How To Tame A Woman

Women are like dogs.

This is not meant in any derogatory sense whatsoever (dogs are great!), it just means that just as there are no bad dogs, only bad dog owners, there are no bad women either, just bad husbands who don’t have a clue how to treat a woman.

To have a happy dog, you need to spend some serious quality time with it. You need to enjoy doing things with it, and to show it lots of affection. You also need to truly appreciate its willingness to assist you in all the ways it is capable of. If you aren’t all that interested in dogs and don’t really enjoy the company of a dog and don’t even have any use for a dog’s assistance, why would you even get one in the first place? It will only make the dog feel unfulfilled and miserable, and a miserable dog will soon do its best to make your life miserable too!

Replace the word “dog” with “woman” in the last paragraph, and realize every word still holds perfectly true.

Some men think a woman can be treated like a TV. They believe they can turn her on in an instant when they wish to utilize her entertainment functionality, and expect her to stay off and out of the way when they have other things to do.

Sorry lads, dogs don’t work that way, and neither do women.

If you get a dog because you think it would be nice to have someone who is happy to see you when you come home, but don’t otherwise care one whit about it, then you’ll only end up with a miserable and frankly quite useless dog that is not even happy to see you, because it has no fucking reason to be!

Meanwhile, a happy dog who has a fulfilling relationship with Master will sense telepathically when Master leaves work and instantly gets ready for His imminent return. The dog gets visibly excited, because the most important event of the day is at hand – Master is coming home!! Ho boy!!!

Once again, all of this applies equally to women. She has no tail to wag, but a truly happy and fulfilled woman will always greet her Master with a lovely smile and a sammich, which is even better.

So, how do you get yourself one of those happy and fulfilled women?

Most men think there must be something wrong with the one they currently have, she must be malfunctioning or something, because she doesn’t perform as expected. They started out with an adorable specimen who looked upon him with moist eyes, but now she has turned into an evil nagging frigid bitch for some reason. It must be time to return that cold fish to the ocean, right?

WRONG! Nothing could be further from the truth! Your current woman is working precisely as nature intended, it is YOU who are not working correctly! It is YOU who turned an adorable creature into a shrew by not reading the fucking manual! If you fix YOURSELF and change YOUR OWN BEHAVIOR, your woman will start functioning correctly again, automatically! The fault lies 100 % with YOU, and so does the responsibility for fixing it!

Men have power.

You are a man, and the root cause of all your relationship problems, is that you have no fucking clue just how much power you truly have over a woman. This is because men are stronger than women. Not just physically, but mentally and spiritually as well.

This does not mean you are necessarily any smarter than her, or wiser, or more adept at anything. It just means that you are firm and unwavering in your spiritual essence, whereas she is soft and pliable in hers. You therefore have the power to mold her into any shape you desire, and she will easily bend to accommodate your every whim.

So, what happens when an unstoppable force made of fierce willpower (a man) meets a fluffy cloud made of selfless love (a woman)? Why of course, the unstoppable force tears right through the fluffy cloud without him even noticing any resistance! She on the other hand, is deeply affected by the encounter. Her whole existence is thrown into turmoil!

There is nothing she can do against such overwhelming power as yours, and if she is not enjoying the shape you are molding her into, she has but one recourse – to physically remove herself from your circle of influence.

And that’s why the majority of divorces are initiated by women. Not because “too much feminism has poisoned their minds”, but because their men have all but destroyed them (usually just out of simpleminded carelessness), and they are forced to use the only defence they have – escape.

Are you beginning to understand the sheer depth of RESPONSIBILITY that weighs on your shoulders for holding such immense and terrifying power over another being?

Every word that falls from a man’s lips is to a woman as the word of God himself would be to you! She may disagree with you completely, but she cannot undo the sheer power of will with which your opinion is delivered, and thus she will remold herself around it, even when she hates doing so. If you tell her to dance, she will dance, but if she really didn’t want to, she’ll soon hate herself for it. She won’t hate you, she will hate herself, because you are recreating her and molding her into a shape she doesn’t want to be in. No-one likes being what they do not wish to be, but you are doing just that to her, over and over.

And that is what eventually turns her into an evil nagging frigid bitch!

Men are normally blissfully unaware of the powerful disruptive influence they can have on a woman, at least until it reaches the point where she is no longer capable of having sex with him. She just can’t. Then he at last notices something is wrong, even though he usually has no clue what.

I’ll tell you a little story to hammer home the point:

I recently talked to a little old lady, and happened to mention I was building an aquarium. This made her see blood red, and she went into a frenzy like she was a devout Christian and I just announced I was really into putting my penis in other men’s assholes. The whole idea of aquariums was obviously as deeply wrong and sinful to her as if God himself had declared them to be of Satan, that much was clear.

So I took on my therapeutic hat and talked her through her emotions on the matter. Eventually we reached the core of it, the root cause of her deep aversion towards aquariums.

As it turned out, she had wanted an aquarium herself many years ago, but her late husband had disapproved of the idea. I nudged her to penetrate deeper, and had her remember the exact moment as it happened.

They were having breakfast, and she had suggested that it would look nice to have an aquarium in the living room.

He said nothing in reply, and looked out the window.

That was all of it.

He never expressed an opinion on aquariums whatsoever, and quite frankly I’m not sure he was even listening. He was probably lost in his own thoughts, she said something blah blah blah, and he looked out the window to avoid being disturbed.

But to her mind, the all-powerful Master of her heart and soul had just shown the utter contempt he held for aquariums.

What can a woman do at that point? Well, she can decide, this is it, I will NOT change my opinion on aquariums! And then she can take out a divorce over it. Or, she can do what a woman always does until she can bear it no longer, remold herself around her husband’s will and change her opinion until it fits with his. She did the latter, and reprogrammed herself to hate aquariums for the rest of her life. That way, she saved the relationship, but at a terrible cost to her own sense of self.

Women do this kind of thing all the time!

Every time a careless word falls off your lips, every time she spots a frown on your brow, every time you curve the corner of your mouth. Every single time, she draws some kind of conclusion what that was all about, and remolds herself around what she perceives to be your will. It sounds completely insane from a man’s perspective, but she is a woman, and you did want one of those, didn’t you?

Then learn to deal with it!

You do this by taking extreme caution with what you say and how you react around a woman. Correction: she can see through all your clumsy attempts at pretending, so you better take extreme caution with what you actually feel around a woman, because she will always notice your true feelings (if not necessarily the true cause of them).

The husband to the old lady I just talked of did feel uncomfortable and disturbed by her suggestion to get an aquarium, probably just because he was attempting to have some solitude and drink his morning coffee in peace, but he reacted negatively nonetheless, and she picked up on it instantly. Women always do.

You cannot react negatively to a woman without horrendously bad consequences, not even in the subtlest way imaginable. Your opinion is a huge deal to them!

You have to realize that women are emotionally vulnerable beings that need protection, and there is no greater danger in your woman’s life to protect her from than YOU. No-one else can hurt her as badly, because you are the guardian of her heart. So you must be very careful with how you treat her. Be her Hero, by holding your own inner villain at bay at all times.

The short of this lesson:

There are three phases in an unenlightened man’s married life:

1. Everything seems to be just fine

2. She suddenly refuses to have sex anymore. WTF?

3. Divorce

The relationship can still be saved and transformed into divine perfection, even years into phase 2, if you start doing things right.

Women want to be used.

This is one of those things men have great difficulty understanding about women, because it is so alien to their own perspective on life. But the thing is, women really do want to be of use to others. They crave the opportunity to serve. It is as if there is a hole in them that needs to be filled, and YOU fill that hole whenever you find them useful or pleasing. The greatest gift you can ever give to a woman is validation of her existence, it’s as if you possess the power to give a woman a deep sense of purpose she cannot easily attain on her own. Your validation strengthens her sense of self, and she’ll love you to bits for it.

That’s why a happy wife does so much for her husband and children and expects so little in return. It is never about striving for equality in the sense of a “balanced equation” for her (as it would probably be for you), it is about her feeling fulfilled in her role. If she is fulfilled in her role and feels appreciated for her service and feels deeply loved and respected as a wife and mother, then the “equality balance sheet” can be waaay out of whack, and she’ll never even notice!

So what if her husband is a fat jobless slob and she has to support him by working full time, and then come home and cook and clean the house for him to boot? A woman does not mind such things, AS LONG AS SHE IS FEELING FULFILLED!

This feeling of fulfillment stems from her being seen and appreciated. The amount of work she has to perform has nothing to do with it, the only limit to a woman’s capacity in that regard is the number of hours in a day.

Unhappy women may often complain about a lack of equality in their relationship, but that is simply because they are unhappy and do not feel appreciated, it has NOTHING to do with keeping track of who provided what service to whom, and in return for what!

Women simply do not keep score of such matters! They only keep score of how things make them feel, and fiercely so for that matter. But if their life feels good to them, then it is good, end of story.

Let your wife “slave” away for you if you want to, but never ever look away in shame over your own lack of contribution. Meet her eyes, not ashamed for yourself, but proud of her! Watch her work and admire her openly for her fortitude and skill and creativity! You can certainly offer a lending hand from time to time, it will be appreciated, but it is actually optional.

It’s very important for you as a man to realize this, because the worst thing you can ever do to fix your ailing relationship, is to attempt to do whatever she says you should do. She has no idea what she wants, she is a woman!

If she knew what she wanted, she’d be a man!

When your woman is nagging about you never doing the dishes, then you can do as much dishes as you like, it won’t change squat. She’ll probably just nag twice as hard about the laundry. This is because the words “you never do the dishes” might sound in a man’s mind like “you have to do your share of the dishes”, but it really doesn’t mean that at all. Instead it means “you don’t appreciate me! I’m working my ass off for you, and you don’t notice! Waaaaah!! You don’t love me any more!”

It’s your lack of noticing that is the problem here, not the lack of fairness in an objective sense. If you start doing the dishes half of the time instead of fixing the real problem, then you will likely show even less interest in what she is doing for you, because you think “you’re even” now, so she has no right to complain!

Male thinking…

What does she care about being even? She cares about serving you, and being appreciated for it!

Appreciate your woman when she is doing the dishes, and she will not mind doing them, whether you do your part around the house or not. What you do or don’t do has NO relevance whatsoever to the issue of her happiness, no matter what she says!

In fact, it’s useful to NEVER take what a woman says at face value. She is expressing her feelings, that is all. If you approach everything she says from the perspective of trying to understand and validate her feelings, more or less ignoring the usually misleading surface content, then your marriage success probability just leaped 10,000 %!

Men often think “to serve” means to be a slave, but that is a very distorted perspective. It is a very male perspective on a very female virtue, to be exact. The female perspective is different, because while you as a man are largely lost inside your own inner Universe, and mostly annoyed when you are forced out of it to connect with others, a woman is always deeply connected to everyone and everything around her.

It is not wrong for you to be cut off and isolated in your own mind as you are, that’s the way you have to be to fulfill your purpose and be a man.

But a woman is always part of everything around her in a way you can scarcely fathom, and you need to understand this.

To a woman, the phrase “to serve” really means “to be a part of all that IS and know and live your purpose”. She is always acutely aware of being part of all that is, but she is not necessarily aware of her purpose, unless a purpose is given to her. She has a hard time making out her own thoughts and emotions from those of her surroundings, and that makes life confusing.

The consequences of this intimate female interconnectedness with the Universe are twofold:

1. A woman has access to deep innate wisdom, and has an inherent potential of effortless artistic self-expression and creativity you could never dream of matching. Don’t even attempt to compete with her, allow her to use these wonderful gifts to serve you instead!

2. She is like a ship without a captain, she is severely lacking in the ability to steer her own course, so she needs YOU to fulfill that role. A ship without a captain isn’t sailing anywhere, and a ship that isn’t sailing anywhere is not feeling fulfilled, because it knows it was built for the high seas.

You want your woman to be beautiful and talented, and your woman definitely wants to be beautiful and talented too, so why not make cunning use of your innate power over her to make both your wishes come true? Remember, she is already constantly remolding herself to your demands as she sees them (by interpreting all the signals you give off whether you know it or not). This is already happening, and you can’t change it, so why not take conscious control over the process and send out signals that are actually conducive to some desired goal?

Why not, indeed!

Realize that there is practically NOTHING a woman will not do to please her man, once he has communicated his desire effectively. Some men are naturally skilled in this, and some of them take so much selfish advantage of it it’s frankly heartbreaking to see. Just think about what hoes will do for their pimp…

But male power is not intrinsically evil, you can use your power over your woman for good if you so choose!

You see, you have already torn down your woman over the years by not being sufficiently aware of how you affect her. I’m only suggesting that you reverse this process and start building her up again. It is easier than you think, precisely because a woman will do anything for her man. Think about it: If a hoe can pick up Johns every day to keep her pimp living in style, then – by God! – your woman can become pretty and start feeling good about herself again for you! Never doubt your woman’s ability to accomplish anything you set her out to do!

