the way through the candy too. The chocolates went down in less than a minute. I devoured those poor bastards like a menstruating 16 year old. The only thing left is the bag of Conversation Hearts. Everyone’s most beloved Valentines Day candy, even though they taste like Communion wafers sprinkled with altar boy jizz.

My stomach wrenches from the estimated pound of pure sugar coating my insides. After a few hesitant grabs at the little nuggets of lies, I decide to eat the whole bag. This is when the first hallucination kicks in. I am pretty sure these little fuckers are talking to me. I must eat them all and kill the voices before they convince me to do something I’ll regret. I can’t have those ridiculous phrases fermenting in the corner of my room. Those stupid two-word phrases. Conversations. How the fuck are they conversations?

“Yum Yum” – even the makers of these sugar bombs know they’re shit. They literally have to trick you into thinking they’re yummy. Reality check: they’re not.

Than one didn’t sit so well. I hear an unholy rumbling in my stomach, perhaps matriculated from my barking asshole, perhaps entirely imagined.

“My Treat” – sorry hunny, you’re not a treat. You’re just something I fuck until something better comes along. Or until we convince your sister and/or mother to join in.

I swear that one screamed when I bit into it. No worries. I can handle nightmarish auditory hallucinations. I’ve had them my whole life.

“Kiss Me” – the other side should read “please”. Do people even kiss anymore? I’m pretty sure that with the ubiquity of internet porn, the kissing fad has passed. “Anal?” is a more appropriate phrase for the RedTube generation, and really nails the Valentines Day spirit. It’s a day of celebrating your love for each other… and experimenting with the unholiest of holes.

Oh no. That one tasted like blood. Did I bite my tongue? No. It definitely bled when I cracked it in half. What is happening to me?

“LOL” – now that’s the ticket! “LOL” – it’s essentially a summation of my entire Valentines Day experience. I am a cosmic joke. The world is not laughing WITH me. It most certainly is laughing AT me.

I can’t find the strength to eat the final heart. The screaming and bleeding is all too much. But I must end it. In a fit of desperation, I crush the little laughing bastard with the butt of the knife that mysteriously ended up on the table next to me. A paltry mound of pink powder remains in its place. I roll up a dollar bill, the last dollar to my name, and snort the whole damn mound up in one hearty toot. I cringe as I curiously await its effect. Unfortunately, it’s got all the drip of cocaine with none of the reward. A poignant metaphor for a fake holiday celebrating hollow gestures and insidious deceit.

Happy Valentines Day, you fucking degenerates!

I am about to embark on a delectable dining experience of Viking proportions. In front of me, standing proud, is a week-old bucket of KFC fried chicken, extra crispy. Accompanying it on either side are twin bowls of KFC gravy, slightly gelatinized from their refrigerator-induced hibernation. The mashed potatoes and biscuits were unfortunately consumed on the commute home from KFC last week. No worries, there is likely a healthy proportion of their remains in my gullet that will serve as a base for the slop that is about to run down my throat, and consequently my already-clogged arteries. I have also made the questionable decision to warm up the freezer-burned chili corndogs that I did not finish over the weekend. They were disgusting when they were “fresh”, so I can only imagine how they will taste a few days later after being re-nuked for the second or third time. They will be adorned with a heavy crown of Chalula. Chalula fixes all.

On first fully-submerged dunk in the pool of warm gravy, my fingers tremble in anticipation. My penis begins to stand at attention, curious what my mighty tendrils have penetrated. Once the signals from my brain languidly reach my member, it does not appear disappointed by its discovery. If I knew any better, I would assume that my penis has intentions that my sober mind will not allow. (Genital note to self: store this information for when master is too drunk to resist. Also: stop fucking Becky.) I bring the gleaming, now juicy, fried hunk of genetically-altered chicken to my mouth. The smell is pungent, like an early morning battlefield after a night of slaughter, the bodies lifeless yet still steaming. I bite with determination and the greases and gravy give me a moneyshot that would make Sasha Grey proud. I earnestly lick at my facial hair, attempting to get every last salty drop.

