I'm a Man - A Guide to True Heterosexuality

Joe's tips for masculinity: The best way to win an argument is by throwing a dinner plate. I'm a college dropout yet I am most disappointed by how bad I am at Donkey Kong. Someone just asked if I wanted a "fruit pill". Was I just offered ecstasy? A piece of wax the size of a tumbleweed just fell out of my ear while someone was telling a boring story. I was really scared it was my brain. Subway should carry veal and have a really defensive ad campaign to get people to not think it's cruel as hell. Subway: We're reinventing the veal.

Oh shit, I'm the weird guy at work with esoteric interests who does eccentric things like have hourly stretch breaks. This fucking sucks. I realized all this while I was explaining Wild Strawberries to a bored looking co-worker while i had one leg on my desk. The coalition for LGBT health is not accepting alternate terms for "gender queer" at the moment. Too bad, "gayballs squared" sounded like a winner to me. There's this one broad at my job who looks like she's in the middle of a series of plastic surgeries designed to make her look like grimace. I'd say she is about three or four major procedures away from success. Remember when Princess Di ruined the series finale of Hangin' with Mr Cooper by fucking dying?

I don't know a lot about women but I do know they all like to be massaged in a candle lit room while listening to trip hop. Tricky is especially really cool music to listen to for when you're pouring candlewax on Lisa Bonet's tits. Butterknife: when everything about a girl is super hot except for her knife. I'm a cool dude to take a shower with if you're really into tit cleanliness. Super disgusting woman at my job appears to have very strong legs is proof that God doesn't give with both hands (or doesn't exist).

Sometimes you take a long, hard look in the mirror and say "uh oh". I just invented a font. It looks shit and can't be read. It's called Sans Glasses. The best piece of piece of art ever? Easy pick. Gotta go with the Mona motherfuckin' Lisa. Getting bitched at by an obese woman wearing a denim shirt with Bugs Bunny on it is super demoralizing. New ad campaign idea for insecticide companies: Make It Raid. That's when you spray insecticide in the air and it rains dead cockroaches. I am checking back into rehab for my addiction to chill pills. The most Mexican thing about Mexican Hot Pockets is that they make you shit out your skeleton after you eat one.

If martian dudes came to America and we had to welcome them with a song, I think it should be "Walk" by Pantera. So they know what the fuck is up. Lots of people have asked me how I injured my foot. I broke it on Mike Tyson's head while giving him a superkick. He's dead now. Doing body shots off my own tummy is super sexy but a logistical nightmare. Rottweilers were invented in the 90s by Puerto Ricans. We did this because we needed an animal that liked to listen to House Of Pain with while we kickboxed. My favorite porn star is Taco Belladonna.

Whenever people knock on my neighbor's door for a long time and he doesn't answer I always get excited and hope that he killed himself.

Wings flew because its pilot did not fail...

Back in 2007, a lot of doors opened for me. I don't even think I need to tell you the circumstances as I will assume you are already aware. So it was only a matter of time before a certain company that broadcasts nationally came knocking on my door with a briefcase full of twentys and a big, hungry mouth just waiting for my brain-dick. They said to me "Joe Somar... what show do YOU want to make?" I laughed to myself, swept the dandruff off the shoulders of my black turtleneck, and turned to one of the many marble armoires I had recently purchased at a police auction. My favorite of the armoirs was one I had named Coco. I named it this because it was white and previously owned by Ice T. It had five, hand-carved drawers with platinum handles and each of the five drawers, with only one exception, contained one million dollars in cash stashed in case of an "emergency". In the fifth drawer was something more valuable than the contents of the other four drawers combined: a stack of half-finished screenplays authored by none other than yours truly!

"I have just the one you're looking for!" I chuckled to the big shot executives, having rehearsed this scenario countless times in front of my ceiling mirror as I drifted off to sleep so many hot New Orleans summer nights. I pulled out a leather-bound tome with the words "TAROT COP" etched in dreamy gold Helvetica. Tarot Cop was a buddy cop show I had written for the criminally underrated prop comedian, Carrot Top. You see he was a cop and he solved crimes using tarot cards. The big shot execs were so excited that they had to remove their shirts.