Now, let’s make her pretty again!

I assume your woman wasn’t half bad looking when you first got her, after all, there was something about her that caught your eye. I also assume she has since let herself go completely, because that’s what usually happens. Since you now know that YOU are actually 100 % responsible for this sad state of affairs, let’s do a quick recap of how you managed to send her signals that instructed her to stop caring about her appearance:

– She asked you which pair of pants to wear, and you grunted unintelligibly and didn’t really look. That signaled to her that her appearance is of no importance to you.

– She showed off her new haircut and you failed to comment positively on it. That signaled to her that you don’t find her attractive anymore.

– She wanted to buy some piece of jewelry, and you grumbled that it was a waste of money. That signaled to her that she is worth very little to you, and you don’t think she’s pretty enough to deserve to wear nice things.

– She asked you to zip up her dress when you were going to a party, and you didn’t take the opportunity of kissing her in the neck as you used to. That signaled to her that you don’t want her anymore.

I could go on and on adding 500 more examples (as could your woman if you were to ask her…), but I’m guessing you got the point already!

So how do you reverse the damage you have inadvertently caused through a lifetime of being a complete doofus?

Simple! You just use your remarkable male brain power to come up with a bunch of little things you can do that will send the correct signal, and then you DO them when opportunity strikes! A few examples, just to get your imagination going:

– Notice something she is wearing. Act spontaneous, as if some detail just caught your eye, and you just can’t help commenting on it. “Oh, I haven’t seen that skirt on you for a while!” It doesn’t even have to be a glowing positive compliment; you are just signaling that you notice her appearance here. This tells her that you do pay attention to how she looks and what she is wearing. That’s all it takes, really.

– Buy her a necklace and drop it in her lap with a casual “I just saw this thing, and I thought it might go with those ear-rings you used to have.” This sneaky statement is just loaded with juicy information for a female brain to chew on! (1) You do value her after all. (2) You do appreciate her wearing jewelry and dressing up. (3) It has not escaped you that she’s not been wearing ear-rings lately. (4) You have noticed she’s been looking like crap lately, and it definitely bothers you. (5) You do actually believe she could be pretty again if she tried. (6) You are considerate enough to tell her all of this in such a veiled and convoluted fashion to not hurt her feelings, etc, etc. She’s going to lie awake at night and think up many more hidden meanings, be sure of it! And no, it doesn’t matter if the necklace doesn’t actually go with the ear-rings. She already knows you’re hopeless with such things! Besides, now she got a reason to get a new dress that goes with the new necklace, and perhaps a pair of matching ear-rings too!

– Grab her butt playfully when she passes you and exclaim “hey sexy!!” Then let her go immediately and just smile disarmingly back at her when she feigns her protestations. This is not to be repeated often mind you, it is the surprise effect you’re after. She will get the signal that you still want her, and the casual and carefree nature of the “assault” will help defusing sexual tension, making her trust you more. You were just acting playfully, not making any demands or expecting anything from her sexually, which makes her able to relax better around you. Did she get all of that information clearly? Why yes, of course she did, she’s a woman!

– When you are cuddling with her, stroke her thigh and moan “mmmm, so smooth!”. Don’t be surprised when she starts shaving her legs again, because that’s clearly going to please you very much. You said so loud and clear.

You should come up with many more similar ideas yourself! Remember, it is not hard to communicate with a woman, she is a natural at picking up any subtle clues you throw at her and figuring out what they mean. And she enjoys doing so!

In fact, it is much better to use subtle signaling to make your desires known than to explain them in detail verbally.

You may sometimes feel like you are being a manipulative asshole when you do these little exercises, that is perfectly normal for a man. But your personal feelings on the matter are irrelevant here, because she absolutely loves the mystery and thrives on the drama this little game creates! She loves the attention you are giving to her! And while she understands fully that you are playing games with her, consciously creating little hints on what direction you want her to move in, she doesn’t mind at all! To her, it only shows how much you care. And -get this- she actually WANTS to go in the direction you are steering her: you’re her Captain after all!

Keep this up for a while, playing a new little “mind trick” on her every other day or so, and she will look absolutely stunning in no time!

Women are creative!

Men are all totally different from each other, some are smart, some are dumb, some are into football, some prefer golf, and some even hate sports altogether. There are lots of typically male special interests, but no two men are into the same things.

Women are much more similar to each other: They all share the same basic female interests. You will certainly find some oddball woman who is into math and dry stuff like that, but I’m going to just ignore such outliers and speak of your basic, everyday woman. The kind you’re most likely to be married to, that’s the kind we’re talking about.

Such a “normal” woman is a sucker for ART and CREATIVITY in all forms!

First (and often foremost) she greatly enjoys the traditional womanly creative arts: cooking, knitting, sewing, home decoration, beauty and makeup, having and raising children (don’t forget the last one, to have children is in many ways the ultimate creative act – you’re creating new people, for crying out loud!).

Second, she enjoys all the more “highly respected” creative arts as well: painting in oil or water, singing and making music, dancing, writing poetry or fiction.

If your woman currently seems to lack interest in, or aptitude for, any of these arts, it simply means she has low self-esteem. Build her up and stimulate her courage, and you’ll soon see she’s just like the rest in this regard – a naturally gifted artist!

Why would you want to stimulate your woman to express her artistic side fully?

Many reasons.

First, she will create some truly awesome stuff that will enrich your life immensely. Second, it’s likely to improve your sex life. Third, to make the neighbors cry their hearts out in envy, because every man wants to have an exciting talented woman, and every woman wants to be one!

But most of all, because it will make your woman happy and content on a level that is impossible to achieve as long as her natural artistic side lies dormant.

If you love your woman, let her be an artist, it’s as simple as that!

But the thing that is important to realize here, is that even though she is 100 % responsible for doing all these things out of her own volition and in her own way, she wouldn’t be doing any of them if you didn’t know how to support her psychologically. Especially not if you were instead counteracting it and suppressing her by giving negative signals towards her creative output and messing her up psychologically. Then she’d be the typical dull and uninteresting woman less enlightened men end up being married to, no matter how promising their woman might have been before he married her. Or she’d get a divorce. Or she’d fucking cut your throat when you sleep!

Well, if you kill a woman’s soul, what do you expect in return?

Your role as a man, is to give your woman the confidence boost and (positive and thoughtful) feedback she needs to do her thing, nothing more. Leave the rest to nature, sit back and be amazed!

Let’s say your woman writes a few verses, and hands them over to you a little hesitantly. You read them and open up your heart to truly absorb the essence and resonate with what she wrote, and then you express whatever comes into you mind without filtering it too much through your male logic. This kind of feedback is most helpful for her, not only because you are showing keen interest in her work and thereby validating it (green light from the Captain!), but because she is in a way always “channeling” when she is creating. She does not fully know where that came from, and there is usually hidden wisdom in it she didn’t think of herself.

You can help her pick out that wisdom! For some reason, it seems to be easier for a man to spot the pearls of wisdom and greatness in a woman’s work. When you do so, you make the act of writing even more profound and rewarding for her. So she gains more courage and writes some more.

Soon she has written a novel, and before you know it, it’s a best-seller. She wrote it all by herself, but it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t encouraged it!

A few words of encouragement and a little honest interest in her work, that’s all it took!

Brother, that’s the easiest million bucks you’ll ever make!

I am about to tell you something you probably have never heard before, and many readers may not like what I have to say. Be warned, even if you think you like what I’m saying at first, you may not like where it goes from there! But it cannot be helped, I set out to share my hard-won wisdom on the relationship between man and woman, and I’ll stick to the plan and speak until I have spoken. Where you take it from there is up to you.

The thing I’m going to say first, which you might think you enjoy hearing, is that what we might for simplicity term “feminist ideals” lie at the core of all sexual dysfunction. There is actually much good to be said about striving for lofty ideals of equality in many aspects of life, but there cannot be even a trace of such ideals in the bedroom, or your sex life will go to crap!

The fact of the matter is, sex is about the Man fucking the Woman, and the Woman being fucked by the Man. One of them is Yang (active/initiating), and one is Yin (passive/responding). Where’s the equality in that? Nowhere! They are two completely different energies! The cosmic magic comes from the interplay between the different energies, but they are not, and will never be, the same kind of energy! Their roles in the interplay are distinct.

Sex between a man and a woman is thus inherently unequal. Sex MUST BE ALLOWED TO BE unequal. If you wish to compromise on this point and experiment with gender equality in any form or shape in the bedroom, go ahead and knock yourself out. I just hope you’ll remember what I am telling you here a few years down the road, when you’re wondering why life sucks and why you have such a shitty sex life. Perhaps you’ll reconsider then.

You must thus exorcise the demon of gender equality from the bedroom and cast shim back into whatever hell shim crawled out of!

Now where might those pesky gender equality ideals be lurking? In your woman’s mind? Possibly. But they’re actually just as likely to be contaminating YOUR mind as hers! And that’s actually a much bigger problem. If SHE is the one having feminist delusions about sex, it’s not a big problem, because she is Yin and will as we have already seen naturally respond to the correct point of view and adapt to it. And since the correct idea will make her feel better, she will not mind.

But if YOU are the one having feminist delusions about sex, oh Brother, you are in for a rough ride through life!

You don’t think you do? You’re a big boy, a real stud, you know this shit, right?

Well, now we’re getting to the part you probably won’t like to hear…

Many men have the idea that the ideal sex life should include things like the woman sucking his dick, and enjoying it, hell she should practically worship it.

That is pure feminist delusion.

Why? Because that would be the woman doing stuff, and the man lying there and responding. The roles of Yin and Yang have been inverted!

Many people actually do things this inverted way all the time and refuse to see a problem with it. It’s just the modern and enlightened way, where the man and woman take turns fucking each other. They never stop and consider that this “enlightenment” was copied from porn in the first place. Some even go as far as to putting a strap-on on the woman and having her fuck the man in the ass. They claim they enjoy it and have a grrreat sex life.

This is a lie.

How do you know it is a lie? Because you can easily see the symptoms of the dysfunction of inverted gender roles. The first symptom, is an escalating “kinkiness”. This is because all that “grrreat” sex is actually deeply unsatisfying to both parties, and there is a constant search for that “magical special spice” that will make it as good as they instinctively know it should be.

The only magical spice is to revert the gender roles back to their natural default values; man as yang, woman as yin. Then the journey towards a fulfilling sex life can finally begin.

You wish to cling to the idea that your woman should suck your cock like a porn star? Or more generally, that she should feel the same way about sex as you do? That the two of you should “take turns”? Go ahead, waste as many years as you like on your delusion! Hell, I wasted 20 myself on this downhill slope to nowhere, so who am I to judge!

It’s true it doesn’t matter which way you do it sexually on a purely physical level, it tingles nicely in your sex organ either way. But that’s not all sex is about. Sex is a deep spiritual bonding and energy exchange, and if you don’t believe that matters, then I can’t help you. A truly fulfilling sex life in a life-long relationship will stay out of your reach.

If you don’t want to believe it there will be little more I can say to make you change your mind. Life will teach you in the end though. It just takes a lot of time and suffering.

I suspect I just lost quite a few readers by saying this unpopular truth (she’s not there to suck your dick), but for those men who are still with me:

You have gotten this far, which means you understand what sex is about. You understand that the woman is the violin, and you are playing her, she is the field, and you are plowing her, she is the sex goddess, and you are pleasuring her, only thereby pleasuring yourself. You understand that the glorious and most holy centerpiece of your sex life is not your dick, it is your woman. All of her, mind, body and soul! You are already far ahead of the crowd, and I salute you for your wisdom!

I do not need to tell an enlightened man such as you how to pleasure your woman, you already know what you need to know. But I am going to offer some quick advice on how to make her ready to be pleasured.

Acknowledge that your woman has the most difficult role to play.

Sure, she’s “just lying there”, but that’s the superficial perspective. What she is actually doing, is surrendering her entire being to you, mind, body, and soul. Have you ever submitted so totally to anyone?

No, you have not. You are a man, and you are not even capable of such a wondrous feat.

Thus it behooves you to have great respect for just how precious and delicate her act of surrender truly is, and understand that she cannot do it when she is not feeling emotionally balanced and have the fullest trust in you.

And if women have one weakness, it is that they have a hard time fixing their own problems, as a man would see it. She needs your assistance to cleanse the emotional debris a day at work has left her with. You need to listen to her, you need to massage her, you need to soothe her and take care of her until she is ready to surrender. All the time without a trace of expectation of an eventual “payoff”, or the whole exercise will be in vain.

You need to do this for her, not ONLY because she needs to be in a balanced state, but ALSO because you need to gain her trust once again. To gain a woman’s trust is not a one-off affair, it is something you must do anew every time, because her surrender takes place in the eternal now where only the present moment exists.

Now go grab a stool and tame that beast.