I am reminded of the chili corndogs haphazardly placed in the bucket next to the chicken, standing at attention like a Louis CK joke. Their chalula bath has no doubt readied them for insertion. In what probably looks like the most homoerotic smorgasbord this side of Rice-a-Roni, I deepthroat about three quarters of chalula-soaked, cornmeal-coated, chili-battered, all-American goodness. Once my teeth reach the wooden shaft skewered beneath this Spartan weiner, my lips apply the pressure needed to release it from its chokehold. I don’t even need to chew. It melts in my mouth in a spicy stream of meat and grease and saliva. To wash it all down: a big gulp of KFC gravy right from the bowl. I feel like my innards have become a congealed River Styx.

And now, eyes heavy from the inevitable food coma, I am forcing myself to chug a bottle of Pepto. God knows my body is going to reject this unholy offering sooner than later. Until then, we wait. Time to dream of Sasha “Mashed Potatoes” Grey…

For the enlightened 97% of us who have shed our asinine “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” Dr. Seuss positivity pipe dreams and embraced the repugnant totality of our shared lack of humanity, the dawn of a New Year represents a re-birth of our sheer capacity for misery, and dumps fresh dirt over the vast unmarked grave of our collective idealism.

This year will not be better than the last.  The pre-destined revolution of the Earth around the Sun has absolutely nothing to do with your pithy individual success or happiness in life, or lack thereof.  Oh, your year sucked?  No.  You suck.  And you will continue to suck, and diminish the lives of those around you through simple osmosis, until you stop casting blame for your pathetic existence on outside forces.  Other people, the economy, moon cycles, genital warts.  Wake up, losers.  It’s you.

Whatever dark, recidivist force dragged you down here with us in the dank, literary basement of the internet, fucking run with it.  You need this.  You need to comprehend the magnitute of this opportunity, the pure, virginal 2013 begging to be annihilated by your merciless majesty, before you panic and slither your repulsive body to the gym with all the other New Year’s mongoloids for exactly 2 weeks, never to return.

You will make resolutions, yes.  But you’re going to do it our way.  And you’re gonna fucking love it.

To properly guide you feckless scabs on Society’s festering taint through the self-reflective process of formulating your resolutions, we here at Degenerate Nation have provided you with a Degenerate Resolutions Starter Kit:

DEGENERATE RESOLUTIONS

-  Continue to avoid reality. At all costs.  Watch as many TV marathons, pornography, and re-runs of “Family Matters” as you possibly can.  Troll the internet and diminish others from behind your precious curtain of supposed anonymity.  Read an unhealthy amount of dystopian literature.  Join 47 concurrent fantasy football leagues.  Become a Doomsday prepper.  The deeper you dig into Pretend, the less pathetic your actual life is.  Holla!

-  End a marriage – either through banging, or indirect social manipulation.

-  Become a bookie.

-  Try to purchase organs online.

-  Tear a ligament while masturbating.

-  Develop a fierce drug habit for which there is no pre-existing treatment center.

-  Contact a factory in China. Make a mold of your genitals.  Guys, sell your personalized dildo online as “The Womb Destroyer”.  Ladies, your simulated hoo-ha shall be purchased en masse as “The Precious”.

-  Start a fake charity and launch a 5K event through Kickstarter.  Pocket all funds.  Repeat.

-  Seduce a carnival freak.

-  Begin an intense romantic correspondence with a prison inmate, due to be parolled, on behalf of your worst enemy.  This can apply to an enemy of either gender, and involve a M-M, M-F, or F-F relationship.  This will work best if your enemy is in a committed long-term relationship, preferably a marriage, with children.

Conduct this fradulent correspondence as follows:

-  Get a P.O. Box in your enemy’s name.

-  Send several letters out to various prisoners, with the pre-requisite that they have been incarcerated for abhorrently violent crimes, preferably grisly murders.

-  Gauge the responses for maximum emotional impact and disturbing sexual potential.

-  Choose one prisoner to passionately correspond with.  Pepper your letters with raw emotional depth, explicit sexual yearnings, and intimate details about your enemy’s current existence within the constraints of their stifling commited relationship they wish to break away from and into the arms of their murderous pen pal.