We french kissed for hours with our eyes full of big, gay tears for our imminent success. I covered up my erection (they couldn't know my secret) by standing behind a medium sized houseplant and politely excepted their modest twelve figure signing bonus. I then doused my billion dollar armoir in kerosene and set it ablaze. The three of us played jazz all night long but the only instruments we used were skin flutes and rusty trombones.

Post #69

Burni Ngman Pt. 2 - The Awesome Dude

I realized the last thing I ever said to her was, "I'm about to cum". I sat there in probably the last telephone booth in the whole entire fucking planet with the rain beating down on its tin roof like I beat down on criminals all day long with my gloved fists. "Are you Batman?" you're no doubt asking by now. No, you shithead. I'm a retired firefighter who works as a nightclub bouncer three times a week. Jealous, you fag? I'm sort of a hero in my neighborhood because of that whole 9/11 thing. I saved a billion motherfuckers in a matter of hours and I couldn't keep the mouths away from my cock after that.

So why the fuck am I inside this telephone booth trying to call one of those mouths just to talk? Like I ever cared what came out of a mouth before. But I guess I care now. I've been such a dog anus to this girl for so long and now she's going to have my kid. I mean, I hope I'm the father. I guess there were a lot of us that night. It could have been any of us. But I'm the one who stayed. I'm the one who held her hair back while she vomited up half-digested shrimp halves into Duane's helmet. Oh man, he got so mad. I never seen him hit anyone like that before. But I knew when to step in. I knew when to say "she's had enough, man!"

Fuck, I even drove her to the hospital. I'm an awesome dude.

Race Against Time

Opie ran as fast as he could down the gold-paved streets of New Compton into a near-by mayonnaise sandwich shop called Whitey's. He would be, at least for the time being, safe there. There's no way he could go back to the University after what he had just done. Being one of the top political science professors at one of the nation's top Ebony League colleges, Jesse Jackson University, was no small accomplishment for a man of pale flesh such as himself. And he blew it all by trying to tell people the truth. A gargantuan, gold police tank shook the sterling streets as it plowed by the unassuming purveyor of bland lunches. Opie finally let out of a gasp of air after realizing he hadn't taken a breath in over a minute. That was always Opie's biggest problem; his survival instincts didn't kick in until the last possible second.


He needed to tell Hillary what had happened but they'd have all the comports under survellience, just waiting for him to make some noise. Suddenly, a wide figure emerged from the poorly-lit kitchen behind the counter he had ducked underneath.


"Opie Nathan Anthony! You dumb crackershit fuckhole, it's all over the infocast! And now you're hiding out in my sandwich shop?! Are you trying to get ya ol' pal Whitey ass fucking murdered?" shouted the stout elderly man wearing a baggy, brown velour sweatshirt with the word FUBU emblazoned across the chest in tacky, teal letters. Sitting on top of his was a thick, nappy wig with a huge gold comb stuck in it. These were known around the neighborhood as "choc-tops" and they were very popular amongst the waning white population of New Compton. Whitey had already suffered from enough ridicule in his neighborhood for catering to the small number of white people in New Compton. He could, at least, try to be as inconspicuous as possible. Something he perhaps should considered before opening up an eponymous mayonnaise sandwich shop.


"Whitey! Dear lord, you scared me. I thought you were a night-cop, or worse an OTB. I'll be out of your hair, or whatever that shit on your head is, in just a second. Put on that Boyz IV Men audiofile I loaded into the discojuke for you."


"Opie, you stupid swan. You owe me. Hey, you want me to fix you a Blue Plate Special while you're down there crouching and sweating. Special price for you. Only ten Sharptons."


Opie wanted that Blue Plate Special so bad but he knew he only had one hour left to jack into the ivoryboards and get the truth out to the world. Race had always been an issue for him but never like this. This was a race against time.

Where Were You When the King of Pop Died?

Remember three months ago when Michael Jackson died? Shit, it was so fucking sad. Where were you when it happened? I was on Facebook, dude. Is that embarassing?

My Sexuality

People always ask me which way I swing. I don't know, who gives a shit? I drew a picture that best describes my sexuality. Interpret freely