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted

When a bowl, teapot or precious vase falls and breaks into a thousand pieces, we throw them away angrily and regretfully. Yet there is an alternative, a Japanese practice that highlights and enhances the breaks thus adding value to the broken object. It’s called Kintsugi: the art of precious scars. This traditional Japanese art uses a precious metal – liquid gold, liquid silver or lacquer dusted with powdered gold – to bring together the pieces of a broken pottery item and at the same time enhance the breaks. The technique consists in joining fragments and giving them a new, more refined aspect. Every repaired piece is unique, because of the randomness with which ceramics shatters and the irregular patterns formed that are enhanced with the use of metals.

Having your heart broken is a lot like that. When your heart shatters into smithereens you get to choose what you do with the fragments.

Most people can’t comprehend this and they suffer immeasurably, with the sadness lasting days, weeks, months and sometimes even years. Because after all, when someone breaks your heart it is the ultimate rejection and we avoid rejection because we don’t like what it says about us. It says we aren’t good enough, it says we aren’t worthy; and we avoid it because worst of all, it feels like it’s validating what we already know; that we’re unlovable and destined to be alone. When our self-esteem is vulnerable, we avoid blows from rejection as if they were knives, stab, stab, stabbing away at our most vital of organs.

The first time someone breaks your heart is always the one that almost kills you; it feels like a combination of being crushed in a garbage compactor while being drowned in hydrochloric acid. The waves of sadness just keep crashing over you like some kind of sorrowful tsunami and just as you pop your head above the melancholic waters to catch your breath, another wave pulverizes you and drags you down into the depths of the abysmal abyss. You have no frame of reference to relate to what this feels like, you don’t possess the mechanics to patch yourself up; and you feel truly and utterly alone.

The first girl that broke my heart was the first girl I was ever in love with and when she left it ruined me. I kept crying like a little bitch, I had to take two weeks off work because I just couldn’t keep it together. Even my parents were worried I was gonna do something stupid and came to stay with me for a while to keep an eye on me, I was a total fucking train wreck. I didn’t think I would ever feel that way about anyone ever again and I bitterly replayed every argument, every nasty thing I said to her in my head for months afterwards to beat myself up about how I had turned something that was totally pure and full of light and totally wonderful into something that was cold, gnarled and horrible.

I threw the pieces of my heart away angrily and regretfully because I just didn’t know any better.

The second beat that my heart skipped was only marginally less painful than the first but was also quite the experience. She announced one day that she wanted to leave as she wasn’t happy and somehow I convinced her to stay until our lease ran up which was still six months away. Can you envisage what it would be like to sleep next to someone, make love to them and carry on like you are still together for that amount of time, knowing that one day the last grain of sand would fall through the hourglass and it would be over? Imagine slowly, excruciatingly tearing off a bandage that is stuck to a wound underneath for six months; that’s what it was like.

While she was adamant she wouldn’t change her mind, I felt sure that if I couldn’t persuade her to stay she would at least succumb to Stockholm Syndrome like some poor woman that had been held hostage for six months and would stick around haha. Amazingly, when the expiry date arrived she did in fact ask me if I thought we should work it out. I had been waiting for over half a year to hear her say those words and wanted nothing more than for her to stay. But somehow I heard myself telling her that I thought she should go, almost like I had no control over it and someone else was talking out of my mouth. I realized later it was because I loved her so much I couldn’t bear to see her unhappy even if it meant we were together. I realized even later again that the universe rewarded me for this selflessness, as all the people I love the most in this city I only met because I let her go. Life is like that.

The last time my heart broke was a relationship that was doomed from the start. I really wanted to have kids and she didn’t, which was a deal breaker for me yet foolishly I pushed on, frantically trying to bash a puzzle piece together that didn’t fit, for fear I wasn’t deserving of one that did. I let it drag on for way too long, but I discovered some extremely important shit in the process. Like how I wanted to be treated by another person and what I wanted in a relationship. I also came to the realization that if the situation isn’t right, nothing else is.

I’m not even sure now why I told you guys all of that. Maybe in the hope it will build some kind of rapport? Kind of like how we listen to sad songs when we are sad. This would seem counter-intuitive, as you’d think you would listen to songs that make you happy instead. But I guess there is some comfort to be had in knowing that someone else has gone through the same thing we have; it makes us feel not so alone. I’m sure every person reading this has their own stories of heartbreak, so possibly you can relate to mine. But maybe you haven’t come to the same conclusions I have which I suppose is the reason I decided to write about this topic a long time ago.

Some of us resist putting ourselves in that situation again, the memory of how much it hurt us resonates through our lives like ripples in a pond when you throw a rock into it. But as a result of this repulsion towards rejection, we simultaneously avoid the very thing that will develop and strengthen our self-esteem; being accepted for who we really are. The thing about that is, it’s not actually other people we yearn to accept us, it’s ourselves.

I often tell women I date stories about my ex-girlfriends, oblivious to the fact it is faux pas and could even be hurtful depending on how strongly the other person feels about me. But in my mind the stories aren’t really about my ex’s, they are about me. Every relationship I’ve had taught me something about myself and the person I want to be and when you find your own truth, it will lead you to the things (and the people) that you love and that will love you back.

What becomes of the broken hearted is ultimately a choice, you can choose. So in spite of everything I choose to put myself out there, to risk my heart being broken again. Knowing full well that I will suffer, but after that I will gather up the pieces and mend them together with gold and create something flawed but quite beautiful. Every heartbreak I experience brings me just that little bit closer to the person who will always love me, will always be on my side and who will never leave me behind – myself.

Heartbreak is the real art of precious scars.





The climate change agenda (here forth known as “climatewang”) is an interesting cultural phenomena. Essentially what it boils down to is communism, where wealthy Western countries are milked dry through a plethora of taxes and “economic measures” and then the stolen money is redistributed to shithole countries that keep on shitting the planet up, after the kikes who run our governments take their cut of course.


climate change is communism

The sheer amount of people who have bought into this massive scam should be all the evidence you need to be sure that the vast majority of people are dumber than dog shit. Like seriously fucking retarded, a testament to how decadent we have become whereby people who would’ve been sleeping in the gutter and bathing in horse piss just a century ago not only live comfortably, but actually get a say in the day to day running of things.

What a shambles.

This climatewang con isn’t anything new either. They keep trotting out the same rotten piece of fish with a different sauce on it each time and people keep hungrily swallowing it up like the gullible fuckin peasants they are. Mindboggling. Like seriously, you have that much shit in between your ears you can’t see as plain as day that (((they))) have been rebadging the same bullshit for 60 years and that not only has not a single climate prediction in that entire period (dozens and dozens and dozens) come true, but given the slightest amount of inspection the entire fuckin thing falls apart like a Ukrainian automobile??

First it was ‘the ice age is coming’

ice age

Then it was ‘global warming is going to cook the earth and melt the glaciers!’


But this was debunked spectacularly.

global warming fabricated

climate models


It was proven repeatedly that climate scientists doctored results, fabricated data, illegally erased data, prevented other scientists from using the data and verifying their conclusions, and knew that the results they got did not find the earth was warming.



How the global warming industry is based on one MASSIVE lie –

The Evidence of Climate Fraud –

UN Climate Reports: They Lie –

Climategate: the final nail in the coffin of ‘Anthropogenic Global Warming’? –

Climategate: NOAA and NASA Complicit in Data Manipulation –

Top scientists start to examine fiddled global warming figures –

Scientists in stolen e-mail scandal hid climate data –

Like, how much fuckin evidence do you need to see climatewang is a fraud? Fuck off you spastic cunts.

But the thing that grates on my nerves the worst is when mouth breathing meat puppets start drooling about “muh 97% of scientists agree” meme. No needle dick, that’s a complete lie and has also been well and truly debunked. The 97 percent claim is a deliberate misrepresentation designed to intimidate the public into thinking we should panic and give our Zionist Occupied Government (ZOG) more of the money we earned at the slave factory to fix a non-existent problem, you tremendously inept fucking clod.

‘97% Of Climate Scientists Agree’ Is 100% Wrong –

About that overwhelming 97-98% number of scientists that say there is a climate consensus… –

And now to make this fiasco even worse, we’ve got a new champion of climatewang propaganda in the form of a persistent vaginal rash called Greta Thunberg to put up with. An underdeveloped 16-year-old whose mother clearly liked having a drink while she was pregnant


Only in Clownworld™ can one of the leading advocates for climate science be a semi-retarded teenager who would have been “sent away” if she was born a century ago. Of course dear little Greta has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, but it’s very savvy marketing on behalf of George Soros and his hook nosed globalist buddies to choose such a puppet.

People feel bad for attacking a child you know. This is probably the only article you’ll read saying she’s a fuckin mongoloid, the rest will call her “stunning and brave” for saying we should stop eating meat and give the government more money because we stole her childhood or some shit.

xlarge - 2019-09-25T072837.782

I do feel sorry for her, the slight mental retardation probably prevents her from seeing she’s being used and really, it’s child abuse. Her parents should be locked up and she should be sent to a Swedish finishing school for young ladies to learn how to cook strudels and darn sweaters so she is of some use to whichever hapless fool decides to marry her. But no, instead she’s on the news 24/7 emotionally blackmailing the frail of mind into fighting climatewang and demanding people in Western countries “do something” (reads give monies) while she conveniently neglects to mention the biggest polluters on the planet – China and India.


xlarge - 2019-09-28T132029.711

Like most things we were told, climatewang is a lie. It’s just another weapon certain (((cunts))) use to turn our empathy into our downfall. If it actually had anything to do with the environment it would hold everyone equally accountable and the worst offenders would be punished. Instead, it serves only to penalise the people who actually care about the world and who care about other people, while rewarding countries that eat dogs and bathe in a river of shit and corpses.

The Jeffrey Plane Incident

Sometimes no matter how well you plan something, things just don’t go your way. Like no matter what you do, everything goes tits up. I had planned to fly to Brisbane for a friends 30th birthday shindig and catch up with some old faces for a boogie at a day party on Saturday, maybe go out for some fancy high falutin brunch on Sunday sometime and then fly home Sunday night. My strategy was totally tight butthole, what could possibly go wrong?

Get to the club, hmm day party vibe. I immediately run into a mate who takes me out to see a bunch of other mates, next thing you know all of the old mates are there! Mate. I am fucking awesome. The sun is shining and the music is grooving, I may go get a Long Island Iced Tea to quench my thirst in this welcoming but sweaty tropical oasis…

Goddamn these LIIT’s are going down a treat and this is a fuckin TUNE *sashay, sashay, 360 spin fist pump, accidentally glass the busboy* Ooops somebody call a waaahmbulance.

Why am I so hot? Fuck Queensland, humid little shit crevice. I’m getting another LIIT, how many have I had now, like 4 or 5? Fuck they’re good. Not as good as me though, I’m a fuckin MADLAD.

Faaark, I need to get out of here and go to the birthday party! Those fuckin LIIT’s have crept up on me the sneaky cunts. What’s that ladies, all three of you wanna come with me to this party? Sure, whatever I just gotta get outta here before I drink another LIIT and pass out in the corner…

Get to the birthday party, hmm this is more formal then I thought. I only vaguely sense the three chicks following me in, my bladder isn’t the best when it’s filled with booze. Where is that pissssserrrr? No you can’t piss in that pot plant, even if it is completely logical and urine has nitrogen in it that plants crave. Sorry what’s that, I have to leave? But I wasnt even gonna piss in the pot plant, I’m sound I promise! What chicks are totally soused and can barely stand up? I came with chicks? Oh yeah. Meh, can’t I just tell them to leave, I’m sound, safe as houses I am. Fuckin women who cant handle their shit are the worst. Two of the chicks who were fucked up hail a taxi and leave, the third more sober girl looks at me and says we can call her friend Cindy and get some stuff. Stuff sounds like a plan as this thing just went pear-shaped.

I’m in an apartment somewhere and the bird I’m with says to look alive in case anything goes down. What? Arent we just getting some stuff and then going to yours to do the stuff? Turns out Cindy can get some stuff because she’s a whore. Like literally a whore. She is getting the stuff off one of her johns that has taken a real liking to her by going full Mark Wahlberg in Fear and giving her the odd touch up if she does something out of line like not showing him her phone upon command and giving other johns bareback blowjobs. Why would you be possessive of a prostitute? That’s weird.

The atmosphere seems pretty tense, but I feel kinda nonchalant still from all the highball glasses of hard liquor. Like, even if this cracked out Patrick Bateman did start hitting Cindy the Whore, I’d pretty calmly bottle the cunt, take all of his stuff and then tell Cindy she needs to reconsider her life before leaving. And I’d be a fuckin hero and at the very least see her titties and maybe get her to put those titties on the glass.

Methfase Marky Mark seem to be put at ease by my devil-may-care attitude, although it could also have been my general vibe of wanting to be away from there and obvious distaste for him and his whore. The transaction goes ahead after some wheedling with this beady eyed serial killer in training and after making a hasty exit my posse has increased back to three people. Cindy the Whore has wisely decided to grab whatever possessions she could carry and flee with us before the psycho she’s seeing decides he can no longer share her various orifices with the greater Brisbane populace and he’ll keep her chained up in the en suite bathroom so she behaves and puts the lotion on her skin before she gets the hose again.