-  In addition to the supporting details about your enemy’s life, be sure to include photos, printed off their Facebook page.  Take naked photos of yourself or a willing accomplice, to supplement the photographic evidence of your enemy’s fabricated lust for convict loins.

-  As the time of this prisoner’s parole approaches, switch from your P.O. Box to your enemy’s actual address.  You will need to step up your game and intersect the mail daily to snag the letters and preserve the illusion until you are ready to remove yourself from the process and let nature take its course as the hour of the parole hearing approaches.

-  With skillful execution and a little luck, your enemy’s relationship will be left in shambles, and their crumbling life thrown into peril!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, scumbags!  May you all have the Best Worst Year Ever.

Got a Degenerate Resolution of your own?  Tweet us:  @DegenerateShow.   Leave a comment.  Or, simply e-mail us at:  DegenerateNationShow@gmail.com.

Hey, White Girl. Don’t be a Carlton. Drug your parents!

Man, parents just don’t understand.

And that’s why, sometimes, you know, you just have to drug them so you can use the internet.  B’YAH!!!

Two teenage girls in Placer County, California, subverted the very concept of teenage rebellion by allegedly drugging one of the girl’s parents’ milkshakes with sleeping pills, just to stay in and dick around on the internet.   Granted, they were probably logging on for Skype threesomes with 47 year old bus drivers from Oregon, finding a local Sacramento area orgy on Craig’s List, selling foot fetish pictures via a sub-Reddit, or purchasing copious amounts of guns with one of the unconscious parents’ credit cards.

You don’t drug Mom and Dad and break your completely sensible 10 PM internet curfew to Google wholesome topics like “”Youth Service Organization” & “Volunteer”", or “Preparing for your SATs through the Power of Prayer”.  No, you pound 3 Red Bulls, stalk your Algebra II Teacher who is trying to fuck one or both of you’s Facebook page, find out both of your families owned slaves via Ancestry.com, then follow what you think is an official “Beliebers” Justin Bieber Fan Club Twitter account that instead hacks into your computer and delivers your personal information to an underground Romanian sex trafficking cartel.

And no night of drugging those responsible for conceiving you and raising you from helpless infant to seething sociopath would be complete without free-basing Cool Whip and hair gel using leftover paper Christmas plates with adorable reindeer on them, and visiting our fledgling web site with approximately zero redemptive social value.  Our trusted source, a non-existent, yet wondrously multi-orgasmic street urchin in downtown Sac-Town, has confirmed that their IP address was logged onto Degenerate Nation at 12:27 AM Pacific time the night of the drugging.  Free publicity, baby!  How many web site views do you need to move out of your parents house at 30?  Click.  Click.  Click.

How poorly constructed does your moral code have to be to let your friend drug your parents?  It’s understandable to feel like you’re missing something by not being out on a weekend night, to experience the simultaneous growth and decay that your tumultuous adolescent years may provide.  Keg parties, late night diners, cruising around your home town with a few shots worth of booze siphoned from your parents’ liquor cabinet and transferred into a Dasani bottle.  There is intrinsic value in these teenage rituals.  But what are you really missing by not using the internet for a few hours?  Fucking LIFE.

Is this what we’ve become?  A crumbling society, bookended by economy killing, perpetually divorced Baby Boomers on one end and entitled, maladjusted, emotionally malnourished young monsters on the other?  Why do people have children?  Why bring more vacant souls into a world that values the immediacy of its technological spoils over its fading humanity?  Because it feels better without a condom (TRUTH) and… oops?! Because babies are cute?  Because parenting can imbue us with a sense of purpose? Marching orders to remain a productive citizen, pay your taxes, manage your spawn until it too can spawn and perpetuate the tradition of spawning and spawning and spawning. The supposedly miraculous journey of sperm rocketing toward egg.  The necessity of births outnumbering deaths.  Don’t rent, buy!  Procreate!  BUILD.   Toward.. what?

Babies become people.  And people are assholes.

Honor Thy Father and Mother has devolved into Honor Thy Google and Apple.

Siri, what is love?

Siri, where is God?

Siri, find Heroin McFlurry!

http://www.sacbee.com/2013/01/03/5088896/shakes-were-spiked-cops-say.html

Any hole will do.

Benjamin Greene, 22, suffers from a common hetero male affliction.  He wants to bang Miley Cyrus, and achieve true cocksman immortality.  But unlike the floundering majority of his peers, Benjamin Greene actually lived his wet dream.  Well, almost.

Benjamin allegedly tried to smuggle a “Finally Mylie” inflatable sex doll out of a Spencer’s Gifts store in Spartanburg, South Carolina.  Was he trying to symbolically liberate the flesh-and-blood Mylie Cyrus from the hordes of overzealous paparazzi, the When-Does-She-Turn-18 Countdown Clock perverts who stayed on the bandwagon, clamoring for the inevitable sex tape with her father, and the hypocritical mommy brigade that thinks that just because she played the squeaky clean Hannah Montana, that Mylie Cyrus, human being, shouldn’t like to drink and fuck her way through superstardom?  Was Benjamin overcome by the shame of resorting to fucking a cheap, synthetic incarnation of a former child star instead of a real, live girl capable of granting him physical and emotional love?  Or is he just another podunk shoplifter who also happens to enjoy fucking sheaths of inflatable plastic that vaguely resemble human celebrities?

The world may never know.  Aside from a brisk Google search by the Human Resources Director of the mall he swiped the sex doll from when he eventually applies to work there as a rent-a-cop, Benjamin Greene’s act of sexual valor will fade into obscurity.  And so, let us honor this thieving, plastic hole-stuffing savant’s bold actions serve as a barometer for our own degeneracy.

If you’re not willing to steal and fuck a lifeless, synthetic avatar of your dream girl,  you don’t deserve love.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/buster/miley-cyrus-love-doll-theft-867243

Why Costco Requires Memberships

Who’s the best whore in town?  Jeremy Fucking Owens, that’s who.  And don’t you god damn forget it.

Transsexual maniac Jeremy Owens, 23, cemented his unchallenged whoredom in a titillating display before his Lackawanna County, Pennsylvania peers when he allegedly popped his breast implants out in a crowded Walmart and boldly proclaimed “I’m the best whore in town!”

True whores know how to draw a vast, captive audience for their deplorable, degenerate slut behavior.  And Jeremy, who prefers to go by his tranny stage name,”Jamie”, shrewdly selected Walmart, America’s go-to amphitheater for human trash performance art, as an arena for his drug and madness-fueled need to show bargain-hunting strangers his bolt-on titties.

Envision yourself as a typical Walmart customer, relying on the momentum generated by the overworked wheels of your shopping cart to propel your fat, amorphous body through the economic and cultural epicenter of your town, vehemently scratching your exposed FUPA as you innocently shop for mayonnaise, guns, and jean jackets, when along comes a screaming tranny and self-proclaimed whore savant, unleashing his triumphant man-mammaries.  What do you do, yokel?  How do you un-see what you’ve seen?  Have you finally, in your fleeting moment of victimization, acquired a baseline understanding of what the general public must feel as it is forced to stare directly into the haunting, libido-murdering vortex of your unholy FUPA, your fleshy eye of Sauron?

Who will save you now?  Who will make you whole again?!  You can roll back prices, but you can’t roll back your innocence once it’s been shattered by a rogue tranny.  Trust me.

After Jeremy Owens fled Walmart by bus, police officers forcibly removed the rebellious He-She from the bus, no doubt saving dozens of bus passengers from the spiritually scarring experience of witnessing his auto-erotic tranny sex acts, attempted fellatio on the bus driver, or perhaps helplessly watching him strip naked and chew through the seats while growling in a monotone like a goblin from ”Doom”.

Our tranny hero didn’t take to kindly to captivity, allegedly banging his head against the window while being transported in a police cruiser, cutting his forehead intentionally so that he could spit blood at his arresting officers.  Oh, such feral ingenuity!  You have to appreciate a man who can think on his feet, even if that man is a burgeoning berserker who flashes his surgically-rendered tits in discount superstores and spits his own possibly-infected blood at those sworn to protect us.