Cindy the Whore announces she is leaving to go see a john. Shortly after, the last of my harem discovers that Cindy the Whore has stolen everything from her jewellery case and I get the impression this isn’t the first time this has happened. OK that’s real. I totally would’ve flipped the effervescent and delightful Cindy the Whore a twenty spot for a nifty wristy in the laundry if I knew she was that hard up for cash. Oh well, is there anymore stuff left? There is? OK cover me I’m going in…

Bueller…..Bueller…..Bueller…..I’m cold and have just spent the last 12 hours chewing my fase off and entertaining all kinds of bizarre machinations. All my smokes are gone and there is no stuff of any shape or form in the house. I’m going back to my friend’s place to have lunch and maybe a nice little nap before I fly home. Bye Felicia, tell Cindy the Whore to bless her thieving, whoring, crystal meth smoking little socks and I hope she never changes.

I am safely ensconced on my friends couch. It’s a humid Sunday afternoon and I’m feeling irritable and discontent; like a kid whose mouth was watering at the thought of the chocolate ice cream he’d be eating for dessert after his dinner of orphan grade gruel, only to find out mum had forgotten to buy more ice cream but there was plenty more gruel if he was still hungry.

You’re a deadbeat mum and I hate you.

What makes it even worse is I’m away for the weekend, so I can’t even smoke a bong load the size of Mount Tambora and crawl into bed and decompress by gently masturbating myself to sleep like I normally would after such a unsatisfying turn of events. There was still another seven hours until my flight home and I needed something to take that edge off, some lovely Persian rugs to whisk me off to another place and anaesthetise myself from the aggravating sensation of boredom and restlessness…

The Hoofer. Of course, The Hoofer! I think to myself I am sure to write about this experience in the first person sometime in the near future and if I change perspectives halfway through the blog post it’ll fuck up the styling so I should think about what The Hoofer is now so what’s about to happen next makes sense to the thousands of people who will assuredly read my article. What insight and forethought, fuck I’m clever. And awesome.

The Hoofer is a glass pipe with an end that is bulbed to create a seal in your nostril and another end that is fluted to make it more efficient when insufflating various materials. For some reason most people seem confused as to which end is which but I’m not sure why, it would seem patently obvious to me even if it wasnt my instrument. People are stupid.

The Hoofer had seen some action. The inside of it was like a wall that had been painted over many times, with the last coating having a distinct pinkish hue from some pills I had bought from a lovely chap in England. But within those layers of narcotic duco was a cornucopia of class A chemicals that would send me on a freight train from hell to flavour country and I knew it. There was MDMA, MDA, MXE, Cocaine, Crystal Meth, Ketamine and god knows what else in this fucker.

Snoochy boochies.

I ask my friend Kat for something to clean The Hoofer out with and she produces a bobby pin that I get to work with, painstakingly scraping the narco-paint out onto a plate. You know when you’re a kid and you’re playing with paint and you mix all the colours together you always get brown? Well apparently when the paint is made of drugs you get grey.

Immediately I am presented with a problem. This stuff was of a clay consistency and clearly not fit for insufflating. Being the Gordon Ramsay of drugs I am, somehow I equate the overly moist grey narco-paint with pizza dough that’s too wet. I need some flour to dry this up a bit so I can form some lines I think to myself. Then I remembered the eightball of MXE I still had in my bag (in case of emergencies such as this) and thought “that’ll do”.

For those who aren’t aware of what MXE is, it’s a dissociative like Ketamine (if you dont know what that is it could be bad for the community that you’re even reading this but you’ve come this far so let’s press on). While Ketamine has a cold, clinical energy to it, MXE is like logs on the fire at Christmas time. It’s delicious and warm, it’s lovely stuff. But it is quite a bit stronger than Ketamine in terms of dosage and rather than lasting forty-five minutes to an hour, once you get on this horsey you are riding him for a good five to six hours – maybe longer depending on how many carrots you feed the cunt.

As I form four reasonable sized piles it occurs to me what this drug Neapolitan is. It was Jeffrey! Why the fuck is it called Jeffrey? Because who could be scared of a Jeffrey, Jeffrey’s just this nice bloke from down the road isn’t he? Being the magnanimous young scholar I am I ask the two friends I was staying with if they would also like some Jeffrey. Well apparently people can be scared of a Jeffrey because both of them recoil in horror at the sight of these little grey piles of goodness. “Are you sure JC? I don’t want you to like OD or anything” Kat exclaims with a look of distinct concern, while my mate Ben seems mildly amused. “Yeah it’ll be fine, Jeffrey’s a lovely fellow” I reply before hoofing up the lot in front of their eyes.

At first everything is fine. But then the Matrix started to flicker, like someone had poured water into one of the servers and it was shorting out. Reality slowly begins to tilt…
It’s hard to articulate what takes place over the next six or so hours. I can’t move and I’m watching TV but the stories are going off on all kinds of tangents which then branch off into other tangents until eventually it feels like I’ve been sucked into a 3D comic book with dozens of storylines simultaneously intersecting, yet somehow ultimately making sense. I get the distinct impression I am seeing between the layers of what we perceive to be real, almost like if you looked closely enough at the white snow you get on the television when the channel isnt tuned in properly you’d see there was in fact a program playing. The white snow show is actually way better than the garbage airing on the tuned in channels but everyone skips right passed it, content in their belief there is nothing to see there.

After several hours of this mind bending daytime serial I finally regain cognizance of where I am. A strange dude who wasnt there before is sitting across from me and while my intuition is telling me that he’s not a hallucination, after the crazy shit I’ve just seen I should probably get third-party confirmation. I lean across to Kat and whisper in her ear “who’s old mate?” My whispering skills fail me and clearly I’ve been heard on the mainland because Kat, Old Mate and several other people in the room burst out laughing. Apparently Old Mate has been there for quite a while, well isn’t there egg on my face.

Old Mate seems to have been around the block a few times and beams at me “Been a rough week mate?” “Mate you’ve got no idea.” We have a chuckle and I drift off to La La Land once more…

“JC don’t you have to leave for your flight soon?” I snap back to reality. Kat is standing above me and she still has that concerned look on her face, I respond with what I feel is the appropriate answer. “Haaarmmff blommmfff. Arrrgghh choopahmen aahh bweybosen maahaalaahmaahoto. Totos aah mez impalaah mendos” The look of concern deepens. “It’s in like 45 minutes isnt it and it takes 20 minutes to get to the airport!” Fuck. I roll off the couch and hit the floor with a thud. It’s go time! Except it’s not because my fine motor control is somehat akin to Leonardo DiCaprio trying to drive that Lamborghini in The Wolf of Wall Street after he’s necked too many Quaaludes. I gamely start wobbling towards my bag and try to start putting clothes in it but my arms flop around like epileptic eels mocking me. I can feel myself becoming engulfed in the fog of Jeffrey again, must keep it together man! But Jeffrey will not be denied and we fly away together…

“JC we’re at the airport mate.” I wake up in the back of Ben’s car and we are indeed at the airport, it feels like I teleported. Cooool. I hear my voice like it’s in the distance and has been slowed down to quarter speed. “Thaaaannnnkksssss guuuuuyyyyyyssssss, soooorrrrryyyyy I’mmmm looooooossseee” I open the car door and roll out of the car this time hitting the concrete with a thud. Owww. I think. My friends screech off, I think they probably felt like they were Tom Cruise in Rainman except I probably made less sense than Dustin Hoffman and definitely couldn’t be used for counting cards at the casino.

I survey my surroundings. OK I need to get my bearings here, which direction is the Tiger terminal, think, THINK! I look around and everything seems blurry and distant, yet at the same time surrealistically sharp and right inside my field of vision. Well this is just fucking great, I’m here pretty much on time for my flight but I’m still gonna miss it because I can’t see 3 feet in front of me.

Thanks alot Jeffrey you asshole.

I shuffle into the baggage return area and dump my bag down, struggling to maintain my composure. I crouch down, sweating like a paedophile on a prison ship and unzip the side compartment to get my boarding pass out. My trusty Adidas gym bag instantly becomes a maze of MC Escher painting proportions. Surely it can’t be that hard to find a piece of paper within such a small space, but the infinitely twisting artefacts make this simple task quite the physical challenge. As I begin to get paranoid that the other people milling around baggage claim know that I’m messed up, I hear what sounds like my name being called over the intercom urging me to get to the gate as they’re at final call. Somehow I shove my hand down the correct Labyrinthian stairwell in my bag and pull the boarding pass out, then get to my feet and take off through the terminal.

I get to the gate just as they’re about to close the doors. I flash my boarding pass at the girl at the desk and approach the steward in the plane’s entrance. He looks me up and down and boy I must’ve been a sight. My face is red, I’m sweating bullets and as I found out later when I got home and looked in the mirror my pupils were the size of tea saucers which must’ve looked like I was perpetually terrified as the steward asks if I’m alright.

I manage to stammer that I’m OK but he wasnt convinced as he then asks if I was afraid to fly. I make some split second calculations and think to myself “Just go with this, just go with this, that’s a way better news story than I’m off my fuckin head and still carrying a bag of drugs with me onto the plane” and say to him “Yeah mate I’ve only been on a plane once before and I’m afraid to fly”. DING DING DING we have a winner. His demeanour instantly changes to one of sympathy and he says “Oh don’t worry, we’ll look after you” and then sits me next to a couple of Chinese Tiger execs who apparently fly all the time and will show me the ropes.


The guy sitting next to me speaks good English but I feel somewhat calmed by his gentle countenance and slight language barrier because my responses to his questions must’ve given the distinct impression I was retarded. “Myyyyyyy friiiieeeennnnddd issss a piiiiilllooott and he says that the pppppiiiiilllloooottttss at Tiiiiigggggerrrr are verrrrryyy well traaaaaaiiinnneed”. “Yes they are quite experienced, in fact we had a retirement party for one of the Captains last week who had been flying for fifty years”. At this point I feel somewhat embarrassed by old mate’s command of the English language being much better than mine so I decide to recuse myself from the conversation and put in my headphones.


The jet turbines rev up and the plane begins to lurch forward, I’m safe! As it takes off I close my eyes and relax into Jeffrey’s warm embrace one last time.



knight offended

If you’re somehow offended by that random collection of words then you need to reconsider your life. No seriously, go sit in a fuckin corner for a while and contemplate how pathetic you are and the poor life choices you’ve made that led you down the garden path of being “offended” by mere words. You are not only a cretin and an oxygen thief, but you are haphazardly propagating an epidemic worse than AIDS, Ebola and Swine Flu combined. Like rats spreading the bubonic plague, people who claim to be “offended” over every event in their lives that causes them to think or be uncomfortable need to be eradicated.

This week I’ll likely offend some weak cunts as I examine this puerile cultural phenomenon that is rapidly eroding the fabric of society – that of being “offended”.


So just when and how did this nonsense begin? At what point did the politically correct movement swing the pendulum of human decency from segregating black people and jailing queers for butt stuff to the extreme polar opposite of labelling every fuckin thing under the sun as being racist / homophobic / sexist?

For starters, the so-called “Millennial” generation has to be the largest gaggle of limp wristed, mollycoddled bottom feeders in the history of modern civilisation. My grandfather was flying bombers in World War 2 not long after he got hair on his balls. My father was conscripted to compulsory military service in Algeria when he was 18. He slept with a machine gun under his fuckin pillow and watched captured rebel guerrillas get tortured by having their balls zapped off by way of electrocution.

Nowadays, we have school athletics carnivals where every single kid gets a ribbon for participation. No 1st place or trophy or anything that indicates they performed better than any of the other kids in the races. The organizers fear that 6 year old kids would be upset if they were to lose. So rather than potentially upset a child, they take away every child’s chance at achieving a victory. I think this mentality permeates this generation of kids now. They never learn how to lose, fail, or be challenged; they just show up with a sense of entitlement.

This echoes into adulthood as we’ve also got university students that cry their little eyes out over chalk signs on the ground promoting Donald Trump, demanding ‘safe spaces’ and ‘trigger warnings’ so that their delicate feelings and sensibilities are never ruffled and they never have to experience a moment of discomfort by realising that someone else thinks differently to what they do.

In just three generations we’ve gone from trench warfare to a bunch of pussies whose biggest battles are jousted behind a keyboard against strangers on the internet who hurt their fee fees. Our ancestors who fought for our collective freedoms must be spinning in their fucking graves.

chalk trump

chalk whine



One can’t completely blame the Millennials for how fragile and insipid they’ve become though. There is some historical precedent that has woven this rich tapestry of faggotry and previous generations have to shoulder some of the blame. Childhood itself has changed greatly during the past generation. Many Baby Boomers and Gen Xers can remember riding their bicycles around the burbs unchaperoned by adults by the time they were 8 or 9 years old. In the hours after school, kids were expected to occupy themselves, getting into minor scrapes and learning from their experiences.

But childhood as us old cunts knew it became less common in the late 1980s / early 90s. Stories of abducted children appeared more frequently in the news media, and in 1984 images of them began showing up on milk cartons in the United States. In response, many parents pulled in the reins and worked harder to keep their children safe from molesters (never mind the fact if you were being molested it was probably by one of their friends or another family member) and helicopter parenting became the new black.

This melodrama wasn’t restricted to the home though, schools got on board pretty swiftly as well. “Dangerous” play structures were removed from playgrounds; peanut butter was banned from student lunches. Any games that involved any kind of rough housing or physical contact began to be banned during breaks, with schools fearful of being opened up to litigation from some cretinous parent who decided to sue because little Johnny broke his arm falling off the monkey bars. I can’t even begin to imagine school life without peanut butter sandwiches, kick arse play gyms and chaotic games of British Bulldog at lunch time.

Good job baby boomers you bloated, underachieving clods.

Then some good minded fools from GenX (I’m picturing an overweight female primary school teacher who wasn’t much chop at sports and likely a very nice person) started the “everyone gets a trophy” mentality that seemed to spread. So these kids grew up thinking they’re all special, unique little snowflakes who deserve everything. Everyone got a trophy. Everyone told they’re amazing. Everyone told they deserve whatever they want. Everyone living within some kind of immaculate delusion whereby life suddenly, inexplicably became “fair”.

It’s no surprise that there is such a pervading sense of entitlement amongst the Millennial generation when from the moment they were farted out of their mother’s wombs they were told every ticket was a winner.

We failed these kids. Rather than preparing them for the game of life where sometimes you win and sometimes you get corn holed by a sweaty, obese motherfucker wearing a condom made out of sandpaper, we created a false expectation that everyone deserves a good life and good treatment and should have everything everyone else has. I think this mentality permeates this generation of kids now. “How dare you be better, smarter, faster, wealthier, stronger, taller, etc.” “I’m offended that you are making me feel as if I’m not entirely equal to you and everyone else!”

When you think the world revolves around you, anything that doesn’t match your view of that world is bound to be upsetting.

Technology also played an important role in this repulsive cultural trend. One could argue that stupid people have always been offended but now they have the internet which makes it easy to complain, allows them to do so without having to directly speak to somebody and creates an echo-chamber of the most easily-offended that further distorts their view of reality.

Back in the day it used to take effort to be offended. You had to find the address for NBC and sit down at the typewriter to write an actual letter when an episode of The Golden Girls got your panties in a bunch.

golden girls

Nowadays you don’t even need to get out of your seat and put pants on to be offended. The internet exposed a lot of feeble-minded people (which constitutes the majority of the human race unfortunately) to a lot of information and worse – to each other. Instruments like Twitter and Facebook allow these imbeciles to more easily mobilise and have their whiny voices heard.

Every week there are dozens of new national outrages and boycott campaigns and social media crusades to raise awareness about some offensive thing, or to get someone fired for saying some offensive thing, or to teach people that some previously non-offensive thing has now become offensive. Their goal, they say is to inform and advise, but in reality they’re just created by humourless busybodies who believe that their opinions are more valid than others.

They’ll start some online boycott or petition, which will then trend on Twitter for a couple hours. Some cable news producer, desperate for content, will put them on TV, which only validates the busybody’s already overinflated sense of entitlement. The problem with this is it’s the blind leading the blind.

Unfortunately the loudest voices on the internet aren’t generally the pragmatic, intelligent types; it’s the simpleminded sophists who are commanding the attention of the hordes of fucktards that inhabit the worldwide web.

This is borne out by the fact that the hot topics that people like to get all worked up about are seldom the things that as a species we actually should be offended by. Youth suicide rate? All good. Millions of poor little black cunts starving on the other side of the planet? Sweet as bro. Thousands of people sleeping on the streets tonight? No worries. A dentist shoots a lion on a game reserve? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?? THIS IS AN ABSOLUTE TRAVESTY!!! HE SHOT CECIL?! CECIL IS LIKE MY FAVE LION (APART FROM THE ONE THAT ROARS AT THE START OF METRO GOLDWYN MAYER FILMS, OH AND THE PADDLE POP LION WHO IS A TOTAL BOSS) THAT I ONLY HEARD OF 10 MINUTES AGO BUT HE HAS A NAME DAMNIT WHICH HUMANISES HIM AND I TELL YOU WHAT I’M SO OUTRAGED I’M GONNA TELL EVERYONE ON MY FACEBOOK FRIEND LIST BY SHARING THIS POST!



So just what is being offended (other than a way for stupid people to feel important)? It’s basically an emotional reaction to something you didn’t want to hear, read, or see. The inability to have any response to a situation other than your own emotional reaction seems like a personality disorder, especially since it requires the offendee to believe that their feelings matter to anyone other than themselves. In the end, as harsh as this sounds, who gives a fuck about your feelings? You, your partner and the people close to you if you’re lucky. No one gives a shite that you’re offended, the offence you’ve taken at something you saw on TV or on the internet is completely and utterly irrelevant to anyone other than yourself.

Let’s think about this for a moment. You’re offended. You’ve taken offence. You announce that on a website or comment thread (or to a live human being) as if it means something, as if it’s some grand proclamation with relevance and importance. But all you’re really saying is  “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, and we’ve had two totally different lives, but your existence is not validating mine, and that makes me sad, and therefore you should stop doing what you’re doing.”

Do you see how utterly insane that is?

“I’ve had a unique experience of life and my feelings reflect that experience but you don’t, and so YOU’RE WRONG! Stop it! I’m hurt! Can somebody please call me a waaaaaahhhmbulance?!”

The problem is not that you’re “offended.” The problem is that you think the rest of the world should care, do something about it, and change its behaviour to accommodate your inner self. I hate to break it to you, but your feelings are your own. They’re not his or hers or the douchebag writing this article. They are YOURS.

Deal with it you weak cunt.



While I’m often accused of having offended people it is an extremely rare occurrence that I find myself offended by anything people say or do. In order to offend me, first I have to know who you are. Second, I have to respect you and your opinions. Third, the offensive statement (or action) must be directed at me personally, not just a group with whom I may be affiliated. If any of those three criteria are not met, I have zero shits to give.

Yet a lot of people nowadays seem to get all bent out of shape over the most ridiculous things. Let’s have a look at some of the main things that tend to “offend” the soft of cranium shall we?

Being offended by someone else’s mistake

One time I was sitting in a restaurant and this blubber ridden old biatch started to scream at the poor waitress until she was in tears because the cook had put the sauce on the plate instead of on the side “Are you fucking stupid? I clearly ordered the sauce ON THE SIDE. I bet you didn’t even take my order down right. Is it too much to ask JUST TO GET SOME DECENT SERVICE?!” I leaned towards my partner and mused rather loudly “Jeez if she’s down here who’s running hell?” upon which Fatty McFlangebag seemed to simmer down some and even seemed a little embarrassed. The way she carried on was like it was some kind of personal vendetta against her by the waitress to fuck up her day when really the cook probably just forgot because he smoked a fat spliff on his tea break and was inundated with orders.

Being offended on someone else’s behalf

This applies very heavily to the national pastime of the politically correct – accusing everyone of being racist.

“That word/action/phrase/birthday cake is offensive to (insert race) people” is most frequently stated by white morons who, in an ironically racist way, seem to think that (insert race) people are not capable of speaking for themselves. You might be surprised at how alone you are in your stance if you ever asked a group of Native Americans if they are offended that there is a football team called the Redskins. Most of them are too busy working, raising kids, paying taxes, and doing other stuff that actually matters to worry about that nonsense.

I was recently talking to a mate at work about how some people are hard to understand on the phone due to their accents and suggested his lot were shocking for it (my friend is Indian – dots not feathers). This empty headed bimbo who was eavesdropping our conversation decided to pipe up and tell me off because my comment “wasn’t appropriate”. It seems the height of narcissism to be offended by something like this because you assume not only that the person being addressed should be offended (he wasn’t) and the person saying it should give a fuck what you think is appropriate (I didn’t). Here’s a thought; how bout you stop pretending that you matter so damn much and start working on being better at something useful rather than listening to other people’s conversations and being offended by proxy.

Being offended by words

I understand why some words are thought of as being offensive, but I refuse to let a group of letters have any kind of power over me. It is especially self-involved to pick a word that doesn’t really offend anyone and decide to be offended by it (anyone else have a laugh at the recent statement from the so-called Australian of the Year that we shouldn’t use the word “guys” in the workplace as it’s somehow not inclusive towards women despite it referring to both sexes for quite a while now. What a flog!)

I think half the reason I’m so tired of people being offended about things is that it is so damn self-important. “That word makes ME feel a certain way, so EVERYBODY has to cater to MY idiot ways and respect ME and MY feelings.” Fuck you jizz rag.

On another occasion not long ago this absolute winner managed the quinella of both being offended on someone else’s behalf and by a word. In a Facebook group chat (that consisted of stand-up comedians mind you) I ribbed this geezah for living in Sydney and asked when he was gonna stop being a fag and move to a real city like Melbourne. Immediately a tumble weed rolled through Facebook Messenger before this militant lesbian commented simply “Fag?” as if to imply I had committed a mortal sin somewhat akin to raping a small child at its own baptism ceremony and then washing my knob off in the holy water afterwards.

Now I’m not sure if she got the memo that an offended stand-up comedian is like the least funniest thing on the planet apart from AIDS, but I was kinda surprised that she chose to take offence on someone else’s behalf like that for what was essentially good natured ribbing. What surprised me even more though was when my friend who was leading the chat (also a stand-up comedian) seemed to side with her (as she apparently has a lot of gay friends and what I said was offensive to her because of that and I should maybe just retract my statement and apologise). How does get fucked sound? I instantly lost respect for him.

For one because he didn’t have the balls to stand up for a mate that he knows has nothing against anyone (I’m an equal opportunity offender haha) and for two because he’s been gullible enough to fall for this whole con job propagated by limp wristed libtards that we should be constantly vigilant for fear that we might say something to offend someone.

When I called that dude a fag, homosexuality was the last thing on my mind. Similar to how sometimes people ask me, “Why do you use the word ‘Retard’?” “Because I like the way it sounds, the connotation it has, and I can use whatever fucking word I want, retard” is the short answer.

sorry not sorry



Make no mistake; we are living in a victim era. People want attention so the best way to do that is to be offended or to be offended for someone else. Everyone wants to be the victim, no one wants to be the perpetrator and a lot of people seem to think if you aren’t one than you must be the other. Victimization garners sympathy and empathy from others. Rather than acknowledge their perceived shortcomings and work to overcome them or work around them, victims use them to justify why they do not have the life they think they want.

We live in a culture that glorifies victimhood. Power is derived from special status, and right now that status is gained by claiming some form of oppression. We are underestimating self-awareness and our ability to strengthen our own emotional intelligence and are mainly focusing on just building up a lot of bullshit to keep everybody comfortable in their complexes. Why change yourself and become a stronger person, when you can just change your whole environment and the people around it, thereby neglecting any personal responsibility at all?

According to the most-basic tenets of psychology, helping people with anxiety disorders avoid the things they fear is misguided. Yet we engender a mentality of avoidance rather than one of confrontation, choosing to teach people that anything that makes them uncomfortable or doesn’t fit their world view can be complained about long and loud enough until someone nurses their booboo and they feel comfy again.

There is a saying: “It is easier to put on slippers than it is to carpet the world.” Yet here we are barefooted, angrily rolling out hectares of carpet across the globe because our feet are cold!

I don’t know enough to make predictions, but if there’s one thing history has taught us is that life consists of a series of backlashes one after the other. Like a pendulum swinging back and forth, except that things never quite go back to the way that they were before.

The backlash against this cultural phenomenon has already started and the pendulum is beginning to swing in the opposite direction. I am far from the only one complaining about what a bunch of pantywaists we have become as I see more and more people voicing their discontent about political correctness.

Some of you reading this are pretty offended and the notion that my Facebook friend list will have decreased ever so slightly by tomorrow evening makes me happy in my no-no spot. But not as happy as knowing that other people reading this are fed up with this politically correct nonsense and would like to start addressing matters that actually, well, matter.

The simple fact is that this climate of fear of social discourse is slowly being institutionalized, and is affecting what can be said in our nation’s classrooms, even as a basis for discussion. It is highly dangerous in that it presumes an extraordinary fragility of the human psyche, and therefore elevates the goal of protecting people from psychological harm past that of a free exchange of ideas and dialogue.

The reality is we are all a little bit sexist and we are all a little bit racist. The politically correct left believes that you can stamp this out by censoring language. They think that if you change the words you use for things, you can change reality. Well you can’t. You can’t make people not racist by banning the word nigger. You can’t stop people from being homophobic by banning schoolchildren from using the words “gay” and “faggot” in the schoolyard, that’s not how it works.