But given a choice between your average small-time miscreant, and a wild, zooted-up tranny parasite who looks like he could be the little brother of Buffalo Bill from “Silence of the Lambs”, give me the tranny parasite every time.  This is America, damn it.  We deserve excellence.  And Walmart.  And tranny tits in our faces, day in, day out.

Jamie, sweet Jamie, you’re a star.

We alone understand who you are.

Man or lady, let’s get crazy.

Only time itself can incarcerate our tender tranny baby

He or she?

But free.

Twisted and transformed

the Monster evolves

RAAARRRRRR!

Psychosis.  Rage.  Beauty?

At war with genitals

Turn dick inward, turn soul outward?

Want love, need drugs

What have you become?

Man of faith, woman of science.

Show us your tits, bro.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/buster/man-exposes-breasts-at-walmart-365419

FUCK SCHOOL!!!

“I AIN’T COME TO PLAY SCHOOL!” – Cardale Jones – scrub quarterback, THE Ohio State University.   – [@Cordale10 ]

Cardale Jones is more than an athlete, more than an exquisite, pampered meathead.  He is more than a dazzling physical specimen with NFL dreams… and an Arby’s night shift future.  Cardale Jones is a hero.

The latest ignorant, inadvertent mouthpiece for a doomed generation spreading their stupidity through the unforgiving, assiduous frontier of social media, Cardale Jones has stumbled on a tenet of undeniable truth.  The concept of “Student Athlete”, in high-profile, Division 1 college football and basketball, is an antiquated crock of shit.

College football and basketball players, i.e. the major revenue sports which help pay for your quadriplegic water polo and transgendered badminton teams, should have an alternative to “playing school”.

It’s time we give these obvious geniuses a choice.  Option 1:  maintain the status quo, where you can get 4+ years of free higher education while you play your sport, so you at least have a prayer of a chance at succeeding after your athletic pipe dream ends.  And if you don’t take full advantage of it and graduate, you wake up 5 years later, and find yourself working part-time at Foot Locker, blowing half your paycheck on protein shakes, [gotta get CUT, gotta work on your 40 time at your old high school, only 10 months to the combine/tryouts/reality show!], telling teenage customers who have never heard of you that you’re “gonna make the league.”

Naw, bro.  You’re going to get teased with the promise of becoming full time at Foot Locker, maybe even assistant manager, slugger, ‘cuz you can thread laces through those miniscule holes with the unwavering precision of an Indonesian pre-teen.  But then the store mysteriously closes and gets replaced by a Panera. And ‘The League’ is never calling.  Should have gone to college, bro.  Oh wait, you did.  Sort of.

Option 2:  Give these athletic outliers a choice.  Either take the scholarship as is, and go to class like us peasants, or waive your enviable, opportunity for a free education entirely, and get paid a stipend, adding up to around 2/3 of the average public university’s in-state tuition, per season.  Option 1, status quo.  Option 2, these non-students aren’t forced into a classroom, because, as Cardale Jones so eloquently explained, YOU AIN’T COME TO PLAY SCHOOL.

Freed of their oppressive educational obligations to their rigorous sociology, criminal justice, and “interdisciplinary humanities” degree programs, they could use their football/basketball wages for whatever they see fit.  A small sliver of them may see the error in their ways, and eventually use it to  attend community college after realizing they were, in fact, more Cardale Jones than Aaron Rodgers.

Most of them would blow it on cars, tattoos, and weed, but fuck ‘em.  At least we wouldn’t have to pretend as a society to care about their education.  If these modern day gladiators don’t care about their futures, why should we?  This is America, where we all have just enough freedom, just enough rope, to hang ourselves with.

Cardale’s brutally, blissfully honest tweet should be the origin point for a college sports devolution.  Most fans of programs like Ohio State don’t give a shit about graduation rates, or how their players’ lives turn out after they’re done scoring touchdowns (paging Maurice Clarett!).  They just care about getting drunk and dangling a string of nuts around their neck, while rented mules validate their otherwise-pathetic existence in the bowels of Ohio.  Their like-minded hooligan brethren in Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, etc are no better.  Most of these slack-jawed boners never attended, nor will ever attend, college at the institutions they clog their livers and arteries, poison rival trees, and teabag passed-out strangers for every fall Saturday.  They ain’t come to play school, neither.