The purpose of a civilised society is to enable all of us to live together in harmony and communicate with one another, successfully build businesses and have interpersonal relationships with one another – despite our limitations and bigotries. Not to try and stamp those imperfections out.

Political correctness seeks to reduce the scope of acceptable thought and language in order to guide discussion in particular ideological directions. Another words, much like religion it is a form or subtle manipulation and brain washing. By rewarding these assclowns who claim the rest of society needs to cater to their every whim and need we are essentially stifling intellectual discussion and creating a victim mentality that denotes a distinct lack of personal responsibility for people’s own lives.

People need to lighten the fuck up and learn to laugh at themselves for a start; there are too many serious assholes on this planet. If you’re the type to get offended over the smell of a fart you need to understand that you are not actually upset by whatever it was the other person said or did (they farted). You’re not upset because the girl at McDonald’s is rude to you, or that prick stole your parking space or because other people can’t seem to keep their fuckin kids off the escalator at the shopping centre.

You’re using that excuse to justify a thought you’re having about yourself and your place in the world. And it’s that thought, your thought, that’s making you upset. For example, if someone is rude to you, it may make you feel powerless (you can’t do anything about it), devalued (she was rude to you because you’re not worth being nice to), or depressed (people in general are just nasty).

All of those emotions will lead to anger which is what being offended is all about: the feeling that you’ve somehow been diminished, causing you to get defensive and angry.

So it’s not my fault you chose to get defensive and angry because I called you a nigga faggot tranny gay cunt who says fuck Islam because they Jihad like retarded little bitches.

It’s yours.

louis offended

The Politics of Anal

anal broccoli

Sexual intercourse is like a game of golf. You don’t have to be good at it to enjoy it, sometimes your balls get wet and every now and again you have to putt from the rough. But a lot of guys don’t know how to properly execute their shots when they’re playing the back nine. It’s not as simple as whacking one straight up the fairway, if you don’t exercise due care and tenderness towards your playing partner than you could end up bogeying hole number two.

And let’s face it – if you smash in a woman’s backdoor and then paint it white on the way out then don’t be too surprised if you’re denied access to the tradesman’s entrance forever afterwards. Butt secks can be one of the hottest, most intimate forms of sexual intercourse. It can also be one of the most painful and embarrassing which is why a lot of women who may in fact enjoy it will run a mile when you start looking for love in all the wrong places. So guard the exit door and try not to lose your shit as this week I educate you on the politics of anal.



dirt road meme


Anal sex gets a bad rap and it’s not hard to understand why. It’s been considered taboo for centuries and often considered to foster homosexual tendencies. For thousands of years the Christian church condemned the practice of both oral and anal sex, yet its practice has been recorded and dates back several centuries in cultures worldwide.

Ancient engravings, paintings, and artwork from Asia, Europe, South America, and parts of the Mediterranean depict heterosexual men engaging in anal sex with women. So it’s fair to say that despite the NASA space program only commencing in the 1960’s, human beings have been drilling for oil on the moon for quite a long time.

But what was once considered to be taboo is now becoming quite commonplace amongst heterosexual couples. Since the 1950s rates of heterosexual anal intercourse have increased in the U.S (it’s regularly practiced by approximately 10% of heterosexual couples) and according to the numbers in a new study if you were to count up all of the people having anal sex at one time in the U.S there would be more heterosexual couples engaging in the act than homosexuals. That’s a lot of cars cruising down the marmite motorway on a Friday night.



backstage passes


Not all men enjoy making love to a woman whose head is on backwards (usually dudes who are sexually repressed or worried about getting their hands a bit dirty LOL) but for a lot of us it is an incredible turn on; the final frontier of a sexual interaction with a woman. So let’s have a closer look at the psychology behind our desire to dial “O” on the brown telephone shall we? Here are some of the reasons guys are so keen to let the one eyed child spit into the well:


Essentially, men want what they can’t have, and finding a woman that’s willing to give it is a huge turn on. Throughout history, anal intercourse has been known as a sexual forbidden fruit of sorts. This off-limits factor makes it especially appealing to us; the thought of a woman allowing us to put it up her bum bum just seems so deliciously naughty. And we like to be naughty.


As the saying goes “variety is the spice of life”. So the idea of something new and different will be especially appealing and exciting to us. For many men, anal sex is seen as a ‘gift’ from their partners – something rare and special. Who the fuck doesn’t like presents? Personally I’d trade Christmas day for Anal Sex day in a heartbeat. I fuckin hate Christmas haha


Anal is all about sex for the sake of sex. It’s purely physical without thought to pregnancy (up the bum no babies!) so there’s something very primitive and animalistic in taking a woman this way. It’s sexual intercourse in its rawest form; where all inhibitions and preconceptions fall away and all that is left is two people going at it like wolves. No wonder guys go a bit nuts when it’s a full moon.


Believe it or not, a lot of guys are into anal because on an emotional level it feels really intimate. There’s a lot of prepping that needs to happen, plus a greater level of communication and foreplay involved in the actual act. When a woman allows me access to her no-no spot it evokes a profound sense of love and trust; that her willingness to give all of herself to me and know I won’t abuse that trust connects us on a deeper level that is often the most gratifying part of any sexual interaction.


You can pretty much split heterosexual men into two groups – tit men and ass men. Some of us sit on the fence and refuse to play favourites, but for the most part we know which group we fall into. There’s not a doubt in my mind that I’m an ass man every day of the week and twice on Sunday’s. Now don’t get me wrong, I love titties, I do. Them shits is delicious. I just don’t feel the deep vibrations between me and baps that I do with me and butts. No matter how salacious or perfectly formed a woman’s breasts are, I can have a conversation with her and never drop my gaze from her eyes once. But when a woman has a nice pair of legs and an onion butt (an ass so beautiful it makes me cry) then I become a slack-jawed yokel; gazing in admiration at that juicy wiggle as it walks off into the sunset.

I like bodacious butts and I cannot lie.



pussy vacation


Conversely, not all women are afraid of making a baby the hard way (with a small percentage who the only thing they enjoy more than a dick in their ass is two dicks in their ass) but for a lot of women it can be frightening – even if they’ve done it before. There are a number of reasons a young lady may be apprehensive at becoming backdoor buddies with her bed partner. Let’s look at some of the main ones:


One time I managed to coerce a girl I was seeing into putting an unexpected item into her bagging area. After the deed was done and I triumphantly withdrew my bald headed yoghurt slinger I realised something was seriously amiss. Sitting on the end of my knob was a hearty nugget of shit. As the foul stench of this egregious example of excrement began to sting my nostrils a look of horror swept over my face. The young lady started to chortle and vindictively crowed “well that’s what you get for fucking me up the arse you dirty cunt!”

Now in this instance I was the one who ran to the shower crying while she laid there laughing like a fuckin drain. But a lesser woman probably would have been mortified and embarrassed by the experience. The fear of a shitcident probably greatly inhibits a lot of women from attempting anal sex.


On another occasion I picked a girl up at a nite club and took her back to my place. As I fantasised about the myriad of ways I was going to violate this 23 year old nurse with cans the size of ripened cantaloupes my mischievous machinations were brought to a grinding halt. Turns out her parents were extremely strict Catholics (they sounded like fanatics) and the whole sex before marriage thing was a no go; she was a virgin.

Well at least her pussy was anyway. For some bizarre reason these people believe that pre-marital vaginal sex is off limits but bum sex is A-O-K in God’s eyes. But if the front door was locked than the backdoor was firmly boarded shut with guard dogs sitting in front of it waiting to bite my dick off.

Apparently the only real sexual experience she’d had was with some thoughtless fucktard who subscribed to the porno film method of anal sex. Rather than using plenty of lubricant and starting off with a finger and tenderly working his way up to popping her chocolate covered cherry, this clod put a bit of spit on it and basically sodomised her – ensuring the Hershey highway was indefinitely closed for repairs by the time I tried to drive down it. You have a traumatic experience like that and of course you’re going to assume it will be a painful experience forever afterwards.


As per the above, some women are scared that an inexperienced man will thrust his penis in too quickly and tear something up in there. Or their asshole will stretch out so much that their future bowel movements will have the consistency of a McDonald’s thickshake and she’ll need tampons for her mud whistle as well as her fanny.


If you have ever seen pictures of cauliflower butts that gay men get from too much anal sex … not a massive surprise that some ladies would be shit scared (no pun intended) of having that happening to their tidy little balloon knots.


With some guys being serious assholes (I swear these puns aren’t intended!) I’m sure there would be a proportion of women who fear that once he’s speared her rear she’ll be discarded like yesterday’s newspaper. Even the saying “fucked in the ass” implies some level of debasement; no woman wants to feel degraded while having an intimate experience with a man.



dr strangelove

So there you have it guys, the politics of anal. Like anything in life, toiling at the chocolate coalface has its pleasures and its pitfalls. It can either result in an intensely rewarding sexual experience and a deeply intimate connection with another human being, or it can end up with a woman screaming like a wounded banshee and doo-doo butter all over the sheets.

It’s not going to be for everyone, but it’s definitely worth giving it a shot (in the pooper hehe) at least once – how else will you know whether it’s your thing or not?

For the guys reading this – start slow, don’t be stingy with the lube and be mindful of how your partner is feeling. The truth is a lot of women actually want to try it with you! But you have to take their fears seriously. Unless you assuage their anxiety and make them feel totally comfortable about anal sex, it’s never gonna happen. Be a gentleman and romance their rectums and you’ll be browning your meat in no time.

For the girls reading this – don’t believe all the myths and give penis a chance. Every woman has a little wild streak in them and a desire to be a bad girl. Who wants to always be the goody two shoes? There’s something alluring and mysterious about the dark side, dangerous and edgy. The fact that your tight little back door is “forbidden” and “taboo” makes that wild kinky side come out in the bedroom. Plus, if you’re a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets, your man is going to die of happiness; he’s got the gorgeous, confident, trophy wife to the public and the sexy, wild, mistress-like vixen in the bedroom. Embrace your dark side and give your man a double win.

Because we all win then.

And just remember kids:

Shit Happens When You Party Naked

shit happens 1

So I’m sitting on the edge of a paddy wagon looking up at a male and a female Police officer and they ask me what drugs I’ve taken. I laugh diabolically and say “all of em!” The male Police officer casts me a withering glare and then asks “so why are you naked?” I look down and realise at this point I’m regaled in nothing but my birthday suit and a dog tag necklace my mama gave me. “Umm I dunno, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” I had no idea where I was, how I had got there or what was happening. I certainly didn’t know why I was nuded up to the max.


Let’s rewind to the events leading up to this.

It’s Good Friday eve and I’m at a house party. Nothing over the top, just a few bevvies, some sick tunes and communion with my old friend Harry Wong. At some point in the evening the host breaks out a small bottle of liquid LSD and starts dishing out drops like the fuckin candy shop owner in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Being the guts I am I demand two drops. The dude gives me a speech similar to the one Willy Wonka gives about the everlasting gobstoppers (everyone is getting one, and one is enough for anyone) but I press on and have a whinge and eventually he acquiesces and gives me two drops in the little well that your hand makes when you flatten your fingers and raise your thumb. I hungrily lick the minty liquid off my hand and prepare to enter bat country.

An hour or so passes and I start to wig out. This shit is definitely much stronger than advertised. For some reason I get upset and start yelling and carrying on like a nut job, I vaguely remember screaming at the people “I’ll always remember this, I’ll always remember this!” and start to question why we exist. Then I start to cry because I don’t want the Police to come and ruin the party for everyone so I make the decision to go to the main bedroom and be on my own for awhile.

This is the point where things start to go seriously sideways. I go to another place, a place I’ve never been before. It feels like I’m being taken out of this world and to get there I need to go out how the way I came in, unencumbered by anything on my mortal body. So I start taking off all my clothes and jewellery. I can remember being too fucked up to be able to undo the dog tag around my neck but this exit from the world seemed so right and so just that I recall thinking this other force drawing me away is going to take it off for me, so I just lay there waiting for them to undo the clasp so I can finally go home.

I must’ve left the room in my birthday suit and started causing more of a commotion because I can remember the people at the party around me, trying to talk me down. But it all just felt like a dream, I was going off to certain death and all of their chatter just fades away into the background like non-diegetic music in a film. While it seems strange that this is how I will meet my fate, the feeling of it being so perfect washes over me and off I go.

The next vague memory I have is being in a car and I feel trapped. It seems like I have to fight for my life so I begin lashing out like Bruce Banner when he goes into Hulk mode and starts smashing the fuck out of everything. I manage to escape the vehicle and I take off up the road like Usain Bolt in the hundred metre sprint final. Everything fades to black.

naked manWhat ensued from here was incredibly powerful and surreal, but due to the addled condition of my psyche the memory of what happened is quite patchy so I will try and describe it as best as I can. I knew I was dying, but it felt like my death was for all of humanity; like out of billions of people I was the world’s chosen representative to go and fight the good fight at this other place I was being sent to. Much like Jesus Christ, I was dying for the greater good of everyone. How ironic.

My life flashed before my eyes. I giggle to myself. It is exactly in line with my personality, I am amused by how the macabre nature of what is happening is offset by how it challenges the essential core of who I am. I can remember running, running as fast as I can so that this thing can’t catch up with me, I don’t want to leave yet. Then time slows down and the feeling of urgency passes. I remember feeling like Barack Obama going out for a jog accompanied by his secret service agents. Someone is there with me protecting me. I turn around and poke fun at them “come on lads pick up the pace” and I start running faster. Everything fades to black once more.

Now I’m in another place and there are people there. I can’t recall their faces but I know in my heart they are the divine creators of the Universe and all that is within. They speak to me without words, telepathically communicating with me. All of the fear that I had about leaving this world begins to subside. They confide in me a secret that human beings have been trying to uncover for thousands of years – the meaning of life.

The Universe is a giant machine that is perfect in design. It is a super sophisticated mechanism that produces limitless energy, compressing time like some divine piston on its awesome down stroke. The mathematics and calculations used to create this machine are infallible; the Universe is perfectly balanced. All is as it should, was and ever will be. When we die, the energy that is contained within our mortal coils goes to another place as nothing is ever wasted.

universeOf all of the energy this divine machine creates, human beings are the most perfect and the most ingenious. We are like a cancer that replicates infinitum; you can never eradicate us. We are a cycle of energy that never ceases, no matter what happens our frequency will continue to resonate throughout the Universe like ripples in a pond.

As all of this is explained to me by these godlike creatures I begin to feel more and more at peace. I no longer feel afraid of the death I was trying so desperately to avoid. I submit myself to the divine perfection of the Universe and lay there waiting for it to take my soul onto the next plain of existence. You know how in some documentaries they record months of video that is then sped up to play over a course of seconds, like watching a flower germinate from seed, sprout from the ground and bloom and eventually wither and die? It was just like that; decades of my existence compressed into seconds. I leave my body and I watch it shrivel, decay and eventually turn to dust that gets blown away like the sands of time.

I am dead.

keep-calm-because-i-am-deadExcept I’m not, because shortly after I get yanked back to reality at warp speed; kinda like when you’re in a really deep sleep and some stupid whore wakes you up by tickling the bottoms of your feet because you’re passed out cold after a weekend of drug fueled sex and she decides she doesn’t want to be in your apartment on her own and can’t wake you up any other way. Or something.

So here I am sitting on the edge of this paddy wagon looking up at a male and a female Police officer and they ask me what drugs I’ve taken. I laugh diabolically and say “all of em!” The male Police officer casts me a withering stare and then asks “so why are you naked?” I look down and realise at this point I’m regaled in nothing but my birthday suit and a dog tag necklace my mama gave me. “Umm I dunno, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” I had no idea where I was, how I had got there or what was happening. I certainly didn’t know why I was nuded up to the max.

Apparently I had been crawling along a major arterial road naked and a car almost hit me and called 000. I had grazes and bits of skin missing from all over me (apart from my face and my genitalia, I guess even when you’re hallucinating out of your fuckin mind you still somehow know to protect your face and your nuts!) and was pretty disoriented. I was still tripping balls and after coming out the other side of a near death experience I didn’t know what the shit was going on.

The cops were pretty cunty and obviously weren’t there to help. I asked for some water because I was thirsty and a blanket to cover my nakedness but all they were concerned with was to keep questioning me about drugs. I told them I wasn’t saying another word and despite me not being aggressive they opted to handcuff me and throw me in the back of the paddy wagon naked to take me to the hospital rather than putting me in the ambulance that was there standing by. Cunts.

Initially when I got in the back of the paddy wagon it still felt like there was another entity that was there protecting me, like I wasn’t alone. I started laughing like a maniac, quite amused at the predicament I was in. But as I bounced around with my hands shackled behind me I started to feel terror; these guys weren’t cops they were some kind of impostors taking me off to harvest my organs and I would soon wake up slumbering in a bathtub full of ice with my fuckin kidneys gone!

I started making a ruckus and beating on the walls of the cop car screaming for help. Through the narrow frosted slot of window I could see familiar lights and landmarks, I was close to home. This somehow made it worse as I was being taken further and further away from where I live. The female cop kept getting on the radio telling me to calm down. Fuck you bitch I want out!

Finally we get to the hospital and even though I’d been there before it still felt like some kind of elaborate, covert operation where my heart would soon be beating inside some old oil tycoon’s body in Texas. They let me out of the paddy wagon and I ask to be uncuffed, I tell them I don’t want to hurt anyone I just want to go home. The male Police officer takes the cuffs off me and they finally give me a blanket to warm me up and cover my junk.

There is a bunch of hospital staff there waiting; man this organ harvesting operation is big! How many people are in on it? The effects of the LSD still have a hold of me and I am resisting as they try and strap me to a bed to take me inside. I’m looking at the orderlies faces and they are morphing and stretching like some kind of monsters. In hindsight they were just ugly pricks and the acid was exaggerating that, but at the time it was terrifying. Am I being taken to an unused part of the hospital to be cut open like a stuck pig? It wasn’t until one of the female nurses tried to pacify me that I finally calmed down. She had kind eyes and promised they weren’t trying to hurt me; I was just being restrained until they got me inside and it would be OK.

As I was wheeled into the hospital, finally the fog of the psychedelic substance I had ingested was lifted and the thought occurred to me – this is actually happening! I wasn’t dead and I wasn’t the victim of an illicit organ harvesting operation, I’d just had too much acid and had gone for one hell of a rollercoaster ride through a part of myself that I didn’t even know existed. Everything was gonna be alright.

rollercoasterI had found the answer to a question people will go their whole lives without answering and I no longer fear death. Because I now know that after I leave this place my essence is going somewhere else, death isn’t the end. I’m not doomed to an eternity of darkness like I previously thought. The only thing I fear now is not living my current life to the fullest; not leaving an indelible mark on this world before I move onto the next.

For those interested, here are a couple of sources where people have come to the same conclusion – albeit it without having to go on the acid trip of a lifetime to get there:

I’m not sure I’ll ever take acid again. Not because I’m scared to (although the experience was about as hectic as it gets on any mind altering substance!) but because for me it has always been a learning tool. Every time I went on a ‘trip’ I learned something about myself and the Universe in general. I don’t think there’s anything else that substance can teach me now. I have the most amazing answer to the most amazing question that a person can ask themselves.

But hey – shit happens when you party naked.

shit happens 2


Work is for the Weak

When you’re a kid you have all these dreams about what you wanna do and who you wanna be when you grow up. A 7 year old always wants to do some cool shit like be a fuckin pirate, an astronaut, a karate expert or a pop star. Unfortunately life has a way of slowly but surely molding you into a mindless automaton; doing something you never considered doing and being someone you never dreamed of being – just so that you can pay the bills.

When I was a kid my dream was to be like Matt Trakker out of an animated kid’s show called M.A.S.K. For those who never saw it (either being too young or having a fanny) M.A.S.K was about a multi-millionaire businessman who ran a successful corporation by day and went around with his buddies wearing super-powered masks and cruising around in kick-ass vehicles that transformed into other vehicles (a motorcycle that turns into a fuckin helicopter? Sign me up!) to defend the world from bad dudes by night. It also had an awesome theme song:

As I got older the urge to be a high tech vigilante died down and by the time I finished high school the only thing that interested me was making film and television. And while most of the responsibility falls on my shoulders as to why that hasn’t happened (yet!), society can suck up some of the blame as well. I mean after all, if I didn’t have all these bills to pay then I would be free to do as I damn well pleased wouldn’t I?

And let’s be frank, work sucks. If you aren’t doing what you love then really you’re just going through the motions. Society says that’s what’s expected of you so that’s what most people do, with a small percentage who don’t give a fuck living on the fringes (dole bludgers and crazy survivalist cunts who dwell in the hills eating roadkill and having secks with their good looking cousins) and the rest who were strong enough to go for the W and get paid handsomely for doing what they love. It’s not even work for those people, their worst days at “work” are better than the best days of someone who doesn’t give a fat toss about what someone else is paying them to spend a third of their day doing. They say only the strong survive, but that’s bullshit, even the most retarded weaklings amongst us generally keep on kicking.

Only the strong THRIVE.

Let’s have a closer look at this soul sucking exercise called having a job.


Applying for jobs is kind of like having sex with a fat ugly girl. You probably told a few lies to get there, you definitely gave up some of your dignity and now you realized that you shouldn’t have listened to your mates who told you to nail the bitch cos that’s what dudes are supposed to do. Or maybe you don’t realise and never will. Maybe you’ll be riding that fugly behemoth for the rest of your days, all the while hating that you’ve got your knob stuck in something that looks like Jabba the Hutt but never quite having the strength to pull out and go get some Princess Leia ass instead.


From the embellishments that you put on your CV to get your foot in the door, to the lies that you tell in the interview, going for a jobski is almost as soul crushing as doing the job itself. But you go through that dignity destroying process because a) society tells you that’s what a good citizen does (work) and b) the way society is inherently designed you require money to survive (unless you’re one of the aforementioned ‘survivalist’ dudes who’s eating ratburgers for dinner haha).

Imagine if you were 100% honest during job interviews. “Tell me about a time you had to deal with a difficult customer and how did you handle it?” “Well I do recall a situation where I sold a mate of mine half an ounce of weed and he rang me up complaining that the quality was up to shit. So I told the cunt that if he didn’t like it he could buy off the junkies down the road who ripped him off last time and he was back the next day to buy more off me”. “What would you say are the three things you are strongest at?” “Well I can suck down a lot of bong hits before it fazes me, like seriously you’d be in a coma if you had as many cones as I do on a Saturday night. I can also eat pussy like I’m a German Shepherd wearing scuba gear and I’m pretty darn good at pirating shit off the Internet, especially hard to find Eskimo midget porno.”




If you thought that applying for a job was soul devouring than that’s just an appetiser compared to the main course of fecal matter you’re about to feast upon. At least in a job interview you only have to wear a mask to disguise who you really are for an hour tops. Once you bullshit your way into that job, you’re expected to keep that mask on for the rest of your time there, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, 48 weeks a fuckin year.

Everyone acts slightly different depending on the situation, different faces for different places. But a work situation is probably the most far removed from your essential self, especially if you work in an office environment. You are expected to bury who you really are in order to fit in with all the other sheep. The minute you start showing aspects of your personality that aren’t in line with how you’re expected to act in an office and you’ll be handing in your door pass and cleaning out your drawers very shortly after.

Personally, I find it very hard to keep up this façade. I manage it for a little while but soon enough my guard comes down, the inappropriate jokes begin to fly, I start coming in late to work and find myself against better judgment telling the new trainee that I reckon she’s looser than a sloppy bucket of custard (on her first day mind you, props to Ainslie for being a good sport).

Subsequently I’ve got the chop from a bunch of jobs. And never because of performance issues, I could do them shits with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back while I’m getting cornholed by two dudes in the basement of an antique shop. It’s always because I did or said something that didn’t fit in with some asshole’s ideal of what is acceptable workplace behaviour.

At this point in my life I’ve finally come to the realisation that I’m just not cut out for wearing a mask for a third of my day. That I’m way too awesome to pretend to be someone else. That life is too damn short to be wasting it punching keys on my computer to make money for some other motherfucker. That I hate doing what I consider to be work, so I’m gonna have to make a concerted effort to be the person I dreamed to be when I finished high school and start writing some fucked up shit to blow some geezers mind when they turn on their TV.

Most people are embarrassed when they get the arse from a job. I wear my sackings like a badge of honour, like merit badges on a boy scouts uniform. Recently I managed to lose a job within 4 days of being hired, being told simply that they didn’t think I was “the right fit” for the role. While personally I think there should be some sort of fuckin prize for managing to get shitcanned in less then a week of being hired (a new personal record!), I have to give it to them – I’m not at all the right fit for their shitty job.

I’m much better than that and so are you.



If you hate your job, love the movie Office Space and are picking up what I’m putting down then now is the time to make a change in your life. Now is the time to get back to that idealistic teenager who wanted to be somebody before the world slyly positioned you into being somewhere you never wanted to be.

I won’t lie to you, it’s gonna be fucking hard. You’re gonna have to come home and work after 8 hours of being at work. You’re gonna have to sacrifice some shit; watching TV, jacking (or jilling) off, going out with your mates on the weekend and getting off your balls (or flaps), whatever it takes. For anything worthwhile there’s gonna be an opportunity cost you’ll have to pay.

But that price will never be as high as sacrificing your life to do something you don’t care about, kissing people’s asses you don’t like and enduring the suicidal thoughts that only occupy your mind when the alarm clock goes off at 7am in the morning. You don’t want to look back at your life and say “well shit, those last 50 years really sucked harder than a she-male hooker on her fifth bout of collagen injections” do you?