In today’s lucrative, cutthroat world of college football and basketball, the education of our student-athlete-mules is a distant afterthought, a hurdle to jump on the way to BCS games, Final Fours, and fat TV contracts.  Gus Johnson isn’t lending his multi-orgasmic voice to your pithy graduation.  Fuck school, give us touchdowns and alley-oops.

WE AIN’T COME TO PLAY SCHOOL.

So why not stop renting these mules, and start paying them?

Kurt Vonnegut, master satirist, foresaw such a development in athletics in his first novel, “Player Piano”, in which Cornell is among a myriad of universities paying players, separate from the student body, to satisfy alumni and boosters demanding a winning team.  That Vonnegut managed to squeeze in a minor tangent portraying a cynical (yet increasingly necessary) collegiate sports future into ”Player Piano”, a strikingly prescient, blistering tome on the dehumanizing effects of automating the workforce, is a testament to Vonnegut’s eternal genius.  If Cardale Jones could read, he would draw the same righteous conclusion we have on this literary mastermind, and sell his Buckeyes jersey to pay for a tattoo of Vonnegut’s infamous asshole drawing:

Cardale Jones’ tramp stamp

Instead, Cardale is that drawing, come to life and shitting out tweets renouncing higher education, all while rotting on the bench behind Braxton Miller (a possible Heisman candidate, as a sophomore).  You ain’t come to play football, Cardale.  You came to watch football.

We may someday see NCAA football and basketball, the major revenue producers in college sports, reformed, with its athletes gaining a small piece of the pie they’ve baked with their own sweat, broken bones, and oft-concussed, free school-shirking brains.  But that day ain’t coming in your tenure, Cardale.  So, yeah… might want to open a book, bro.  Your rocket arm and steady stream of young Buckeye booty have a rapidly-approaching expiration date.  But stupid is forever.

http://espn.go.com/college-football/story/_/id/8466428/ohio-state-buckeyes-cardale-jones-tweets-classes-pointless

You better Redneckognize how fucked our country is!

Media-produced zombies are devouring the feeble, flickering brains of our people. And with every putrid pile of head meat they gobble up, our nascent societal overlords suck all remaining hope and promise from the collective minds of the young and impressionable.

The Machine is perpetually cranked up to 11, feeding on idiocy and pumping out garbage. Our mouths are wrapped tight around the shaft of excess, deep-throating its illiterate ejaculate, and begging for more.

Our shining stars, our seminal artists, sports heroes and public figures, used to inspire us with their creativity, leadership, or outlying talent. But these esteemed figureheads are all dead or retired, and multiple generations of young people are now forced to drink from a trough of cultural piss, completely ignorant to how things might have been, were there lives not utterly void of any semblance of legitimate creative inspiration.

Our youth flock to sinister bastions of an empty culture in droves, soaking up their retarded essence, YOLO-ing and hash-tagging their way toward a steadily sinking Lowest Common Denomintator.

And who has a prayer of slowing the further erosion of America’s festering culture?  Their parents? Please. The self-involved Baby Boomers and neglected, damaged Gen-Xers responsible for creating these vapid young mutants are too busy tossing dirt on Facebook’s grave one mundanely narcissistic status update at a time (cementing the tenet that all original or creative thought is drained out of the human experience by age 27, and no wonder anyone of merit fucking overdoses by then), to accept blame for their mouth-breathing spawn’s low-minded cultural pursuits.

To whom do our youth turn to warp their shallow minds and fill their vacant souls, in absence of true leadership and inspiration?

• Musicians – all sold out, fake-titted-up and auto-tuned into homogenous, pseudo-musical charlatans, spewing vomit upon the masses, slaves to that almighty dollar.

• Movie Stars – rotting beneath the constant flash and believing their own hype, as the generic screenplays whose trite, clunky dialogue they puppet become increasingly indistinguishable from all other garbage masquerading as commercial art. Remakes of a remake of a remake. But we’re still watching, opening up and swallowing. Put it in 3D with a comic book tie-in and we’ll gobble up $17 popcorn as we watch a superhero shit on another superhero’s chest for 2 hours, and demand a sequel.

• Reality TV “Stars” – these artistically and intellectually impotent attention whores might as well bear the mark of the beast emblazoned to their nipped-and-tucked foreheads. A cavalcade of mouth-breathing simpletons drinking and drugging and sucking and fucking, unfortunately revived from their constant overdoses by money-grubbing producers who need to keep them alive for Season 13.

• Authors – undereducated, over-celebrated perpetuators of poor grammar and vacuous smut. We are spiraling downward, face first into the limp twilight of narrative. Any fat chick with a laptop and a 6th grade reading level can pen a trilogy for undersexed, intellectually passive white women, and get rich off the deteriorating literary standards of a dying society.

• Athletes – genetically engineered intake valves for the next barely-legal super drugs.  Hedonisitc action figures, all sperm and rage and vertical leaps. Carelessly impregnating, OJ Simpson-ing, and vehicular-manslaughtering the common man while we wear their names on our jerseys and scream for more.

• Models – beautiful, but in a hollow, clinical way. Interchangeable play-toys for the aforementioned uber-athletic wastes of human organs. Lithe, flighty socialites with poison wombs and vacant eyes without a speckle of intellectual curiosity or deep emotion behind them. Walking, pouting petri dishes. Empty vessels.

Let’s summarily execute our decaying Society’s so-called “role models”. Line them all up outside every hospital in every city. Put a bullet in their heads and immediately put those organs on ice. Start crossing off names on the donor lists.

Fuck your Chris Browns, battering women and being rewarded with limelight, awards, goddamned Doublemint gum commercials, and giant truckloads of cash, while teaching our sons that respect for women is a complete joke.

Fuck your Paris Hiltons and Kim Kardashians, showing pussy for fame, fucking their way to the top, and teaching our daughters that real sex on camera makes you famous.

Fuck your Twilights and your poorly written, cliched stories of sparkly melodramatic hyperbole and bloody teen sex.

Fuck your Fifty Shades of Grey, abominable S&M “mommy porn” passing as literature.

Fuck your Mark McGwires and Barry Bonds’, smashing the records of legitimate legends, thanks to steroids, and teaching our sons that winning is more important than integrity.

Fuck your Kate Mosses, snorting the world up their noses and teaching our daughters that you have to be skinny to be loved, pretty to get ahead, and a trend-setting coke-head to be popular.

Fuck your Jersey Shore guidos and your Real Housewives of Insert City Here and everything they stand for, giving regular people the excuse to act like a cunt for a paycheck.  You know, minus the payheck.

Fuck your pageant moms sexualizing their Toddlers in Tiaras, preparing these little prematurely glitter-bombed future fuck-ups for a life of dark, depressing disenchantment, and more than likely early death.

Fuck your so-called American “idols”, antagonized and mocked publicly on stage like circus freaks.

Fuck your Bachelors and Bachelorettes looking for love (fame) amongst a bunch of producer-picked douche-clones.

Fuck your Makeovers and the self-righteous narcissistic assholes who think they’re so much better than everyone else, proselytizing a completely shallow worldview perpetuated by every goddamn television commercial and supermarket magazine. If it’s illegal for athletes to use performance enhancing drugs, it should be illegal for these so-called models of narrow-minded beauty to use photoshop – the magic wand of the fashion photographer.

Fuck your Celebrity Rehabs making addiction a semi-glamorous joke.

Fuck your selfish overprivileged Teen Moms, the lesson lost on them because they hit the white trash lottery and got a reality show. And fuck MTV for enabling a nation of tweens who think it’s OK to be a whore, get pregnant, and act like the world owes them something besides shame and scorn.

This is truly a nation of degenerates. And its youth, once a symbol of vitality, and the promise of inevitable progress ingrained into each new generation, now merely stands as a collective endorsement of the Morning After Pill.

Jesus came back, saw what we’ve become, turned the fuck around, and never looked back.

Their will be no salvation. The road to enlightenment is at the bottom of a bottle, at the end of a needle, and in the dirty hole of a washed up celebutante.

Fuck it. Let’s get famous.