The bad news is time flies. The good news is, you’re the pilot. Start flying your plane towards your dream job now before it’s too late.

Work is for the weak, only the strong thrive.

The Politics of Dancing

dance floorIf you don’t like music, you don’t have love in your heart. There’s something wrong with you. You could see a doctor, but until we have the medical technology to perform personality transplants or soul transfusions you’re pretty much fucked. So when I meet someone who isn’t passionate about music (and albeit dancing) I instantly feel sorry for them. Dancing is the ultimate form of physical expression outside of fucking. And that can only be done with a maximum of like three other people (maybe a few more if you have a big bag of cocaine and a jar full of Viagra if you’re a male, or a penchant for double penetration if you’re female), whereas dancing can be done in groups of hundreds, even thousands of people.

So what is it that makes us dance? Why are some people naturally gifted while others gyrate like an epileptic adversely affected by strobe lighting? How come some people will bravely sashay onto a dance floor the very first time they go clubbing or go to a music festival, while others will shyly look on, fearful of being judged by the mob if their rug cutting maneuvers aren’t up to scratch?


drumsDance has certainly been an important part of ceremony, rituals, celebrations and entertainment since before the birth of the earliest human civilizations. While Dance history is difficult to determine because dance does not often leave behind clearly identifiable physical artifacts that last over the millennia, archaeology delivers traces of dance from prehistoric times such as the 9,000 year old Bhimbetka rock shelter paintings in India and Egyptian tomb paintings depicting dancing figures circa 3300BC.

Human beings probably danced even before there was a word for it. Rhythmic bodily movement is instinctive. It connects people, even if unconsciously, to the rhythms of nature. Further scientific study indicates that dance, together with rhythmic music and body painting, was designed by the forces of natural selection at the early stage of human evolution as a potent tool to put groups of human ancestors in a battle trance, a specific altered state of consciousness. In this state people lost their individual identity and acquired a collective identity, they became a part of something greater than the sum of its individual parts. I know I often feel the same way when I’ve eaten a bunch of LSD and am working up a sweat with a room full of strangers at 2am in a nightclub. When I dance I become part of the music and the music becomes part of me.

I can almost imagine cavemen from a time before time existed lighting fires outside of their caves and beating on drums while thousands of them move in synchrony to the rhythm of the beat, a prehistoric rave if you will. According to new research, the ability to dance may have also been a factor in survival for our prehistoric ancestors, who used their moves to bond and communicate with each other when times were tough.

A study published in a recent issue of the Public Library of Science’s genetics journal, suggests that, as a result, today’s creative dancers actually share two specific genes. Both genes are associated with a predisposition for being good social communicators.

Scientists believe this gave early humans who were well coordinated and rhythmic a distinct evolutionary advantage. This advantage extended not only to effective communication amongst our species, but also to the man’s ability to hook up with a fine ass cavewoman. Which brings me to my next topic…


dirty dancingFor as long as dancing has been going on, a big part of the ritual is attracting a member of the opposite sex. Similar to the mating dances of many birds, insects and other animals, humans of both sexes have been using dance to attract one another throughout the ages. I know that there’s nothing that makes my balls wetter than a woman who really knows how to move her ass so I think it’s fairly safe to assume that women feel the same way about men. It seemed to work for John Travolta in one of my favourite films of all time – Saturday Night Fever

Despite coming from a totally different era of night club dancing than myself, I’ve always thought that Travolta was the fuckin man in that scene. First he casts the infinitely fuckable Fran Drescher aside because she’s a total drag to dance with. I can totally sympathise there, when you know how to cut some serious rug the last thing you want is to be weighed down by someone who doesn’t – regardless of how hot they are. Next thing you know the dance floor obediently clears to give him some space to work his magic, based off the dialogue from his friend’s characters he’s been taking the club over like this for months. You can just tell that the beautiful women gazing at him in awe from the side of the floor have pussies so wet you could drown a toddler in their panties.

So why do women find men who can dance so appealing? Certainly there’s a reasonable correlation to be made with the guy’s ability to coordinate his body to the rhythm of the music to how well he’s going to play a woman’s vagina like a violin when they go home together after the club shuts. But there are other more scientific evolutionary reasons as well that need to be taken into account.

According to Dr Peter Lovatt of Hertfordshire University (also known as ‘Dr Dance’) “Beautiful women of high genetic quality with symmetrical features have been shown to innately select men with equally high-quality genetic features.” Other researchers have found that men judged to be better dancers tended to have a higher degree of body symmetry, a factor that has been linked to overall attractiveness and health in other research. The researchers speculate that higher body symmetry might also indicate better neuromuscular coordination. This may influence dance ability since attractive dances can be more rhythmic and more difficult to perform. While most people don’t go around measuring and comparing body parts of potential mates, it’s thought that we pick up on these cues subconsciously. So it seems a large part of it is actually genetic instinct; women (who tend to be pickier than men when it comes to choosing a partner) perceive guys who can dance well as being healthier specimens to mate with than guys who cannot.

Wily bitches.


24 hour party people

Having been burning the midnight oil at both nightclubs and music festivals for some time now, I’ve noticed all manner of characters that frequent both. Here’s a brief run down on some of the types of people you’ll find reaching for the lasers safe as fuck on any given Friday / Saturday night:

The Person Who Actually Knows How To Dance And Is Making Everyone Else Look Bad (aka the David Elsewhere)

Generally there’s always one person out in the middle of the dance floor who looks like a scene out of a ‘Step Up’ movie. They might be naturally gifted, they might have been honing their craft in the privacy of their bedroom for 15 years but whatever the case they make it all look so effortlessly easy and are a constant source of angst for those too shy to get up and dance and others who give it a go but for whatever reason are about as coordinated as diarrhoea.

Like David ‘Elsewhere’ Bernal:

The Chinstroker

Nobody really knows why The Chinstroker attends EDM shows, for he has a severe allergic reaction to dancing or enjoyment. He can generally be found standing in the crowd, arms crossed with his hand gently stroking his imaginary beard while he intensely gazes at the DJ. The Chinstroker is an expert at knowing exactly which remix is being played by which producer on which label and is a fountain of knowledge when it comes to electronic music.

Unfortunately all efforts to explain to The Chinstroker as to why dancing is the ultimate form of appreciation for dance music will fall on deaf ears and he will continue his eerie style of silent trainspotting in the middle of the dance floor.

The Aggressive Song Requester

Apparently this person does not own an iPod or have access to a radio, because their one goal in going to a club is to dance right next to the DJ booth, screaming out requests for a particular song over and over and over. The thing that’s weird about it is these people are never requesting tunes that are in line with the type of music that’s being played by the DJ at the time or even any of the track selectors playing that night. It will always be some commercial clap trap that has no place on any self respecting dance floor. Everyone will be grooving nicely to some funky house music while this muppet is screaming for Kesha ‘Tik Tok’ to be played.

Usually takes the form of a fairly attractive 19 year old girl who has an I.Q only slightly higher than her shoe size.

The Couple Who Might Be Having Sex On The Dance Floor

Dancing at a crowded club can be kind of stressful. It’s hot and sweaty and people are throwing elbows and spilling drinks all over the fuckin place. So it can be tempting to spot an empty pocket of the dance floor and move over there to claim it as your own. Beware though, because that corner’s empty for a reason. There’s either a suspicious substance on the floor, or there’s a dude ambitiously finger banging some drunken slart in which case there soon will be a suspicious substance on the floor.

Take pictures to upload onto ‘Embarrassing Nightclub Photos of the Week’ but do so at a safe distance to avoid any ah splashback.

The Roving Grinder (aka the Humpster)

This guy roams around the dance floor, casually bobbing his head to the music in between crudely thrusting his drug fuelled erection into the backside of unsuspecting women on the dance floor. The Roving Grinder is a numbers man, often seeking to set a lewd grinding record until he eventually hits the jackpot and humps some broad that’s had one too many pingers and will actually respond favourably to this kind of reprehensible behaviour.

A true romantic in every sense of the word.

Why You Should Embrace the Word Nigger

chappelle white supremacist

The word “neger” (obviously derived from the word “negro” which is Spanish for “black”) was first documented in America in 1619 to describe African slaves being brought over to work in the Americas. However, it had no negative connotations until the 1900’s and was considered the appropriate term for black people until the mid to late 1800’s. The stigma attached to the word grew as it became less acceptable to even say, much less direct it at a person.

There aren’t too many words in the English language that are as polarising as the word ‘nigger’ (or more commonly nowadays ‘nigga’ thanks to hip hop culture). If you’re a white person and you drop the ol’ N-bomb in a crowd then people start running scared like you’d dropped a real bomb. The word is considered to be such a no-no that a lot of people abbreviate it to “the N word”, which is beyond retarded. Let’s hear a word from one of our sponsors on the subject:

I like this bit that Louis did because I feel much the same way about the word ‘cunt’ as I do the word ‘nigger’. It’s quite a rarity that I would ever use the word cunt to describe a vagina. Cunt is a term I reserve purely for other human beings. This cunt, that cunt, that ugly cunt, that fat cunt, etc. When one of my friends calls me one of the first questions I usually ask is “what are you up to cunt?” To the extent that the word is such a big part of my vocabulary, that when I go on a date with a woman for the first time one of the first questions I ask her is “so how do you feel about the word cunt?” If she screws up her face and says it’s a horrible word and she doesn’t like it, than I think to myself “well you’re a bit of a dumb cunt” and run away when she goes to the bathroom. If she smiles and says she uses it all the time then we have a winner. How could I have a relationship with someone who gets offended by a word I use so frequently? It would be a disaster!


So while the word nigger isn’t as much of a part of my lexicon as the word cunt, it’s still an old favourite and gets used regularly. There are a few reasons for this. One is because when I was young I listened to a lot of hip hop music where the word was used liberally. I also watched a lot of what my dad distastefully calls “black films” which were comedies with you guessed it – black people in them. Some of my favourite stand-up comedians were guys like Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy who used the word all the time and often to great comedic effect. Later on came dudes like Dave Chappelle who also used the word nigger in a lot of his skits, so some of my fondest memories of laughing my sphincter off were related to the word nigger. For instance:

Another reason I like to use the word nigger is because I’m pretty against racism. That’s right, I like to use one of the most racist terms with one of the most heinous etymologies imaginable to combat racism. The word is inextricably linked with violence and brutality on black psyches and derogatory aspersions cast on black bodies. No degree of appropriating can rid it of that blood soaked history I agree. But by using it as a form of comedy (and often aimed at people who aren’t actually black!) I am effectively debasing the power of the word to be used as a racial slur. Like Louis CK said in his stand-up routine, there’s no such thing as bad words – that’s just bullshit propagated by PC fucktards with half a brain. The more negative attention and energy you give towards something – the more you empower it.

bad juju

Context is everything. Do I refer to black people as being niggers? All the time. Am I doing so because I can’t stand black people or think I’m better than them? Assuredly not. I’ve had many black friends in my lifetime and from different parts of the globe. I once punched a kid in the face and knocked him into a swimming pool because he called my Sri Lankan friend Jono ‘Black Magic’ and told him to show him some tricks. The trick that young man got shown was a good smack right in the kisser and deservedly so. I’ve listened to music made by black people all my life, supported black athletes and enjoyed many films and TV shows made and starring black people. Hardly the actions of someone who hates black people or thinks he’s somehow superior to them. But I reserve the right to use any word I see fit, the idea that a certain race of people have ownership of a word in itself seems pretty racist to me.

Now obviously there’s a time and a place for everything and you need to pick your battles wisely. I wouldn’t rock up to a bunch of black dudes playing street ball in Harlem and say “What’s up my niggas?” I’m sure that probably wouldn’t end well for me. Unless I was with my own crew of hardcore niggas in which case it would be totally fine. The other black dudes would probably respect the fact that as the sole white guy in a group of straight up gangstas I must’ve done some crazy ass shit to impress the niggas I was with and am not to be fucked with.

But to my friends (black or white) I say it all the time. They know me well enough to know that I’m not a racist and that I make fun of everyone equally. Niggers, Jews, Wetbacks, Slopes and especially white people – no one is safe from my derision. In a country like Australia with so many different ethnicities and cultures it’s hard not to appreciate some solid racial stereotype humour.

To me, PC morons that parrot on about “casual attitudes” towards racism (referring to racist jokes at any rate – not actual racial vilification or discrimination) are living in fear and are part of the problem. They are the ones causing discontent between races by spreading that fear and constantly making reference to a pink elephant that is only in the room if you imagine it to be so. Scarily enough, they think they are the ones in the right here – I call it the ‘White Knight Syndrome’. Constantly rushing off to defend someone who needs no protection just so they can huff their own farts and feel good about themselves, the worst kind of arselickers in my opinion.

So to sum up, you don’t have to be black to be called a nigger.

But it helps.